If You Were Here (29 page)
Authors: Alafair Burke
S
canlin placed two sunny-side eggs carefully on the plate-size pancakes. Those were the eyes. Strawberry nose. Bacon smile.
“Maple syrup on the side,” he announced, positioning the plate and a small pitcher of warmed syrup in front of Jenna at the dining room table.
“You know I avoid carbs, Dad.” Jenna picked at the pancake with her fork the way a crime lab analyst would handle a blood-soaked mattress.
“It’s almond meal instead of flour,” he explained. “Got the recipe off the Internet. Tastes like a hubcap if you ask me, but I know you’re always good for eggs and bacon if all else fails.”
“You got a carb-free recipe off the Internet?” she asked. “Who kidnapped my father?”
“I know you’re not ten years old anymore, and this is my way of thanking you for getting up early to come here before work. It’s the last time I’m going to ask you to change your schedule for me.”
She gave him a confused look as she scooped up half of a runny egg.
“Your mother doesn’t remember me,” Scanlin said. “She recognizes me sometimes, but only when I’m with you. You have your own life and need to see her on your own schedule. So that’s going to be my schedule, too.”
She swallowed her food, taking in his words. “Okay.”
“I’ve been hanging on to the past, Jenna. And simultaneously not taking responsibility for it. I’ve been blaming you and resenting you for giving me a hard time, without ever admitting that you’ve got good reason to. And without telling you how much I regret that.”
“Dad, I haven’t always been fair—”
He raised his hand to stop her. “Whether you have or not, that’s not the point. I’m your father. And I owed you more. I owed your mother more. I even owed myself more, but mostly I owed you two. I realized that years ago, when your mother first got sick. But then somehow it became a battle between the two of us, and I was too stubborn to do what I should have done as your father—which was to put you first.”
He couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at him that way. No resentment. No fatigue. Just trust. For a second, she looked like her mother.
“This pancake
totally
tastes like a hubcap.” But she kept chewing.
His cell phone interrupted the moment. Jenna smiled sadly. “Go ahead, Dad.”
“No, I’m not answering it.”
“It’s probably work.”
“Absolutely not.” He walked to the freezer and tossed the phone inside. “See? I can’t even hear it now.”
She laughed the way she usually laughed only with other people. “How am I going to feel if that’s a super-secret, super-smart witness who wants to help you catch bad guys. Justice is at stake, Dad.”
That was what he had always told her when he was leaving for work, despite her pleas that Daddy stay home.
Justice is at stake.
The muffled ringing sound stopped. “Too bad,” he announced. “I missed it. Justice will have to wait.”
“At least take it out of the freezer.” She opened the door and grabbed the phone from the top of the ice tray. “You should probably see this.”
He stole a glance. One missed call, followed by a text from McKenna Jordan.
Don’t make any deals with Susan. Carl Buckner sent us a letter before he died. It changes everything.
M
cKenna met Scanlin at his detective squad. She read the letter over his shoulder, even though she’d already memorized every word.
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Carl David Buckner.
Two days ago, I rigged a bomb to ignite in Brentwood, Long Island.
The target was a woman living there under an alias as Pamela Morris.
I do not know her true identity, but I was hired to kill her.
Not at first.
Initially, the job was to follow her and to discredit a reporter named McKenna Jordan.
I paid a coworker of Jordan’s to help with the latter.
I then learned from Jordan’s coworker that Jordan had video footage of Morris.
The person who hired me asked me not only to wipe out the video but also to wipe out Morris.
When the woman escaped the Brentwood bombing, I was then ordered to kill Scott Macklin, a former NYPD officer.
I did not comply with the order, but I also did nothing to save him.
It has become clear that the person who hired me is a sociopath willing to kill anyone.
I am trying to stop that.
If this letter gets mailed (FBI, NYPD, FOX News), it’s because I did not make it back to a Mail Boxes Etc. by noon the day after I wrote this, which means I am probably dead.
I don’t know whether this will be one of those stories on the front page for a week, or maybe no one will care (except maybe my brother).
If anyone does care, I was a good person once and am trying to be one now.
I know about soldiers who have come home and killed their wives or themselves or a roomful of strangers in a mass shooting.
I’m not going to try to make excuses for myself.
I crossed a line when I set that bomb.
And then I didn’t do enough to make up for it.
I’m trying now.
Is it possible to be a good person, then a bad person, and then a good person again?
I have close to $400,000 set aside. I want ¾ to go to the family of Scott Macklin.
If possible, I want ¼ to cover college for my nephew, Carl David Buckner III.
As for the person who hired me:
I was contacted entirely by untraceable phone and e-mail.
All I know is that the voice on the phone was female.
Signed,
Carl Buckner
P.S. I sent a copy of this letter to a man named Patrick Jordan because I saw him with the woman I know as Pamela Morris. He is married to McKenna Jordan, and I believe he was trying to help Pamela Morris. Hopefully I will see him in person before I die. I am going to meet him now at Grand Central Station.
Scanlin dropped the letter on his desk.
“Female,” McKenna said, placing an index finger on the most important word on the page. “The person who hired him was a woman.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “Adam could have used a middleman—or -woman—to hire Buckner. Or a voice distorter. I’ve seen ones from spy shops for a hundred bucks that sound like the real thing.”
“You can’t just ignore this,” McKenna said. “Whoever shot Patrick and Buckner was wearing a mask and a cape. It could have been Susan. She could have orchestrated the entire thing. At the very least, the letter is exculpatory evidence as far as Adam Bayne is concerned. You’ll have to turn it over to his defense attorney, who will argue that Susan was behind this from the very beginning.”
“Only because you told me about it. You sure you don’t want to put it in the recycle bin?” Scanlin was rereading the letter, trying to find some way to prevent it from ruining the tidy package of evidence they had put together against Adam.
“He mailed it to the NYPD, FBI, and FOX News. I just got to the mail a little faster. You said Susan had a recording of the argument she and Adam had before she ran away. Is it enough to sink Adam?”
“Yeah. It’s a whole conversation about growers in Afghanistan wanting to cut out their middlemen and import directly into the United States. They talked about Macklin panicking and starting to shoot. Susan felt bad for dragging Mac into it, and Adam tried to calm her down, saying that in the end Mac was an undisciplined cop with a drop gun.”
“Does the recording make clear that Adam was the one in charge? That Susan thought she was acting on behalf of the military?”
“No. If he wanted to, he could say they were in it as equal partners. No deception involved.”
“If Adam can say that, maybe it’s actually true. Under the terms of her father’s will, Susan gets half his estate now that it’s clear she’s alive. You’ve got to ask her about this. If she’s the one who hired Carl Buckner—”
“I know, Jordan. You don’t have to spell it out for me. Bayne might be a smuggler, but all the blood from the last week would be on her.” He took a deep breath. “Better get it over with. I’ll call Mercado.”
“I think I have something that might help.” She handed him a document from her briefcase.
M
cKenna was watching Susan through the one-way glass again. Mercado was seated next to McKenna, having decided to take advantage of Susan’s daddy issues by letting Scanlin work solo.
Scanlin started by handing Susan a document. It was the thirty-page manuscript McKenna had hammered out on her laptop the night before. The words had flown from her as if from a wellspring. She’d always felt that the best writing required empathy. Those pages were her most empathetic attempt to tell Susan’s story.
“Story” being the key word.
Susan was flipping through the pages. “I don’t know what to say. Please tell McKenna how grateful I am—”
Scanlin pulled the document from her hands and began ripping the pages in half.
“What are you—”
“No one’s ever going to see this. Carl Buckner left behind some evidence of his own. We’ve been blaming Adam for the Brentwood bombing, for Macklin’s murder, for the Grand Central shooting, all because we thought he was the one who hired Buckner. It wasn’t Adam who hired Buckner. It was a woman.”
“But—”
“McKenna told us you were trying to go the reformed-and-repentant-female-fugitive route on us. Pretty smart, using sexism to your advantage. It’s always so easy to believe that a woman is the passive underling. But it’s clear that you were the one who hired Buckner, in which case I’d say this week went pretty damn well for you.”
Susan miraculously escaped the bombing in Long Island, which set the stage for her to claim someone was trying to kill her. Scott Macklin died one day after she visited his house, perhaps because he refused to go along with her plan to blame the entire operation on Adam Bayne. And with the Grand Central shooting, she silenced Buckner and nearly took out the man who broke her heart.
“Here’s the thing, Susan. I don’t think you planned for it to go this way. Why’d you hire Buckner? For protection? To watch over you as you reemerged in New York? Make sure Adam didn’t come after you? Then Nicky Cervantes stole your phone—a phone that contained incriminating calls and e-mails. You wanted that phone back, and then you did something truly selfless. You saved the kid from the tracks. Buckner managed to wipe out the video footage he knew about, but how could you be sure those were the only copies? So you had to change plans.”
Her plan was to play the victim, which would allow her to claim the inheritance and hire the best criminal defense lawyer in the city to get her a deal.
Scanlin dropped a copy of George Hauptmann’s will on the table. “McKenna told us you have plans to hire Hester Crimstein. I guess you’re planning to pay her with your inheritance. If you’d stayed dead, you couldn’t collect. But now you’ve got half of your dad’s life savings. Pretty good time to come out of hiding.”
Susan was reading the will with much greater attention than she’d given McKenna’s draft article. Her lips parted. McKenna and Mercado exchanged a glance, preparing for the next wave of lies.
Instead, she pressed her lips together and flipped through the pages of the will once again. Then she started to cry. She put her head on the table, hiding her face with her arms, and sobbed.
“It’s not too late to cooperate, Susan.”
She managed to utter a single sentence. “I want to go back to my cell.”
Susan was done telling stories. She was about to start the beginning of the next phase of her life. One that might last forever.
T
he hospital released Patrick that afternoon. To prepare, McKenna had propped four pillows on his side of the bed and loaded up her laptop with episodes of
Arrested Development
and
The Wire
. “I tried to roll the TV into the bedroom, but the cable cord wasn’t long enough.”
“It’s okay. I’ve watched enough TV in the last two days to dull my brain for a month.”
Once he was comfortable in the bed, she told him about the letter from Carl Buckner and the terms of George Hauptmann’s will.
They might never prove that Susan was the masked assailant who shot Buckner and Patrick at Grand Central, but as promised, the tape of her and Adam arguing in the aftermath of the Marcus Jones shooting had been enough to sink them both.
“Do you have any questions for Scanlin or Mercado?” McKenna asked. “They were going to brief you at the hospital, but I told them you were coming home. They said to call if you—”
“You know what, M? I think we’re both sick and tired of thinking about Susan Hauptmann. What do you have to say about that?”
“I say you’re pretty smart for a guy with a hole in his neck.”
F
or five days, they didn’t talk about her, and life got back to normal.
Normal except that neither of them was working. McKenna had an offer to go back to the magazine—higher pay, more freedom, a fancy title as a “feature columnist.” She told Vance she wanted two weeks to think about it and a paycheck at the new rate while she pondered.
Patrick was using some of the eight million sick days he had accumulated after fourteen years at the museum without a single illness.
She could get used to this lifestyle.
Patrick was eyeing the cardboard box she had placed next to the front door. Susan’s things. The box had been sitting in the corner next to Patrick’s bicycle for nearly a week, the last visible reminder of the danger Susan had brought into their lives.
“Last chance,” he said. “I’m thinking a Dumpster seems like a good idea right now.”
Scanlin and Mercado had already inspected the box’s contents and determined there was nothing relevant to the investigation.
“I know. But Gretchen might want this stuff someday.”
“She was pretty pissed the last time we went out there.”
“Maybe she’s changed her mind now that she knows her sister is alive.”
“Call her and find out. Oh, except then she’ll tell you she doesn’t want this crap, either. And you’ll be stuck with it.”
She smiled. He knew her too well. “Yep, it’s like a hot potato. I don’t care what she says. We’re dumping this stuff at her house and then getting out of Dodge. No more Hauptmann sisters in our lives. I can go by myself, though. My dumb idea, my errand.” She had a Zipcar waiting downstairs at the curb.
Patrick said, “I haven’t been outside in a week. The car ride will be good.”
She knew he wasn’t going for the fresh air. Gretchen’s words had been harsh. He didn’t want her facing that bitterness alone. He reached down for the box and jerked back upright. It was too soon.
As hard as McKenna was working to cleanse their lives of every mark Susan had left, some of them would linger forever.
G
retchen’s Volvo sedan was in the driveway. “Looks like she’s home,” McKenna said.
“You could just drop the box on the front porch and run away.”
“Yes, that would be a very mature way of dealing with a woman whose sister is probably going to prison for the rest of her life.”
McKenna noticed as they walked to the front door that the lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in two weeks. She balanced the box against the porch rail while Patrick gave the brass knocker a few taps.
They saw Gretchen peer out from the living room blinds. During the delay that followed, McKenna wondered whether Gretchen was simply going to ignore them.
As soon as Gretchen opened the door, McKenna stepped inside.
“Gee, McKenna, come on in.”
“Sorry,” she said, dropping the box to the floor. “But that’s heavy. It’s some of Susan’s things that your father held on to. I thought you might want to have it. There are some old pictures of your mother. That kind of stuff.”
Once her hands were free, McKenna noticed that the living room had changed since their last visit. The black leather recliner in the corner was gone, indentations in the carpet marking the spot where it had been. The wide-screen television above the fireplace was also missing, replaced by a smaller version on a cart against the wall. Gretchen’s husband had finished moving out.
McKenna was expecting Gretchen to bawl her out for showing up at the house again without notice, but her face softened. “That was nice of you. Thanks.”
They were on their way out when Gretchen stopped them. “The police were here. I know what happened. I’m glad you’re okay, Patrick.”
Patrick nodded.
McKenna didn’t feel right, leaving without saying more. Gretchen lost her father long before his death. Her husband had left her. Now she’d rediscovered her sister only to lose her to a prison cell.
“This has to be hard on you,” McKenna said. “There are support groups—for families of prisoners—if you want me to give you some names.”
Gretchen’s son came running through the living room, banging on the newly delivered cardboard box with a plastic sword. “I thought we were all done with the moving, Mommy.”
“We are, Porter. Just give us a second, okay?”
He dropped his sword and started pushing the box down the hallway, making engine noises as he went. “I’m going to put this where Daddy’s office used to be. That’s where all the boxes go, right?”
Gretchen offered McKenna and Patrick an awkward smile. “We’re going through some other changes around here. Figured while my husband’s packing up, I might as well do some purging. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff a nine-year-old kid accumulates in a lifetime.” There was a crash in the next room, and she rolled her eyes. “Porter, stay out of that stuff. I told you, those old toys are going to Goodwill.”
“You’ll be fine.” McKenna realized how hollow the words sounded.
“Mommy,” Porter called out from the back room. “There’re pictures of your friend in this box.”
“Okay, Porter, leave it alone. I’ll come see later.” Gretchen moved toward the front door. “Really, thank you so much for coming.”
McKenna had sorted through the entire box. The only pictures were of Susan’s family and her friends from the army. There were no pictures of anyone Porter would recognize as one of his mother’s friends.
McKenna remembered what Gretchen had said the last time they were here.
If you really knew my sister, you’d know that if she were alive—if she were here—she’d know exactly where I was and how I was doing. She would know about her nephew. Hell, she’d probably have Porter’s schedule down to the minute.
Gretchen knew. The whole time, Gretchen knew that Susan was alive.
“Your son knows your sister,” McKenna said. “Susan stayed in touch with you. That’s why you didn’t want me looking for her. You knew she was alive. You knew she had her own plan for coming back to New York.”
“
Moooooom.
Look what else I found.”
“Porter!” Gretchen was screaming now. “Get out of there, I mean it!” Her voice returned to normal. “I obviously have my hands full here. Thank you very much for bringing her things.”
They were almost to the front door. McKenna saw no point in pressing the issue. Whether Gretchen knew, whether she didn’t. Whether Susan visited her nephew, whether she didn’t. None of it really mattered.
They almost walked out.
And then it happened so fast that McKenna would have a hard time later describing the sequence of events.
Gretchen was shepherding them toward the front door. Porter’s little feet came storming down the hallway toward them. They all turned to face the sound of his happy, bellowing voice.
“I’m a ghost,” he yelled. “I’m a ghost.” He ran in a circle through the living room and back down the hall, making “boo” sounds along the way.
He was wearing a black cape and a Guy Fawkes mask.
Gretchen lunged for the console table next to the front door. Patrick saw the movement and charged toward her, but he was too late. She had a gun, and now he was inches from her.
Only one thing mattered to McKenna in that moment: the gun right next to Patrick’s stomach, still bandaged from the smaller of his two wounds. There were no books there to protect him this time.
McKenna jumped on Gretchen with all her weight. The three of them fell to the floor in a tangle. The gun. She heard it thud against the hardwood floor.
Six hands groping for the weapon. McKenna was so close. She felt the steel against her middle finger, but then the gun slid from her reach. She saw someone else’s fingers wrapped around the grip. She felt her body tuck instinctively into a ball, trying to protect itself from the oncoming shot.
And then Patrick was on his feet. He had the gun.
Gretchen was scrambling toward him, but he took one step backward and pointed the gun directly at her head. “I’ll do it, Gretchen. I swear to God, I will do it.”
More footsteps toward them. “I’m a ghost, I’m a ghost.”
Porter stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at them in terror.
Gretchen put on a fake smile. “Don’t be scared, Porter.”
He ran back down the hall.
“I’ll go,” McKenna said. “I’ll tell him everything’s okay.”
She found him curled up on the floor, still in the cape, his mother’s mask resting on the top of his head. The room was vacant but for a few boxes and stuffed Hefty bags. McKenna recognized the nearest box as the one she had delivered. It was open, and various pictures of Susan were scattered next to it.
McKenna knelt on the Berber carpet beside him. “Sorry we scared you. You were having so much fun playing ghost that we decided to do a make-believe game of our own. What do you think about that? Now I’m going to pretend to call the police to report the bad man in your living room.” She dialed 911 on her cell and made big comic eyes at Porter while she gave the dispatcher Gretchen’s address.
He looked at her and laughed. He had big dimples and a heart-shaped face. Almond-shaped eyes. She hadn’t noticed it before, but he looked much more like Susan than Gretchen. More like a young, boyish version of the girls’ mother than General Hauptmann. The age was right, too—a little over nine years old.
Unlike Gretchen, Susan had not been disinherited. Because she had survived her father, she was poised to come into half of his estate. McKenna had assumed that Susan had come back from exile to cash in on that provision of the will.
But that wasn’t the entirety of George Hauptmann’s will. As Marla Tompkins had laid it out, because the general did not know whether Susan was dead or alive, he had included an alternative. In the event she was dead by the time the estate was dispersed, her portion of the estate would go to any remaining descendants other than Gretchen.
As she looked at Porter, McKenna realized that she was looking at the person who would have inherited $1.8 million once Gretchen did what her father had never been able to do: declare Susan dead.
McKenna held her cell phone in the crook of her neck, trying to keep a calm voice while she urged the dispatcher to send a car as quickly as possible. Gretchen was crying in the living room. “It’s not fair. After all this time, she was coming back and taking everything.”
McKenna reached for the little boy beside her, wrapped him in her arms, and began removing his newfound cape.
The crime lab would need it for testing.