Don’t Look Twice. Andrew Gross

Claudia turned pale. “I fill up there all the time. It’s near where I work out.”

      Manuel, always the conspiracy buff, weighed in. “You wait, there’s something deeper. This is all about drugs. Wait and see.”

      “It’s not about drugs,” Tim shot back. “Didn’t you hear? It’s about some girl who drowned.”

      Manuel spread out a flour mixture on the counter. “I know these people. You don’t want to mix with them—you just stay clear. What do you think, boss?”

      “I think you better get those tamales filled,” Annie yelled over, “or you’ll be in my line of fire.”

      They all laughed. Gradually they went back to work.

      But now she was involved.

      She had found the gun. She knew it. She had seen the police lieutenant on TV. Heard how they’d found the shooter’s truck. How they had a “person of interest” in custody. The red bandana. How they knew what kind of gun it was.

      A Tec-9.

      Annie knew exactly what she’d found.

      The only question was, what was she going to do about it? Things were going well. Starting to turn around. This was a place she could bring Jared. There were good programs here.

      This was a life she could build for herself.

      Now all she could think of was the warning in that guy’s eyes.

      Stay out, his stare had said bluntly. I know where to find you. I know who you are. If they had done that horrible thing at the Exxon station, what would they do to her?

      Everything rode on this. Everything, Annie. It’s not your business. Don’t get involved. But yes, it was her business. They had made it her business. She took a sip from her glass of wine.

      The poor man, he had kids, a family. Just like Jared.

      And now he was dead.

      She knew exactly what she’d found.

       CHAPTER TWENTY

      “Ty…” Vern Fitzpatrick’s voice crackled over the office intercom around nine the next morning. “Can I get you to come on up here?”

      Hauck was at his desk by seven. During the night, the crime scene team had scoured the truck. They picked up a set of sneaker imprints on the driver’s-side floor mat, which they tried to match to Victor’s. They also found a partial print on the newspaper article. Both weren’t panning out.

      Worse, Victor’s alibi checked out—completely. Artie Ewell had located the girl he claimed to have spent the night with. She confirmed his story that Victor had been with her until almost ten that morning, about the time the shooting had taken place. On top of that, two people from her building recalled seeing him heading out around that time as well.

      “I’ll be right up,” Hauck said to Vern, reaching for his jacket. He was just processing the paperwork now to let the kid go.

      His cell phone rang. A number he didn’t recognize.

      “Ty…”

      Hauck was surprised to hear his brother’s voice. “Warren…”

      “Christ, Ty, I called as soon as I heard. Ginny called me. I’m up in Hartford. Jesus, are you alright?”

      Warren was two years older. He’d built a tidy law practice for himself up near Hartford, gotten cozy with a bunch of the movers and shakers up there. Built the big house for himself and Ginny. Kids in some fancy school. He never seemed to have much time for anyone, even getting the cousins together. It had been that way for years. Hauck couldn’t even remember what had drawn them apart.

      “Yeah, Warren, I’m alright.”

      “What about Jessie?” Warren asked. “I heard she was there too.”

      “She’s okay as well. Just a little shocked. She’s back in Brooklyn with her mom.”

      “Can’t exactly blame her, can you? This is fucking crazy, Ty! Right there in town…What kind of riffraff are you letting through there these days, anyway? The TV’s saying it’s revenge?”

      “I don’t know,” Hauck said. “Maybe.”

      “That you got someone in the pen?”

      “I can’t exactly talk about that right now. You looking for a gig, Warren?”

      His brother chuckled. “Not exactly my clientele, little brother.”

      Hauck’s thoughts went to the hundreds of times he’d wondered why they were no longer close. Growing up, they had shared a room until Hauck was ten. Fought over who rode “shotgun” in the family car, dibs on the bathroom. Like a lot of brothers, they were always challenging each other. On the court. For friends. Always rivals.

      “When I heard…” Warren said tightly, seemingly unable to finish. “You know I rely on you, Ty. Anyway, where the hell else am I gonna turn to get my clients’ kids out of those traffic tickets, right?”

      “Yeah, I figure you owe at least the kitchen in that house of yours to me,” Hauck said, laughing.

      “At least.” His brother paused. “You know, we ought to get together, Ty. It’s been way too long. What are your plans for Thanksgiving? You could come up.”

      “That might work,” Hauck said, taken by surprise. “Lemme see.”

      “You could bring Jessie. The cousins could get together. We haven’t done that in a while.”

      “No, we haven’t. Sounds good, Warren. But maybe just me.”

      “Whatever. Sounds like a plan.”

      There was a knock on the glass. Brenda, tapping her watch, pointing upstairs. “Listen, Warren, I gotta scoot…”

      “Go ahead. I just wanted to hear your voice. Let you know I was thinking of you. You nail these bastards, huh, bro? And hey—Thanksgiving, right?”

      “Thanksgiving,” Hauck agreed. “And, Warren…” He wished he could think of something more meaningful to say. “Thanks for the call, guy.”

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      Hauck knocked on the door of the chief’s office, at the end of a long hall lined with portraits of past chiefs, overlooking Mason Street.

      What he found wasn’t a surprise.

      “Come on in, Ty…”

      Fitzpatrick rose, dressed in a V-neck sweater and a plaid shirt. Seated across from him were two men, one balding, ruddy complexioned, in a navy sport jacket and open shirt. The other was black, stocky, in uniform: tan suit, crisp dress shirt, club tie. Even on Sunday.

      “Ty, I want you to meet Jim Sculley…” The balding man stood up and put out his hand. “And Stan Taylor. They’re from—”

      “I’m pretty sure I know where special agents Sculley and Taylor are from,” Hauck replied. For a year after 9/11, he had been an NYPD liaison officer to the FBI.

      “Right.” Vern exhaled, motioning to Hauck to sit down. “They’re out of the Hartford office.”

      “Sorry you all have to come all the way down here on a Sunday morning…” Hauck reached across and shook hands.

      Sculley, the agent in charge, shrugged. “You know the job. I saw how you handled that Grand Central bombing,” he said admiringly. “Great work. How’s that