David Ellis - The Wrong Man

In hindsight, it was probably dumb of me to flee. It was an instinct. Someone had just tried to kill me, and getting as far away as possible, as fast as possible, had seemed like a pretty swell idea at the time.

“It’s only been an hour or so,” said Shauna. “Let’s call the cops now and go in.”

I shook my head. “I could get tied up for days with those guys. I don’t have those days. I have a client who needs me to be focusing on his trial.”

“But think about it, Jason. You tell them what happened, and the judge will have to delay things. Wendy Kotowski would probably agree.”

That might be true. But I couldn’t trust Judge Nash. He was too unpredictable, and I was on his shit list now. And my story was a real crowd-pleaser. Some mobsters tried to kill me because I’d uncovered a plot between the Mob and a wealthy downstate CEO to kill Kathy Rubinkowski, but the ambush was thwarted when someone miraculously saved me. Who, I have no idea. Yeah, that was a real winner. Until I had something more to back it up, I’d sound like a paranoid freak. I sure as hell couldn’t count on help from our judge.

Tori said, “Are you sure they were the same guys who were hassling me at Vic’s that night?”

I’d left things a little strangely with Tori on Thanksgiving night, after we’d slept together. I wasn’t sure how it would work out going forward. But any awkwardness was erased by the turn of events tonight.

I nodded. “No doubt. The one guy said, ‘We meet again.’ And when I asked him how his shoulder was doing, he started to answer. That was just before he got shot.”

Tori shook her head. Nobody had a ready explanation.

“They’ve been watching me all along,” I said. “The Mob. The Capparellis. That was back when all this started. When Lorenzo Fowler came to see me. They must have been wise to it. They were afraid he was going to tell me something. So they wanted to keep an eye on me.” I threw my hands up. “That’s the best I can figure.”

“So, if the Capparellis wanted to kill you,” said Joel, “who came to your rescue tonight?”

I had no idea. “Someone who’s a pretty good shot,” I said. “I know, Joel, I know. You’re thinking it was the infamous Gin Rummy. But Gin Rummy works for the Capparellis. Gin Rummy, if anything, should want me dead. He wouldn’t try to save me.”

Nobody knew what to say. It was getting easier and easier to draw up a list of people who wanted me dead. But not so easy to think of who would want to rescue me.

“Okay, listen up,” I said. I sat up and looked around the table. “Starting right now, each of you has permission to drop off this case.”

“I needed your permission?” Lightner asked.

I ignored him. “Go on vacation or something. I know our witnesses and I know their witnesses. I can handle it. I don’t need anyone’s death on my conscience. No foolin’, guys. This is my problem, not yours.”

The room went quiet. They were probably thinking it over. They should. I was serious. They’d done enough prep work for me. I could try this case alone. I didn’t want to have to worry about the health and safety of two lawyers, a private eye, and Tori.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Shauna.

“Me, neither,” Bradley added.

“Six weeks of work without pay, and now someone’s going to shoot at me, too? Count me in!” That was Lightner’s attempt at humor.

Tori shrugged. “I don’t know how much help I am, but I want to stick around.”

“Okay, so we’re all very courageous,” I said. “Then I say we stay together in groups.”

“Right,” said Lightner. “That way, they can save time by shooting us in bunches.”

Shauna said, “Report this to the police, Jason. Get it out in the open. It will make it harder for the Mob to come after you a second time if you’ve already publicly accused them of trying to come after you once.”

I’d considered that. But I didn’t think these guys felt a whole lot of fear. They had ways of killing people without leaving a lot of fingerprints. And like I said, my story would sound too far-fetched.

And as much as I might appreciate a delay from a tactical point of view, I was beginning to wonder if we weren’t better off going to trial in a few days.

“No cops,” I said. “We go forward. And we start by asking who the hell was it who saved my ass tonight?”

Patrick Cahill watched the majestic sight of the Saturday-morning sun appearing over the lake, while he clutched in his hand the gun that he would use to kill Jason Kolarich.

He stood at ground level, near the grass embankment to the highway, keeping his breathing even, awaiting the word through his earpiece. He had stretched and restretched his limbs. He was on high alert, realizing that he’d only have about thirty, maybe forty-five, seconds’ notice that Jason Kolarich was on his way down the ramp and through the tunnel, coming toward Cahill.

His partner, Dwyer, was serving as the marker. He was parked on Ash a half-block down from the ramp. Dwyer would tell Cahill via the earpiece when he first spotted Kolarich, and then when he was heading down the ramp.

The tunnel was where it would happen. The cover of darkness and complete privacy made it the perfect choice. Cahill would start jogging into the tunnel from the direction opposite Kolarich. If Kolarich saw him standing still, essentially lying in wait, it would raise his radar. But seeing a fellow runner come jogging into the tunnel would seem perfectly normal to him.

Cahill hopped around, did some high-knees in place, worked out the nerves. He checked his watch. It was just after seven now. The sun had reared its head, bathing him in warm light, the color of the sky beginning with a burst of orange at the horizon and fading into pinks and reds as it moved upward.

By seven-fifteen, the sun had fully shown its shape over the water. By seven-thirty, the sky reminded him of rainbow sherbet. But where the fuck was Kolarich?

“Sleeping in on a Saturday?” Cahill said.

“Maybe.”

By eight o’clock, Cahill didn’t give a flying fuck about the sunrise anymore. By eight-thirty, he wasn’t sure what to do, because the lakefront was beginning to swell with joggers and bikers and skaters and speed-walkers. Didn’t they realize it was thirty degrees out here?

“Dammit. This is all fucked now.”

“Should I go by his house?” Dwyer asked.

“What good would that do?”

“Okay. Then what’s plan B?”

“There isn’t a fucking plan B. I was told this guy is like clockwork, running along the lake at dawn. You think he took a different route?”

“I don’t know. Probably we should wait, right?”

Cahill looked around. Joggers and bikers and skaters and walkers aside, the tunnel would still be dark and, hopefully, empty, thus remaining viable as a kill spot. He’d have to improvise. Once he got word about Kolarich from Dwyer, he’d have to quickly assess the situation and determine whether it was still workable.

At nine o’clock, Dwyer said into Cahill’s earpiece, “There’s a traffic lady handing out tickets. I have to move. It’s thirty-minute parking here.”

“Great.”

“I’ll do a lap and come back around.”

Yeah, thought Cahill, and let’s hope Kolarich doesn’t choose that window of time to come barreling down Ash and through the tunnel.

At nine-thirty, a police squad car lazily cruised along the beach, passing directly by Cahill about fifty feet away. Cahill made a big point of stretching to not arouse their attention.

“Enough,” he said. “Come pick me up, Dwyer. It’s time to come up with a plan B.”

“Hi,” Tori said, answering the phone, presumably seeing me on caller ID.