Smoke (38 page)

“You should have kept trying to call me and stayed with the van. Who knows what happened here in the hour or so you were gone?”

He didn’t say anything, just pulled his sheepish face. He’d used this as an excuse to spend time with her. He brought her here not to help Mount but to hold her in his thrall, create a drama they could share. If he’d called, she would have come but she would have had her own car, could have come and gone as she pleased without him. He was such a child.

“So what are we doing here?” she said. “I mean what are we going to accomplish here?”

“Let’s call it in, let’s call the van into 911. Suspicious vehicle.”

“What does that do?”

“It ties The New Day to Clifford Stern, gives some plausibility to the story you told Detective Bloom.”

She held his eyes for a second. It wasn’t a bad idea. It was effective and by the book. Or they could call Bloom directly; they weren’t breaking any laws by being there. They were both off duty, just passing through the neighborhood that just happened to be where Clifford Stern, the man who’d implicated her friend and partner, was probably watching television like he hadn’t just ruined somebody’s life.

“Why didn’t you do that before?”

He showed her his palms.

“Did you run the plate?”

He opened his mouth to answer when two flashes of light lit up Stern’s bay window. Two sharp pops followed; then another blue flash. Another pop.

“Oh, shit,” said Dylan, grabbing her arm hard and pulling her back from the corner. The sound of gunfire, even muffled, was unmistakable to both of them.

“Oh, my God,” said Jesamyn, reaching for the Glock at her waist as she instinctively dropped to a crouch. But no one exited the front door of the row house; there was no movement from the van. The street remained quiet, no one popping their heads out windows, no new lights coming on.

“Call 911,” said Dylan.

She hesitated, wanting to go up there herself. He put a hand on her arm.

“If you don’t, and someone just killed Clifford Stern, you’re the first person on the scene. Do you realize what that looks like?” he said, reaching into the pocket of her coat for her phone.

She looked at him. He was right. It would look like she shot him. She had no business being there, no legitimate reason for being in the vicinity. Something in her went stone cold.

“That’s crazy,” she said uncertainly. “My gun hasn’t been fired. Ballistics test would prove I hadn’t shot him.”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. There was something she hadn’t seen very often in his eyes. Fear. “Aren’t you the one insisting that The New Day framed Stenopolis, that somehow they managed to plant blood and fingerprint evidence to implicate him?” he whispered fiercely. “Protect yourself, Jesamyn. Protect both of us. For Ben.”

The sound of their son’s name caused a tide of panic to rise within her. She grabbed the cell phone from him and put it back in her pocket.

“I can’t use that. Are you nuts?” she said and moved away from him quickly toward the pay phone on the corner. She pulled on her gloves and dialed 911, made the report, keeping the receiver away from her mouth and ear. These days they could get prints and DNA off of anything. Chances were if there were no other witnesses, they’d be looking
for the person who made the 911 call. Inwardly she cursed herself as they climbed into the GTO. Every instinct had told her not to come here with him. They pulled down Fourteenth Avenue as three police cars raced past them, sirens crying, lights spinning.

“What if someone saw us?” she asked him.

“No one saw us. Besides, even if they did, there’s no way for them to identify us. I mean it’s not like we’re wearing name tags.”

He was trying to be funny. But there was nothing funny about this. He pulled the car over in front of an espresso shop; she could smell the aroma of coffee and the sweet smell of pastry from inside the car. He leaned over her and turned on his police scanner; the chatter, sizzle of static, and beeping filled the car.

“Let’s get a coffee and listen to the scanner. See what happened in there.”

She nodded and he left the car. She listened to the crackle and hiss of his police scanner, the voices fuzzy and distant like they were coming from the moon. A robbery, two units responding. A suspicious man standing on the corner, one car on the way. She listened. A Medical Examiners van and CSI team summoned to 1604 Fourteenth Avenue.

“Dispatch, we got a DB, multiple gunshot wounds,” said a deep male voice. “A witness describes the suspect as a Caucasian male, more than six feet tall, big build, over two hundred and fifty pounds, wearing a dark jacket, possibly leather, and blue jeans. He exited the back of the home and scaled the fence to the street. Witnesses say he headed east on foot.”

“Units responding,” said the dispatcher.

“Oh my God,” said Jesamyn.

Dylan slid back into the car, handed her a coffee and a white bag that was already greasing through on the bottom with whatever pastry was inside.

“They’ve got a dead body at the scene. The suspect matches Mount’s description,” she said to him with a smile. “But Mount’s in lockup. Maybe whoever killed Stern, killed Katrina Aliti. They said he was heading east on foot; let’s go.”

Dylan looked down at her with a frown. “Jesamyn, you didn’t hear?”

“What?”

“Mount’s out,” he said. “He was released on bail earlier this afternoon.”

She looked at him and thought she might throw up.

“No,” she said, searching his face for dishonesty or uncertainty. “He would have called.”

Dylan shook his head slowly. “His family posted bond. He went home this afternoon. Suspended without pay pending the outcome of the trial.”

She kept staring at him, the full implication of his words sinking in. Dylan looked away uncomfortably after a moment, sipped on his coffee. Taking the phone from her pocket, she scrolled through the call log. A couple hours earlier there was a call from Matt’s home phone but no message. She quickly dialed the number and waited as the phone just rang and rang. She tried his cell, but the voicemail picked up immediately, indicating to her that he had it off. Her throat felt tight; her hands cold.

“Listen,” Dylan said gently. “Nobody who was guilty of Aliti’s murder would kill the witness implicating someone else. If The New Day is trying to frame Mount, they’re not going to kill their eyewitness. The only person who would want the witness dead is the person being implicated.”

“Unless they just want Matt to look guilty for this, too.”

Dylan sighed and rolled his eyes. “Come on Jez. Let’s get real, here.”

“You saw the van,” she almost shouted. “What were they doing there? What’s The New Day’s connection to Clifford Stern?”

“Maybe it was a coincidence,” he said with a shrug.

She looked at him, incredulous. “A coincidence?”

“Yeah,” he said weakly. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, is it? That the van was parked there for some other reason not relating to Clifford Stern?”

She shook her head. “Just drive East on Sixty-Sixth Street.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

He put the car into gear and made a left on Sixty-Sixth Street.

“He could be anywhere by now. It’s not like we’re going to find him strolling up the street, taking in some air.”

Jesamyn knew he was right but it made her feel better to be doing something. She scanned the few figures on the street, walking quickly, huddled against the cold. Matt or someone who looked like him would be easy to spot. Speaking of coincidences, she couldn’t help but wonder how they wound up here for this. She thought about how they just happened to get there, minutes before the shooting, just in time to call 911. She looked at Dylan, who had his eyes on the road.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“What? I told you. So you could see the van.” He glanced at her quickly, then put his eyes back on the road.

“How did you know it would still be here?”

“I didn’t.”

She didn’t say anything, just scanned the streets, peering between buildings, glancing up on the el platform. Maybe she was getting paranoid. After all, what was she thinking? She’d asked him to help her and that’s what he was doing, in his own self-serving way. Her head felt foggy; she was overtired, overwhelmed, and confused. She rested her head against the cool window, never taking her eyes off the street. Was it possible that Mount had killed Clifford Stern? She tried it on, toyed with accepting the idea. That he was terrified or had lost his mind, had shot the man out of some kind of desperation or temporary insanity. She shook her head. It just didn’t fit; there was no way. But he might as well have shot Stern; a man matching Mount’s description was seen leaving the scene after shots were fired. There weren’t that many people who looked like Mount and he was already accused of another murder in which Stern was the witness. His fate was more or less sealed, wasn’t it? Except that she had seen The New Day van parked outside the apartment.

“Go back,” she said.

“Where?

“To Stern’s street,” she said. “I want to make sure that van doesn’t go anywhere.”

He nodded and made a U-turn, headed back toward Fourteenth Avenue.

There was a sea of police vehicles in front of the Stern residence. They arrived as the Medical Examiners van and the CSI team were
approaching the row house. She saw Ray Bloom through the bay window over the porch as they parked the car and approached the corner where they’d heard the gunfire. She turned to see the van. But, of course, it was gone. A beat-up red Saturn had already taken its place.

“Shit,” she said. “Shit.” She put her head in her hands. She almost cried right there on the street.

Dylan put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go talk to Bloom,” he said softly. “Let’s tell him what we saw. He’s a smart guy; he’ll know we’re telling the truth.”

She nodded. They had no choice. If they didn’t, Mount didn’t have a chance.

M
att sat against the concrete wall in the alley, barely noticing the stench of urine and garbage. His heart had just slowed to a normal rhythm but his lungs still ached from the exertion of effort and terror. He’d run nearly ten blocks through back alleys. His hands and thighs were still shaking. He put his head down in his hands and felt the warm, viscous liquid against his forehead.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, surprised at the shaking fear he heard in his own voice. He drew his hands back and they were dark with blood. He thought of the backdoor handle where he’d exited the house, the fence that he’d grabbed and pulled himself over. He stood and stripped off his leather jacket, then the sweater he wore beneath it. If the police caught up with him, he didn’t want to be wearing clothes soaked with Clifford Stern’s blood. He threw the sweater in the Dumpster beside him. He inspected the leather jacket for blood in the dim glow of the streetlight and saw that it was clean; he put it back on and zipped it up to his throat. He leaned over and vomited, his whole body wracked with it.

A squad car raced past the alleyway, lights flashing but siren off. He jumped and crouched behind the Dumpster, hitting his head on its metal side. He was shivering now from fear and from the cold and from pain. He could barely believe that his life had come to this, that he was squatting in an alley hiding from the police. He tried to think of the moment, the pivot on which his life had turned. He could pinpoint it exactly: when he’d threatened Trevor Rhames and The New Day. But
no. Maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was the day he fell in love with Lily Samuels, a girl he’d never seen in the flesh until tonight. If the girl he’d seen had been her at all. If he’d even seen a girl. He couldn’t be sure now; the memory of her felt foggy and indistinct.

He tried to think about his options but the pain in his head was so bad he thought he might be having a stroke. He
wished
he were having a stroke, that he would drop dead right there—then at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the disaster his life had become. What was he supposed to do now?

He’d just wanted to talk to Clifford Stern, wanted to understand why this stranger had implicated him in a crime he didn’t commit. He’d believed he could convince the guy to go to the police with the truth: that The New Day had paid him or threatened him to be an eyewitness. There was no other explanation. But he should have known not to go there, should have known that they’d be waiting. Now the abyss he’d fallen into was deeper and darker than it had been hours earlier, and it had been pretty fucking deep and dark.

He had five hundred dollars in cash in his pocket and a five-shot Smith & Wesson. He was a fugitive, wanted now for two murders. Within hours, his face was going to be all over the television, in post offices, airports, bus and train stations. He looked at the cell phone in his pocket. Who could he call? Theo? Jesamyn? Lydia Strong? No. The first thing Bloom would do was subpoena his cell phone records; anyone he called could be accused of aiding and abetting. It struck him strangely, hard to the gut, that he was alone now. He’d been lonely before, maybe for most of his life; he was used to that. But he’d never been
alone
like this, never felt like every connection he had to his life had snapped and he was lofting away into the sky. He could feel himself getting farther and farther away from Earth.

He took a deep shuddering breath, stood. He figured there was only one thing left to do.

Twenty-Four

B
asically, Grimm wanted to use them. Lydia had pretty much figured this the moment he pulled up a chair. Otherwise, rather than sitting and having a friendly little chat about Trevor Rhames and The New Day, he probably would have arrested them. He could easily do that and hold them for as long as he wanted under the Patriot Act.

“We can’t go in there,” Grimm told them. “They’ve got lawyers and political connections up the yin-yang. We’ve been in there before and found nothing.”

“After Rusty Klautz escaped,” said Lydia.

“That’s right.”

“So what makes you think there’s anything there now?” asked Jeffrey.