The Night Shift, page 16
“I wanted to mention it, since you may see it on the news.” Chris forks at his plate.
Ms. May and Clint stop eating. Chris can feel their eyes on him. He keeps his eyes on his plate.
“You gonna keep us in suspense, son?” Clint says. It’s lighthearted, as if he senses trouble and wants to convey that it’s safe to continue. They’ve spent years helping rebuild Chris and have an uncanny ability to read him.
Ms. May reaches across the table and puts a hand on his.
“You saw they made an arrest in the ice cream shop case?” Chris asks.
Silence.
“I’m on the team assigned to represent the defendant. She’s a teenager, a kid.”
Clint makes a grunt. “I saw that. News said you may have your work cut out for you.”
Chris doesn’t reply.
“There’s usually more to it than what they say on TV,” Ms. May says.
Chris says, “People may say some unkind things about me and my colleagues. But I think it’s the right thing to do.” He’s not sure why he feels the need for the hard sell. “I just wanted you to hear about it from me.”
Chris expects them to ask questions: What will happen if they find out about your brother? Is there a chance your client will try to blame Vince for the crime? Are you sure this is good for your mental health, son?
Instead, Clint says, “I’ve only got one thing to say about it.” He holds Chris’s gaze, waiting an eternity to spit it out. “She’s damn lucky to have a skilled lawyer like you.”
Chris feels a fist in his throat.
“Amen to that,” Ms. May says. “Eat some more, dear, you’re looking too thin.”
CHAPTER 46
KELLER
They huddle near a stand of shrubs under the starless sky. Keller scrutinizes the entrance to Union Self-Storage through her binoculars. Atticus and Secret Service Agent James Nicoletti stand next to her. Nearby, parked on a dirt road off the highway, there’s a van with two more agents. A skeleton crew, but enough for tonight.
She hasn’t found Vince Whitaker, and the locals have made an arrest for the Dairy Creamery murders, but this could at least be a consolation prize: busting Rusty Whitaker on a federal rap. If they take down Rusty, who knows? Maybe the old bastard knows where his son is hiding and will give him up for a deal. If not, it will still be gratifying to throw the disgusting man in prison.
Keller looks over at Atticus and tries not to smile. He’s wearing all black and has his badge hanging around his neck by a chain. Attire inspired by TV cop shows.
Nico puts a hand on Atticus’s shoulder. “You okay, partner?”
Atticus nods, like, No big deal. I do this all the time.
Nico says, “Our intel is that he usually gets shipments at closing time. They finished unloading the containers at the port an hour ago, so hopefully we’ll be in business.”
The plan is simple. The team will stop the semi driving on the desolate patch of highway. They’ll threaten the driver with all kinds of trouble, then promise leniency if he lets them stow away in the truck and ride into the facility. Nico calls it a Trojan horse operation. Keller wants to be in the truck. But Nico shot that down. He joked that it was because she wouldn’t fit. But he clearly didn’t want to be liable if the pregnant lady got hurt.
Nico’s a good man, but like many men, he treats pregnant women like fragile flowers. They overlook the fact that, over the course of history, through famines, epidemics, and other extreme conditions, women survived longer and better than men. Having babies? A walk in the park next to what most men could endure. But whatever.
Nico presses a finger to his earpiece. “Son of a—”
“What?” Keller asks.
“It’s a bigger load than we anticipated. There’re three trucks.” They’d planned on having to deal with only one semi, not three.
“Pull them all over,” Keller says.
“No chance we can time it without one of them calling ahead, warning Whitaker.”
Pulling over one truck in a routine traffic stop is plausible and could avoid suspicion. But three trucks? That’s an obvious raid.
“How far out are they?” Keller asks.
“About two miles.”
She looks at Atticus’s MG parked on the dirt road. Then Nico’s unit car.
“I have an idea. Follow me,” she tells Atticus, pointing at his car.
Before Nico can protest, Keller is in the driver’s seat of the unit car. Nico follows her and hops in as dust kicks out from the tires. Keller smiles at Nico gripping the handle above the window as she tears through the dark streets. Keller drives fast, Atticus close on her tail, finally stopping at the intersection on the only road leading to the storage company. She parks in the middle of the intersection and then directs Atticus to pull his car facing hers. Like they’ve been in an accident. She gives Nico instructions, and he calls his team in the van, then hides in the trees along the roadside.
Headlights appear ahead. Keller takes a bottle of water from Nico’s car and splashes her face.
As the trucks approach, Keller stands in the street and waves her arms frantically at the lead truck heading toward them.
On the ground near the MG, lies Atticus. A red flare burns next to him. A nice touch that Atticus added to ensure the drivers didn’t miss him in his dark clothes. Smoke from the flare floats in the air, adding to the sense that a serious accident has occurred.
The lights are blinding now. But the truck stops. The two rigs behind it pull over as well.
The door to the first truck swings open. Keller runs over.
“We had an accident,” she says, gulping for air. “We weren’t going fast, but I think he may be having a seizure or something.” She turns back to Atticus, who remains on the asphalt.
The trucker, a heavyset guy with a scraggly beard, appears torn. He has his CB in hand. He mutters something into the radio, then lumbers out of the truck.
“I called 911,” Keller says. “Do you know CPR?”
The guy hesitates. A 911 call means cops will soon be on the scene.
Keller glances over the trucker’s shoulder and sees figures approaching the cabins to the other two rigs. The trucker follows her gaze and looks behind him. In the headlamps’ glare, the two drivers are pressed against the sides of the trucks, hands behind their backs. Nico gives her a thumbs-up.
The trucker turns back to Keller. “What in the hell?” That’s when his expression turns to dread at the sight of Keller’s badge.
CHAPTER 47
It takes less than fifteen minutes for the rigs to pull into the storage facility and the team to make arrests. They’ve separated Rusty Whitaker from the desk clerk. Rusty’s in the back of Nico’s car, wearing a dirty white T-shirt and a scowl. Nico is in the front office grilling the clerk, who’s likely spilling his guts.
Standing in the half-light near a cluster of storage units, Keller glances inside the car, sizing up Rusty. He doesn’t seem overly concerned. He knows counterfeit cigarettes aren’t the highest priority of the justice system. He probably assumes he’ll get a slap on the wrist.
He has an ugly disposition, Rusty Whitaker. Not his physical features. His aura. Under the unkempt facade there’s a once-not-so-bad-looking man. His son Vince is a looker. She wonders what became of the youngest child in the woebegone Whitaker family. Keller hopes the kid got out from under Rusty’s rule before his disposition turned ugly too.
Nico’s agents continue to process the evidence. The three trucks have been seized, but the storage units already contained another two loads of product that will need to be inventoried and transported to federal evidence storage.
Rusty sits bored in Nico’s backseat, not a care in the world.
Until…
Keller notices him sit up straight, his attention locked on Atticus, who’s examining a storage unit protected by a rolling metal door. It’s far from the cigarette units, but for some reason it’s caught Atticus’s attention.
Rusty seems even more agitated when Keller heads over to Atticus.
“What’s up?” Keller asks.
Atticus holds his iPhone’s flashlight over a printout. “The owner gave me a list of all the units and owners.” He swings the beam of his light to the unit in front of them. “But this one doesn’t appear on the log.”
Atticus moves the beam back to the printout. Keller’s eyes follow Atticus’s index finger down a column. It lists units 1400, 1401, 1402, and so on until Atticus stops at 1452. The next number is 1454. There is no unit 1453.
“It could be just a misprint, but it’s weird, like someone is trying to hide the unit.” He shines his light on the storage unit’s number: 1453.
It’s probably nothing, Keller thinks. But what the hell, they’re here.
She calls over to a member of Nico’s team. “Can you bring over the cutters?”
The woman nods, disappears a moment, and returns with bolt cutters. Keller moves aside so the woman can do her work. She snaps the padlock on the first try.
Keller looks back at the car. Rusty is all stares now.
Inside, the unit is dark. Musty. There’s an old mail sack with U.S. POSTAL SERVICE printed on it. Envelopes are scattered across the floor.
Keller picks up one of the pieces of opened mail. A Christmas card in a partially torn envelope. The postmark is from 1996.
“Hmm,” Atticus says. “Someone stole a bag of mail for the Christmas money and gift cards, I guess.”
Keller shrugs. A federal offense, but it pales in comparison to the counterfeit cigarette charges. And it’s decades old, so there’s likely a statute-of-limitations problem.
Then why does Rusty look so worried?
In the corner sits a large drum. The kind that holds fuel or toxic waste. Maybe that’s it—Rusty’s illegally storing waste from one of the nearby chemical companies.
The drum is old, covered in rust and dirt.
Keller gestures at the agent with the bolt cutters. “Got a crowbar?”
Five minutes later, Keller’s prying off the barrel’s lid.
“You sure about this?” Atticus says. “I mean what if it’s like poisonous or toxic waste or something?”
“You can wait outside.”
Atticus’s lips press together.
The lid makes a hissing sound when the seal is broken. The smell is pungent but not like chemicals. Keller turns and realizes that she has an audience. Nico’s team watches as she continues.
Atticus is covering his mouth with a handkerchief. He must be the only twentysomething man in the country who carries a cloth hankie.
Keller covers her mouth and nose with her hand. The lid makes a loud clank when it hits the concrete floor.
Keller beams the light inside the drum and adrenaline rips through her.
A decomposed body. Mostly skeleton.
Is it Vince Whitaker? Is that what’s happened to him? His father killed him?
No, Keller realizes. The skull still has hair, long hair.
And the victim is wearing a sundress.
CHAPTER 48
CHRIS
Chris arrives at the office as Julia is powering down her computer. The office is empty save for the cleaning woman, who wears earbuds and occasionally belts out a tune while emptying the trash bins.
Julia briefs him on her research. “I think we have to turn over the phone to the prosecution.”
Chris nods. “Even if it has something incriminatory on it?”
“The case law is surprisingly spotty. But yeah, that’s the safest course.”
It makes sense. Otherwise, criminals could simply give their lawyers murder weapons and other inculpatory evidence to conceal from authorities. And here, it wasn’t even their client who’d given them the cell phone, it was a third party.
“Anything you need me to run to ground in the research?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Julia loads up her briefcase.
Chris waits for her to explain.
“Some of the cases say we can keep the evidence for a reasonable amount of time. A law review article says in some instances we’re allowed to run tests on the evidence before turning it over. I didn’t see any New Jersey case law or ethics decisions on that. If you could run that down, maybe we’ll be able to analyze the data on her phone before turning it over.”
“Makes sense. I mean, we don’t even know that there’s anything incriminating on the device. It seems reasonable we can analyze the texts and digital forensics before handing it over. I’ll research that piece and report back tonight.”
“Cool, thanks,” Julia says.
“You heading home?” Chris asks.
She shakes her head. “I’m gonna hit the bar. I imagine Roger and those clowns will be there celebrating their new big case.”
Chris smiles at that. Julia will let the junior prosecutors buy her drinks while listening to their banter. Between the booze and bravado, she’ll probably learn more about the case than anything the prosecution will give them in discovery.
“Have fun,” Chris says.
Julia pauses. “Sure you don’t want to come? We don’t meet with Jesse until late-morning tomorrow, so if we got in early and split it up, we could probably finish the research in time.”
He considers joining her. But Henry will want to know the best course of action with the phone before the interview. The digital forensics guy also is awaiting permission to analyze the device. And, honestly, he’s not in the mood.
“Have a drink for me,” he says.
Julia disappears and Chris does a deep dive into the Westlaw database. He reads every decision, every treatise, every law review article, every ethics opinion, and writes up the results. They’ll need to use extreme caution, document the chain of custody at each step, but they can analyze the phone before turning it over.
At just past eleven, his phone pings. A text from Julia.
This is their theory.
She includes a link to a news story. Chris clicks on it.
It’s a newspaper article about a workplace attack a few years ago in the Washington, D.C., area. An employee at a high-end athletic-wear store bludgeoned her coworker with a hammer, then staged the scene, claiming she and the employee had been the victims of masked intruders.
So this was the prosecution’s working theory: that Jesse killed the employees at the Dairy Creamery, then pretended to be one of the victims, like in the Washington, D.C., attack. She’d taken all the victims’ phones with her to cover up her previous dispute with one of the girls, hidden them in the hospital room, but inadvertently left one behind when she checked out.
Is Jesse Duvall capable of such a ghastly crime? Could any teenager concoct such an elaborate scheme? He recalls their meeting with the seventeen-year-old. She’s a cool customer. An old soul for sure. But a murderer?
Chris’s phone chimes again. He expects another text from Julia, but it’s a notification that a new travel vlog has posted.
Chris takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, excitement chasing away his fatigue.
Nirvana awaits…
YOUTUBE EXCERPT
Mr. Nirvana, the Anonymous Travel Vlogger
(18K views)
“The Ship Graveyard”
EXT. DAYTIME—ARTHUR KILL SHIP GRAVEYARD
MR. NIRVANA stands on the hull of a steel freighter that has turned scarlet from rust and is consumed by decay. It’s partially submerged in murky, brown water.
MR. NIRVANA (O.S.)
When I was a kid, I’d come to this ship graveyard, which is on this tidal strait that divides New Jersey and Staten Island. We’d maneuver rowboats around these corroded hulks at night and party in battered old ships. I used to camp at a spot not far from here, and I might stay there tonight.
The camera spans the area, where the ghostly remnants of vessels litter the waterway.
MR. NIRVANA (O.S.)
But you couldn’t appreciate it at night, so I’d come out here by myself in the daylight, like now. It’s so peaceful and it has this ethereal beauty. Back then, it helped me escape some stuff I was dealing with. But I can’t show you this properly on my own, so today I’m going to do something new.
The video switches to another camera, one affixed to a drone. Aerial shots of the dead fleet appear on-screen.
MR. NIRVANA (O.S.)
Look there, on top of the mast, a bird’s nest.
The camera floats over a ruined old ferry. Seagulls squawk in the distance.
MR. NIRVANA (O.S.)
It used to be a junkyard for ships, and it had about four hundred vessels, some predating World War One, but most have been used for scrap now or sunk to the bottom. It’s an accidental marine museum.
The drone captures small boats closer to the shore that are splattered with graffiti, then drifts farther out, hovering over old tugboats, a warship. Piles of tires and splintered wood and debris cover the vessels.
MR. NIRVANA (O.S.)
This is where ships go to die. There are worse places for your final resting place, trust me on that.
FADE TO BLACK
CHAPTER 49
ELLA
Ella is parked outside the boarded-up building again. She needs to stop this. Lurking outside the old Blockbuster store is weird; it’s unhealthy. It’s past eleven. She considers heading into the city, meeting someone, taking him back to her tired hotel, having tired sex. But she needs to stop this.
She eyes the book on the passenger seat, A Farewell to Arms. The photo booth strip she used as a bookmark sticks out from the top. Why hasn’t she thrown it away? Torn it up?
Her mind wanders to the movie from earlier, Before Sunrise. And her thoughts trip to a cold afternoon from before.
*
“Where’s Katie?” the boy asks Ella. He’s standing in front of the Cyclone, the old wooden roller-coaster, their designated meeting place. His hair pushes in the cool breeze, his cheeks rosy from the cold. Ella’s never been to Coney Island. It’s not somewhere her mother would ever dream of taking her, much less in December.
