Andrew Gross - Reckless

The Talon Group.

“We found it on the floor, next to the super’s desk,” the detective said with a self-satisfied smile. A grin that seemed to suggest he enjoyed watching Hauck’s worried reaction. “Could’ve fallen out of someone’s pocket, I guess. Maybe during a spat. Never made the connection until you came in.”

Hauck’s eyes locked on the pen. He had several like them. Everyone did there.

“Just wondering”-Campbell blinked annoyingly-“how the hell you think that got there.”

Hauck shook his head. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Kidding?” Campbell clucked at his partner. “I’d like to think I was kidding, Mr. Hauck. Mister Hero. But y’know, you come around, pump us for information on the case, no longer on the job. Then whaddaya know…whammo. Look what pops up at the crime scene. A bit of a major-league clusterfuck, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s not my pen.”

“Well, I’m hoping that turns out to be the case.” Campbell laughed. He turned back to his partner. “Don’t you, Lee? You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Hauck said. But he wasn’t liking where his mind was going, bouncing back and forth, atoms careening through an accelerator, except in this case the atoms were saying, What if that somehow did turn out to be my pen? His prints on it. And worse, why…? Of course, he had never been to the building before, never even heard of Donovan prior to the incident. But what was it doing there? What if he was being set up?

He looked at Campbell squarely and smiled. “And you’re the one who said the other day it wasn’t even a crime scene.”

“Yeah, I did say that, didn’t I? But y’know, you’re starting to turn me around on that one. It’s sure starting to resemble one now.”

Hauck was thinking he could tell him what he would find in the phone log: Thibault’s phone number. The proof was sitting right on his car seat. But this jerk was the last person he was going to share it with, until he could figure out just what was going on.

“Just a Good Samaritan, huh?” The detective grinned, clearly cynical. “Just following up for an old friend…”

“A dead friend,” Hauck said, glaring.

“I’ve seen her picture. Must’ve been quite a friendship,” the city detective sniffed, glancing at his partner.

“I’m gonna head out now,” Hauck said. His fingers flexed and he felt his body heat up. The thought crossed his mind that slugging an NYPD detective with the case he was making would not be the best of moves. He tossed the evidence bag back to Campbell. “Unless there’s something else…”

“Just keep in touch,” the detective said, and winked. “Until this baby comes back from the lab. You know the drill.”

“Yeah, I know the drill. And here…” He tossed The Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Wall Street over to Campbell’s partner. “Does that book have a chapter in there that talks about collusion to defraud financial markets?”

“Not sure.” The black detective caught it, surprised.

“Too bad. Tell your partner he might want to find one that does.”

Outside the garage, Hauck pulled the Beemer into the first spot he could find-an old steak place on Steamboat. His collar was wet with sweat, and he knew he shouldn’t run away with assumptions until he could think them through.

He had never met Donovan. Never been to his building before. Whoever killed him had had to sneak inside, gain access to the super’s office. He had to have been caught on the security tape. Someone Donovan knew. Someone who also knew Hauck was trying to connect Thibault to these deaths. Talon. Merrill. He wasn’t sure who to trust now. If he hadn’t stuck his nose into this mess, widened Campbell’s interest, no one would have ever attached any significance to that pen.

It was starting to concern him that the prints on it might actually be his.

Someone was trying to set him up.

Hauck realized his only options were crossing his boss and maybe getting himself fired-or ending up in jail.

He chose getting fired.

He dialed up Chrisafoulis on the detective’s cell. This time, on the second ring, Steve picked up, sounding as if he was glad to hear from him. “Ty!”

“Listen, Steve, we’ve got to talk.”

“I know we do, Ty. What the hell is going on? The city cops have been buzzing around all day. About you. They’re saying they found something of yours at the Donovan crime scene…”

“It’s not mine, Steve. But someone’s going to a lot of work to make it look that way. Where are you?”

“Back at the office. Listen, you should come in.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Hauck was about to hang up, then hesitated. “Steve, I can trust you on this, right?”

“Of course you can trust me, Ty.”

“I’ll be right there.”

It was only a couple of minutes’ drive, a few blocks up the hill, to the Greenwich station house on the avenue. Hauck left his car in a visitor’s spot in the lot and grabbed his briefcase. He realized his best option now was to clear himself of suspicion and just lay it out to Steve. Let the FBI or the SEC, or whatever agency handled this sort of thing, run with it.

And then hope he didn’t find himself in a viper’s nest at Talon.

He stepped inside the entrance on Mason, waving to the officer at the desk, who looked at him like, Been seeing you a lot around here lately, lieutenant. Chrisafoulis was waiting for him as Hauck headed for the stairs.

“Steve!” Hauck warmly squeezed the detective’s shoulder. “I have to show you some things. Let’s go find a place where we can talk.”

“Ty, don’t be upset,” Chrisafoulis said, looking a bit nervous, “but Fitz wants to see you on this, upstairs.”

Hauck felt whacked in the face. “Fitz?”

Vern Fitzpatrick was Greenwich’s longtime chief of police. He’d hired Hauck, helped lift him back into the world after the year he’d dropped out. He’d been Hauck’s mentor for most of the time he was there. Groomed him to take his job. But on his last case, Hauck had begun to doubt which side of the fence Vern was actually on. A drumbeat of concern started to pound inside him. He started to back out of the station.

“That’s not going to work, Steve.”

“Ty.” Steve took his arm. “No one’s accusing you of anything. The detectives from the NYPD went to Fitz and got him involved. You need friends now, buddy, not anyone doubting you. But you leave here”-the detective looked at him solidly-“that list of people starts to get smaller and smaller. You understand, don’t you, Ty?”

He wasn’t sure what to do. And it scared him. But Chrisafoulis was right. He had stumbled into something he could no longer outrun or outmaneuver. And where was he going to go anyway? He had to trust someone now.

“Alright.” He nodded warily toward the stairs. “Lead the way.”

The chief’s office had been relocated to the newly completed wing. Industrial carpeting, bright lights, modular workstations, computers on every desk. It looked more like CSI: Miami than the wear-worn wooden desks and fixtures from when Hauck had worked there.

Vern stood up at his desk in a plaid shirt and slacks. It had been six months since Hauck had seen him. “Ty.”

“Nice digs, Vern,” Hauck said, admiring the new paneling, the pictures of the chief with the governor, with Lee Trevino and Jack Nicklaus, with the state attorney general. And his grandkids, one of whom was serving in Iraq. A conference room next door. Vern’s hair was whiter, but his smile was just as trusting and friendly. Hauck had only seen him once since he had left. “Going up in the world, huh, guy?”