Driven Page 5

  “Chris, I need a big favor,” he said. “I need for you to request I partner up with you on this if it turns out to be who I think it is.”

  “Fine with me. Why?”

  “I’ll explain after we check out the scene. If the missing driver’s who I think he is, I want him.”

  Chris’s eyes narrowed. “You know I’ll do whatever I can, but the lieutenant might not go for it. If he feels it’s a revenge thing…”

  “You can tell him you need me to help you catch up. I’m already involved with a Detective Rogers in Brooklyn on this one. I was there when this driver crashed into the aquarium’s whale tank.” Chris’s eyes widened. “I’ll tell you about it later. But you have to tell the lieutenant to take me off the charts. There’s no way I can give this case the proper focus if I’m saddled with other cases.”

  Chris took a moment before answering. “If this turns out to be your guy, we are thinking of handcuffs as a first option, right?”

  Gavin didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink.

  “Okay, okay,” Chris said, raising his hands slightly in surrender. “I’ll tell him whatever you want, but the lieutenant’s a pretty good detective himself.”

  “We’ll talk. Right now I have to get down to that car,” Gavin said, seeing the boat was almost at the dock.

  As the two men made their way to the floating tragedy, Gavin heard the familiar sound of a helicopter. He looked back over his head as the chopper made a low pass, like a vulture sizing up its evening meal.

  “The media,” Chris sighed. “This is the kind of stuff they dream of. They’re probably dispatching ground crews right now. Better watch the tape line. We’re gonna have some pushy company soon,” he said to a uniform cop passing them on their way down the ramp.

  “Company’s already here, Detective,” the officer said, motioning toward the parking lot.

  Gavin turned. “Perfect,” he said, seeing Mel Gasman walking across the parking lot followed by a photographer. Gasman was an obnoxious pest who wrote for The Daily Post, a sensationalist rag that littered New York City and the surrounding suburbs.

  “Draw a line in the sand,” Chris yelled to the officer as he hurried after Gavin to the boat. “If he crosses it, read him his rights.” Gasman was already challenging the policeman.

  “Wait up, Gav,” Chris said, trying to keep pace. “Am I gonna need sneakers for our new partnership?”

  Gavin didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop to explain what he was feeling right now. The closer he got to the boat the more he knew the crash had been caused by the same driver. His driver. He could feel it… taste it. Only this time it was in his jurisdiction and he could do something about it.

  The floating dock, whose primary function was to secure small boats for those who were either retrieving or parking their trailers, was dwarfed by the large sailboat being tied to it. The water wasn’t deep enough for the boat’s draft, and the blue waterline painted on the keel was revealed as the waves lapped against it. When the boat was secured, the forensic team boarded. The two FMIs had to climb over the aft cable rail; the natural entry was completely occupied by the Camaro’s trunk, which cantilevered three feet off the side.

  A couple of AMTs followed closely by a supervising assistant coroner were about to follow the forensic crew onboard. They turned as they heard Gavin and Chris approaching. Gavin, who was usually more cordial, quickly boarded the craft without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to anyone.

  “Fellas,” Chris said to the attendants as he followed Gavin onto the boat.

  “Wow… That musta hurt,” said one of the forensic team, breaking the silence of the others, who were staring in shock at the mess. Gavin stopped next to them, momentarily taken aback by the gruesome sight of the man with the crushed neck and no head. He had apparently been pulled out from under the car by the rescue team and left on the deck. Above him and still in the car was a dead girl, her head and shoulders thrust through the windshield, apparently restrained from going any further by the seat belt that went over her right shoulder and under her left armpit.

  Chris stopped at Gavin’s side, the assistant coroner and his attendants behind him, peering over Chris’s shoulder.

  “So, what do you think was the cause of death?” Chris dead-panned to the coroners. The forensic techs laughed as though they hadn’t heard that line a thousand times before.

  Gavin didn’t laugh. He was busy looking from the body to the car. He needed to get to the driver’s side door. He climbed around the front of the Camaro, surprised it hadn’t cracked the side of the boat apart. The car door was wide open. When Gavin stepped around it he saw the deflated airbag drooping out of the steering wheel. Just as they’d said, there was no driver. His eyes quickly found the open ashtray below the radio. Nothing. Frustrated, he pulled a pen from his pocket and poked around in the cigarette butts and roaches. Maybe it had fallen out in the crash? He looked on the floor, pushing some empty beer cans around with the pen. Where was it? Maybe the killer hadn’t used one this time. Maybe it was still on him, wherever he was. Maybe not. Maybe the thought of catching this maniac for Grampa was making him delusional? No. He was certain. This was him. He could feel it in his gut.

  “Detective? Excuse me,” said one of the techs. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for? Maybe it would be better if we—”

  “A lobster claw,” Gavin interrupted. “A little, freakin’ lobster claw. I’m not trying to intrude in your workspace, but there’s something I need to know now. Not tomorrow. Not in an hour. Now.”

  Gavin knew all too well that a crime scene had the potential of becoming its own war zone—detectives, forensic officers, and coroner’s assistants all vying for priority. He could never be accused of innocent-bystander status in the tension between units, but today he was having an especially tough time keeping the big picture in focus.

  “I know how you feel. I didn’t have my nap, either,” the FMI said.

  Gavin shot a look at him. “Look, pal, I don’t think you understand. I—”

  “I know. I know. All you can think about is finding something that probably looks very much like… this?” the man said, holding up a clear plastic bag with a small lobster claw, burnt at the tip.

  “Where did…” Gavin said as he plucked the bag from the man’s hand.

  “It’s what we do,” the man said with a smirk.

  The man’s sarcasm was lost on Gavin, who was unable to hold back his response. “Yes! I knew it was you!” he shouted, the bag clenched in his right fist.

  “Oh, Gavin, me boy,” Chris said from where he’d been watching the exchange. “I think it’s time you filled in a few blanks for me.”

  9

  Gavin explained in detail what had happened at the aquarium and how Grampa had died. Chris, knowing the relationship Gavin had had with his grandfather, offered heartfelt condolences to his friend and vowed to help in any way he could, just as Gavin had expected. They now stood at the end of the fishing pier examining what had been the wooden railing that had supported a generation of elbows and fishing rods. The sun had long since set. Below and to the right, bright lights had been set up, to the delight of the media, to assist the forensic team. Below and to the left, the marina, with over a hundred boat slips, was swarming with police checking and double-checking every possible hiding place. Remembering the frustration and anger of Detective Rogers in the hospital, Gavin wasn’t surprised they hadn’t found anything yet.

  “This guy’s a real kamikaze,” Chris said, shaking his head.

  “Kamikazes die,” Gavin said dryly.

  “So why won’t this guy die? Everyone around him does.”

  Gavin knew Chris hadn’t meant to be insensitive, but his comment instantly ignited flashbacks of Grampa’s helplessness in the holding tank, his coffin lowering into the cold, dark earth. He quickly shook his head and brought himself back to the moment at hand. “Lucky, I guess. Alcohol? Air bags? Seat belts? All of the above?”

  “Ye
ah, and a tough hide. This guy doesn’t just survive. He—”

  “How does he do it?” Gavin snapped. “To survive these crashes is one thing, but to escape… and then do it again… like this. Maybe he has help. Maybe he gets rescued. I don’t know. How else could he do it?” At that moment, as much as Gavin wanted the killer, he wondered if he would ever find him. Would he always be one step behind, like Rogers?

  Chris was silent for a long moment, then turned to Gavin. “How else could he have gotten away but by swimming? He either swam into the marina or he swam across the harbor. Either way it’s a long swim for anyone, much less someone who just climbed out of that wreck. If he swam to the other side he should have been spotted on the beach.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Gavin said.

  “Right. Then he swam into the marina. If he’s hiding in the boats, he’s ours. There must be twenty cops down there.”

  Gavin shook his head. “There are a dozen ways out of that marina and with all the attention the crash attracted he could have gotten away without being seen.” He paused. “I know this sounds sick.” He motioned toward the boat. “But I’m glad he showed up in our backyard. Now we can hunt.”

  “Maybe he was just passing through,” Chris said.

  “His trail’s easy enough to follow.”

  “Hey, fellas. If it isn’t my two friends Detectives Pierce and Grella.”

  Gavin and Chris turned to see Mel Gasman approaching, followed by his photographer. Gasman was a curly-haired little gnat of a reporter who would climb right into your cell phone if you didn’t swat him away from time to time. He always seemed to be where you didn’t want him, asking questions you didn’t want to answer. On the upside, he wasn’t nasty or belligerent and even had a work ethic to be admired. He never made a cop look bad in print; in fact, he often went out of his way to compliment. Although Gavin would never admit it to the man, Gasman’s remarks had actually been instrumental in Gavin’s promotion to detective. Someday Gavin would thank him, but not until he’d retired and no longer had to deal with Gasman at a crime scene. The idea of allowing Gasman to even think that either Gavin or the department was indebted to him was almost frightening.

  From Gavin’s experience, the tougher he was with the reporter, the easier he was to handle, although even then Gasman would wedge himself into anything that looked like a crack in the defense.

  “We’re not your friends, Mel,” Gavin said.

  “Oh, but you are. You guys might not want to admit it, but I know that deep inside you love me to pieces.”

  “Break you into pieces is more like it,” Chris said. He leaned toward Gavin. “I don’t think I can stomach this weasel right now.”

  “Forget him, Chris. We’ve got business to take care of. A lot’s happened while you were away, sitting by a trout stream with a fishing line tied to your toe.”

  “How’d you know how I fish?” Chris said, pokerfaced.

  “The fishing line is coming out of your shoe,” Gavin retorted and turned to leave. Chris looked down at his shoe, then followed.

  “Say, Pierce,” Gasman yelled. “This is the second crazy accident you’ve been around in as many weeks. Do you think it’s the same guy?”

  Gavin didn’t answer. Notoriety might be just what the driver wanted. More publicity could mean more accidents—more deaths. On the other hand, the exposure might scare him away entirely…

  He looked again at the car imbedded into the sailboat. Was he loosing his mind or had the killer purposely driven the length of the fishing pier as fast as he could, recklessly aimed for the fishermen, then crashed through the rail and into his target—a boat over twenty yards out? On second thought, he decided, it was unlikely the killer was afraid of anything, much less the media.

  On his way back to the car Gavin noticed the man with the homemade seaplane, who had finally gotten his turn on the ramp. He had never seen such a contraption. It reminded him of a documentary on man’s first attempts to fly. He watched curiously as the man drove the thing up the boat ramp. The engine was mounted high, the propeller built to push air like an everglade boat instead of pull it in like the planes Gavin was used to seeing. The colorful orange, white, and blue wing was also high, level with the engine, while the pilot sat underneath, all the way in the front in a small bucket seat, holding what looked like a video game joystick.

  The engine noise was deafening as the plane pushed up the ramp. Once on the level surface of the parking field, the pilot throttled down and slowly made his way to the rear of a trailer, powering up onto it like a gargantuan dragonfly settling on a lily pad. The moment the dragonfly’s engine turned off the propeller abruptly stopped and a stunning quiet filled the air.

  “Excuse me,” Gavin said as the man hopped off the trailer. “I’m Detective Pierce. You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Not at all,” the man replied. “Do you mind if I work while we talk? I’d rather not break this thing down in the dark.”

  “Go right ahead. You need help?” Gavin asked.

  “Why, that’s mighty generous of you, Detective. Actually, if you could hold the end of the wing while I unbolt the struts, you’d save me a lot of time.”

  “No problem. What’s your name?”

  “Bill. Bill Goronwy,” the man said, pulling a ratchet wrench from a small toolbox attached to the trailer.

  “I understand you witnessed the accident.”

  “Sure did, and it was no accident. A shame. I don’t know the guy who got killed, but I know the guy who chartered the boat out to him. I hope he’s got insurance for something like this. He spent a lot of time fixing that boat up and a lot of money advertising it. For him, it was a business—his only business. I guess now he’s out of work.”

  “Where were you when the crash happened?”

  “About five hundred feet overhead,” Bill said, loosening nuts as he spoke.

  “I understand you didn’t see the driver leave.”

  “Well, not exactly. I saw the driver’s door pop open, but then I passed over and needed to turn so I wouldn’t come too close to the high-tension wires; if I hit one of those I’d burn up like a bug in a zapper. The next time I looked, which was only a few seconds later, the guy was gone.”

  Bill put the nuts in the toolbox and instructed Gavin in how to help him place the wing in the trailer. They walked around to the other wing.

  “What is this thing?” Gavin asked, taking his position at the tip.

  “An ultralight. You don’t usually find them in congested areas like this, but down south they’re all over the place.”

  “Did you get this as a kit?”

  “Actually, this one is a combination of several others. It’s got Weedhopper wings, so I can get them on and off easily—if you call this easy. It has an old Hummer frame, a Full Lotus monofloat for a pontoon, and a Rotax 582 giving me all the power I need to take off with gear and a passenger.”

  Gavin hadn’t understood a word of what the guy had said, except the last part. “You take passengers up in this thing?”

  “Well, legally I can only take them if it’s part of an instruction. But, yeah. You want to go up sometime?”

  “No, no. I like it fine right here with both feet on the ground. I’m afraid of heights, especially in something like this,” Gavin said as they pulled off the wing and placed it in the trailer by its mate.

  “Thanks, Detective. I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you.”

  “No problem. Take my card and call me if anything else comes to mind.”

  With a wave good-bye, Gavin walked back to his car. He noticed before driving away that Chris was still talking to Gasman under the light.

  10

  Krogan felt weak but satisfied as he lay on a skinny mattress set upon a couple of lobster traps in the bow of his lobster boat. He was soaking wet and could only vaguely remember the swim that had brought him here. He did, however, remember the crash and savored the memory, replaying it over and over in his mind. He refrain
ed from laughing aloud; he didn’t want to be disturbed by the idiot police running around the marina, their busy footsteps creaking back and forth on the old wooden planks.

  Several cops stopped outside the cabin and a diffused beam of light filtered through the porthole. Krogan knew they couldn’t see him with the glass as dirty as it was, but he gave them the finger anyway, feeling the familiar dull pain of drunken soreness as he raised his arm. He heard voices but couldn’t understand what they said; his cabin might be dirty, but it was watertight when locked, somewhat muffling outside sounds.

  There was a thud and the boat rocked. Krogan smiled and reached for a twelve-gauge semiautomatic shotgun lying on a rotten net beside him. The outside of the barrel had rusty patches and the name Ithaca was pitted from salt and barely readable, but none of that would keep the buckshot from taking some cop’s ugly face off the second the door opened.

  The padlock on the door jingled as it was checked. Apparently Krogan hadn’t forgotten to lock it, though he didn’t remember. He looked at the hatch above and figured he must have come in that way. He must have tried the door first and left some kind of water trail on the floor outside. Was that what had made the cops curious enough to come aboard or were they checking all the boats?

  Krogan raised the barrel of the gun until it aligned with the top of the door. At this point he would be disappointed if they left without a proper introduction. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for the door to open. The thought of the shock the cops would express at the sight of a fellow cop’s head exploding excited Krogan. His finger tightened on the rusty trigger.

  The boat rocked again as the cops turned to leave the boat. They were even dumber than Krogan had first thought; either they hadn’t noticed the water or had figured it hadn’t evaporated yet from the day’s work. They had also probably concluded the padlock couldn’t have been locked from the inside. Krogan was disappointed. Couldn’t the morons see the hatch?