Play Dead

Sam has used his computer magic to get the guy’s home address, and I’m going to take a ride out there tomorrow. I generally like to interview people face-to-face when I’m working on a case, and I’m partial to surprising them by showing up unannounced. There’s always the possibility that he won’t be home or won’t talk to me, but since I’ll be going on a Saturday, it’ll be a nice drive with little traffic.

Kevin and I spend the day going through the nuts and bolts of preparing for the trial. We discuss whether to ask for a change of venue but decide against it. It’s not as if the murder victim were a local person or even that the case drew great attention. There’s no reason for us to think we can’t get a fair trial down there, and for that reason our request likely wouldn’t be granted if we made it.

It’s midafternoon when we start talking about the Petrone situation in detail. I do not think that the revelation of Petrone’s sneaking money out of the country means that he’s involved in the Evans case.

Kevin disagrees. “I don’t understand,” he says. “We’ve suspected all along that there might be something going on at customs that would have caused Richard to be set up. Now we find out that Petrone, the head of organized crime in New Jersey, is involved in an illegal customs operation with Richard’s replacement. And because of this, we think Petrone is not involved?”

I understand his point; it makes perfect sense. I’m just not buying it. “It just doesn’t feel important enough for Petrone to have gone to all this trouble. He’d be able to get the money out in other ways.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kevin says.

“And Petrone didn’t hire Chaney. How did he know he’d be able to control Richard’s replacement?”

“Maybe he owns Chaney’s boss.”

I shake my head. “Then he certainly wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of setting up this elaborate operation. And you think Petrone’s people rescued Reggie from the boat that night?”

Kevin grins. “It always comes back to Reggie.”

Before I head home for the evening of Taco Bell and baseball that I didn’t get to enjoy last night, I call Karen and deliver on my promise to let her drive with me tomorrow, to try to talk to Hamadi. I won’t let her sit in on the interview if there is one, but she can keep me company.

She’s quite pleased to join me, and we agree that I’ll pick her up at ten a.m.

I take Tara and Reggie on a very long walk, and pick up the Crunchwraps on the way back. It’s quite late when we get home, and I’ve probably already missed three innings of the Mets game.

I hadn’t left any lights on, so when I open the door it’s very dark inside. The first thing I see is the little, flashing red light on my answering machine, and I go over to press the button and listen to the message.

The voice is Karen’s. “Andy, it’s Karen. I just got a strange call from Keith Franklin. He said that he needs to talk to me and wants me to meet him behind school number twenty. He told me not to tell you, that what he had to say you shouldn’t hear. I said okay, but you said we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, so I’m letting you know. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what he said. If I’m doing anything wrong with this, I’m sorry.”

I’m in the den, and as I listen to the message, it feels as if the walls of the room are closing in and crushing me. I am simultaneously hit by a feeling of panic and dread so powerful that I have to make a conscious effort not to fall to my knees.

My certainty of the horrible danger to Karen doesn’t make complete sense; Franklin could really have something to tell her that he doesn’t want me to know. But every instinct in my body doesn’t believe it, and if my instincts are right, then the truth is too horrible to contemplate.

I grab my cell phone and run out of the house. I don’t know Karen’s cell phone number or even that she has one, so calling her isn’t an option. Instead, I call Pete Stanton as I drive, and tell him what’s going on. He promises to get himself and some officers there as soon as possible.

School number 20 is a grammar school less than five minutes from my house. I will certainly be there before Pete, and I try in these few moments to plan what I will do when I arrive. I don’t come up with anything, but the act of thinking helps to lessen the feeling of panic.

The parking lot and athletic field are behind the school, and I drive around at a high speed, pulling to a screeching stop. I want to make as much noise as I possibly can; if a bad guy is there, I want it to sound as though the cavalry is arriving.

It’s very dark back here, with no streetlights and little moonlight. I think I can make out Karen’s car, but it could just be a shadow. I run toward the back of the school and see a small light above an exit door. Standing there, that light glancing off her, is Karen. The fact that she is standing means she is alive, and the fact that she is alive is extraordinarily wonderful.

“Karen!” I call out, though I am still at least seventy-five yards away.