The Burning Edge, page 19
Gannon counted the seconds passing and got to five.
“Who are you?”
“Jack Gannon. I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance.” Gannon held up his photo ID to the camera.
“Step inside, please, and wait. I’ll be right there.”
The lock on the interior glass door buzzed and Gannon stepped into the lobby. A few minutes later, to the jangle of keys, a fast-walking woman of about fifty, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, arrived.
She looked Gannon over after they’d stepped into the elevator.
“A reporter, huh?”
“What do you know about Harlee?” Gannon asked.
“He lives alone and keeps to himself. Bet you hear that a lot.” As the car rose, she picked her way along her key ring. “I’m sure you know there are a ton of laws and policies about entering an apartment without permission.”
“I know.”
“But I have discretion if I think it’s an emergency,” she said. “Mr. Shaw’s late with his rent. He’s never late and I ain’t seen him. He hasn’t answered my calls on the phone and at his door, or picked up his mail. And now you’re here with a concern. I’m likely wrong, but I consider that an emergency and reason to check on his welfare. My name’s Shelly.”
“Jack Gannon.”
“Yeah, I saw that on your ID.”
The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Shelly led the way to unit 1021 and knocked hard on the door.
“Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, are you okay?” Shelly called.
Again, she rapped loudly then pressed her ear to the door. She turned to Gannon, shook her head, then inserted her key. As the door cracked, Gannon detected an odor. Then saw the security chain.
This is not good, he thought.
Shelly surprised Gannon when she produced a telescopic metal hook. She extended it, and with one expert move, used it to unfasten the chain, as though she’d done this before.
“Mr. Shaw!”
Noise from near and distant units, TVs and voices, filled the hallway, but inside everything was silent. The odor grew more intense as Shelly pushed the door open.
As they went down the apartment’s hallway, Gannon glimpsed the small kitchen, saw the table cluttered with take-out-food wrappers. A mountain of filthy dishes rose from the sink. Bugs feasted on the garbage strewn on the floor. It was hard to breathe.
“Mr. Shaw!”
As they entered the edge of the small living room, Shelly seized Gannon’s arm and released a guttural wail.
“Jeezus!”
Within a split second Gannon’s skin tingled, his mind struggled to comprehend what he tried to process as an elaborate joke.
It had to be a joke.
Something was waiting for them on a sofa chair. He saw a pair of boots, pants above them. Feet and legs in the boots, a T-shirt, a bare arm with an empty hand curled like a claw; another arm with the hand clamped on the end of a long-barreled gun pointed to where a head would be. A broom handle was inserted into the trigger guard of the gun. The head had been divided by a powerful explosion, the way a cannonball would plow through a pumpkin, propelling glops of cranial tissue in a volcanic eruption to the wall, the ceiling, the sofa arms, the table beside it.
Gannon fought to breathe normally, to think.
Shelly recoiled to the nearest wall, biting her fingers between spurts of, “Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ!”
Gannon turned to her.
“Listen to me, Shelly. Do not touch anything. Go now to the nearest phone, not the phone here, and alert police. It looks like a suicide.”
She started nodding.
“Do it now, Shelly! I’ll wait here.”
Gannon did not want the 911 call on his cell phone. He wanted the super to make the call. The instant she left, Gannon battled the roaring blood rushing in his ears. His heart was racing as he worked to gain control.
He only had a short time.
The apartment would be sealed once the NYPD arrived.
He reached into his pocket for his digital camera and began taking pictures of everything, including the blood-spattered note on the table. It looked as if it was written in ballpoint.
I never meant for this to happen.I am so sorry, Harlee.
Gannon took pictures of the note.
Then he flipped the camera to video mode. This was his only chance to look for answers about Harlee Shaw, his anonymous caller. Without touching a thing, Gannon recorded all that he could.
When he heard the sirens, he left the apartment and stepped into the hall. Shelly was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, hugging herself and cursing softly between pulls on her cigarette.
32
Queens, New York / Bridgeport, Connecticut
Lisa opened her closet.
Hanger hooks scraped on the rod as she rifled deep into her never-wear stuff and pulled out the dress, still protected in a Spring Breeze Cleaners plastic bag.
A chill shot through her.
She’d only worn it once.
I can’t do this. Yes, you can. You need to do this.
Lisa looked at the dress, swallowed and began rolling off the plastic.
Rita got it for her at Kim’s Dresses in Forest Hills because Lisa couldn’t function at that time. It was a simple cotton wrap, knee length, three-quarter sleeves with a modest neckline.
Black.
Lisa put it on and stood before her full-length mirror, which Bobby had fastened to the inside of the closet door for her. The mirror used to stand in the corner.
How many times did I bug him to screw it to the closet door? Then one day—surprise. Done. He was like that, turning little things into gifts.
The dress fit. In fact, it was a bit loose. She’d lost a few pounds, but it worked. She slid her feet into low-heeled black shoes. Her hands shook a little, giving her trouble with the clasp when she put on her pearl necklace, a birthday present from Bobby.
She got it, adjusted it. When she looked into the mirror the full impact hit her and her knees weakened. She gripped the closet door to steady herself. Of course, this is what she’d worn to Bobby’s funeral.
The official uniform of the grieving widow.
She let the tears come.
Will it ever stop hurting? Help me through this, Bobby, because I have to do what I have to do.
Ethan surfaced in the mirror, watching from her bedroom door.
“What’s going on, Mom?”
She continued facing the mirror, blinking back her tears. “I’m getting my things ready.”
“For what?”
“Vicky and Eve will pick me up in the morning to go to the funeral for one of the people who got hurt.”
“Do you have to go?”
“Yes, to show my respect. It’s just for the day. Rita will be here. Sweetie, we talked about this yesterday. Are you okay? How’s school going?”
“Good.”
“Don’t you have some homework to do while I’m gone?”
“Just geography, we have to draw a map.”
“Better get started today. Now, you haven’t told anybody about us helping the police and stuff.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Mom, we’re still going up to the cabin like you promised, right? We have to.”
“Yes, Ethan. Nothing’s changed, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So what’s bothering you, then?”
“I don’t want to move to California, Mom. It’d be like leaving Dad forever.”
The hurt in his voice was too much for her and she went to him, dropped to her knees and took him into her arms.
“We can never ever do that.” She put his hand over his heart, covering it with hers. “He will always, always be with us, wherever we go. Your father is part of us, part of you, Taylor and me. Wherever we are, he is with us and will always, always be with us. Do you understand that, honey?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” She smiled, brushing at her tears, kissing him softly, seeing so much of Bobby in his face. “That’s good.”
The next morning, Agents Vicky Chan and Eve Watson arrived just before seven. It was surreal for Lisa, saying goodbye to Taylor, Ethan and Rita just as she did a week ago.
Because this time she did it as a federal witness to four murders and this time she did it in mourning clothes.
She took a deep breath.
Chan and Watson wore blue conservative blazers and skirts.
Aside from threads of small talk, the car was quiet as Chan pulled on to I-95. The drone of the freeway traffic fit with the funereal mood and residual tension. After all that she’d given the FBI, Lisa was feeling shut out from the case. She had wanted to ask the agents if the FBI was any closer to making an arrest, but killed the thought. Earlier, they’d made it crystal clear to her that if something had happened they would not tell her. They’d got what they needed from her—at least that’s how she interpreted it.
Any new information Lisa got came from the press, particularly Jack Gannon—that good-looking wire-service reporter. Her face reddened. She shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. Anyway, this Gannon guy knew things, she thought as they rolled through suburb after suburb.
Lisa was happy they had finished with the hotel, glad to be home with the kids without the FBI living with them, smothering them. She had declined Dr. Sullivan’s offer to accompany her to the funeral. “Events like this can be traumatic. They can rip open wounds, resurrect pain,” Dr. Sullivan cautioned.
Like I didn’t know.
Lisa was determined to face this on her own terms.
She had resumed piecing her life together. She’d already put in a few shifts at the supermarket. Funny, when they made her a new photo ID to replace her old one, it felt as if she had started over. Here was the new Lisa, her first official “after-Bobby” photo.
None of the girls at the supermarket pressed her too hard for missing a few days. Most of them knew she’d gone upstate to sell the cabin. And when she added the cryptic “unexpected family issues,” nobody inquired. Some may have speculated that it probably had something to do with the kids or the cabin. For the most part, everyone tended to leave Lisa alone, and her boss was happy to have her back. The FBI agent’s funeral fell on her day off, so it worked out. With the exception of Rita, no one knew she was the FBI’s key witness to the armored car heist.
Being back at her checkout was both therapeutic and depressing. Lisa had glanced at the older cashiers, the near-retirement lifers, then at the new girls, and for the first time she saw the timeline of her life at the Good Buy Supermart. This was all there would be for her. She thought of what she’d endured; realized how life was so fragile, so short. Then she thought of her old dream and her chance to start a new chapter of her life in California.
It’s scary, but we’re going to do it. It’ll be best for all of us. Life’s too short to live it with regrets.
About an hour after they’d left Queens, they approached Bridgeport, Connecticut. Chan guided them to Saint Patrick’s Church using the GPS unit on the car’s dash. Traffic was backed up already, uniforms from Bridgeport P.D. were directing.
“It’s not just the director who’s coming from HQ,” Watson said as they inched along North Avenue, “it’s the U.S. Attorney General and a ton of dignitaries. I heard they were expecting two thousand people from law enforcement.”
“Full ceremonial honors,” Chan said, nodding to the corner of the parking lot and the satellite trucks and news crews from New York, Boston, Hartford, Philadelphia, New Haven and many others, including some of the national press from Washington, D.C.
After parking, they’d come up to Morrow and Dr. Sullivan talking with others gathered near the large overflow canopies. They’d been erected on the lawn next to the church over rows and rows of folding chairs, big-screen monitors and speakers linked to microphones set up in the church.
“How are you holding up?” Dr. Sullivan asked Lisa.
“Okay, I guess. I’m taking it moment by moment.”
“That’s all anyone can do.” Morrow squeezed her shoulder.
“How is Jennifer Dutton doing?” Lisa asked.
“Not so well, as you might imagine. But she wanted to be here for Greg. Her father is at her side and her doctor is here,” Morrow said before he was approached by a grave-faced man.
“Excuse me, Agent Morrow, but the director is ready for your briefing now. He wants to make a press statement afterward.”
After Morrow left, Lisa, Chan and Watson entered the church. Seating was prearranged; theirs was midway, left side, at the main aisle. The church smelled of candle wax and fresh linen. Whispers and nervous throat clearing echoed. A choir sang hymns. Lisa looked at her funeral card and the program, which was outlined in calligraphy.
Agent Gregory Scott Dutton smiled at her from the cover.
“I’m a cop…my gun’s on my right hip, under my shirt.”
She touched her fingertips to his face.
I’m so sorry.
The service commenced with the procession of altar boys and the priest, the casket rolled behind them, trailing the fragrance of the flowers that draped it. The casket was followed by Jennifer Dutton, seven months pregnant, sobbing while her father, the former detective, held her close to him as they walked. They passed only a few feet away…Lisa could feel Jennifer’s gasps, saw the talons of agony cutting into her face with such force something in Lisa’s heart gave way. Lisa gripped the wooden pew in front of her as a wave of anguish overwhelmed her, sending her tumbling back…back to that horrible moment…when her telephone rang in her kitchen…
…the spouse of Robert Anthony Palmer?
…it’s the hospital…Bobby’s been rushed to the intensive care unit…come right away… Rita hurried over to watch the kids…Lisa raced to the hospital…nearly blowing red lights…battling tears…I’m coming…everything moving in a slow-motion dream…no…she was dreaming…she was dreaming…the hospital’s antiseptic air…the P.A. calling doctors…the reception…I’m Lisa Palmer…yes…my husband, Bobby…this way…in that room…Jesus God…her knees buckling…he’s on the bed…the machines…Bobby…! Is that Bobby?…his head is a turban of bandage…she’s numb…someone’s telling her…a doctor someone…Bobby had stopped to help a woman with her car stalled on the freeway when a big rig swayed…the surgeon is saying…significant head trauma…saying the pressure on his brain…can’t relieve the pressure…not much time left…so sorry…but I made meat loaf…Bobby loves meat loaf…she was going to surprise him with apple pie…they’d fought over a bill…a freakin’ useless bill…now…Bobby…cuts on his face…she’s got his hand trapped in both of hers…her tears flow over her wedding ring…over his wedding band…that face when he first asked her…“So what are you doing Saturday?”…for the rest of your life…she’s squeezing his hand…she can’t let go…don’t you leave me, Bobby…! the alarms are beeping…screaming…nurses are telling her it’s time to let go…she can’t let go… the alarms…she’s screaming…you have to leave…Mrs. Palmer, you have to leave…I’m so sorry…we did everything we could…he’s gone…we’re so sorry…one last look and an undefined energy burned through her with a brilliant light…
…light…
The light.
Lisa twisted her wedding rings and gazed up at the light streaking through the beautiful stained-glass window. Wishing all of this was a bad dream as she tuned in to the eulogy given by the director of the FBI.
“…Greg did not hesitate to take action in order to save others, even if it meant sacrificing his life. He gave us the ultimate gift for which we suffer an unbearable loss…”
Several pews from where Lisa grappled with her anguish, Agent Frank Morrow wrestled with his anxiety for Beth and Hailey, who were facing a life without him.
They were still in shock, still reeling from learning of his terminal condition. He wished to hell he could alleviate their suffering and help them through this. God, all they needed was a break. One break to clear this case, then he could deal with his own life and the time he had left.
Was he just praying?
Hell, now, that’s something he hadn’t done in a while.
At that moment in Queens, as Ethan Palmer worked on his homework, he thought of his mother in that black dress.
It was the dress she wore at Dad’s funeral. Wearing it today had made her sad again. He didn’t like seeing his mother sad.
Or his sister.
He glanced from his homework at the kitchen table to the living room where Taylor and Rita were playing a video game with the sound off. Ethan liked living here. He’d lived here all his life and he didn’t want to move to California and leave everything behind.
It would be sort of disrespectful to his father.
Ethan picked up his small pearl-handled penknife. His dad had given it to him on his birthday and he treasured it. Such a cool little knife. He never went anywhere without it.
If they moved away, he’d miss his best friend, Jason. He’d be the new kid at school and that would suck. And worst of all, maybe his mom would find a new boyfriend who would become his new dad. He didn’t want a new dad because he loved his dad and missed him so much it hurt.
But his mom was already making big changes, like selling their cabin.
Dad loved the cabin. Ethan loved it. Taylor and Mom loved it, too. They had the best times there, swimming, fishing, roasting hot dogs on sticks over a campfire and looking up at the stars.
Mom cried when she tried to tell him why she had to sell it; that with Dad gone, things were harder now. Things had changed. Ethan begged her not to sell it. But what could he do? He was just a ten-year-old kid.
What would Dad tell him?
Buck up and be a man, son. Look after your mom and your sister.
Ethan put his knife down and went back to putting the final touches on the map he was drawing for school. Mrs. Chambers said it had to give directions and distance from Queens to a favorite place. Ethan did a map to the cabin at Lake George. He had all the information from a copy of an old map Dad sketched once for Arnie, his friend. Now, it was like Dad was helping him with his homework.
