DON’T LOOK TWICE

Andrew Gross

TO MY BROTHERS,

MICHAEL AND RICK

Contents

Title Page Part One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Part Two Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Chapter Sixty-Nine Chapter Seventy Chapter Seventy-One Chapter Seventy-Two Chapter Seventy-Three Chapter Seventy-Four Chapter Seventy-Five Part Three Chapter Seventy-Six Chapter Seventy-Seven Chapter Seventy-Eight Chapter Seventy-Nine Chapter Eighty Chapter Eighty-One Chapter Eighty-Two Chapter Eighty-Three Chapter Eighty-Four Chapter Eighty-Five Chapter Eighty-Six Chapter Eighty-Seven Part Four Chapter Eighty-Eight Chapter Eighty-Nine Chapter Ninety Chapter Ninety-One Chapter Ninety-Two Chapter Ninety-Three Chapter Ninety-Four Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Novels By Andrew Gross and James Patterson Copyright About the Publisher

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

“Mango Meltdown or Berry Blast?”

Ty Hauck scanned the shelves of the Exxon station’s refrigerated cooler.

“Whatever…” his thirteen-year-old daughter, Jessie, responded with a shrug, her eyes alighting on something more appealing. “What about this?”

Powie Zowie.

Hauck reached inside and read the brightly colored label. Megajolt of caffeine. Highest bang for the buck.

“Your mother lets you drink this stuff?” he asked skeptically.

Jessie looked back at him. “Mom’s not exactly here, is she?”

“No.” Hauck nodded, meeting her gaze. “I guess she’s not.”

In just the past year, forbidding new curves had sprung up on his daughter’s once-childlike body. Bra straps peeking out from under her tank top. Jeans clinging to the hips in an “unnatural” way. Gangly suddenly morphing into something a bit more in the range of troubling. Not to mention the newly mastered repertoire of eye rolls, shrugs, and exaggerated sighs. Hauck wondered if the request for an ankle tattoo or a belly piercing could be far behind. “You don’t get to win,” a friend who had teenage daughters once warned him. “You only delay.”

Jesus, he recalled, it was just a year ago that she liked to get shoulder rides from me.

“Toss it in the basket,” he said, acquiescing. “One.”

Jessie shrugged without even the slightest smile, failing to grasp the significance of his offering. “Okay.”

At the end of the aisle, a man in a green down vest and tortoiseshell glasses reached into the cooler and met Hauck’s gaze. His amused, empathetic smile seemed to say, Know exactly what you’re going through, man!

Hauck grinned back.

A year had passed since the Grand Central bombing. A year since the events set in motion by the hit-and-run accident down on Putnam Avenue had thrust Hauck out of his long slumber and into the public eye. In that year, Hauck had been on the morning news shows and MSNBC and Greta Van Susteren, the case rocking not just the tall iron gates of the Loire-styled mansions out on North Avenue, but the financial circles in New York as well. It had turned Hauck into a bit of a reluctant celebrity—the object of friendly ribbing from his staff and the local merchants along the avenue. Even his old hockey buddies, who used to tip their mugs to him because of how he once tore up the football league at Greenwich High, now joked about whether he knew Paris or Nicole, or could get them past the bouncers into some fancy new club in the city on a Saturday night. Finally Hauck just had to step back, get his life in order.

And keep things on a steady keel with Karen, whose husband’s death had been at the heart of the case.

And with whom he had fallen in love.

At first, it had been hard to bridge all the differences between them. She was rich. Hauck was the head of detectives on the local force. Their families, lifestyles, didn’t exactly merge. Not to mention all the attention the case had generated. That in solving the mystery of her husband’s death Hauck had unleashed something buried and now restless inside her. In the past year, her father, Mel, had taken ill with Parkinson’s. Her mother wasn’t handling it well. Karen had gone down to Atlanta to help take care of him, with her daughter away at Tufts and her son, Alex, now sixteen, recruited to play lacrosse at an upstate prep school.

It had been a year in which Hauck had finally learned to put much of the pain of his own past behind him. To learn to feel attached again. To fight for someone he wanted. He knew Karen loved him deeply for what he had done for her. Still, a lot of things stood in the way. Not just the money thing or their different families and backgrounds. Lately, Hauck had detected something in her. A restlessness. Maybe a sense of wanting to finally be free after being tied to a man her whole adult life, one who had so painfully deceived her. It was always a roll of the dice, they both knew, how things might work out between them. The jury was still out.

“C’mon,” he said to Jess, “grab some M&M’s; the boat’s waiting.”

The autumn chill was late in coming that October Saturday morning, and they were heading out for a final jaunt on his skiff, the Merrily, over to Captain’s Island before taking it out of the water for the winter. Maybe kick the soccer ball around a bit—not a mean feat these days for Hauck (whose leg had still not fully healed from the.45 he had taken to the thigh). Grill a few dogs. Who knew how many more of these Saturdays he’d have with Jess. Just getting her up before ten was already becoming a hard sell. They’d just stopped off on the way to fill up the Explorer and pick up a few snacks.

Sunil, who ran the Exxon station next to the car wash on Putnam, was always a friend to the guys on the force. Hauck always made it his habit to fill up here.

As they reached the counter, a woman was at the register ahead of them. The man in the green down vest stepped up, his arms wrapped around two six-packs of soda.

“You guys go ahead.” He waved them ahead and smiled good-naturedly.

“Thanks.” Hauck nodded back and nudged Jessie.

“Thanks,” she turned back and said.

While they waited, Hauck said, “You know, I really hope you’ll come up for Thanksgiving this year. Karen’ll be back.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“You should. She likes you, Jess. You know that. It would make me feel good.”

“It’s not that…” She twisted her mouth. “It’s just that it’s different. They’re, you know…rich. Samantha and Alex, I mean, they’re nice, but…”

Hauck knew the adjustment had been toughest with her. His daughter felt like a fish out of water with them. Sam and Alex had grown up on rented boats in the Caribbean and on spring breaks flew out to Beaver Creek to ski. She went up to Massachusetts to visit her cousins and once they’d all flown down to Orlando to do the theme park thing. He squeezed her on the shoulder, careful not to draw any attention to it. “Yeah, but that doesn’t make them from Saturn, Jess.”

“It’s Mars, Dad,” she corrected him.

He shrugged. “Or Mars.”

The woman at the register finally finished up. Hauck stepped up to the counter.

Sunil greeted him with his usual smile. “Lieutenant! So, how is the big star these days? I don’t see you on the TV so much anymore.”

“That gig’s over, Sunil. They don’t pay me enough.”

The Pakistani laughed at Jessie. “Pretty soon, we’re gonna see your father on Dancing with the Stars…Doing the tango with some fancy celebrity. I bet you are very proud of your famous father, young lady…”

“Sure.” Jessie shrugged.

Hauck put his arm around her. “She thinks I’m famous in my own mind…” He brought up the basket. “So, Sunil, we have a couple of sandwiches and sodas, and we also took a—”

It was the screech that Hauck heard first.

Grating. Terrifying. The red truck jerking to a stop right in front of their eyes. The heavily tinted passenger window slowly rolling down.

Then the man in the red bandana leaning out—not a man, Hauck recalled later, barely more than a boy—extending the short black cylinder as Hauck, unable to believe what he was seeing, stared at the protruding barrel.

A second before the body-blow of dread set in. Before he realized in horror what was about to take place.

He grabbed Jessie.

“Everyone get down!”

CHAPTER TWO

The barrel erupted, spitting orange flashes of death and terror all around. The station’s storefront shattered.

“Jess!”

Hauck pulled his daughter to the floor, the earsplitting zip, zip, zip of twenty rounds per second exploding glass, toppling counters of candy and shredding magazines all over them. He heard Jessie’s high-pitched shrieks from under him. “Daddy! Daddy!”

Above, the window sign promoting discount tune-ups crashed in.

All Hauck could do was press himself into her as tightly as he could, shouting back above the deafening rain of glass and noise something he wasn’t sure of, something he didn’t know was true: “It’s okay, Jess, it’s okay! It’s going to be okay…”

But it wasn’t okay.

Bullets tore through the walls all around them, the store shaking like an earthquake was happening. Hauck had seen the muzzle pointed at his face. He felt sure the attack was aimed at him. Covering his daughter, an even more terrifying fear rippled through him:

What if the gunman tried to come in?

Suddenly, the barrage came to a stop. Just as quickly as it had begun. Hauck held there and prayed for the sound of the truck’s engine revving up. He didn’t hear it—only a heart-stopping double-clicking noise, which terrified him even more.

The shooter was shoving in a second clip.

He knew he had to do something. And do it now. From outside, he heard frightened wails and screaming. He had no idea if anyone might have already been hit. He slid off Jessie, fumbling at his waist for his gun—and, in panic, found only the empty space where it normally would have been, realized it was back in the Explorer. In the fucking glove compartment!

He was unarmed.

The second wave of gunfire started in.

“Stay down!” Hauck screamed above the noise directly in Jessie’s ear, rounds zinging through the remaining jagged shards of glass that still clung to the front facade.

Jessie reached for him. “Daddy, no…!”

Hauck cupped her face in his hands. “Jessie, please, just stay down!”

He pulled out of her grasp, his heart colliding back and forth against his ribs, and scrambled over to the door. He grabbed the largest object he could find, a two-gallon drum of motor coolant, and, using it as cover, crawled outside.

The red truck loomed directly above him. The muzzle jutted from the passenger window, jerking wildly from the recoil. Hauck realized his only option was to wrestle the gun from the shooter’s grip. He slid cautiously along the pavement, ducking under the gunman’s view. Suddenly the truck’s engine revved.

He got ready to lunge.

As if in answer to his prayers, the shooting suddenly stopped. Above him, he heard the deafening roar of the truck’s massive V-8, the gunman shouting something he couldn’t make out over the noise.

Then the sparkle of silver rims zooming by, the cab careening off a stanchion as it shot past him, veering into the street.

Hauck scrambled after it, focusing on the make and plates. A Ford F250, ADJ…9, dealer plates. The rest he couldn’t make out. It jerked a sharp left, bouncing wildly over the curb at the corner, and took off south, toward the Connecticut–New York border.

A plume of dark gray smoke crept out from the scene.

One by one, stunned bystanders began to crawl out from behind their cars.

Hauck looked around. “Is everyone alright?”

One man got up from behind a fuel pump, nodding uncertainly. Next to him a woman was still curled up on the asphalt, sobbing, shell-shocked.

“I’m a policeman!” he called again. “Is everyone alright?”

Amazingly, he didn’t see anyone who appeared to have been hit. He turned back to the shop, the stench of smoke and cordite biting his nostrils. The caved-in storefront looked as if a missile had slammed into it. He had to call it in! Frantically, he dug through his jeans for his cell phone, his fingers fumbling on the keys, 431, the emergency code to the Greenwich station’s front desk.

His gaze drifted back inside.

“Jess …?”

Hauck’s heart slammed to a stop, his eyes falling on his daughter. She was on the floor. Curled up. Inert. Not replying. The phone fell from his ear.

There was blood all over her.

CHAPTER THREE

“Jess!”

It may have only been an instant—the same terrifying instant in which he begged his lifeless legs to move.

But in the freeze-frame of that moment, Hauck was hurtled back.

To Jessie—only six. In a Teletubby T-shirt, cross-legged on the grass outside their two-family home in Woodside, Queens. Curled up there, she looked as clear to him then as she did now.

All they heard was her shriek. “Mommy! Daddy!”

He and Beth, rushing to the kitchen window. Knowing immediately that something was wrong, seeing only their white van as it bounced silently down the embankment and came to a stop in the quiet street.

Jess—too scared to even point or move. Just frozen there. His and Beth’s eyes falling on the tiny yellow tugboat that their younger daughter, Norah, had been playing with only moments before. The truth taking hold of them. Petrifying them. Beth’s eyes already filled with terror and fleeing hope.

Oh, Ty, please, they said, don’t let this be happening. Please…

Now Hauck fixed on Jessie and ran over to her across the glass-strewn floor.

His daughter lay motionless, crimson matted on her sweatshirt. He lifted her by the shoulders. Blood spatter was all over her cheeks and chest. Frantically, Hauck searched her limp body for a wound.

Oh, Jesus, Jessie, no. He peeled back his daughter’s matted brown hair. This can’t be happening again!

Like an answer to his prayers, he felt her stir.

Just the slightest murmur. She blinked and slit open her dazed brown eyes.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby, yes…!” Hauck’s chest exploded in a spasm of joyful relief. “Oh yes, honey. Jessie, it’s me.”

Fright flared up in her. “Are they gone?”

“Yes, honey, they’re gone! It’s over. It’s going to be okay.” Hauck shut his eyes and felt tears stinging. Every bone in his body seemed to rattle in a joyful exhale. He drew his daughter up to him, squeezing her. He brushed the specks of blood off her cheek. “They’re gone.”

Behind him, Sunil slowly rose from behind the counter.

Hauck looked up at him. “Are you okay?”

The manager nodded, his dark brown skin blanched almost pale. “I think so.” Sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Call 911. Tell them there’s been a shooting. Tell them I’m here and we need immediate medical support.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, okay.” With eyes as white as moons, he scanned around the store. “Gracious God in heaven…”

Hauck lowered Jessie back down. “You just lay there, honey…let me look. Where are you hurt?” He carefully checked over her clothing but couldn’t find any wound. No signs of fresh blood seeping out.

“I don’t know, Daddy.”

“It doesn’t matter. You just stay there. Help will be here soon.”

He flipped open his cell phone and punched in the 431 line to the station that signaled Emergency.

The duty officer answered.

“This is Lieutenant Hauck. I’m at the Exxon station on Putnam and Holden. There’s been a shooting. The manager here just called in a 911. We have wounded. We need immediate medical response. Cars on the scene, EMTs, everything…”

“This is Reyes, sir. We’re already on it. We should have cars there any second…”

“Listen to me, Sergeant, I want you to put out an interagency APB on a red F250 pickup, Connecticut plates, ADJ…9…That’s all I could make out. Raised chassis, chrome rims. Shooter may be Hispanic and may be wearing a red bandana. When it left here it was headed south on Putnam. You get that out immediately, Sergeant, you hear?”

“I’m all on it, sir.”

Hauck hung up. He yanked off his fleece pullover and bunched it like a pillow underneath Jessie’s head. “You just sit tight, baby. Help’ll be here soon.”

She nodded hazily. “Okay…”

He checked her again. Miraculously, he couldn’t locate any direct wounds. Where the hell was all the blood coming from? Slowly, he felt his heart crawl back into his chest.

As a droplet of blood fell onto her sweatshirt.

Scared, Jessie looked up. “Daddy, you’re bleeding!”

Hauck felt for his neck, which was suddenly throbbing. A sticky red ooze came off in his hand. He felt his stomach turn.

“Daddy, you’re hurt!” Jessie said, lifting onto her elbows.

“Don’t worry,” Hauck said. But suddenly he wasn’t sure. “Sunil…”

The manager, who was now on the phone with his family, ran around the counter. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Go and see if anyone needs medical assistance out there…Tell them ambulances should be here in a second…”

“Yes, sir.” Sunil was about to run out, making a last broad sweep around the store. Suddenly he stopped. “Merciful God…” he muttered, gazing over Hauck’s shoulder.

Hauck stood up, following the manager’s crestfallen gaze. “Oh no…”

Suddenly it became clear where all the blood on Jessie had originated from. The man in the green down vest—who had smiled at them by the cooler and stepped up behind them in line…

He was on the floor, covered by toppled racks of magazines and candy, eyes like glass, his tortoiseshell frames thrown to the side.

In the center of his chest, dotting his brown Shetland sweater, were two dark red holes.

CHAPTER FOUR

It took just minutes—frantic minutes—for Freddy Munoz and two other detectives from Hauck’s Violent Crimes Unit to make it to the scene.

A phalanx of local blue-and-whites had blocked off lower Putnam from Weaver all the way down to the car dealerships, lights flashing and sirens wailing like a war zone. An EMT van had already arrived from Greenwich Hospital and was tending to Jessie, as well as to a couple of the other bystanders.

A med tech kneeled over the guy in the green vest, confirming what Hauck already knew.

Freddy Munoz hopped out of his car, took in a long, disbelieving sweep of the shot-up storefront, the dozens of holes in its facade. “Jesus, Lieutenant, are you alright?”

Freddy had been one of Hauck’s first hires on the Violent Crimes team when Hauck had taken the position heading up the staff in Greenwich. Hauck was fond of the young detective, grooming him, in the back of his mind, for his own job one day. Looking over the scene, Hauck suddenly realized just how close that promotion had almost come.

“Yeah.” Hauck rubbed the gash on his neck. “I’m okay.”

“Jessie?” Munoz pressed with concern. “I heard she was here.”

“She’ll be alright.” Hauck pointed toward the EMT van. “Just a little shock…” As he looked at her there, reliving those initial moments, a queasiness rose back up in Hauck’s gut. “At first I just saw her there, all covered in blood. Not moving…”

Munoz squinted. “Whose blood, Lieutenant?”

Hauck turned his gaze back inside. “The guy over there…We were heading out to the boat, stopped to pick up a few things. He was right behind us in line.”

Spotting the body through the open storefront, the detective issued a short, grim whistle of disgust. “Oh, man…Anyone else hit, LT?”

“No.” Hauck placed a hand up to his neck.

“You better get that checked out, okay? You get a chance to ID the vic?”

“Not yet. I’ve been with Jess.”

“Where you ought to be, Lieutenant. You just let us handle it, okay? Go be with your daughter. I’m glad she’s okay…And get them to take a look at that gash. Damn, LT, you know how lucky you are?”

A sobering exhale accompanied Hauck’s nod. “The sonovabitch shot right at me, Freddy…I just stood there, the window rolling down. Stared right at him. Froze.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Lieutenant. Anyone would freeze.”

Hauck nodded, eyes fixed on the body, unconvinced. “That could be Jessie.”

“Yeah, it could be, Lieutenant, but it’s not. You said you caught a glimpse of the shooter?”

Hauck nodded. “Twenties. Hispanic. Wearing a red bandana across his head. I put an APB out on a red Ford pickup, CT plates. ADJ9 or something…Couldn’t get more of a read. Listen, Freddy, I want you to get an ID on the guy inside. Have Stevie and Ed start in with the witnesses.”

“Will do.”

“And, listen, Freddy…”

“Yeah, Lieutenant?”

“I’m okay, got that? It’s business as usual here.”

“You bet your ass you’re okay, sir.” Munoz tapped Hauck on the shoulder, grinning. “Like my mother would say, LT, you had an angel riding on your shoulder today.”

“Yeah.” Hauck looked at the caved-in storefront, the man in the green vest’s legs visible through the shattered door. “Been meaning to talk to you about your mom’s take on angels, Freddy.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Hauck got the gash on his neck looked after, while Ed Sweeney and Steve Chrisafoulis started to interview the bystanders and Munoz went to check out the body.

Maybe he and Jessie did have an angel watching over them. There were at least eighty to a hundred bullet holes where rounds had slammed into the station, and only three people had been hit, including a woman outside, struck in the arm from a ricochet.

Eighty to a hundred shots—and only that one poor bastard killed.

Vern Fitzpatrick, Greenwich’s police chief and Hauck’s boss, was on his way down from Darien, where he had been at a golf outing. News vans were starting to line up across the street, camera crews pushing for witnesses. Patrolmen were keeping the pressing reporters at bay.

Hauck could only imagine the headlines. “Posh NY Suburb Ripped by Deadly Gunfire.” “Bystander Killed in Drive-By Attack.”

Greenwich had Saks and Ralph Lauren and Laura Ashley. This kind of thing just didn’t happen here.

While they bandaged his neck, Hauck flipped out his phone and called Jessie’s mom. “Beth, something happened…” he said at the sound of her voice, then stopped, the freeze-frame of his daughter there and all that blood rushing back to him. He moistened his lips. “Listen, Beth,” he said, “Jess is alright. She’s fine, but…” He took her through what had happened, his ex-wife gasping, “Jesus, Ty, oh, my God…”

“Beth, listen, please…” They had spent ten years together. He had been a New York City cop then. A young detective in the 122nd in Queens, fast-tracked to the department’s Office of Information, who acted as a liaison officer during 9/11 with the FBI. That was before the accident with Norah. Before the blame and their marriage fell apart. “She’s alright,” he said, “just a bit scared. They’re going to take her to Greenwich Hospital—just to look over her a bit. You should come. Now. There are people dead here. I’m gonna have to go…”

“Oh, Jesus, Ty, tell Jess I’m on my way.”

“I’ll see you there.” He hung up. The med tech finished taping his neck. Hauck went over and sat beside Jessie in the van. They were running an IV. Hauck put his arm around her and pressed her head to his shoulder, trying to smile away the scared, confused tears welling in her young eyes.

“You okay?”

She nodded, donning the brave veneer. “I think so, Dad.”

“Mom’s on the way. They’re going to take you to the hospital here. They may give you something—just for shock, honey.”

“I’m alright,” she insisted. “You’re the one who’s been shot.”

Hauck winked at her and grinned. “You okay with putting off that boat ride for the rest of the day? I know you weren’t so keen on it.” That made her smile. “Listen, honey, you know I have to go to work now. You know they need me here…”

“I know, Daddy…” Her baby-blue sweatshirt was still damp and matted with someone else’s blood. “How’s that guy?”

Hauck shrugged. “I don’t know, baby doll.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? I saw him, Dad.”

Hauck bunched his lips and nodded. “Yeah, he’s dead.” He pressed her face into his chest and squeezed. “You know I love you, Jess. I’ll check in on you at the hospital. Mom will be there soon.”

Patrolmen were setting up barriers, cordoning off the scene. Hauck knew this was one you were going to hear about. No avoiding that. This was Greenwich. The people with the big rap sheets here were hedge fund managers and CEOs. Investor fraud and Sarbanes-Oxley violations were the typical crimes of passion.

Drive-bys just didn’t happen here.

Hauck had looked squarely into the shooter’s eyes as he squeezed. He tried to think: Who might want to take this kind of revenge?

Three months ago, he and his team had shut down a meth ring operating out of a bodega in nearby Byron. Word was it was connected to the Vine Street gangs up in Hartford. They were bad people.

He had busted the son of a local real estate magnate for coke; the kid had been bounced out of Brunswick Academy in his senior year. The dad had threatened to ruin Hauck.

But this? Right in front of everybody’s eyes? That would bring the whole goddamn system of justice down on top of their heads. That would be suicide.

It didn’t make a goddamn shred of sense.

Inside, Ed Sweeney was taking a statement from Sunil, who still looked like a ghost, dabbing at his brow.

Freddy Munoz kneeled over the body. The dude had seemed friendly, nice. They’d shared a smile; he was sympathetic to what was going on with Jessie. He probably had a daughter himself.

As Hauck came up to him, Munoz whistled and rolled his eyes. “This ain’t so good, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

The victim looked about forty. Sandy hair, flecks of gray in it, tortoiseshell frames. Two rounds had caught him squarely in the chest, knocked him back into the magazine rack—probably why no one had seen him at first. He’d never had a chance. Must’ve been killed by the opening barrage. A foot or two either way, that could’ve been Jessie or him.

“This, LT.” Munoz handed Hauck the dead man’s wallet.

Hauck’s stomach fell.

This wasn’t just any victim, a bystander who had happened into the line of fire.

They were staring at a Department of Justice ID.

CHAPTER SIX

The victim was a federal prosecutor working out of the Hartford, Connecticut, office. David Sanger. His driver’s license indicated he was forty-one years old. The address on it was on Pine Ridge Road off Stanwich, just five minutes out of town.

The headline had just changed.

Once more, Hauck thought back through the chain of events. The red truck screeching to a stop. The darkened window rolling down. The muzzle of the gun extending.

At him.

Sanger had been standing only a few feet away, right behind Jess in line. The bullet pattern seemed to go from right to left. It seemed likely he had been hit in the initial barrage.

“Any chance you’re thinking he was the target?” Munoz questioned. The victim’s ID made anything possible.

Hauck thought back. The attack had continued for a full minute after Sanger would have been struck. The shooter had even reloaded. Bullet marks were everywhere. Glass shattered on the refrigerated unit in back. The type of weapon used, a Tec-9 or a Mac-10, wasn’t exactly the kind of pinpoint weapon one might choose if they were trying to target someone.

“No.” Hauck shook his head. “Just the wrong place at the wrong time, Freddy.”

Still, a federal prosecutor gunned down this way would bring a lot of attention to this. Every media outlet across the country would be on their backs. Not to mention the Feds. They’d have to take a look at everything. What Sanger was doing here. Any personal vendettas against him. What cases he was working on.

“You know what this means, LT?” Munoz said, standing up.

“Yeah, I know what it means…” He slid out a small photo from David Sanger’s wallet. His wife—pretty, blonde, her hair in a ponytail. Smiling. Two kids. Just a few minutes ago that had been his world.

He handed Munoz back the wallet. “It means you can forget about that angel, Freddy.”

The shells were nine-millimeter. Dozens were lodged all over the walls. Judging from what Hauck recalled—the amount of bullets, casings, the fast reload—the gun was probably a Tec-9.

Not the kind of weapon one could expect to make a precision shot with.

A canvas of the witnesses mostly confirmed Hauck’s own recollection of events. No one had been able to get a clear description of the assailants. The truck’s windows were tinted. The shooter faced away from the crowd. Only Hauck had caught a glimpse. Everyone else had ducked or panicked as soon as the initial shots rang out. It had all happened so fast.

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.

“Aargh!” Wendy heard Ethan shout something, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor.

“Ethan, no!”

She went over to the wall and picked it up. “Haley!” she called upstairs. “I think Ethan found your iPod…!”

She’d miss this place, Wendy realized. It was an old, refurbished colonial. Her folks had helped them buy it when David took a job with the government after law school. The kitchen was small, they had never quite gotten around to giving the bathrooms a do-over, but there was that terrific yard in back, which faced a nature preserve no one could ever build on. And some of the elms on their property were over a hundred feet tall. And they’d made friends.

Still, David’s Monday-to-Friday commute was growing exhausting. Some nights he wouldn’t get home until after nine, when Ethan was already asleep. Some weeks he didn’t make it home at all. The new promotion at Justice was what David had dreamed of. Why he left private practice in the first place and sacrificed all the money. A chance to really do something and make a difference. Before law school, he’d taught English in Guatemala. A chance to serve.

Speaking of which…Wendy glanced at the kitchen clock again—it was already after ten! He had wanted to be on the road by nine thirty. She tried David’s cell one more time. Again, his voice mail came on.

What the hell is going on, David?

She started to get worried. She knew she sometimes tended to overstress a bit. She’d lost her dad at eighteen to a sudden heart attack. And David had this mild arrhythmia himself, though the doctors convinced her it was nothing to really worry about. Even at forty-one. Still, she always carried around this tiny fear…That one day she would be alone, just like her mom had been left alone. That she would have to bring up Ethan by herself. Stupid, she knew, maybe even a little selfish. But where the hell was he, anyway?

That’s when she spotted the two cars pulling up in the drive outside the kitchen window.

One was a black SUV, just like theirs. Except it had lights on top. Flashing lights! The other was a regular blue and white Greenwich police car.

The wave of worry in her chest had now grown into full-out panic. What are they doing here?

She told herself that there were a million things it could be. It could be the car had broken down, or that he’d had a little accident. But then David would’ve called! Or that he’d been taken to the hospital. It could be he’d just taken sick. It could be anything.

“Ethan, you stay right here, honey…Mommy’s just going outside.” Wendy put down her phone and ran to the front door.

But as she opened it, heart starting to race, and stared quizzically into the face of the man coming up her walk—saw how he stopped, solemnly met her eyes, and how there was just something in them—she knew.

She knew it was the worst. What she’d always feared.

“David!” she yelled, though there was just this man, staring at her.

She always knew.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Wendy Sanger sat numbly on the couch, her daughter’s raw face pressed into her shoulder, eyes bleary from tears. A neighbor had come over to take care of her son, who seemed a bit handicapped, in a TV room.

Hauck sat across from them in the pleasantly decorated living room.

“I just can’t believe it.” She shook her head. “He just went into town to wash the car. He did that every Saturday. That was David’s thing. How he relaxed. You know…David’s a prosecutor with the U.S. Justice office—in Hartford. We’re supposed to be moving up there before Christmas. We were just…”

She caught herself, tears rushing into her eyes, her face a blank. Hauck noticed the packed suitcases at the door. “You were all headed somewhere?”

“We were just going to pack up the car. We were heading up to our place in Vermont. Stratton.”

Wendy Sanger cupped her face in her hands and shook her head, trying to keep from crying. Her daughter sniffed back tears.

“I know how hard this is for you, Ms. Sanger…” Five years ago, Hauck had had to pick up his own four-year-old daughter in his arms. He looked at Haley and tried to give her a supportive smile. “But if you can manage it now, there are some questions I need to ask…”

She didn’t say yes or no, just shrugged, her head shaking like a door off its hinge. “Why would anybody want to kill David, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t think anyone intended to shoot him, Mrs. Sanger. A truck pulled up and someone sprayed dozens of bullets all around the station.”

“Like a drive-by?”

Hauck nodded. “I was there myself. With my daughter. Your husband was standing just behind us in line. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Wrong place at the wrong time…This is fucking Greenwich, Lieutenant, not Newark. He just went out to wash the goddamn car!”

“We’re not sure yet, but we’re pretty sure this was aimed at something else. But I have to ask—you say there was no one who would want to hurt your husband? Were there any cases he may have tried where someone might have threatened him? Anybody he ever spoke of who he felt was out to get him? Maybe gang-related…”

“Gang-related?” Wendy Sanger looked back, incredulous. “My husband tried mostly bankruptcy cases. CEO malfeasance. He didn’t try gang-related cases.”

“And none of these people ever made threats toward him? Sent him letters, calls at the house? Maybe he wouldn’t even have told you?”

“No.” Wendy shook her head. “He would’ve told me. David and I didn’t hide things from each other. No one was threatening him. They were grooming him for bigger cases. That’s why we had to move up there.”

“Daddy said they were going to put him in charge of this big department,” his daughter said. She wiped a Kleenex across her nose. “That we had to move up there. I made it so tough on him, Mom. I—”

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Wendy Sanger squeezed her tightly. Hauck swallowed hard.

“My son, he’s got Asperger’s syndrome, Lieutenant. He needs a lot of attention. David commuted up to Hartford for two years. Left before dawn and came back at ten sometimes. He didn’t want Ethan’s situation to have to change. That’s the kind of man he was. He pushed off this promotion for over a year. Didn’t want to upset the kids’ life. Haley’s just finishing up at the middle school. Ethan’s in a special program…”

“I understand,” Hauck said, giving her a little time. “Listen, I know this is a long shot, Ms. Sanger, but does the name ‘Tarantino’ have any special meaning to you?”

Wendy Sanger looked confused. “Like the director?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What about ‘Por Sephina’? In Spanish. I know how tough this is. I know this is out of the blue.”

“This is crazy, Lieutenant. I can’t do this! No one wanted to kill my husband! No one had any ax to grind with him.”

“Why did this have to happen, Mom?” Haley dug her fists into her mother’s sweater and cried.

Wendy stroked her hair. “I know, baby, I know…”

Hauck looked into Wendy Sanger’s swollen eyes. Her straight blonde hair falling over her Fair Isle sweater and turtleneck. Her sharp chin and high cheekbones. There were pictures on the walls. The four of them together. Skiing. At Disneyland. Posing with Goofy. He knew there was no reason to press. He could check with Sanger’s office in Hartford about his cases.

“Do you have anyone that we can call? Give you some help in getting someone here?”

Numbly, she shook her head. “My sister lives in New Hampshire. I don’t know how she’s going to take this news…You never know how this feels, do you, until it happens to you?”

“No.” Hauck shrugged. “I’m going to leave an officer outside for the time being. You just let him know if there’s anything he can do.”

Wendy nodded vacantly. “Thanks.”

Hauck stood up. “We’re gonna find the people who did this, Ms. Sanger. I give you my word. I’ll let you know as soon as we know something.”

“Thank you again, Lieutenant.” Her daughter’s face was pressed to her lap.

Outside, Hauck paused on the steps. A carved jack-o’-lantern was already sitting on the slate landing.

You never know how this feels until it happens to you…

Yes, I do.

All over again, he saw the window rolling down, the man wearing the red bandana extending the gun—his face light-skinned, chiseled, a thin mustache. David Sanger, in his down vest, stepping up behind them. You guys, go ahead…He smiled.

Was it me…?

Was it him they were aiming at? Was it because of something he had done, some stray act of vengeance, that this family’s life had to be upended too?

They had been packing up for a weekend in Vermont. The guy had just gone to gas up the car. Only an hour before he’d had a life like Hauck’s, a daughter not much older than Jessie.

I know what you’re going through, man…

A fist dug in Hauck’s gut. If someone somehow wanted him dead, they could have gotten him any day of the week. At home in Stamford. On a jog. With no one around, and not in the middle of the day. In front of the whole fucking world!

No, it would be suicide to go at it this way.

His cell phone rang. Munoz. “Yeah, Freddy?” He snapped it open, heading toward his car.

“Looks like that angel of yours is still on duty, Lieutenant.”

“What angel are we talking about, Freddy?”

“We found the truck!”

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