The Violet Crow (32 page)

“I think I get it.”

“You do?”

Randy thought for a moment. “Hold on a second.” They were on Old Kings Road in Gardenfield, right in front of the Municipal Building. He called to report his position. They were stuck at the light at Garden Avenue, about four cars behind Jurevicius. Then he said, “I think we're the coppers. So we don't want the bad guys to get away.”

Bruno had to admit he had a good point. Jurevicius turned down the old Lenape trail. The light turned yellow, but Randy was able to nip through. The way Jurevicius was driving, he didn't seem to notice he was being tailed.

—“We're leaving Gardenfield,” Randy radioed to the dispatcher. “Heading south into Barrington.” He turned to Bruno: “Does the boss have a name?”

That took Bruno by surprise. He thought Randy was ready to change the subject. Before he could answer, Randy stomped on the brake and swore, “Hot damn.”

They had just passed the White Horse Pike and Jurevicius had pulled over at a gas station. Randy eased off the brake and kept driving.

“What do we do?”

“Pull over and hope for the best.” Randy drove ahead two more blocks and pulled into an empty parking lot. It was a Korean restaurant that didn't open until 5. Randy warned Bruno not to turn around. Instead he slumped down and used the side mirror to keep an eye on their quarry. Jurevicius gassed up his car, and even took the time to clean his windshield. He handed the attendant his credit card and waited.

Randy whistled. “Either this guy's innocent or else he's cold as ice. Look at him standing there like he's got all the time in the world.”

“Something's funny,” said Bruno.

“What?”

“His license plate. It reads SBGN.”

“You're looking at it backwards,” Randy scoffed. “NGBS is the company's stock symbol.”

“Yeah. But when I first started working on the case, I dreamed about SBGN. Now I know what it means.”

“Too bad you didn't figure that out two months ago …”

Bruno could tell Randy was starting to get antsy. He resolved not to say anything for a while, but then he noticed something else. “His car is shaking, isn't it?”

“I see what you mean.” Randy looked closer. “It could be a rough idle. That car doesn't look like much, but I have to admit it's got some muscle to it.”

“But the engine's shut off, isn't it? Don't you have to shut it off before you fill up?”

“I don't know. Crooks don't always follow the rules,” said Randy. “Get down, don't let him see you, he's pulling out.” Moments later Randy eased into traffic about a half-dozen cars back. The next intersection was the Black Horse Pike. Jurevicius turned left and Randy followed him.

“This will take him to Atlantic City,” said Bruno. “Why would he go down the shore?”

“Maybe he's feeling lucky …”

“Or he's looking for a small, out-of-the-way airport. Do they have one in Atlantic City?”

Randy shook his head. “I dunno. I think they keep an eye on who comes in and goes out of ACNJ. Maybe Jurevicius has contacts at one of the casinos who can help him disappear.” He called on the radio: “Heading south on 168. Repeat that, 168, the Black Horse Pike. We're heading to Atlantic City for an afternoon of fun and entertainment. Still on his tail. No sign of evasive action. Over.”

The Chief came on the radio. “Change of plans. Repeat. Change of plans. We believe Jurevicius has kidnapped Alison Wales. We don't know if she's dead or alive, injured or healthy. It's time to reel him in. Confirm.”

“Got it, Chief. Will proceed to apprehend suspect. Over and out.” He turned to Bruno. “Here, open your window and put this on the roof.” He handed Bruno a detachable red roof light.

At that moment Jurevicius started to accelerate. They were right at the junction with 42, the north-south freeway that led to the Atlantic City Expressway. Randy floored the Charger and Bruno felt like he'd left his stomach back in Gardenfield.

“Make sure you're buckled
tight
,” Randy howled, “'cause I promise you've never seen driving like this.”

Chapter 63

Bruno thought his face was peeling off and his eyeballs might pop out of his head. He was afraid to look at the speedometer. Finally he managed to ask Randy out of the corner of his mouth, “How fast?”

Randy chuckled. “You mean how fast are we going? About 120. But don't worry, this baby has a lot more left in her.” He stole a look at Bruno, who was plastered in his seat, and tried to reassure him. “Everything's OK, you're in good hands. Look on the bright side. We'll get where we're going twice as fast. And we don't have to worry about speeding tickets.”

The Atlantic City Expressway is the best route when you're in a hurry to get to the shore. Built in the '60s, it bypasses the old local roads with their endless delays: traffic lights, traffic circles, fruit stands, towns, taverns, and the like. A straight shot, the Expressway offers from two to four lanes of generally excellent, flat pavement, supported by tolls collected at booths along the way and at the relatively infrequent off-ramps.

No wonder Randy liked his chances. Other than a drag strip, you couldn't hope to find a straighter road. Raw speed was the Charger's advantage over the BMW, whose strength was maneuverability. Jurevicius might try to make a dash for an off-ramp, but the approach would be difficult at these speeds. If the BMW slowed, Randy would be on top of him in moments and would nudge him into the ditch. So what was Jurevicius' exit strategy?

Randy grabbed the radio. “We're on the Expressway, heading toward AC. We need road blocks at all toll plazas.”

“Roger. When will you be there?”

“We're doing 120 to 125 …”

Bruno heard shuffling paper on the other end. “It's about 25 miles, you should be there in twelve and a half minutes.”

“Can the State pull it together that fast?”

“Dunno. I'll call you back.”

The scenery screamed by. Deciduous trees, not pines. Lots of weeds and bare patches of sand in the median strips. Jurevicius was weaving in and out of traffic whenever the opportunity came up. He used slow-moving vehicles as obstacles, trying to force Randy into a mistake.

The dispatcher called back. “The State Patrol will do their best. The personnel at the toll plaza have vehicles at their disposal. But there are seven bays at Egg Harbor and only four cars in the vicinity.”

“Are you telling me they can't seal it off?” Randy shouted.

“Calm down, OK? They're doing their best. Backup plan is to blockade the next plaza, which comes up right after you cross the Parkway. That only has four bays and they can get the cars there, guaranteed.”

“OK,” said Randy. “How far is that?”

“The Atlantic City Plaza is about seven miles past Egg Harbor. Less than 15 minutes from your current position.”

“Roger. Out.” He turned to Bruno and said, “Get ready. That first toll plaza is going to be on top of us before you know it. If the state cops succeed in blockading it, we're going to have a little situation to deal with.”

“I'm listening.”

“There are three probable scenarios. One, the fugitive surrenders; two, he stops and attempts to flee on foot; or three, he attempts some sort of evasive maneuver in his vehicle. All are potentially dangerous. So I want you to have your weapon ready and stand by to do what I tell you.”

“In scenario three, what kind of evasive maneuver could he pull? Just try to blow through one of those parked cars?”

Randy squeezed the wheel more tightly. “That works in the movies, but it'd be suicide at these speeds. No one in their right mind would try it.”

“What if his car is specially—whatdya call it—armored or reinforced?”

“If he gets through, we'll nip in right behind him and keep following him till we catch him. But nobody has an armored car like that. At least not one that can handle these speeds.”

Now it was Randy's turn to look tense. Traffic was slowing as they approached the toll plaza. Jurevicius tried every trick he could think of, darting from lane to lane, and then sprinting ahead whenever there was a clearing.

The buses were the biggest obstacles. Long and lumbering, they were generally transporting loads of gamblers to the casinos. In many cases the party had already started. People were delighted to see an actual police pursuit. They'd smile and wave, form their hands into the shape of a gun and pretend to shoot. Someone even flashed a real weapon.

Randy eased back to a safe distance as they approached the plaza. He had Jurevicius in his sights and there was no point crowding him.

“Can you tell if it's barricaded?” he yelled with 200 yards to go.

“I'm not sure. There are too many other cars.”

Now there were 150 yards to go. Randy had throttled down to 50. The road was becoming congested as drivers chose their lanes. “The two inside lanes are definitely bottled up by big vans,” Bruno reported.

With 100 yards left, the BMW sprinted out to the right. The far lane was still open, protected only by an orange cone. The toll collector was waving cars away, which effectively cleared a path for Jurevicius. He floored it and took the toll plaza at 100 miles per hour and was still accelerating. Randy did the same, but Jurevicius had a head start. Also Randy's angle was more extreme. The Charger clipped a corner of the tollbooth on the way through. They had a clear view of Jurevicius pulling away from them in the four-lane final straightaway built over the marshes leading to Atlantic City.

“What does he think he's doing?” Randy shouted. Veins protruded on his neck and forehead. He floored the Charger and they shot ahead like a rocket. For the first time, Randy was pushing the engine right up to the red line, and the results were spectacular. They gained on the BMW as though it were standing still.

“Remember, the next toll plaza's in seven miles,” Bruno managed to mutter through gritted teeth.

“Right. This race will be over in three minutes or less. Dr. Jurevicius will find he's moving much slower in a six-by-nine cell.”

The signs announced the exits for the Garden State Parkway, north and south, in one mile. Randy could have pulled into the BMW's slipstream, but he chose to hold off, as the road appeared to be clear of other vehicles just ahead. In front of them, a tour bus lumbered along in lane two. Jurevicius was poised to pass in lane three—with Randy and Bruno close behind.

Then, without warning, another car swerved in front of them. It was a dark green Subaru Forester with Washington plates, loaded with luggage and bicycles on top. They must have been stuck behind the bus and decided to pass it, moving into Randy's lane without looking. Randy hit the brakes and managed to swerve in the nick of time. He swore, flashed his lights, and ground his siren. But the Subaru was oblivious. They weren't even trying to pass the bus.

“Goddamn cruise-control nitwits!” Randy screamed. “We're losing Jurevicius.” Bruno looked over and saw teenagers in the backseat with mocking faces; they were flipping him the peace sign. Infuriated, he raised Randy's .357 and started to roll down his window.

“No time for that,” shouted Randy. He jerked the wheel to the left, which spun the Charger around the Subaru, and then accelerated, driving the engine as hard as it could go. “Do you see him? Do you see him?” he screamed as they pulled even with the bus.

“Yeah,” said Bruno, deflated. “I see him.” Jurevicius had used the bus to cover his exit from the Expressway. He was winding down the off-ramp at a leisurely pace, onto the Garden State Parkway heading north.

There was no way Randy could recover in time. The race was over.

Chapter 64

Randy was a sore loser. He always expected to win and had never developed the skills needed to accept defeat with grace or humor. He sulked all the way to Atlantic City.

By contrast, Bruno approached life as a 50-50 proposition at best. When things didn't work out, he took it for granted that someone, if not everyone, would blame
him
. As a result, he felt deeply guilty—and totally blameless—at the same time. This fundamental inner schism rendered him temporarily incapable of speech, which Randy interpreted as sulking. He figured Bruno was trying to lay the blame on
him
for letting Jurevicius escape.

In fact, both men had wanted to continue the pursuit. After Jurevicius exited, Randy cut across three lanes of traffic and screeched to a halt on the shoulder. Bruno was terrified he'd attempt a U-turn; fortunately a solid concrete divider made that impossible. Instead, Randy slammed the Charger into reverse and drove along the shoulder at speeds approaching 40 miles per hour. Somehow they arrived at the off-ramp without incident.

Then Randy radioed the Chief to explain the situation.

“Break off pursuit,” came the reply.

“What?” Randy exploded. “I can catch him. He's headed north on the Parkway.”

“You lost him,” said the Chief. “The State Patrol can handle it from here.”

“I've come this far, no way I'm quittin'…” Randy sputtered.

“I understand. Here's the situation. We picked up some of the NewGarden security guards. You wouldn't believe the weapons they're carrying. State-of-the-art military-grade stuff. Late-model Russian Veresk submachine guns and high-powered Heckler and Koch sniper rifles. If Jurevicius has a couple guys like that with him, they could hold off a small army.”

“He's by himself,” Randy protested.

“Randy, listen to me. You're traveling with a civilian. Bruno has no training; we can't put him in harm's way. You guys are done for the day. Go have a drink or something. You did the best you could.”

Randy practically destroyed his radio, slamming it down on the center console. Bruno wished he could just disappear. Somehow, the natural flow of traffic led them to the parking garage of Caesar's Palace. From there they were drawn like stumbling zombies into the casino's garish lobby, which combined reproductions of friezes from the Parthenon, mosaics from the Roman Forum, statues from St. Peter's in the Vatican, and Baroque
trompe l'oeil
paintings. Finally, the sight of a 30-foot statue of Caesar Augustus, holding an American flag, broke the spell.