Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“Are you crazy, Oscar?” Claire shouted.

Kozlow felt the barrel of the gun at the back of his head. “Oscar, if that’s what I think it is, you’re a dead man.”

“No, I’m not the dead man,” Rafferty said, his voice racing. “Look at the layout. You’re the one who shot him. Not me. You. If you hadn’t acted like such an animal, we could’ve walked away. It would’ve been perfect.”

“Put down the gun,” Kozlow said.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Put down the gun!” Claire shouted.

Kozlow was nothing but pure rage. “First I’m going to dance on your neck, then I’m going to dance on hers,” he said. “It’ll make Harrison look like a paper cut.” Kozlow started to turn his head, hoping to look Rafferty in the eye.

“Don’t move!” Rafferty yelled.

“Oscar, don’t do this!” Claire pleaded.

Kozlow was tensed to jump. “I’m going to slice you open and-”

“Don’t move!” Rafferty repeated. “I mean it!”

Kozlow wasn’t stopping. He spun around and went straight for Rafferty’s throat. But before he could make contact, another shot rang out. A crimson burst sprayed across the kitchen and Kozlow slumped to the floor. There was a dull thud as his head hit the ground.

“Oh, God!” Claire screamed. “Oh, my God!”

“Claire, don’t flip out on me.”

Shaking, Claire looked at Elliott, then at Kozlow. Both of them were now soaked in blood. She rushed to the sink and vomited.

“Dammit, Claire, what’re you doing?!” Rafferty screamed. “You can’t let them know we were here!” He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his coat and, as Claire continued to heave, turned on the faucet. He poured dishwashing liquid all over the sink, hoping to hide the smell. Then he grabbed Elliott’s keys from the kitchen table, went into the living room, and opened the storage trunk. Rummaging through the chest, he found the contents of Sara’s wallet and discovered the plastic hands with his name on them. The gloves were missing – which meant Elliott was wearing them. “Perfect. It’s a perfect excuse,” Rafferty said, throwing the empty hands aside. “Now he’s me.” He pulled out the Warren Eastham gloves and brought them back to the kitchen.

Knowing that the gloves would confound the investigation, he stuffed them into Kozlow’s back pocket, grabbed Kozlow by the hand, and dragged him, facedown, toward the other side of the kitchen. Lifting the back of Kozlow’s jacket, Rafferty found Kozlow’s handgun. He took the gun from the back of Kozlow’s pants. He then used his own gun to shoot Kozlow two more times in the back and once in the leg. When he was done, he placed his gun in Elliott’s hand and shoved Kozlow’s gun in his own pocket. “Now it looks like an argument,” he said. “As Kozlow was leaving, Elliott shot him in the back. That’s it. That’s what makes sense.” Rafferty looked over at Claire, who was still leaning into the sink. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not okay!” she cried. “You just put a hole in his head! You killed two people! What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t say that, Claire! What was I supposed to do? Let them run around, hoping they don’t ruin me?”

“We’re already ruined. You think Sara Tate’s going to-”

“Shut up!” Rafferty shouted. “I don’t want to hear it! It’ll work!”

Light-headed and still trembling, Claire looked like she was going to pass out. “Get me out of here.”

“Shut up,” Rafferty said, pulling her by the arm toward the door. “I need to make one more stop.”

“I’m sorry about the delay,” the Hoboken police officer said to Sara as they strode toward Elliott’s building.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sara said, buzzing apartment eight.

When there was no answer after a few buzzes, the Hoboken cop rammed his shoulder into the door, which flew wide open.

When the group got to the top floor, they knocked on Elliott’s door. Again, there was no answer. “Elliott, are you there?” Sara called out. “Conrad?” Trying the doorknob, she found it unlocked and pushed the door open. “Oh, God,” she said.

“You know these people?” the New Jersey cop asked.

Sara didn’t answer. She couldn’t take her eyes off the bloody scene. This wasn’t like the autopsy – she knew these people. And as much as she feared them, no one should die like this. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Why would they… how the hell could he do this?”

Turning to the New York police officer, Guff said, “Hope the paperwork was worth it.”

“Don’t blame this on me,” the cop shot back.

“Looks like a robbery,” the New Jersey cop added as he examined the scene. “The guy in the leather jacket shoots the skinny guy, but as he’s about to leave, the skinny guy sits up and shoots the leather guy in the back of the head.”

“Are you kidding?” Sara asked. “Look at the streaks of blood on the floor. Someone obviously moved Kozlow’s body.”

“Or he was trying to crawl to the door,” the Jersey cop pointed out.

“Oh, no,” Guff said from the living room, his voice shaking. “Sara! Sara, get in here!”

Racing into the living room, Sara saw Guff down on both knees. And Conrad’s broken body lying in the corner. “Oh, no! Not him! Please, not him!” she screamed. She dropped down next to Guff and grabbed Conrad’s head in her hands. “ Somebody get an ambulance! We need an ambulance! ” She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She put her head to Conrad’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. “C’mon,” she said, lightly slapping his cheek. “I know you’re still in there. Don’t give up!” Still nothing. She pounded his chest. “You heard me! You’re not giving up! I’m not going to let you!” Again, she hit him. And again. But he still didn’t move. As she squeezed his blood-soaked shirt, her hands were shaking and she started to hyperventilate. “Please, Conrad, don’t do this. Please, don’t leave. Please. Please, don’t leave me. Not again.” As the tears finally came, Sara wanted to shake him awake. She wanted to keep pounding his chest. She wanted to hear that pulse. But when it came right down to it, all she really wanted was to get him back.

When she turned around, Guff was still weeping. “C’mere,” she said, opening her arms. Guff fell right in. For a minute, the two of them sat there, on their knees, silently consoling each other. “I’m sorry,” Sara finally said, rubbing his back. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was my friend,” Guff cried.

As Sara listened to the rise and fall of Guff’s sobs, she wondered how this had happened. Conrad hadn’t just been caught unprepared. He was ambushed. And the only way that was possible was if someone had known he was coming. Climbing to her feet, Sara wiped her eyes with her sleeve. He’d warned her, but she hadn’t listened. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Call the precinct and see if they picked up Jared,” she said to the New York cop.

As the officer started dialing, Sara helped Guff up from the floor.

“You really think it’s him?” Guff asked.

“I don’t know what to think anymore. All I know is-”

“What?” the officer blurted into his cell phone. “When?” Silent for a minute, he answered. “She’s with me. No, I got it. I’ll bring her right in.” He shut the phone and looked with shock at Sara.

“What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“They just got a 911 call from Wayne and Portnoy. The officer who went over there – he’s been shot.”

THE CROWD OUTSIDE THE OFFICES OF WAYNE & PORTNOY was much calmer than Sara had expected, but it was still tenacious. Refusing to disperse, the evacuated workers gathered around the door, angling and elbowing for the best view of the action.