The Violet Crow (33 page)

“If I'd known that Jurevicius was going to get away,” scowled Randy, “I'd have let you go ahead and shoot those people in the Subaru.”

“My mother drives the same way,” Bruno agreed sadly. “And what do they think they're going to do with mountain bikes in New Jersey?”

They drifted upstairs to one of the lounges that had slot machines built directly into the bar. They nursed a couple of beers, while Bruno fed a steady diet of quarters into the machine in front of him.

“So what happened at the end of your story?” asked Randy.

“What story?”

“The ‘Yeah, boss' one.”

“Oh,
Ganefs
,” Bruno said listlessly. “Let's see, Melvin—that's the boss—kills Bumble so he doesn't have to share the loot. He makes it to his secret desert island hideaway and he's cackling with glee. But then he opens the package and, guess what? It's a stink bomb.”

Randy didn't crack a smile. “Bumble's fault, I take it?”

“Yeah, he mixed up the packages …”

Bruno had had enough. “What do you say we get out of here? Go for a walk on the boardwalk or something.”

“Sure,” Randy agreed.

Bruno put one last quarter in the slot, but it was another bust.

“You didn't win at all, did you?” Randy observed. “I'd have thought a psychic would have more control over winning and losing here.”

“Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.”

“Same with me,” Randy sniffed.

Out on the boardwalk, the sun was shining and the sea breezes were invigorating. They wandered aimlessly. Bruno excused himself. He walked to the water's edge and studied the surf, hoping Randy would pull himself together by the time he came back. No such luck.

“Hey, look,” Randy called out with fake enthusiasm. “There's a psychic, Madame Celeste. Let's go see what she has to say.”

“No way,” Bruno protested. “I'm not going in there. Look at that potted plant. Look at the pink vase …” Obviously, Randy was trying to humiliate him. But after several minutes of arguing, Bruno decided to humor him, hoping it might help the venom work its way through Randy's system.

Madame Celeste was a woman in her 50s, with dark eyes and dyed black hair piled up on top of her head. Her place was not much larger than a closet. Celeste was talking on a cell phone when they walked in; apparently she was trying to convince her daughter into going grocery shopping for her.

Randy pressed a $20 bill into her hand and told her to read Bruno's fortune. He was acting drunk, even though he'd had only one beer.

“Why not you, sailor boy?” she leered. “Don't you want to know your future?”

“He's the interesting one. I'm just a dumb cop.”

“I can see that.” She turned to Bruno: “You don't mind if he listens in? This could get personal.”

“I'm resigned to my fate.”

He sat down and Madame Celeste took his right hand in both of hers. She examined the back side, noting the shape of his cuticles, then turned it over, tracing the lines with her index finger.

“This is some hand you've got.” She looked first at Bruno, then at Randy, then back at Bruno again. “Let me do the cards.” She reached for a tarot deck; Bruno cut the cards before she could even ask him and watched while she laid out a basic pattern. “Can you read it?”

Bruno shook his head in the negative. “I can't see my own future.”

Madame Celeste sighed deeply. “I have to tell you, sweetheart, you better be ready to accept all kinds of good things coming your way. I see long life, good health, and a fabulous love life along with great wealth. You got the whole package, baby.”

Randy couldn't believe it. “You can't be serious?”

Madame Celeste ignored him. She shook Bruno's hand and stroked it invitingly. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Today is your lucky day.”

“What a bunch of baloney,” Randy exploded when they were back on the boardwalk. “Admit it.”

“I wasn't the one who wanted to go in there,” Bruno retorted. “Without question, today is one of the worst days of my life. But I have to say I feel better after talking to her. That's the kind of reading you need to give if you want repeat business.”

Randy didn't comment. As they wandered down the boardwalk, each casino or eating establishment was blaring music at high volume—a premonition of what to expect inside. Jungle drumming, country and western, Puerto Rican salsa bombarded them in turn. Finally Bruno caught sight of a friendly-looking restaurant, with its windows wide open so they could sit inside and still enjoy the ocean air. “Let's grab some lunch before we head back,” he suggested. “I'm buying.”

The restaurant was a Greek taverna called Penelope. Randy and Bruno grabbed stools at the counter looking out over the boardwalk and the beach. Behind them on a giant screen, Shakira wiggled her
pupik
while they munched on souvlaki sandwiches.

By the time lunch was finished, their temperaments were restored to something approaching normal. Bruno felt comfortable enough to ask Randy for a favor: Would he mind driving him back through the Pines? That way he'd get home at least an hour earlier. He'd worry about his car later.

Randy said it was no problem. He'd had enough of the Expressway to last him quite a while. The back roads would be a relief.

They headed up Route 9, following the contours of Absecon Bay, home to marsh grass, thousands of gulls and egrets, and the occasional billboard. After about 10 miles, Route 9 dumped them onto the Garden State Parkway, which is the only road that crosses the Mullica River. The bridge spans a considerable length, perhaps a quarter or a half-mile, as the river broadens into an estuary. Bruno marveled at how empty it was, as if Atlantic City never existed. From the bridge, his view was unimpeded across the bay to the barrier islands beyond it.

Then he saw something that made him stop. His heart was pounding so hard he wasn't sure he could see straight. On the other side of the bridge was a rutted lane leading to what appeared to be an abandoned building. Next to it was a red speck that could only be Jurevicius' car.

Chapter 65

Bruno was all for storming the house “without mercy or regret.” But Randy pointed out they needed to weigh certain strategic and tactical considerations before acting.

“You want to sit here talking while who-knows-what goes on in there?”

Randy coolly picked up his radio. He described their position and requested backup: “Make sure you alert the Coast Guard. We control the only road out of here, but they may have a boat.”

He turned back to Bruno. “Right now, we don't know how many men Jurevicius has with him. If he has even a couple that are armed like his other security people, then we have a serious situation on our hands.” Randy pulled out his weapon and checked the clip. “However, if we wait for backup, the odds shift dramatically in our favor.”

“That's fine, but these people are murderers. Alison may still be alive, and if we act now we'd have the element of surprise.”

“Let me show you something,” said Randy. “Be quiet, keep low, and don't shut the car door.” They had parked in a turnaround just off the main highway. It was, in fact, the beginning of the dirt road they'd seen from the bridge. “This line of trees along the water blocks our line of sight to the house. There are only two places we can go to get a good look. One is the bridge and the other is standing right next to the house. In both cases there's no cover. The basic principle—if we can see them, they can see us—applies. To mount an effective assault, we need a plan. To develop a plan, we need surveillance. But we can't do surveillance without being seen.”

“But …”

“I know what you're going to say. I feel the same way; I'm ready to fight, right now. But we have to be smart about it.”

“We can't just sit around and wait …”

“That's what I'm trying to explain, if you'd just shut up. We do have an option, but it's risky. We have to engage them in a delaying maneuver.”

“Uh-oh.” Bruno was starting to see where this was leading.

“We'll try to get them to negotiate, keep them talking and stall for time. The more time they spend with us, the less time they have to prepare their escape.”

“But what if they just shoot us …”

“Yeah, that'd be a bummer. I told you this was risky. But in the past they've only attacked children … and your dog. And they seem to do it surreptitiously. When confronted by armed men, face to face, in broad daylight, I like our odds.”

“You do? You just said they have superior firepower …” Bruno felt himself trembling. The fear was mounting and he couldn't control it.

“You've got a better weapon—up here.” Randy patted Bruno on the head, then let his hand rest on the psychic's shoulder, trying to impart some of his courage through physical contact. “All you have to do is talk. It doesn't even matter what you say. Just get them talking. I'll cover you, and if shooting starts duck behind the car and pray the cavalry gets here in time. Whatdya say? It's your call.”

“My call?”

“Yeah, your call. You're the civilian. The Chief doesn't want you involved in this stuff. But I can't stop you if you want to do it.” He stepped back and looked Bruno in the eye. “Whatdya say?”

“Yeah, boss.”

Chapter 66

The clearing had a name: Delano Landing. It was the point where the Mullica River began breaking up into various side channels, separated by small islands covered with marsh grass. It was a beautiful spot for bird-watching or fishing for striped bass in early spring. A painter would have been thrilled with the subtle shadings of green and yellow, contrasting with the white sands and the lead-gray waters of the bay.

It was also a good spot for a shootout. The clearing was flat and open for 100 yards in every direction. A lonely spot, with no other buildings in sight, Hamilton and Burr could have used it for their duel—pistols at 15 paces—if they hadn't been typical New Yorkers, insisting on staying close to the city.

The house was built right at the water's edge. It was an old wood frame structure with boarded-up windows. No Trespassing and No Littering signs were plastered across the exterior. At some point, a second story had been added. This was an awkward-looking addition, with only a few functioning windows. Behind the house was a yard enclosed by a galvanized metal fence about seven feet high. It appeared to contain various vehicles, old trucks, dredging equipment.

When Jurevicius arrived he must have been in too much of a hurry to bother unlocking the gate. He'd parked the BMW about 25 yards from the house, front facing the water.

Randy didn't like the idea of putting Bruno in harm's way, but he couldn't think of an alternative. They needed one person to talk and the other to shoot. The choice of roles was obvious; he just hoped Bruno would be able to keep his nerve. Ten minutes, even five, might make all the difference.

However, he couldn't send Bruno marching across the clearing. What if they did have a sniper? Apparently, Bruno was thinking along the same lines. He stammered, “What if she's … still in the trunk?”

“Meaning we wouldn't have to engage the hostiles if we can find Alison and bring her to safety.”

“Exactly.”

Randy studied the BMW through his binoculars. “It's not bouncing up and down like before. But that could mean she's saving her strength.”

“Or got bored and fell asleep.”

The plan was for Randy to drive right up to Jurevicius' car, wait while Bruno forced open the trunk, and then drive back, ideally, with two healthy passengers. Randy did not like the fact that both of them would be exposed to gunfire from the house for a substantial period of time. However, the house's windows were all oriented toward the water; if somebody wanted to shoot at them, they'd need to expose themselves, too. And, if Alison wasn't there, which Randy thought—but did not tell Bruno—was the likely scenario, at least Bruno would be properly positioned to execute Plan B, which was the stalling tactic with Jurevicius.

In addition to his own police duty pistol and the revolver he'd lent Bruno, Randy had a Remington pump action patrol rifle and a brand-new 870P Max police shotgun. Good weapons, but certainly no match for the firepower the Chief said they'd found on the NGBS commandos. Too bad there was no Kevlar body armor: Gardenfield just wasn't that kind of town.

Randy started the Charger as gently as possible. Muscle cars aren't known for being quiet, but there was a chance the water and wind would cover the sound of their approach. They had to act fast. Randy floored the Charger for the dash across the clearing. He made an oblique approach on the far side of the BMW, then hit the brakes so the Charger went into a controlled skid. It spun around 270 degrees and stopped dead. Randy had his revolver in his left hand, ready to return fire if any came from the house.

All quiet so far.

Bruno sprang from the car and attacked the BMW's trunk with the crowbar. He was having difficulty finding the seam. The bar kept slipping. Randy cursed. “Don't worry about the paint job,” he hissed at Bruno. “Ram it in there.”

Using more force, Bruno found an edge and leaned on the pry bar with all his weight. The trunk popped open with a shriek of tearing metal. It was empty. “No sign of blood,” he called, crouching behind the BMW for cover.

“Good luck, pal,” said Randy, who handed him the shotgun and roared out of the clearing.

The dust settled and all was strangely silent. Had Jurevicius left already? From this vantage point, Bruno could see that there was a dock, which acted as a front porch for the house. He crawled to the front of the car. A fast-looking boat was moored there. What was Jurevicius up to? It was time to engage.

“Jurevicius,” he cried. His voice sounded weak and feeble in the vast space of the clearing. He tried again. There was a churning in the pit of his stomach, and his second attempt was more pathetic than the first.