The Night Shift, page 6
A friendly threat that if Rusty doesn’t talk they’ll create problems for him. Both the message and delivery are well-done.
Rusty shrugs for Atticus to continue.
“When’s the last time you saw Vince?”
Rusty gives him a tired stare. “I just told you. The night he got sprung. I was surprised he was home.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“I’ve been through this a hundred times, and—”
“Did you speak with him?” Atticus asks, more sternly this time.
“We had words, yeah. I told him I wanted him out. Said I was goin’ to the bar and he’d better be gone when I got home.”
“What time was that?”
Rusty shrugs.
“And when you got home, he was gone?”
“Yep. And I haven’t seen him since, and hope I never do.”
“The night Vince was arrested,” Atticus says, “you told the police that you got home from work around ten, is that right?”
Rusty Whitaker frowns. “If you say so. Been fifteen years.”
“Did you drive to work that day?”
Rusty throws down a chicken wing on his plate. Puts his hands in the air like he has no idea.
Atticus continues, “Because your Monte Carlo was seen in the Blockbuster that night. If you drove to work, how could Vince have—”
“No idea. Ask Vince.”
“Do you have any idea where he would’ve gone? Could his mother have put him up? Do you know how we can reach her?”
The club announcer’s voice blares from the sound system, introducing the next dancer. Rusty moves his head to see over Atticus’s shoulder. “Look, I got a half hour left for my lunch. Unless you’re gonna arrest me, we’re done.”
Atticus looks to Keller. She considers pushing more, but that won’t get them anywhere. And she really wants to get out of there. The smell of the wings, the sauce on Rusty’s cheek, the stale air, are making her stomach churn.
The next girl totters onto the stage and the music turns louder.
Keller and Atticus head for the door.
Atticus stops, turns back. Keller follows his gaze to the stage. Rusty’s on his feet, sticking a dollar bill in the dancer’s G-string. The young woman—she looks no older than twenty—twirls around the pole.
Atticus says, “In the movies, the detectives always end up interviewing witnesses at a strip club, and it seemed like it would be pretty cool. But this is awful.”
“You’ve never been to a strip club for like a bachelor party or something?” Keller says.
“No way, my mom would kill me.”
Keller suppresses a smile.
Still staring at Rusty, Atticus adds, “I hate this guy so much.”
“He’s hiding something,” Keller says, then shrugs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out what it is.”
CHAPTER 14
“So, ‘Atticus’ is an unusual name,” Keller says as she drives back to the office, her sidekick for the day scrolling through the Blockbuster file on his iPad. He’s scanned and uploaded all the interview notes, tips, news clippings, and other documents from the old files. She admires his enthusiasm, his optimism, that they might dig up something new. She’s not so optimistic.
“My father was a fan of To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Keller nods.
“They didn’t consider that the name might not go over well for the only brown kid at North Caldwell Elementary.” He smiles. “And I never had the heart to mention that after Harper Lee died, they released her original manuscript and Atticus turns out to be a racist.” The smile again.
It’s settled. Keller likes this young detective.
“What’s next?” he asks.
“Good question,” Keller says, watching the road closely. Bob hates it when she talks on the phone or is otherwise distracted while driving. But Bob hates multitasking generally. He’s an in-the-moment person. That works beautifully for their relationship but not so much for a fast-moving investigation.
“We rework the case file. Talk to witnesses, the families,” she says. “Try to find any connections between the Blockbuster victims and the ice cream store victims.”
Atticus swipes at his tablet. “I haven’t been able to find Vince Whitaker’s mother, or his little brother, who I think may have been adopted and changed his name. I have info on the victims’ families, though. I can try to set up some interviews.”
Keller nods.
“That leaves the Blockbuster survivor, Ella Monroe,” Atticus says.
“I’m meeting with her tonight,” Keller says. “Hal set it up for me,” she adds.
“Want me to come along?”
“I think, given what happened to her, one-on-one would be best.”
“Makes sense,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed.
“What about all the sightings of Vince Whitaker over the years?” Keller asks. “Anything to all of that?”
Atticus lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to track those in my spare time. But most happened outside the country. If you think eyewitness testimony is unreliable, that’s nothing compared to sightings by vacationers who’ve spent the day drinking cocktails.”
Atticus’s phone chimes. “Whoa,” he says.
“What is it?” Keller asks.
“They went to interview the janitor from the school, the one who was fired. Apparently, the guy’s barricaded himself in his home and they’re gonna extract him.”
“How far from us?”
“Just a few minutes.” Atticus looks excited again. “Want me to reach out to the team to get approval for us to come?”
Keller grips the wheel. “Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
*
The street is cordoned off. An officer meets them at the perimeter and lets them pass when Atticus lies and says that Detective Arpeggio is expecting them.
Keller gives him an admiring glance. Atticus is a quick study. He didn’t ask for permission and would definitely be asking for forgiveness later.
They pull up to a bevy of vehicles. Keller hoists herself out of the car and surveys the scene. There are six cars, both marked and unmarked, and an armored van that probably houses a SWAT team. Keller is always surprised by the arsenals of local forces, often bought with money the federal government shares from drug forfeitures.
Arpeggio is stationed at a command center outside the van, talking to a group of men in black tactical gear.
She looks at Atticus, who’s holding his iPad at his side. “You have access to the file on the janitor on that thing?”
“If they’ve uploaded it to the evidence portal.”
“Can you check?” Keller doesn’t have all the intel, but from what she’s seeing, Arpeggio’s team is getting ready to kill a mosquito with a sledgehammer.
As Atticus taps on the device, Arpeggio’s gaze snags on Keller. He squints, then breaks away from the group and marches over.
“I thought we agreed that you were sticking to the Blockbuster and Whitaker side of things,” he says, his tone firm. “We’ve got this covered.”
“I can see that,” Keller says, her tenor hinting at the overkill. “What happened?”
Arpeggio shakes his head, like he doesn’t have time for this. “Mintz and a uniform came to interview the janitor. When they climbed the porch, he surprised them, shoved them both down the stairs, and ran inside. Now he’s not responding.”
Keller watches the men in tactical gear, who appear too eager. “The Bureau has some top-flight negotiators,” she says. “I can get one over here who can—”
“No need,” Arpeggio says. “But I do need you to stay over there, where it’s safe.” His eyes drop to her pregnant belly. “I’ve got enough problems today.”
Keller doesn’t fight it. She and Atticus head to an area adjacent to the command center.
“I got the guy’s jacket and probation file,” Atticus says, handing Keller the iPad. It’s short, and she reads quickly. The custodian, Randy Butler, is no serial child molester. His conviction for lewd conduct with a minor was nearly twenty years ago when he was eighteen: he got his sixteen-year-old girlfriend pregnant.
“It says he shares custody of a son with disabilities … autism, apparently. The kid would be about seventeen,” Keller says.
She watches as Arpeggio, followed by men in black, climbs the steps quietly. They’re in stacked formation, headed to the front door.
Keller turns to Atticus. “Do you have Detective Mintz’s number? I need to talk to her.”
“Yeah, but she’s right over there.” Atticus directs his attention to a small group watching the breach team. As the armored officers reach the top of the porch steps, Arpeggio raises a hand, then closes it to a fist, and the team stops. He pounds on the door.
“Police! Open up!”
Keller hurries over to Mintz. The detective’s eyes move from the breach team to Keller. She wears a sling on her arm.
“Detective Mintz, I’m glad you’re all right. Did you get a good look at who shoved you down the steps? Arpeggio said it was a surprise attack. Are you sure it was Randy Butler?”
Mintz’s eyes flash. “It was him. I mean, I think … We were coming up the porch and he just charged. We both lost our footing and he ran inside.”
Keller hears a commotion from behind them. Yelling. A confrontation with the officers maintaining the perimeter. Keller recognizes the civilian from the photo she’s just viewed on the iPad. He looks older than in the mug shot, but it’s him. The custodian. The man who’s supposed to be inside the house.
There’s a loud Boom. The battering ram cracks through the door and the men disappear inside.
Keller runs over toward the custodian. By then, Randy Butler is on the ground being cuffed, two officers restraining him. Keller shouts for the officers to stand down.
“My son,” Randy Butler cries, craning his neck up from the blacktop. His tone is breathless and frantic. “He’s a gentle boy. But he gets scared. I don’t want them to think…”
“Shit.” Keller races to the command center and tries to speak with a man wearing a headset mic, the communications lead with the breach team. He’s focused intently on the house and waves her away.
The team is likely at peak adrenaline, clearing each room in the zone. If the kid inside makes any sudden moves…
Keller takes a deep breath, then speed-walks across the street, holding her badge high in the air, making clear she’s a friendly. The tactical lead calls out to her, but she makes her way up the steps and through the broken front door.
Inside, she moves slowly. She can hear heavy footsteps upstairs. Voices shouting the word clear every few seconds. Her pulse is banging in her chest, in her neck.
“I’m with the FBI,” she bellows. “You should stand down!”
The footsteps continue.
She yells again, louder. “FBI! Stand down!”
The movement stops.
“The perp’s detained outside,” she yells.
The dwelling plunges into silence.
“The person in the house is his son! He has a disability! He may not understand what’s happening.”
At last, Arpeggio appears at the top of the stairs and glowers down at her. Behind him, two officers in tactical gear guide a handcuffed man, a teenager, down the staircase.
At the foot of the stairs, Arpeggio opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, then storms out the door.
Keller approaches the officers restraining the boy, who—far from struggling—appears to be shutting down.
“Jimmy?” she says softly.
The boy looks up at her.
“I’m Sarah.” Keller smiles at him. “Your dad’s outside. Would you like to see him?”
The boy’s blank expression turns hopeful. He nods.
Keller looks at the two officers, who are conflicted now. In an overly pleasant voice, solely for Jimmy’s benefit, she says, “I think these men made a big mistake, and since they want to keep their jobs, they’re gonna take off those cuffs, if that’s okay with you?”
Jimmy nods again, avoiding eye contact.
Keller gives the officers a piercing gaze. They don’t question it. The burly one glares at Keller while his younger comrade unlocks the handcuffs.
Keller walks out of the house with Jimmy Butler.
She’ll be hearing about this from Hal. From Stan, even. But right now, she doesn’t care. This boy needs his father.
CHAPTER 15
CHRIS
Chris arrives at Clare’s apartment at the Ellington, a glitzy building in Midtown Manhattan close to her office. The place has a doorman, a marble lobby, and an expensive-looking vase of fresh flowers on an elegant table near the elevators. It’s a stark contrast to his shoebox in Elizabeth, New Jersey. He’d been bracing himself all week for the work party she’d coaxed him to attend. “All the junior associates are bringing plus-ones,” she’d pleaded.
Chris has no interest in an evening with the masters of the universe who ruled the halls of Cramer Moorhouse, one of New York’s most prestigious law firms. He imagines them gossiping about the mismatch of Clare (old money, Upper West Side, Mergers & Acquisitions shark-in-training) and Chris (no money, wrong side of the tracks in Linden, New Jersey, defender of street thugs).
“There he is,” Clare says, greeting Chris at the door. She’s wearing a stylish blouse—somehow corporate yet sexy at the same time—and that familiar sparkle in her eyes. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him.
He knows he should appreciate this. She’s a beautiful, successful young woman who by all accounts adores him. But on days like today, which remind Chris of who he really is, her blind affection is somehow off-putting.
“I have a surprise for you,” Clare says. She gives a tiny clap of her hands, nearly vibrating with excitement.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks. “I’ve told you that you don’t have to—” But before he finishes the sentence, she’s skipped down the hall.
Chris tells himself to shake off the mood. She doesn’t deserve to have her night ruined by his gloom. He steps into the impressive living room. The apartment has an open floor plan. High ceilings. And the view. It sure beats the neon sign of the Chinese takeout place across from his place. Clare has already hinted that he should move in. That her dad, who owns the place, would be cool with it. Ever the optimist.
Clare’s back in the living room with a garment bag.
“What’s this?”
“Remember how I said my tailor could refurbish your suit?”
“Ye-es,” Chris says, cautiously.
“It turns out he couldn’t. But he was able to use it for your measurements,” she says in a singsong voice. She unzips the bag and displays a sharp navy suit. Chris examines the label inside the jacket. Brioni, which he’s never heard of but knows is expensive.
“You said you’d feel more confident for your trials if you had a nice suit.” She beams.
He doesn’t recall saying that—and he certainly can’t wear this suit to meet his clients at the dirty Union County jail. But those sparkling eyes … What kind of upbringing did you need to get that sparkle? Maybe if Ms. May and Clint had gotten to him sooner, he’d have that same glint.
He kisses her and tries to sound sufficiently enthusiastic. “This is too much. Thank you, Clare.”
“Maybe you can wear it tonight,” she says.
*
So he does. The last thing he wants is to embarrass her with her friends. She’s conveniently bought him expensive shirts, a belt, shoes, and even cuff links to go with the ensemble.
The soiree is at a partner’s apartment that makes Clare’s seem modest. At these functions, he always finds himself talking to the bartenders or women who carry around the trays of over-complicated hors d’oeuvres.
But tonight, he’s been cornered by M&A guys from Clare’s department. These types always are fascinated by public defenders like Chris. Occasionally it feels patronizing. But tonight, they seem genuinely curious.
It starts casually enough. Alpha small talk. Them gossiping about the party host’s bad Botox, which gives his face that look of perpetual surprise. Then there’s the colleague they call “Dunning Kruger,” a reference to an affliction that causes the least capable people to think they’re the smartest in the room. A few comments about the pretty bartender with the long legs. Then, inevitably, they turn to Chris’s job.
“Do you, like, go to court?” a guy named Thad says.
His name tells you nearly everything you need to know about him. At Cramer Moorhouse, even the litigators won’t see the inside of a courtroom for the first ten years. Granted, they’re trying cases worth billions, not defending a purse-snatching drug fiend. But still.
“Yeah, I’ve had two dozen trials—mostly drugs and guns, which is what we do the first couple of years for training. I should get my first violent-crimes case soon.”
Thad says, “I don’t think I could sleep at night. I mean, aren’t most of them guilty?”
Chris decides to spare him the usual spiel about believing in the system. And he also doesn’t make the observation that Cramer Moorhouse’s corporate clients—environmental polluters, predatory lenders, etc.—hurt or kill far more people.
Clare must sense trouble; she swoops in to save him. “What are you guys talking about?” She rings her arm around Chris’s.
“We were just marveling that Chris actually has seen the inside of a courtroom.”
This time it does sound patronizing.
“He is pretty amazing,” Clare says.
Thad gives a razor smile. “Speaking of criminals … Did you all see that awful story about the ice cream shop in New Jersey? As if Jersey wasn’t already bad enough.”
They all laugh. If you’re from New Jersey, you’re used to this from New Yorkers, even the transplants.
“No,” Clare says. “What happened?”
Before anyone answers, Chris says, “I’m going to get a drink. Get you all anything?”
He weaves his way through the crowd to the bar. The pretty bartender gives him a fake smile, which turns genuine when she watches him down the vodka in a single gulp.
