Don't Look Twice (27 page)

I
t was going on midnight when Hauck got back to Greenwich. Instead of heading home, he drove to the station.

The avenue was dark and quiet. All the restaurants had already shut for the night. He parked his car in the back lot and waved hello to Steve Palazzo, the duty officer, doing the graveyard shift at the front desk. Only a handful of people around this time of night. For a second Hauck gave some thought to heading upstairs. He felt like a thousand-pound weight hung on his shoulders. Was it days ago he had burst into Warren's office and rescued his brother?
No, hours…
The sweat was still on his hands.

I can give you back your brother.

He went downstairs to the basement.

A dim fluorescent light burned near the row of holding cells.

“How's it going?” Hauck waved to the young duty officer who was on the overnight down there. Guardino. Ralph. Been on the force for just a couple of years. Most nights they had maybe a domestic dispute or some drunk driver in lockup down here. The Yankee game was on the TV. Guardino was sitting with his feet up on the desk and jumped, straightening his uniform, when Hauck appeared.

“Lieutenant!”

“Relax,” Hauck said. “What's the score?”

“Yanks by two. Bottom of the ninth. Mariano's in.”

“Chalk it up!” Hauck said with a nod. “What do you say I take over for a few minutes? Go grab yourself a coffee.”

“No, sir, I'm okay,” the young officer said. Seemed eager to prove it.

Hauck patted him on the shoulder and this time didn't phrase it as a question. “Go get yourself a coffee, son.”

“Yes, sir,” the young officer muttered, and headed out.

Hauck opened the key box. He searched for the right one and went down the row of six cells. He stopped at the end and stared at the curled-up shape on the cot with his back to him, still in his clothes.

What is it you want, Lieutenant?
Wachman had asked.

I want the truth
.

“
Warren…?
”

His brother stirred. He turned over and fuzzily opened his eyes.
“Ty…”
He looked for his watch. “What the fuck time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

“
Midnight?
Damn…” Warren sat up and rubbed his face. “How did it go?”

“Raines is dead,” Hauck told him.

“Huh?”

“Shot trying to escape. By the FBI. They trumped our collar and took him in custody on their own RICO charge.”

Warren looked surprised.
“The FBI?”

“Seems he managed to steal someone's firearm on the ride down. Even while in cuffs…” Hauck cocked his finger and squeezed an imaginary trigger.
“Pow…”

His brother blinked, his brain kicking. He drew a hand
through his tussled hair. “You're not believing any of that for a second, are you, Ty?”

“Not for a second, Warren.” Hauck shook his head.

He opened the cell.

Warren stood up. He located his glasses on the stool and slipped his feet into his Cole Haans. “Thanks…” He rubbed his back a little stiffly. “Nice décor. A little minimalist for me, and I have to say the mattress sucks…”

Hauck stared. “I'm sorry, Warren.”

“Sorry for what, little bro?”

I can give you back your brother.

“Warren Hauck, I'm arresting you for the murders of David Sanger and Keith Kramer…”

“What!”
Warren looked at him, confused. “Ty, please. Don't…”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say now can be used against you…”

Warren shook his head.
“Ty…”

The rest of it Hauck said but never remembered. He pressed his brother against the cell wall, realizing he was fighting back tears.

H
e thought it was over.

After he drove back up to Hartford the following day and took Ira Wachman in for the murders of David Sanger, Keith Kramer, and Paul Pacello. After the press had gotten hold of it and everything started to tumble out.

Cascade was more like it.

Scayne's half-million-dollar contribution to the Republican Senate Election Fund, much of it finding its way back to funds controlled by Senator Oren Casey. The awarding of the lucrative contract for two hundred and fifty thousand Nova 91s.

The dying tycoon, riven by illness, desperate to avoid a trial. The six-term Connecticut senator citing “the changing times” for his sudden decision to end his career in public service.

Casey's closest aide, Wachman, disavowing any link that tied him to Raines or any of these “terrible murders,” other than to a corrupt local lawyer “who would do anything to save his own skin.” The senator's lawyer claiming on the capitol steps that the senator had never even met Joe Raines and recalling only the most distant lawyer-client relationship with Warren Hauck.

All over.

Warren, released from jail, putting up his home to collateralize his two-million-dollar bail. Spilling everything out to the Fairfield County DA. Business deals the two had worked together, committees they had served on, golf outings.

And Sanger, innocent of any wrongdoing. Just a guy with a gambling urge he kept secret and the wrong friend. Dealt the right cards by his “lucky” dealer and whatever else he had won online.

Like Wendy Sanger had said, you'll find out. A good man.

It all came out.

The military procurement officer's suicide. William Turner, on the board of the Pequot Woods, who facilitated an illegal transfer of funds. An investigation into the suspicious death of Joseph Raines. Sculley and Taylor.

Like Wachman said, if you were looking for stories, it was only one of many.

Ten reporters vying for a Pulitzer wouldn't be able to put it together. A pebble on a white sand beach.

But it wasn't over. Everything had managed to come out but one.

The truth.

The truth why Sanger was killed. The truth, like Wachman said, that was truly worth protecting.

Even if it brings down the people closest to you? Even if it comes so close, you can feel it on your own skin?

A
week later, Hauck had begun the task of finding Freddy Munoz's replacement, meeting with a detective from Philadelphia whose TV weatherperson wife was being transferred up here.

While they were talking Hauck's cell phone rang.

He saw it was Warren. “You think I could excuse myself for just a couple of minutes?”

The guy answered, “Sure.” Hauck stepped outside.

“Warren?” They hadn't spoken since his brother had gotten out on bail. He didn't think it was appropriate. Any interaction between the two of them could jeopardize both their impending cases.

“How's it going, bro?” Warren sounded sheepish.

Hauck said, “You know this isn't really such a good idea…”

“I know that, Ty. Who's the lawyer here, anyway? But I laid it all out for them. It's a slam-dunk from here. I was just wondering…” His tone shifted. “You remember that kid Paul McDonald?”

Paul McDonald was the son of a golf pro at a public course where they used to play who developed Hodgkin's. Warren had
set up a local tournament to help raise money for his care. Hauck always thought it was about the nicest thing his brother ever did.

“Yeah, I remember, Warren.
Why
…?”

“I don't know. I was just sort of wishing that kid hadn't died.”

Hauck shifted the phone. There was a vagueness in his brother's voice. This was all something that had been decided long ago. He hadn't heard Paul McDonald's name in years. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Ty, I'm okay. I am.”

“You talk to Ginny yet?”

“I think that one's gonna be a bit of a project, bro.”

“What about the kids?”

“Yeah,
um…
” Warren started to answer, inhaled, then stopped.

“Where are you?” Hauck asked, hearing some background noise that sounded like engines running.

“At the office. Just putting a few things together. While I still have a license.”

“You want me to come up?”
The hell with how it might seem,
he decided. “We could talk. Brother to brother. A lot's gone down. Have a couple of beers.”

“No, I don't want you to come up, Ty. Like you said, bad precedent, anyway…”

A few seconds passed. Neither of them spoke. Suddenly Hauck asked the only thing he could think to say. “Warren,
why…
?”

“I don't know.” It took a while for him to answer. “You think I don't ask myself that a million times? We were just different. I didn't see the line.” Then out of the blue, he went, “You ever tell anyone?”

“Tell anyone
what
?” Hauck asked.

“You know what I'm talking about, Ty. Peter Morrison. Who ever knew?”

Hauck waited a time before answering. “No one, Warren. I never told a soul.”

Warren chuckled as if impressed. “Yeah, I guess I always knew that, Ty. You know it was always you, don't you?”

“Me?”

“
You
I was afraid of letting down. Not Pop or Mom.” He stayed silent for a while.
“You.”

Hauck nodded as if his brother was in front of him. “Yeah, I think I know that now…”

“So, listen,” Warren said, “I've got to scoot. Lemme get back to those files…”

“You know you can call me anytime, Warren, right? Fuck the precedents. Whenever you need to. Okay?”

“I know that,” his brother said. “You stay outta trouble, Ty.”

W
arren put down his phone. He put the Range Rover in gear and drove it through the gates of the small airfield.

Somehow it just felt right to come here.

He went right up to the hangar where his small Cessna was kept. Pete, who maintained it, waved hi. “Taking her up, Mr.

H?” This time of year, there wasn't a whole lot of traffic.

“Just to stretch out the blades.” Warrren laughed.

“An Italian tune-up, as they say, huh?” The mechanic grinned.

“I'll have her back in no time.”

Pete wheeled her out, and Warren admired how beautiful the lines on the plane were. Nothing else seemed to give him so much joy.

“Want me to fuel her up? She's a bit low,” the mechanic asked.

“No.” Warren shook his head. “Just gonna take her up and back for a quick spin.”

He climbed into the cockpit and checked the wind reading and the instrument panel. The fuel gauge read less than a third.

He shut the door and waved.

The mechanic slapped the side. “All yours, boss.”

Warren strapped himself in, contacted the tower. There was no one else on the tarmac in line. He started the engine, watched the blur of the propellers. He heard the hum of the engine as he pushed forward. In seconds, he was holding at the head of the runway.

Sam, in the tower, called out, “Cessna 3K986, you're free to go.”

Warren gave a thumbs-up and pushed the throttle forward, felt the satisfying rush of acceleration as the small plane gained speed. He pulled up the nose. It lifted. He felt the heavy air cushioning him as he rose, the bare trees growing smaller, the runway becoming just a thin matchstick against the receding ground.

Warren's heart soared.

He checked his flaps, enjoying the energizing rush of takeoff.

Everything started to fall in place.

It was a cloudless day. He immediately climbed to four thousand feet. The skyline of Hartford shone thirty miles away, the sun glinting off the capitol dome. He vectored twenty degrees to the east and pulled around.

Ahead, he could make out the outline of the coast.

Warren headed there.

He checked his fuel. It was less than a third. About an hour's ride. The afternoon was beautiful, the sun shining brightly against the cockpit shield. He angled his way toward the coastline. The outline of Fishers Island in the distance. The ground was a patchwork of farmland and roads. He felt relaxed. Everything just seemed natural up here.

He thought of his life. Ginny and Kyle and Sarah—they were lost to him now. How would he ever patch that up? How could he ever look any of them in the eyes again?

He'd told Ty—no way he could spend the rest of his life in jail.

Just no way…

He banked the Cessna east, over the ocean. Away from the coastline.

There was a bump or two and Warren rode them. Like riding a roller coaster. Or skiing moguls. No more exhilarating place he could be than up here.

It had always been you, Ty.

He realized that now. Always Ty with whom he tried to compete. Whom he couldn't disappoint. From the moment Ty had come on him in that basement room. It was funny—it gave him a feeling of peace now. Finally.

It had always been you.

Warren continued east. The coastline merged with the ocean and faded farther away. The fuel gauge now showed a quarter tank.

The strangest memory came back to him. When he was nine. At his first communion. He was an altar boy at St. Roch's. In his white robe. The pews filled. Father Murray, his rector, holding the communion cup. Pop and Mom were kneeling down to receive it. Ty, all of six, standing next to him, in his first Sunday suit.

Warren jabbed at him under the robe. Ty jabbed him back.

With a Cheshire grin, Warren elbowed him, making sure no one could see. “Gotcha last.”

“Missed.”

His mother pulled him away.
“Ssshhh!”

“Warren,” the old priest said, noticing their game, “it's God who gets you last.”

Damn.
Warren grinned now.
The old codger was right…

Warren looked at the vast expanse of blue spreading on
both sides, the uninterrupted sea. Ten thousand feet. A beep sounded. A fuel warning. Eighth of a tank. He'd been up for close to forty minutes. He wondered if Pete would start to be worried now.

Warren's attention was drawn to the window. A layer of frost built up, making a kind of random design.

A white robe. Wings. And a forgiving smile. Warren traced his finger on the condensation.

Sonovabitch, an angel.
Warren smiled.

An angel, guiding him home.

He pulled back the throttle and lifted the nose. Above the drone of the propellers, the Cessna's engine purred.

He turned the radio off.

A tear burned in his eye. He suddenly realized how intensely he missed his kids.
An angel…
He pointed the nose upward.

The fuel light blinked.

And he continued, setting an even course over the ocean, guiding the plane's nose to a destination it seemed to know by heart, the bright and forgiving circle of the sun.