Читать книгу The Dark Tide - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 11

Around noon

When the call came in, Hauck was on the phone with the NYPD’s Emergency Management Office in the city.

Possible 634. Leaving the scene of an accident. West Street and the Post Road.

All morning long he’d kept a close tab on the mess going on in the city. Panicked people had been calling in all day, unable to reach their loved ones, not knowing what else to do. When the Trade Towers were hit, he’d been working for the department’s Office of Information, and it had been his job for weeks afterward to track down the fates of people unaccounted for—through the hospitals, the wreckage, the network of first responders. Hauck still had friends down there. He stared at the list of Greenwich names he’d taken down: Pomeroy. Bashtar. Grace. O’Connor.

The first time around, out of the hundreds unaccounted for, they had found only two.

“Possible 634, Ty!” the day sergeant buzzed in a second time. Hit and Run. Down on the Post Road, by West Street, near the fast-food outlets and car dealerships.

“Can’t,” Hauck said back to her. “Get Muñoz on it. I’m on something.”

“Muñoz is already on the scene, Lieutenant. It’s a homicide. It seems you got a body down there.”

It took only minutes for Hauck to grab his Grand Corona out of the lot outside, shoot straight up Mason, his top hat flashing, to the top of the avenue by the Greenwich Office Park, then down the Post Road to West Street, across from the Acura dealership.

As he was the head of Violent Crimes in town, this was his call. Mostly his department broke up spats at the high school, the occasional report of a break-in, marital rows. Dead bodies were rare up here in Greenwich.

Stock fraud was a lot more common.

At the bottom of the avenue, four local blue-and-whites had blocked off the busy commercial thoroughfare, their lights ablaze. Traffic was being routed into one lane. Hauck slowed, nodding to a couple of patrolmen he recognized. Freddy Muñoz, one of the detectives on his staff, came over as Hauck got out.

“You gotta be kidding, Freddy.” Hauck shook his head in disbelief. “Today of all days …”

The detective made a grim motion toward a covered mound in the middle of West Street, which intersected the Post Road and cut up to Railroad Avenue and I-95.

“It look like we’re kidding, LT?”

The patrol cars had parked in a way that formed sort of a protective circle around the body. An EMS truck had arrived, but the tech was standing around waiting for the regional medical team out of Farmington. Hauck knelt and peeled back the plastic tarp.

Christ! His cheeks puffed out a blast of air.

The guy was just a kid—twenty-two, twenty-three at most—white, wearing a brown work uniform, long red locks braided in cornrows in the manner of a Jamaican rasta. His body was twisted so that his hips were swung over slightly and raised off the pavement, while his back was flat, face upward. The eyes were open, wide, the moment of impact still frozen in their pupils. A trickle of blood ran onto the pavement from the corner of the victim’s mouth.

“You got a name?”

“Raymond. First name Abel. Middle name John. Went by AJ, his boss at the auto-customizing shop over there said. That’s where he worked.”

A young uniformed officer was standing nearby with a notepad. His nameplate read STASIO. Hauck assumed he’d been first on the scene.

“He was just off-shift,” Muñoz said. “Said he was going out to buy some smokes and make a call.” He pointed across the street. “Seems like he was headed into the diner over there.”

Hauck glanced over to a place he knew called the Fairfield Diner, an occasional police hangout. He’d grabbed a meal there a couple of times himself.

“What do we know about the car?”

Muñoz called over Officer Stasio, who looked about a month removed from training, and who read, a little nervously, from his spiral pad. “It appears like the hit-car was a white SUV, Lieutenant. It was traveling north up the Post Road and turned sharply onto West Street here…. Ran into the vic just as he was crossing the street. We got two eyewitnesses who saw the whole thing.”

Stasio pointed to two men, one stocky, sport coat, mustached, sitting in the front seat of an open patrol car rubbing his hair. The other in a blue fleece top talking to another officer, somberly shaking his head. “We located one in the parking lot of the Arby’s over there. An ex-cop, it turns out. The other came from the bank across the street.”

The kid had put it together pretty good. “Good work, Stasio.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hauck slowly raised himself up, his knees cracking. A parting gift from his football days.

He looked back at the rutted gray asphalt on West Street—the two extended streaks of rubber about twenty feet farther along than the victim’s cell phone and glasses. Skid marks. Well past the point of impact. Hauck sucked in an unpleasant breath, and his stomach shifted.

Son of a bitch hadn’t even tried to stop.

He looked over at Stasio. “You doin’ okay, son?” That this was the young officer’s first fatality was plainly written all over his face.

Stasio nodded back. “Yessir.”

“Never easy.” Hauck patted the young patrolman on the shoulder. “That’s true for any of us.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Hauck pulled Muñoz aside. He guided his detective’s eye along the Post Road south, the route that the hit-car traveled, then in the direction of the tire marks on the pavement.

“Seeing what I’m seeing, Freddy?”

The detective nodded grimly. “Bastard never made a move to stop.”

“Yeah.” Hauck pulled out a latex glove from his jacket pocket and threaded it over his fingers.

“Okay.” He knelt back down to the inert body. “Let’s see what she says….”

Hauck lifted Abel Raymond’s torso just enough to remove a black wallet from the victim’s trouser pocket. A Florida driver’s license: Abel John Raymond. There was also a laminated photo ID from Seminole Junior College, dating back two years. Same bright-eyed grin as on the license, hair a little shorter. Maybe the kid had dropped out.

There was a MasterCard in his name, a card from Sears, others from Costco, ExxonMobil, Social Security. Forty-two dollars in cash. A ticket stub from the 1996 Orange Bowl. Florida State – Notre Dame. Hauck recalled the game. From out of the wallet’s divider he unfolded a snapshot of an attractive dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her twenties holding a young boy. Hauck handed it up to Muñoz.

“Doesn’t look like a sister.” The detective shrugged. The victim wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Girlfriend, maybe.”

They’d have to track down who it was.

“Someone’s not going to be very happy tonight.” Freddy Muñoz sighed.

Hauck tucked the photo back into the wallet and exhaled. “Long list, I’m afraid, Freddy.”

“It’s crazy, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” Muñoz shook his head. He was no longer talking about the accident. “You know my wife’s brother took in the 7:57 this morning. Got out just before it happened. My sister-in-law was going crazy. She couldn’t reach him till he got into the office. You roll over in bed for a few more minutes, get stuck at a light, miss your train…. You know how lucky he is?”

Hauck thought of the list of names back on his desk, the nervous, hopeful voices of those who had called in about them. He glanced over to Stasio’s witnesses.

“C’mon, Freddy, let’s get an ID on that car.”