Midas

“Okay, Jay, let’s look at this logically. Who killed them?”

“I don’t know. Have you ever run across an FBI agent named Hubbell Schrader?”

“He’s the head of the New York bureau. . For God’s sake, Jay! You’re not saying he’s responsible for-”

“No. I’m not. I said I don’t know. But I just met Schrader and I didn’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone.”

“Well, I particularly didn’t like him.”

“All right. Well, what about the other two guys? Collins and Cooke. Who killed them? Or better yet, why were they killed?”

“I don’t know that either. I just know that the four of them are dead. Don’t be the fifth.”

“I-”

“You’re what? You want me to tell you what you are? You’re the only other person they can connect to those two things.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t think they can tie me to it. Not for sure. I was just doing my job at the beginning, trying to get the pilot’s fingerprints. They don’t know what I have or don’t have. You gave me Cooke’s name and they don’t know that. Or do they?”

“No,” she said. “At least they don’t know it from me.”

“Well, Schrader was asking. I protected the both of us, at least the best I could. I don’t think they’ve got anything other than circumstance to connect me to Billings. There was no reason for him to mention me. I wasn’t talking to him about anything official. I told that to Schrader, too, and he seemed to buy it.”

“Let me think about it, Jay.”

“Wanda. .”

“I said I’ll think about it. I’m not ignoring what you’re saying. I just need to decide what to do about it.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“My neighbor’s. The apartment next door. She’s making me a nice hot cup of tea, which I’m going to drink and figure out whether you’re crazy or not.”

“Well, when you figure it out, lemme know.”

He hung up the phone just as Reggie came back downstairs. She was back in her jeans and boots.

“I’ll go get changed,” she said. “I can be at the station in about twenty minutes.” He didn’t respond to her, his mouth had opened a bit and his eyes were closed. “Is that okay?”

“Shit,” he said. And now his head was thrown back. “Shit shit shit shit!” He opened his eyes and, as she backed her way toward the front door, he snapped his fingers at her. “Hold on. Don’t go anywhere.” Justin grabbed for the phone again and dialed. “Gary,” he barked into the mouthpiece. “Call Thomas and Dennis. Tell them to find out where the hell Ray Lockhardt lives and tell them to get over there as fast as they can.”

“The guy from the airport?”

“Yeah. The manager. Get ’em to his house ASAP. If he’s there, tell them to make sure he stays there. And make sure they stay with him.” Justin slammed the phone down. He turned back to Reggie. “Come on,” he said.

“Like this?” She pointed down to her noncoplike clothes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just like that.”

Justin stopped only to grab the gun that he kept locked in his desk drawer. He didn’t brush against Reggie on the way out or grab her by the hand. He looked at her the way he’d look at any other cop and just said, “There’s another one, goddammit! There’s already a goddamn fifth person.”

He knew it. As soon as he realized that Ray Lockhardt was in the picture, that Ray had also known that the plane that Hutchinson Cooke crashed had not gone down by accident, he knew he was going to be too late. And he was.

There was very little traffic this early at the East End airport. Ray’s office was dark and locked. Justin told Reggie to wait there and then he moved slowly, a defeated gait to his walk, to the nearer of the two private charter services. The guy working the counter was named Don and Justin asked if he’d seen Ray Lockhardt yet this morning.

“No,” Don said. “He’s usually in by now, checkin’ up on things, but I ain’t seen him.”

Justin went back to Lockhardt’s office.

“You know how to pick a lock?” Reggie asked.

“Sure,” Justin said, and took his gun out of its holster, used the butt to smash the beveled glass panel above the doorknob, then reached inside and opened the door. He didn’t wait for Reggie, he stepped quickly inside the office, flicked the light on.

Ray Lockhardt was sitting in his chair, behind his desk. Everything looked fairly normal. Except for the blood splattered on the back wall of the office. And the bullet that had shredded most of the right side of Ray’s face.

Justin rubbed his eyes. The headache was coming on big-time.

Dr. Morgan Davidson walked into the East End Harbor police station. He nodded at the usual bunch of cops, all of whom he knew. And he smiled at the sexy young woman sitting at one of the policemen’s desks. Dr. Davidson had an eye for the ladies. And they were usually pretty good about eyeing him back.

“If there’s anything you need,” he said to the woman with a wink, “let me know. If they’re not doing what they should for you. I know these guys pretty well.” She nodded. “Morgan Davidson,” he said. “Doctor Davidson.”

“Reggie Bokkenheuser,” the woman said. “Sergeant Bokkenheuser. If you’re here to see Chief Westwood, he’s in the office back there.” As the flustered physician bobbed his head up and down nervously, then headed for the office, she added, “And thanks for the tip, Doc. I’ll let you know if I need you.” Then she winked.

Inside the small office, Davidson closed the door behind him. “New officer?” he asked.

“You mind if we skip the small talk just now, Morgan? I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

The doctor shrugged, put his report on the desk in front of Justin. “Lockhardt’s been dead about twelve hours. Which means he was probably killed around seven or eight last night. No surprise, it was the bullet that did all the damage. Probably a.38, shot from very close range. That’s about all I can give you right now.” When Justin didn’t answer, Davidson said, “You all right?”

“Oh yeah,” Justin said. “I’m just great.”

When the doctor left, Justin sat on the edge of the desk for a good minute.

Bradford Collins, Hutchinson Cooke, Chuck Billings, Martin Heffernan, and now Ray Lockhardt. Not to mention Jimmy Leggett and nearly seventy other innocent victims.

He picked up the phone, called Wanda Chinkle, once again insisted she call him back on a secure line. When she returned the call, he told her that Lockhardt was dead.

“You still want to think about what you’re going to do?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Wanda,” he said. “What do you think it is that makes a good cop? I don’t mean just cop, I mean investigator, FBI, whatever.”

“Lots of things,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Doggedness. Determination. The ability not to panic under pressure.”

“Yeah. All that’s true.”

“But that’s not what you’re looking for.”

“No. You know what makes a good investigator?”

“What?”

“The ability to see things.”

“What kind of things, Jay?”

“Patterns. Why people do things. How they do things. But mostly a good cop sees something that happens over here, then connects it to something that happens over there. You agree?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll go along with that.”

“Well, there’s a connection, I mean a real connection, between what happened at Harper’s and what