G&K01 - The Last Witness Read online

  “Yeah, I guess. But some people never learn. I just know Jackson tampered with that evidence. I just need to find a way to prove it.” The lieutenant gave a nonchalant wave to Zach and continued toward the path, “You know where I’ll be.”

  “What’d you get when you ran the VIN?” Harwell asked Jackson.

  “It came back to a guy by the name of John Graham.”

  “Her husband, maybe?”

  “We’re checking that out now.”

  “Okay, keep me posted. I want to know the minute you have something.” Harwell headed toward the Medical Examiner until he heard the Sergeant calling out to him. He turned around to see Jackson on his cell phone. He motioned for Harwell to join him.

  “Lieutenant,” Jackson said, “my guys met with Graham, and he’s not married. Graham said he was dropping his date off, left his car double-parked with the engine running, and the woman ran down the street and jumped into his car.”

  “He left the engine running?” Harwell screeched. “Where did he leave his car double-parked?”

  “West 87th.”

  “Oh, so I guess this bonehead figured high class area, no one would take his car.” Harwell looked bewildered. “Doesn’t he know that’s where the muggers and burglars go first?”

  “I guess not, Lieutenant. It is pretty hard to believe though, isn’t it?” Jackson removed his cap and rubbed the sweat from his forehead with his arm.

  “Asshole.” Harwell said with belligerence. “What I want to know is how he got through the city without plates on the car.” Harwell shook his head. “Where were our guys while Graham was driving around without plates?” He scuffed a hand over his face. “And how long has he been driving the car that way?”

  “The kid said he took possession of the vehicle yesterday. He went to the DMV to get it registered, received a pile of stuff from the clerk, including the placard, and left for home to shower for his date. He was running late, and it apparently never occurred to him until later that he hadn’t affixed the placard to the windshield. He figured he’d take care of it today.”

  “What?” Harwell said perplexed. “How old is this bozo?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “That figures. I hope he has a good job so he can pay the hefty fine the department is going to slap on him.”

  “I guess he’s going to learn the hard way.”

  “Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around.” Harwell’s hands went to his hips. “Did he report the car missing to the Auto Crime Unit?”

  “Yes, they do have a record of the theft.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I’ll let you know when I have more.”

  “What a jerk,” Harwell said. “Just think, this kid is old enough to vote. Pretty scary stuff if you ask me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face to wipe the sweat. “What’s interesting though is that he knew enough to call to report his car missing, but wasn’t the least bit worried about driving around without plates.” He tossed his hands in the air and turned to leave, stopping mid-step. “Get Graham’s fingerprints, and his whereabouts. I want to know every place this kid went.”

  “With all due respect, sir. I have a very good team of officers who know procedures quite well.”

  “That’s news to me,” Harwell said over his shoulder. “You and I both know what some of these guys are like on the force. If they’re not goofing off by talking to some babe, they’re sitting around eating donuts and drinking coffee, or screwing some prostitute while on duty. And when they get done with that, they’re performing illegal searches and screwing up our cases.” Jackson’s mouth clamped shut.

  Harwell strolled down the path toward the medical examiner; enjoying the expression on Jackson’s face after reminding him he hadn’t forgotten.

  Sgt. Tip Jackson pounded his feet down the path toward his men, annoyed at himself for allowing Harwell to get to him. He resented the way his superior spoke to him but opted to let it go, thankful this job gave him the outlets he needed for the extra cash he used to support his gambling habit.

  He removed his cap again and wiped the sweat running down his forehead with his forearm. His pace quickened when he saw two divers in wet suits walking toward the river. “It’s about time you guys got here. I only called you two hours ago.”

  The larger of the two divers cocked his head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and in a thick Brooklyn accent shot back, full of sarcasm, “Gee, Sarge, we’re awfully sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Jackson assured himself pulling rank on this jerk wasn’t worth it, especially since he’d just mouthed off to his own superior officer. “I want you guys to do a thorough search. Whatever you can find.”

  The feisty one saluted him, “Tell me Sarge, is there any other kind of search?” The guy didn’t wait around long enough to hear Jackson’s retort because he swiftly dove into the water, while the other diver walked further down to search a different area of the lake.

  The sun climbed up over the tops of the tall buildings in the distance and danced over the thick row of treetops. Jackson looked up surprised he hadn’t realized the helicopter had already vacated the scene. A member of his team approached and handed him a bottle of cold water. Jackson nodded a thank you and took a swig, allowing the cold water to linger on his tongue a while.

  “Hey, am I going to see you later?” Rory asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Jackson tipped his head to the side. “Thanks for the water.”

  “Six-thirty tonight, right?” Rory asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson rolled the cold bottle over his cheek to feel the coolness against his skin, wiped the moisture from his thick black mustache with his fingertips, then wiped his fingers on his pants. He removed the lid from his water and took another long swig, then checked his watch for the time and smiled knowing his workday was almost over.

  Excitement filled him just thinking about the big poker game he’d managed to get in on tonight—and tomorrow promised to be even better. The big race at Aqueduct sent a shiver through his body and caused his heart to race. Why he could almost visualize those horses running around that track, and his choice, Danny’s Desire, was in the lead.

  3

  Max Harwell tiptoed into the darkened vestibule of St. Catherine’s Roman Catholic Church and dipped his finger into the holy water to bless himself. His nerves spiked knowing he didn’t have much time to hide the voice-activated microphone to record someone’s confession before one of the priests would arrive.

  Excitement welled inside him at the prospect of being the only twelve year-old amateur sleuth to do something so daring by using the surveillance equipment that belonged to his father’s precinct. He wasn’t expecting to hear anything exciting. Heck, if his recorded material turned out to be anything like his own confessions, it would be pretty boring. But that was okay; it was the experience that mattered most.

  His father came to mind and he said a silent prayer he’d get the equipment back before his father realized it was missing. His father had previously warned him about using NYPD equipment, and he knew he would be in big trouble if he got caught violating the rules again. But Max just couldn’t help himself. He was anxious to become involved in law enforcement, and waiting until he was old enough to attend the Police Academy seemed such a waste of time. Besides, once he entered the academy, he’d be way ahead of the other cadets. He smiled to himself again. Conducting a covert operation like this was the most exciting thing he’d ever done. The adrenaline surged through his veins, and his mouth creased into a grin. He’d never experienced a high like this before, but he was certain this was the first of many he’d have during his life-long career.

  He scanned the nave to make sure he was alone. The familiar smell of musty old wood and incense filled his nostrils as he tiptoed down the aisle to the confessional when the floorboards released a loud creaking noise beneath his feet. His pulse shot up, and he froze looking around the nave, checking to see if the noise had alert
ed the priests that someone was in the church. Maybe it was later than he thought. What if Father was already vesting in the Sacristy? Max panicked. A recollection of Father McKinley chastising him for past indiscretions made him duck into the first pew and hunch down low.

  The longer he remained in the pew, the more anxious he became. He had to get into that confessional and fast. He’d waited too long to set this up and couldn’t afford to let his nerves get twisted into a tight wad. Max took in a deep breath and held it for a while before blowing it out. He couldn’t believe how shaky his hands were. This covert stuff was exciting, but it sure was scary.

  The silence of the church remained absolute except for the hum of the air conditioning. After a few seconds, Max became convinced he was alone and edged his way out, slowly tiptoeing the rest of the way to the confessional. He twisted the doorknob, pulled the door open and entered total darkness in the confining room. Instinctively squatting down onto his knees, he heard the sound of something dropping on the bare wooden floor and knew it could only be the microphone falling from his breast pocket. His hand clutched his chest. He immediately chastised himself for being so careless and not holding the microphone in his hand. Nervous tension ached in his neck and made his head pound. Why was he so tense? He’d planned this event for weeks, and he sure as heck didn’t need anything else to go wrong before he could get the job done.

  He slid his hands across the entire floor trying to find the microphone, but he couldn’t feel anything. Where could it have gone? More panic shot through him. Was there a hole in the floor? Had the microphone dropped through to the basement of the church?

  After serving as an altar boy for a year, he thought he knew every inch of this church. He sighed. The darn thing had to be in that tiny cubicle. He filled his cheeks with air willing his pulse to calm down, but it did little to compensate for the slight dizziness he was feeling. He suddenly became aware he was hyperventilating, something he’d warned himself against earlier. Losing control was out of the question and a guarantee for making costly mistakes.

  He braced his hands on the floor, his shoulders hiked up to his ears in order to navigate in the confined quarters. When his fingers felt the tip of the microphone, now lodged between the wall and the kneeler, he was relieved. Now he could finish the job and get the heck out of there. He picked up the microphone, kissed it, and positioned it where he’d get the best recording.

  Excited this part of his mission was completed; Max patted himself on the back for a job well done. When the opening of the main doors of the church echoed throughout the nave, his heart raced. Someone had entered. His lightheadedness increased and his breathing quickened. He tried to control it. That’s all he needed. Having someone see him doing something mischievous. Max’s mind had him imagining this to be as traumatic as going to the death chamber. He cupped his hands over his mouth and nose praying he’d be able to remain silent, now more than ever.

  Why was this person inside the church so early anyway? Had they made an appointment with Father? Or had he wasted too much time trying to plant the microphone and confessions were about to begin? His heart pounded wildly. What if the person walked into the same side of the confessional he was now occupying? Oh God, how was he ever going to get out of there without being noticed?

  He peered through the crack of the door; the lights hadn’t been turned on yet – a signal he still had a chance. But how would he be able to crawl out on his knees and exit through the side door without being noticed?

  The muffled sound of a cell phone keypad beeped out seven digits in the distance. And then a man’s angry voice echoed through the church. Max jerked back startled. He listened trying to understand what was being said, but the man was so angry his conversation made little sense. Poor Vito, whoever he was, seemed to be the target of all the venomous shouting. That’s when Max realized this person was not someone to be messing around with.

  Cripes, if this man realized he was listening, who knew what the guy would do to him? Maybe this was his time to make a run for it while the man was preoccupied with his conversation. The stranger wouldn’t see him, especially if he crawled out the side door of the church. Sure, he’d see the light when he opened the door, but he’d be gone and well hidden before the man could figure out who he was.

  Confident with his plan, Max snuck out of the confessional on all fours. In his haste, his foot inadvertently clipped the door on the way out, causing it to squeak. His heart was pounding as quickly as the beads of sweat rolling down the sides of his face and dropping to the floor. He used his shoulder to dry the sweat, and for a second, there was complete silence until the man’s gruff voice echoed, cutting though the silence.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” A brief silence passed. “Who’s there?”

  Max wondered if the loud hammering of his heart was audible to the man. He had to get away. Should he just make a run for it and risk the man seeing his silhouette? What was he going to do? In a sudden twist of fate, the man’s voice faded and Max heard the heavy door close. The man was gone. Or was this a trick to make him think the man had left the church?

  Max decided either way, he had to take the chance. He stood upright and ran from the building, dive-bombing behind a bush to watch for the man. This would give him time to catch his breath. Thoughts of his friend Ritchie came to mind. Ritchie was supposed to be waiting for him at the top of the hill behind some large boulders. Max had no doubt, the boy was crapping in his pants. His friend wasn’t as adventuresome as he and freaked out at the dumbest things. Max could only imagine how frantic the boy had gotten when he saw the man enter the church, knowing Max was hard at work inside the confessional.

  A rush of excitement flowed through him and the terror he felt earlier faded with satisfaction knowing his plan was about to come to fruition.

  A few seconds passed and nothing happened. He made a beeline up the hill toward Ritchie. Noticing a black Mercedes Maybach in the parking lot, he assumed it belonged to the angry man. Being cautious, he checked the surrounding area. The coast seemed clear. Now that he was on the outside, he was no longer frightened by the man’s presence. He shrugged his shoulders and ran the rest of the way up the hill to find his friend.

  “Where have you been?” Ritchie blurted out when he saw Max.

  “Setting up.”

  “Did you know a man came inside the church while you were in there?”

  As Max had expected, Ritchie was shaking and freaking out.

  “Relax, Rich,” he replied faking a nonchalant air, “It’s not a big deal.” Max had a reputation to uphold and the last thing he wanted was for Ritchie to know how scared he’d been. “Besides, he walked back outside before he ever saw me.” Max gave his friend the thumbs up signal. Ritchie rolled his eyes. “Did you notice if he went back inside the church?”

  Ritchie was shaking his head, a disconcerted expression on his face. His hands flung into the air. “Yeah, he did, but you’re lucky you didn’t get caught because he was furious at someone.” Ritchie frowned. “I was scared to death thinking it was you he was shouting about.”

  4

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” the man said, releasing a heavy sigh.

  “How can I help you my son?”

  “I killed my wife.”

  Father McKinley recognized his confessor’s voice and spun around to face him instead of remaining in the traditional position facing the door. His heart pounded frantically. The terror he experienced went deep into the core and reminded him of another time a parishioner confessed a murder. He was much younger then, fresh out of the seminary in Ireland, naïve and unprepared to handle a situation that almost cost him his life.

  A queasy feeling of anxiety erupted in the old priest’s stomach. He knew this man and his wife. An unfathomable image of the dead woman flashed through his mind. He’d seen her only recently preparing the altar for the weekend Masses, exchanging the dead flowers with fresh ones. Now, it appeared she was as dead as those flowers. His eyes
welled with tears over the loss of his friend. He instinctively reached for the cross that hung from his waist, gripped it tightly, and prayed for guidance.

  The priest’s silence brought an edge of fury to the man’s voice. “Are you listening to me, Father?”

  The man’s aggressive personality change concerned the priest deeply rendering a momentary silence. His belly filled with heat from his anger and disappointment of the man. He’d become friends with this family, having broken bread with them in their home. He had no idea anything was wrong with their marriage. His thoughts were interrupted by the man’s impatient tap on the screen that separated them.

  “Why aren’t you speaking?” he growled. “Is this some sort of ploy of yours to trick me?”

  “No. I’m trying to absorb the magnitude of what you’ve just told me.”

  The Father knew a more priestly response was required, but his mind was running a marathon of thoughts, and that was all he could muster up. Perspiration had collected on his upper lip and began to trickle down the sides of his mouth. He wiped it with his hand. The dim light overhead in the confessional gave his confessor a clear visual of him. He reminded himself to be careful about overreacting. He sucked in his breath.

  “Why would you do such a horrific thing?”

  “She wouldn’t give me what I wanted.”

  “And what was that?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. She wouldn’t give it to me, and because of it, she forced my hand and now she’s paid the price.” He laughed. “You should have seen how scared she was when she ran and jumped into a car in the middle of the road. But I followed her in my car. And the stupid bitch drove right into Central Park at that hour.” He laughed again. “She made it easy for me. The park was closed, and that’s when I nailed her up against Bow Bridge. The way I rammed into the back of the car she’d stolen, well, let’s just say, I won’t be seeing her again. Talk about a lucky break. Goodbye, bitch was all I could say before I pulled away.”