Andrew Gross: Reckless

“Lieutenant!” the cop exclaimed, peering in the window, instinctually addressing Hauck with his old rank. “Nice wheels…What brings you out here?”

“Steve Chrisafoulis up there?” There were lots of flashing lights up near the house.

“He is, sir.” Feretti nodded.

“You mind if I go through?”

“Thought you gave all this up?” The patrolman grinned. “The house is just up there on the left. It’s a bad scene in there.”

“I bet it is, Rob. Thanks.”

He was waved forward, around a short bend where there were two more blue-and-whites stationed, lights flashing, blocking the entrance to a drive. Feretti had radioed ahead and Hauck was let through. Just a few months ago he was in charge of these men. No way the fact that he was a civilian would change that now.

He drove between the stone pillars and down a long, curving driveway leading up to the large house. It was an impressive red-brick Georgian. Hauck parked at the far end of the circular drive. There was a heavy congestion of police vehicles and medical vans in front. In the months since he had left, he’d been back to the office only a couple times-once for the opening of the new first responders wing, and once for a retirement party for Ray Reiger, one of the old-timers on his staff.

A couple dozen police and crime-scene techs were crowded around the entrance. Hauck said hi to a few of them, who instinctively waved back with surprise. “Hey, lieutenant!” No one stopped him. He stepped past a uniformed officer stationed at the door. Inside, there was a large, two-story foyer with a round marble table and a winding staircase leading to the second floor.

A small crowd was gathered in a room off the entrance hall. Hauck stepped in. It looked like someone’s office, probably Marc Glassman’s. Built-in shelves filled with books and photos. Signed baseballs. The actual bodies were gone, but the blue outline drawn on the floor by the desk next to a large bloodstain was marked “1.” Marc Glassman had been shot downstairs, Hauck recalled. He took a look around and saw a wall safe open and the desk drawers removed and overturned on the floor. Police believe that the motive behind this family’s tragic end was simply a robbery gone bad…

Across the room, Hauck spotted Steve Chrisafoulis, who had taken over his job as head of detectives, talking to Ed Sinclair, one of his crew.

Steve gave him a look between confusion and surprise. “Whasamatter, new job not keeping you busy, Ty?”

“First big case…” Hauck shrugged to Steve, waving hi to Ed. “Couldn’t stay away.”

“Pretty morbid, if you ask me.” He and Steve shook hands. Hauck liked the man, who’d put in fifteen years in the city before he moved up to Greenwich. In fact, Hauck had pushed for him to take his place after Freddy Munoz was killed. The detective had been devoted to him. Follow you into hell with gas tanks on, he had once joked. Chrisafoulis shrugged apologetically. “Listen, Ty, I don’t mean to be short, but you can see there’s a lot going on…”

“I know that. I was wondering if I might look around.”

“Look around?”

“April Glassman,” Hauck said. He glanced at the blue-taped outline of her husband on the floor. “We worked on a few projects together over at the Teen Center.”

His stomach shifted at the bald-faced lie.

The new head of detectives scratched at his mustache. “Look, Ty, I don’t know…Fitz could show up anytime…” Fitz was Vern Fitzpatrick, Greenwich’s chief of police, Hauck’s old boss. Hauck had left the force after they’d had a parting on his last big case, no longer certain where the chief’s loyalties were.

Instead, Hauck said, “You’re pretty sure this paints up as a robbery?”

Chrisafoulis shrugged. “Safe’s open. Whatever was in there’s gone. Drawers rifled through. The fourth such break-in in six weeks out in the backcountry…Same upstairs, next to the wife and daughter. Call me crazy…”

Hauck nodded grudgingly. “I heard there was a boy as well?”

Steve nodded. “In fact, it was the kid who called it in. Seven. Woke up with the whole thing happening. He hid out in a hall closet.”

“Unharmed?”

“Unharmed,” Steve confirmed. “Pretty resourceful bugger too. He snapped off a few shots on his sister’s cell phone as the perps took off.”

“Anything come back?”

“Two of them. Wearing ski masks, work uniforms. The lab is working them over now.” He grinned good-naturedly. “Maybe I ought to leave something for that press conference, huh, LT?”

A call came in scratchily over the detective’s handheld radio. Brenda, the department’s secretary, who used to be Hauck’s secretary too. “Chief wanted you to know, they scheduled a press conference at eleven thirty, lieutenant…”

Chrisafoulis responded, “Tell him I’ll be there.” He clicked off the radio and snorted back a laugh. “Must be a little strange to hear, huh?”

“You mean ‘lieutenant’?” Hauck shrugged it off. “Listen, I knew what I was doing, Steve.”

“You know, today, you’re welcome to have it back if you want to rethink it,” the detective said, gloomily looking around. “You assured me it was just a walk in the park out here in the burbs.”

Someone called for him from outside the room. Steve waved, bobbed the radio in his palm like a heavy weight.

“Those other jobs,” Hauck said, “if I remember right, one time the perps came in and found the family at home?”

“The Nelson place.” Steve nodded. “Out on Riversville.”

Hauck looked him in the eye. “So how’d that one go?”

“I know where you’re heading…They shoved them into the pantry at gunpoint and took whatever they could and ran.”

“What I thought, Steve.”

The head of detectives looked at him and exhaled, then backed away. “The wife and daughter were in the bedroom upstairs. Lemme know if you find anything.” He winked. “Can always use the help. Take a minute, before you go.”

The bedroom had a few techs and detectives Hauck knew well milling around and he said hi, fielding a few questions about how things were going and what he was doing there.

He looked around the room-shades of yellow and green, colorful and warm. Hauck felt he could see April’s personality in it, the floral curtains and painted vines on the wall. The bed was still tousled from last night. A Jodi Picoult novel lay on her nightstand. A few framed pictures of her family and the dog.

Even her familiar scent-fresh, like daisies-returned to him after all these years.

He made his way over to the master closet and waited until the last CSI tech left.

Two body outlines were next to each other, almost overlapping. Hauck envisioned April shielding her daughter, their mouths taped, wrists bound, terror leaping wildly in her heart. She must’ve heard them. The gunmen coming back upstairs; the door opening, light bursting in. Her daughter’s frantic, muffled screams. The vast depth of fear subsumed in a greater sadness.

That must have been horrible for her.

He had seen it so many times. Always left him numb in his heart. People he had loved.

Why did it always feel as if it was the first?

They had been kept in here while her husband was led down to the safe. What the hell had gone wrong? Had one of them seen one of their faces and the bastards had to cover their tracks? Had Marc tried to fight back? The dresser drawers were open, clothes, photographs, papers strewn over the floor. On top of the console, an enameled jewelry box was rifled through.

Robbery.

Hauck kneeled and pressed his palm in the center of the first blue outline. For a second, it was as if he felt her warm heart still beating there. After all these years. A fist of nausea rolled up in his gut. The past rushing back, a driverless train out of control.