before the driver’s body shifted.
He removed the keys. They chinked to the ground.
The driver then extended his hands and opened the driver’s door from the outside. Keeping his eyes on Hanson, he raised his hands, palms open. He came to the rear right of his car and got on his knees, then lowered himself onto his stomach, lying flat on the ground.
He placed his hands behind his back.
And waited.
“Don’t move, sir!”
His pulse galloping, Hanson got out of his car, drew his gun from his holster and trained it on the driver. As Hanson approached him, he pulled metal handcuffs from his utility belt and tossed them on the ground next to the driver, keeping his gun steady.
“Close one cuff on your left wrist, let me hear it lock. Leave the other cuff open and place your hands behind your back. Do it now, please.”
Very slowly the driver complied. He was a big guy. Hanson estimated that they were a match in weight and height.
“Thank you. Now spread your legs.”
Hanson holstered his gun, moved quickly to place his knee on the driver’s back, to slip the open cuff on his free wrist. But the suspect made a lightning twist of his body, drove Hanson into the ground, smashing a fist to his head, striking like a snake for his gun. Vision blurred, senses floating, Hanson clawed to regain control. His football years and police training fueled by adrenaline rocketing through him, he got his hands on his gun.
Too late.
The driver’s steel grip was already on the Glock.
Hanson crushed his hands around the driver’s, who was angling the gun at Hanson. Reaching deep for every iota of strength, Hanson growled to fend off the barrel that was slowing turning toward him.
Hanson shifted his weight and summoned strength he didn’t have.
A prayer and Darlene’s face blazed across his mind as he gave all he had to the battle just as the gun fired.
Jack Gannon arrived in the WPA newsroom needing an afternoon coffee, but there was no time. Lisker had seen him and called his desk phone.
“In my office,
Two days had passed since Gannon and the super had discovered Harlee Shaw’s corpse.
Through the glass walls of Lisker’s office, Gannon recognized the two men waiting with Lisker as the detectives who’d first questioned him at the scene, Mullen and Walsh.
He’d never expected them to show up at the WPA unannounced. As he cut across the newsroom Gannon’s throat went dry. He hadn’t given Lisker the full picture on his tipster’s death. All that he’d told him was that his tip may have dead-ended.
Now, with two detectives from Yonkers waiting for him in his boss’s office, he realized that he’d made a mistake.
Gannon’s mistrust of Lisker stemmed from his time at the
Since learning Harlee Shaw’s identity, Gannon had spent every free moment secretly digging into his life for any connection to the Ramapo heist. He had the suicide note committed to memory:
I never meant for this to happen.I am so sorry, Harlee
Did Shaw mean his suicide or the murders in Ramapo? Was Gannon unraveling the conspiracy behind four homicides and a 6.3-million-dollar heist? Or was he mired in the sad case of a disturbed man?
Harlee Shaw grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey, was a former member of the U.S. Army, saw action in Iraq then came home to a job in private security. Shelly, the super, told Gannon that Shaw was a lonesome type, very sad. Shelly figured it was a result of his time in Iraq. But Gannon was unable to link Shaw to the heist.
So far.
He needed to keep digging.
He also needed to keep pressing his sources to help him get an interview with the woman who’d witnessed the FBI agent’s murder. There was a compelling story to be told. But he shoved all that aside and entered Lisker’s office, braced for his wrath.
“Park it, Gannon.” Lisker, leaning on his desk, arms folded, indicated the small meeting table where Mullen and Walsh were seated, wearing rumpled suits and stone-cold faces. “Apparently you’re acquainted with these gentlemen from the Third Precinct of the Yonkers P.D. They dropped by so you could further enlighten them on your involvement in the tragic case of Mr. Shaw.”
“My ‘involvement’? Am I going to need a lawyer here?”
“No, unless you did something criminal.” Walsh opened his notebook. “We just have a few follow-up questions. We’ve gone over your statement and we’d like you to elaborate on your dealings with the deceased and how you came to be at his residence on the day of his death.”
As Lisker’s gaze burned into him, Gannon cleared his throat.
“Well, as I told you, he called me anonymously a few times, claiming to have a tip on a big story. He would not give me his name. We get calls like these, most are from nut-jobs.”
“So why did you seek him out?”
“I don’t know what it was but I had a gut feeling about him. He said he had a big story about national security, but as for the details, he was vague, cryptic and scared. He called about five times and finally he agreed to meet me but never showed.”
“If he didn’t give up his name, how did you know where to find him?”
“I tracked his number to a pay phone in Yonkers, asked around and that’s how I located him.”
“So it was important that you find him?”
“I had a gut feeling, so I put in some time.”
“I’m curious…” Walsh looked at his notes. “Shelly Konradisky, the super, told us that you stayed alone in Shaw’s apartment right up until the time help came after her 911 call. What did you do in there?”
“I just took stock of the room.”
“Really? You touch anything? Take anything?”
“No.”
“Response time was sixteen minutes. Seems like a long time to keep a corpse company.”
“Journalistic curiosity.”
“Bull-fucking-shit, Gannon,” Mullen said. “Why were you interested in finding Harlee Shaw? What were you looking for in his apartment?”
