Driven Read online

  He leveled the shotgun at the porthole, waiting for their silhouettes to appear through the glass. A nasty smile curved his lips as he heard the footsteps passing by. If he fired twice, he decided, he might be able to decapitate them. He was salivating at the thought of glass shattering and bodies dropping limply.

  The instant the window darkened he fired… but the glass didn’t shatter. There was no explosion. The gun was empty. The shadows disappeared along with the footsteps. Krogan cursed and looked across the cabin to where the box of shells sat on a shelf. He moved to get up but the soreness from the crash helped him realize the moment had passed. Instead, he dropped the gun back onto the netting and his head back onto the mattress, once again reliving his sketchy memories of the crash as he drifted to sleep.

  11

  Gavin awoke to his Golden Retriever’s cold nose and wet tongue painting his face with saliva. Groaning, he pulled out the small sofa pillow his head was on and used it as a shield. He had fallen asleep watching the news and was still fully dressed except for the shoes he had kicked off when he first put his feet up. The morning news was now on, but he had no way of knowing if the report on the crash had been televised yet. No matter; he knew he could find a report from Gasman in the morning paper. As much as he despised the type of journalism the Post displayed, he subscribed to it for times like this. He needed to know what kind of hype to be prepared for.

  “Go away, Cedar,” he said from behind the safety of the pillow, knowing full well that when his dog had determined it was time to go outside he had no chance of going back to sleep. And sleep was all he wanted at the moment. Taking statements from the witnesses had gone well into the night… and for the most part had been fruitless. Nobody had noticed the driver exit and leave the scene of the crash.

  Gavin slowly pulled the pillow downward until his bleary eyes could peer over its edge. Cedar’s grinning face was barely far enough away for him to focus on.

  “You got me again, didn’t you?” he said.

  Cedar barked, beating his tail against the couch for emphasis. Sometimes Gavin wondered just how much the dog understood. Sometimes he wondered if the dog wondered just how much Gavin understood.

  “What time is it, Cee?” he asked, watching sunlight cut through a crack in the curtains and across the burnt orange carpet that had been chosen to match the dog hairs.

  Cedar tilted his head and looked in the direction of the front door.

  “I know. It’s time to go out.”

  Cedar celebrated his master’s keen perception with a couple of happy squeals and a puppylike circular dance that eventually spiraled him to the door.

  “Who’s got who trained, that’s what I’d like to know,” Gavin said, climbing out of the old cushions, which would retain his impression for a while before returning to their original shape. He hated sleeping in his clothes. Even though he’d slept for his usual six or seven hours, he still felt a little tired and a lot achier. He stood up and stretched, then popped the joints in his neck and back. A hot shower would help.

  Gavin let Cedar out into the fenced-in front yard and picked up the paper from the stoop. Before he could open it he heard the phone ring. He picked up the cordless on the coffee table and plopped back onto the couch, watching the weatherman point at a map. “Pierce.”

  “Hey, Gav. Did you see the paper?” Chris Grella said.

  “One second,” Gavin said, tucking the phone into his chin to free his hands. He unfolded the newspaper on his knee. On the front page was a photo of Chris standing next to the boat. The title was typical Daily Post: “GHOST DRIVER KILLS AGAIN.”

  “Great,” Gavin said sarcastically. “You had to pose.”

  “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be glad. Someone might know this jerk and turn him in. They could read this and become suspicious of some guy who unexplainably turns up hurt. We could have his ass by lunchtime.”

  “Who told you that? Gasman?”

  “I told me that. Besides, they were going to print the story with or without my help.”

  “It’s the front page that bothers me. We don’t know what drives this guy yet. This kind of publicity could inspire him,” Gavin said as he turned to the story on page three.

  NO ACCIDENT

  Two people were killed and two others seriously injured yesterday when a sports car drove off the Hempstead Harbor Marina fishing pier at approximately 8:30 P.M. and crashed into a sailboat. The crash, which is under investigation, is alleged to have been intentional.

  Mitchell Clayborne, a resident of Port Washington, was driving the boat at the time of the crash and was killed. His wife, Amber Clay-borne, is in critical condition at Glen Cove Hospital. The Claybornes were on their honeymoon and apparently returning from a day of sailing when the accident occurred.

  Witnesses who were fishing on the pier say the car, which had been in the parking lot for about a half hour, suddenly came racing toward them. One of the fishermen, James Carey of New Jersey, was unable to get out of the way in time and was hit by the car. He is listed in serious condition, also at Glen Cove. Carey claims the car purposely swerved to hit him.

  The car allegedly continued on, shattered the railing, and smashed into the 40-foot sailboat as it passed by about 65 feet off shore.

  Also killed was the passenger and owner of the car, Lori Hayslip, of Oyster Bay, who was a waitress at a local restaurant.

  The search continues for the driver, who has mysteriously disappeared.

  Coincidentally, in the bizarre July 24 crash at the New York Aquarium where four were killed and eight seriously injured, the passenger of the vehicle that caused the accident was also the owner. The driver in that accident was never found.

  “All avenues are being investigated and all findings are at this point confidential,” said Detective Chris Grella. When asked if there was anything he would want to say to the driver, Detective Grella said, “Turn yourself in. You need help.”

  Police claim the likelihood of a terrorist connection is unlikely given the quantity of alcohol present and the absence of any group claiming responsibility. Anyone knowing anything about the accident or the driver is asked to contact Detective Grella at 212-555-1455.

  Gavin stopped reading. “‘You need help’? Who are you? Dr. Chris?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. It just came out. I asked him not to print it.”

  “You asked Gasman not to print something. That’s like asking him not to breathe,” Gavin said.

  “Well, there’s no damage done. What’s the plan of attack?” Chris asked, apparently wanting to change the subject.

  “Some of the forensic reports should be in later today. In the meantime, why don’t you follow up on Lori Hayslip, her job, her friends, her parents… the whole drill.”

  “Right. And you?”

  “I’m gonna pay a visit to Amber Clayborne.”

  “I don’t envy you if you turn out to be the guy who has to bring her up to speed with her new life as a widow.”

  Gavin didn’t need or want to be reminded. Notifying the families of victims was the part he hated most about his job. He had never seen the same reaction twice and he remembered them all— vividly. It didn’t matter how he delivered the news. As the messenger, he was instantly hated. Even if they didn’t show it, he knew he was hated. He had been punched, spit upon, accused of lying, and cursed at, sometimes from people who wouldn’t swear if they closed their fingers in a car door.

  Trying to think about anything else, he remembered another practical matter that had to be dealt with: his car, a 1968 Sunbeam Tiger that was out of commission… again. This time it was the shift linkage. He’d bought the car five years ago. When the original owner had told him a Tiger was the same car Maxwell Smart drove in the old TV comedy series Get Smart, Gavin had been instantly amused and interested. When told the innocent-looking car had a worked-up Ford V-8 that could exceed 150 miles per hour and leave any production car in the dust, he was sold.

  What Gavin hadn
’t been told was that the powerful engine was more than the rest of the car could handle, especially the small pretechnology drum brakes, which were barely adequate at normal speeds. He also hadn’t been told about the maintenance. Gavin had never really gotten into personal automotive repair and trusted himself with little more than a tune-up and an oil change. The Tiger required a good mechanic and required one often. Fortunately, his local friend John Garrity was a real pro and knew the Tiger inside and out. And being the good friend he was, Garrity made house calls. He was scheduled to come by sometime today and have the car ready by tonight.

  “Chris, I need a favor.”

  “Not your car again.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Gavin said, embarrassed that buying the Tiger had turned out to be such an obviously bad decision.

  Chris laughed as loud and as long as one could under the circumstances. “When are you gonna sell that stupid thing and get a car?”

  12

  The ride to the sixth precinct was as torturous as Chris could make it. He spent the time recommending backup mechanics and stock bargains in fictitious tow-truck companies. Relief didn’t come until they split up to attack their respective to-do lists.

  Gavin was glad to be back on the hunt—and alone. He walked down the hospital corridor, turning right toward rooms 315 through 349. Amber Clayborne was in 320, coming up on Gavin’s right. The good news was that she was still alive. The bad news was that she was in a coma. He paused before entering. There seemed to be something wrong with simply walking right into a woman’s bedroom, even if she was unconscious. But that didn’t concern him nearly as much as the fear of her waking while he was there. He didn’t want to be the first one she saw. She would have many questions, not the least of which would be the condition of her husband.

  He exhaled, then walked into the room’s small hallway. From his viewpoint he could see only the furthest of the two beds and it was empty. He continued past the bathroom and stopped.

  She appeared to be simply asleep. She wasn’t wrapped in bandages or suspended in traction like so many other crash victims Gavin had seen. In fact, if you could ignore the intravenous tubes attached to her right arm and the monitor that signaled every heartbeat, you would think Amber Clayborne was simply resting. That she would open her eyes at the sound of her name.

  Gavin stepped to the foot of her bed and studied her face. She was quite attractive. The length of her straight black hair lay hidden beneath her head. Her nose was straight and softly rounded. She looked somewhat Asian, but not completely. If the crash had stolen some of her beauty, it could not have taken much. She looked so peaceful; she must have been knocked unconscious before she knew what was happening, or at least before she could believe what was happening. The thought of the pain that awaited her grieved Gavin. He knew all too well what she would go through—the many stages one experiences after tragic news. He had seen and felt it more times than any man should have to.

  “And who are you?” demanded a female voice from behind him.

  Startled from his thoughts, Gavin snapped a look in the direction of the voice. What he saw left him momentarily speechless. He looked reflexively back at Amber Clayborne and then again at the woman before him.

  “Detective Pierce,” he answered slowly.

  “Did you find the psycho yet?” the woman said.

  “Uh… we’re still—”

  “Did you find anything?” she said impatiently, her hands on hips that were covered by a football jersey that fell loosely over well-fitting and well-used jeans. The Yankee’s cap worn backward on her head and the challenging attitude could not disguise she was Amber Clayborne’s mirror image. Gavin found her stunning. Not just pretty—beautiful.

  “And you are?” Gavin said, hoping to establish at least some authority in her mind.

  She rolled cat-green eyes, obviously annoyed by the question. “I should tell you anything? How do I know you’re not the killer?”

  Gavin frowned and pulled back the left side of his jacket, revealing his shield and holstered gun.

  “Fine. I’m Amy Kirsch, Amber’s sister. And if you couldn’t figure that out, how are you ever going to find out who did this?” she said, pointing at her sister.

  Gavin swallowed a defensive comeback before it left his mouth. It went down hard and left a bitter taste, but the last thing he’d come here to do was fight with a family member and cause more pain.

  “Miss Kirsch, I want you to know that the department intends to—”

  “Oooh, the department. I feel so much better now,” she interrupted with her palm over her chest in mocking sarcasm. “Whenever the going gets tough and someone wants to pass the buck, there’s always some kind of department, isn’t there? Forget the department. What do you intend on doing? What are you going to do when you’re done with your notes and interviews? Join the boys for a coffee at the doughnut shop? Or maybe catch them for a beer at the local watering hole? You’ll have the best story to tell today, won’t you?”

  Gavin’s neck and jaw muscles were clenched so tightly he had to speak through gritted teeth. “Lady, for the last month, every thought I’ve had has been polluted with this guy. I know what it’s like to loose a loved one in a crash—someone who’s been there for you your whole life. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love to this beast. And what it feels like to want revenge more than anything else you’ve ever wanted.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “You can rest assured that when I say ‘the department’ I’m talking me,” he said, stabbing his chest with his index finger. “Whatever it takes, I’ll find him.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not the detective that was in the aquarium crash last month? The one that was in the papers?”

  His silence was answer enough. Amy’s tiger eyes softened.

  Gavin turned and walked toward the window. The last thing he wanted was pity. Pity paved the way for self-pity and opened the door for excuses. It had a way of dulling the edge and Gavin needed, now more than ever, to be sharp. No pity; no excuses.

  “Are you serious when you say ‘whatever it takes’?”

  Gavin continued to stare out the window. He needed to cool off and suddenly felt he had said way too much already.

  “Then let me help,” she said.

  Gavin exhaled quietly. “Well, you could be a big help by answering a few questions.”

  “Don’t give me that garbage,” she said, catching fire again. “I mean help help, not just telling you my sister had no enemies and her husband had never hurt a fly.”

  “What do you mean by help?” Gavin said, amused in spite of himself. He didn’t want to be rude and say no just yet. He’d heard this sentiment before from victims’ loved ones, and he would allow her to realize for herself the offer was appreciated but unrealistic.

  “Give me the little bits and seeds of information you come across and I’ll grow a tree with them.”

  Gavin arched a brow. “And how will you do that?”

  “Mostly with my computer.”

  “I see. Thanks, but the department has its own computer system and trained—”

  “Your department is living in the Dark Ages. One hand doesn’t know what the other is doing and most of your trained personal are lucky if they know how to type.”

  “Now just a minute. Wherever you got that information from—”

  “I got it from me. I’ve been in your system.”

  Gavin looked at her sharply. “Been in the system?”

  “You think operating a computer means typing in a name and then pressing Enter. The computer can lead you to all the information you need, but you’ve got to know how to find it.”

  “And you know?” he said cynically.

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was raised on a computer. My father’s been importing computers from Japan as long as I can remember. A family business. My mother’s Japanese. We import, custom-build, and program. I’ve spent most o
f my life going places you’re not supposed to be able to go. I’ve explored the systems of half the companies on Wall Street, government systems, and yes, even Nassau Police.”

  “Now, wait a minute. You’d better not be saying what I think you’re saying because that’s pretty commonly known as illegal activity. Besides, you need a personal passcode to get into the department.”

  “Maybe you do. I get around it. If you gave me your passcode, it would save me about twenty minutes on a bad day.”

  In spite of his anger, Gavin knew what she was saying to be at least partially true. If he hadn’t run across Detective Rogers in Brooklyn, he never would have known there were fingerprints to match up with or to look for the lobster claw. Sure, it was in the computer, but only in NYPD, not Nassau. But still…

  “I don’t think I want to hear any more of this, or I might be forced to take you down to the station and ask you some questions.” He held up his hand to still her angry retort. “But in any case, it doesn’t matter. To tell you the truth, we haven’t got much of anything yet. That’s why I’m standing here. Maybe your sister can help. Maybe she saw him or can tell us something that can help.”

  “Are you going to ask her before or after you tell her about her husband?”

  “Look, I—”

  “Just give me a chance. I want to see this creep nailed and I know I can help. I promise not to get in your way. And I won’t do any hacking unless you personally give me permission to enter the system. Please.”

  She was giving him a look that was impossible to refuse. “I don’t know. What you’re suggesting is… illegal.”

  “You said whatever it takes.”

  “Give me your phone number, Miss Kirsch—”

  “Amy,” she corrected with a smile.

  “Your number… Amy.”

  She rattled it off. “And give me yours… Detective Pierce.”

  “Gavin,” he said, then immediately wondered if he’d lost his mind.