Andrew Gross - Don’t Look Twice

Except several people recalled the shooter shouting something prior to driving away.

The woman who had been in front of Hauck at the counter just before it happened said it sounded something like “ Tarantino , asshole…”

“Like the director?” Hauck asked.

“That’s what she heard,” Steve Chrisafoulis said. “The guy filling up his Prius on pump two heard it different. More like ‘ Porsafina .’”

“ Porsafina? ”

“Just telling you what they heard, LT.”

It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, Hauck realized, to get any agreement. The sudden shock and panic. Twenty people were going to have twenty different recollections of what had taken place.

Munoz turned to Hauck. “You said the shooter was Hispanic, right?”

Ed Sweeney offered, “No one seemed to get much of a view, Lieutenant.”

Hauck said, “I think so. Why?”

“’Cause what if it was more like, For Sephina , maybe? Por Sephina? That mean anything to you, LT?”

“No.” If he had somehow been the target of this, he didn’t see the connection.

He went back inside the store. Sunil still had a medical tech attending to him. “You doin’ okay?”

The Pakistani had a cut on his arm from flying glass. He blew out his cheeks. “I suppose so, Lieutenant.”

“Lemme ask you, Sunil, any reason someone would want to do something like this to you? Any enemies we should know about? Any money you owe out there?”

“ Enemies? ” The gas station manager rounded his eyes wide. “No, I’m a good guy, Lieutenant. I don’t have enemies…”

“People heard the gunman shouting something like ‘Tarantino’ as they pulled away.”

Sunil furrowed his brow. “You mean like that Hollywood guy, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know what I mean, Sunil. ‘Tarantino.’ Or maybe ‘ Por Sephina .’ Spanish. Anything like what I’m saying meaning anything to you, Sunil?”

The Pakistani looked perplexed. He dabbed a hand through his thinning dark hair. “You know me, Lieutenant. I don’t make problems for anyone.”

He wasn’t lying. Hauck patted him on the shoulder. “I know. You get that nick looked after, Sunil.”

The ME van had arrived, lights flashing, from the state facility up in Farmington.

So had Chief Fitzpatrick. In golf attire. He wove his Saab through the maze of news vans and police lines right into the station. Hauck saw him chat for a second with a patrolman, then jog his way.

“Jesus, Ty, I just heard…How’s Jessie doing?”

“She’s okay, Vern. Just a little shock. Thanks.”

“What about you …?” Fitz’s eyes shot to the bandage on Hauck’s neck.

“Just some flying glass. From the window…”

The chief of police looked at him skeptically and snorted back a smile. “Flying glass, my ass, Ty. You’re a lucky dude.”

Hauck smiled wistfully at him, scratched the back of his head. “We got issues, Vern. The dead guy’s a federal prosecutor from up in Hartford. Best I can say, he just stepped into it. Random. I don’t know who this goddamn thing was aimed at— me , Sunil here—you can see they tore the place up pretty good. But there’s going to be a lot of eyeballs on our backs. Freddy will brief you, if that’s okay. I’d appreciate it if you could run some interference on the press for me on this.”

“Don’t even think about that, Ty. You should stay with Jessie…”

“Jess is fine. Her mom’s on the way.”

A sharp beeping tone rang from inside. It took a moment for everyone to realize just where it came from. The victim’s cell phone. Still on him.

“ Christ .” Hauck bent down and found it inside David Sanger’s vest.

The digital display read HOME. Everyone stood around and just listened as it continued to ring, four, five times, looking at one another silently before it finally went into voice mail.

“No.” Hauck exhaled at Vern. “There’s something else I have to do.”

He jotted down the address they had found in the victim’s wallet, 475 Pine Ridge Road. Only a mile or two from there. This was one of the jobs nobody vied for, the unenviable responsibility of rank. He grabbed a local patrolman he knew and asked him to follow in his car. This sort of thing was always done better in twos.

Outside, by the fuel pumps, Hauck grabbed hold of Munoz.

Freddy asked, “You want me to come with you, LT?”

“No. I want you to stay and brief the crime scene guys. And listen, Freddy—I got that APB out within a minute or two; no way they could’ve gotten very far. If we haven’t heard anything back, you know what I’m thinking…”

Munoz nodded. “That the truck’s still somewhere around here. That they dumped it somewhere.”

Hauck backed away to where his Explorer was and pointed at Freddy. “You find that truck.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wendy Sanger had the bags packed and dragged downstairs. Haley was in the midst of her usual early morning tortured-teenager routine, whining on about why they had to drag her up to Vermont when Ariel had a party planned for Saturday night and it was “just leaves up there, Mom, not even goddamn snow!” Wendy shouted back at her up the stairs, stuffing the case with Ethan’s medicine. “Don’t you give me a hard time this morning, Haley! Just get your butt down!”

They were heading up to the ski house at Stratton, lugging the ski stuff up with all their clothes for the season. Easier than packing it all up and transporting it to New Britain, near Hartford, where the family was moving before Christmas. It was a stressful time for all of them. Maybe the most for Haley—leaving her friends smack in the middle of the school year.

But it was hard on all of them. And Wendy knew her daughter would probably spend the whole weekend on the couch yapping on the phone anyway, so what the hell did it even matter where she was?

“C’mon, Hale, I mean it, get moving! Daddy’ll be back soon.”

“ Who the hell took my goddamn iPod, Mom? ”

Ugh. Wendy put down the medicine case in frustration. “I don’t know, hon!”

David had gone into town to wash the car, like he did every Saturday morning. His compulsive little ritual. Vacuum it out like it was the queen’s bedroom, polish down the chrome.

She checked the clock. That was over an hour ago. Where the hell is David ? she wondered.

She had tried him on the cell, twice, and left a message: “Just wondering what it is you’re doing , David…You remember, we have this little trip planned today. We’re sitting here ready …” But he wasn’t answering, which struck Wendy as odd. David always picked up unless he was in trial. That was starting to worry her a bit.

Maybe he’d stopped at the station for a cup of coffee. That would be just like him, Wendy knew. Getting everyone up at dawn, pushing them to get moving, promising, “Greenburgers at Dot’s in Manchester by one!”—while he chatted someone up at the car wash about some new bond initiative in town, dawdling over the morning editorials as he filled up the car, and all the while she was running around like a chicken without a head, getting everything together, dressing and making breakfast for Ethan. And then he’d finally come home with an innocent look on his face and clap. “ So, hey, what’s everyone been doing, guys? We gotta go! ”

That would be just like him.

Ethan was eating cereal in the kitchen, watching Teletubbies . He was six, the love of their lives, though not everything was right with him. Asperger’s syndrome. Not full-out autism, they hoped, but still, a little impaired. And now with the move they had to change schools from Eagle Hill, and maybe doctors too, though they had found a fabulous program up near Hartford with people who seemed to really care.