No Way Back Read online

  “Joe, listen, before I tell you anything, you need to believe me—what they’re saying isn’t true! I didn’t kill Dave, I swear. You know that. And I damn well didn’t kill that government agent the way it’s being said. It was entirely self-defense. He was shooting at me! I’m scared, Joe. I stumbled into something, and I’m being set up. I saw something … and now to keep it quiet they’re trying to kill me too.”

  “Who’s trying to kill you, Wendy?”

  As calmly as I could, which wasn’t easy under the circumstances, I told Joe everything that had happened to me over the past twenty-four hours. How I’d met Curtis at the Hotel Kitano bar and ended up in his room.

  “First, I swear, Joe, nothing really went on … We kissed a little, that was all. I know how all this must sound—”

  “Wendy, I don’t care about that stuff. But they’re saying you killed a government agent …”

  “It’s true. But it was one hundred percent self-defense, Joe. I was actually in the bathroom, getting ready to leave …”

  No matter how many times I went through it, I still couldn’t quite believe it had actually happened.

  “Joe, he was trying to make it seem like the guy had pulled a gun on him.” I told how I’d identified myself as an ex-cop and how, instead of putting down his weapon, he made a move. “He was one hundred percent intending to kill me too. I’m sure of that. He might have been a government agent, but this was a murder, Joe. An execution. And I watched it happen.”

  “Did you happen to see what agency the guy was from? No one’s saying.”

  “You sitting down?” I told him how, before I left the room in panic, I pulled his ID. I sucked in a breath, knowing exactly how this was going to go over. “Homeland Security.”

  There was a pause. I heard him blow out a breath. “Nice work, Wendy.”

  “I know … Joe, all I could think of was that my life was about to fall apart if anyone found me there. When I ran out in the hall I ran straight into the guy’s partner. He took a shot at me and I panicked and ran. I went down the fire stairs. I don’t even know how I managed to get away.”

  “You took the train home. Why didn’t you go straight to the police?”

  “Because the police would have brought me right back there. I’d just seen someone murdered in front of my eyes! The killer’s partner had just tried to kill me too! I was scared to death. I didn’t know what I’d stumbled into. Not to mention, all I could think of was that my whole life was about to fall apart. If I hadn’t run, I’d be dead! I’d be dead,” I said. “But Dave … Dave would be alive …” A wave of guilt mixed with shame rose up in me. I started to sob again. I couldn’t hold it back.

  “I know. I know, Wendy. I know exactly what you’re feeling. I know this is hard. But these are only questions someone else is going to put to you. And with a lot more at stake behind them. Why did you take the gun?”

  “I didn’t take the gun,” I said, wiping away the tears.

  “They’re saying Dave was shot with a weapon they’re matching up against the one in the hotel.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t take the gun, Joe. That’s all a frame-up. I left it back at the hotel.”

  “So how did Dave get killed?”

  I took him through how I’d made my way home, and how I realized I’d left my tote bag and that they had to know who I was. “I grabbed Dave and told him we had to get out of there. We were actually heading to the police, in the car about to leave, when all of a sudden these lights flashed on from behind us. It was them!”

  I went through the rest. Not the police, but the agent who had shot at me at the hotel. “I knew we couldn’t just give ourselves up. That’s why they were there, at the house, instead of the cops—to finish the job. And I never took that gun from the room! I left it on the bed, I swear!”

  “So Dave was with you? In the car? Not inside the house?” His tone contained an edge of incredulity.

  “Yes, he was in the car, trying to leave with me. They started shooting and killed him as we drove away. The door was open and he fell out. I stopped and stared at his face, Joe. I knew he was dead. Then they started shooting at me. But if someone took that gun from the hotel room, it damn well wasn’t me.”

  Joe grew silent, probably trying to absorb what I was telling him. I knew much of it sounded like a stretch. It was one thing to say I was unjustly accused, another thing entirely to fight back against a government cover-up trying to put the blame on someone else.

  “I give you my word, Joe, they’re trying to frame me for Dave’s murder, just like they were trying to frame Curtis in that room. To make it look like he had drawn a gun first.”

  “All right. I got it. Wendy, exactly what do you know about this guy Curtis?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know a thing about him. He claimed he was a journalist. That he was in New York on a story. I took his cell phone. I thought I might need to find out something if I ever had to prove my innocence. I didn’t even know his last name. Though I do now …”

  “Kitchner, right? I heard it on the news.”

  “Yeah.” I heard him writing it down. “Joe, someone has to look through his computer …”

  “Whose computer, Wendy?”

  “Curtis’s. It was on the desk in the hotel room when I left. He said he was a journalist. There has to be something in there that would show why these people wanted him dead. That would back me up.”

  “In the room, you say?” Now I was sure he was writing it down. “On the desk?”

  “Yes. I know I should never have gone up there, Joe. I can’t undo that. But I didn’t intentionally kill anyone. And I damn well didn’t kill my husband. I loved him. You know that.” My throat was like a desert, and a clinging sweat had sprung up on my back. “You see any way out for me here?”

  “The agent, the one you ran from at the hotel,” Joe said. “Dokes. You probably won’t want to hear this, but he’s been put in charge of the case.”

  “I saw that,” I said glumly. The very person with the motive to keep me silent. Who has already tried to kill me. Twice. “My kids probably think I’m a murderer too. That I killed their own father. After completely betraying him. I can’t live with that, Joe. Either I find out what’s behind this, why these people needed to kill Curtis—they had to be into something dirty—or I turn myself in. But not to them. To someone else. To someone who will hear me out. I’ll go to the press and blow the whole thing open. Let the truth come out that way. I guess that’s why I’m calling you. I need someone to help me, Joe. I don’t have anyone else.”

  If there was one person I knew wouldn’t put me on hold and contact the police on the other line, it was him. He knew more than anyone how your life could come crashing down in just an instant. Because of one ruinous decision. And what it was like to be thought of as a killer.

  “Let me think about that awhile. I’ll be back with you.”

  “I don’t really have a while, Joe. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Maybe I can help you with that. I have a summer cottage,” he said. “In Waccabuc. That’s in upper Westchester. It’s not much. But you’ll be out of sight there until we figure out what to do.”

  My insides lit up in gratitude. “I don’t want to get you involved like that, Joe. It’s bad enough that you’re helping me now.”

  “You must be kidding, honey. I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

  “So how do I find it? Your cabin,” I said, putting the Explorer back in gear.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The press conference on the steps of the FBI Field Office in lower Manhattan was both electric and emotional.

  A federal Homeland Security agent gunned down apprehending a suspect.

  A doubting husband killed by his suspect wife—Wendy Stansi Gould. The only link between the two murder scenes, a woman who had clearly gone unhinged. And who was on the run.

  The deputy director handled it. Alton Dokes was only a step away.

  She co
uldn’t get far.

  Dokes settled into his makeshift office as senior team leader of the investigation. They’d set up a joint task force with the FBI. They’d track her bank and credit cards. They had her cell phone number; they’d track all activity. Sooner than later she’d have to refill the car. She wasn’t a professional at this. They were tracking down her family and friends. There were only so many places she could go. She’d have to surface.

  They’d get her.

  If he didn’t get her first.

  Her bad luck, Dokes knew, to even be in that room at that time. But Hruseff was a fool. He always threw caution to the wind. From way back. He should have waited for her to leave. However long it took. Like Dokes had pushed him. But no, Ray was always impetuous. Ever the cowboy. Even if he had handled her in there, it still would have made complications.

  Now it had fallen into his lap.

  The poor woman had no idea, no idea of the sort of damage she could create if her story about what happened got out. No idea of the network of contacts he had to find her. Not that anyone would ever believe her, Dokes told himself, chuckling. A hot little number who stepped out on her husband. Then killed him when he found out what she’d done. He’d set that up well. That story of how she got dumped from the police force was only the icing on the cake.

  Dokes wasn’t even sure they had to silence her. She could shout it from the rooftops. Who would ever believe her now?

  No, best to do what they came for. Best to end it as soon as the opportunity came about. He’d put too much into his career, they all had, to see it end now.

  Too bad. Dokes rubbed the birthmark on the side of his face. He had watched her in the bar. Hot little number.

  Too bad she’d never know what she’d stepped into.

  Too bad she’d likely never make it into custody alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sound of crunching gravel in Joe’s driveway sent a series of shock waves through me.

  I ran to the window. If it was the police, I was resigned to give myself up.

  But to my relief, I saw it was Joe’s old Pontiac coming down the driveway.

  I’d driven here yesterday afternoon, found the key to the front door in a fake rock set under the front step, exactly where Joe described it. The place was cold; there was some canned soup in the kitchen cabinet I was delighted to heat up. And on the subject of heat, it must’ve been twenty degrees out there during the night. It took the better part of three hours for the cottage to churn up enough warmth to stop me from hugging myself in my parka until I finally fell asleep, searching for any news of me on the relic twelve-inch TV.

  Joe stepped out of his car and came toward the landing. An older version of Joe than I was prepared for. He was in his sixties now—I hadn’t seen him in three or four years—and maybe not doing so well. His once salt-and-pepper hair had now become white, and the lines on his face that used to speak of toughness and experience had now hardened into the telltale canals of age, burrowed by life’s disappointments. He came up to the door and was about to knock. I thrust it open and let him in.

  “Joe!”

  He smiled back, warmly, happily. Mostly with his eyes. “Hey, doll.”

  We looked each other over, his expression shining with a kind of close uncle’s affection; mine, no doubt, showing how taxing and overwhelming all of this had been.

  “Let me give you a hug,” he said.

  “I can use one,” I said, weightlessly falling into his still-strong arms.

  “I’m so sorry about David,” he said into my ear as he squeezed me. Not that I recalled them actually meeting more than a couple of times, and by that time Joe and I had moved apart. But I knew it meant a lot to him, who’d vowed to Dad that he’d be my protector, for me to have landed safely into a new life after how we’d left the force.

  “He was a good guy, Joe,” I said, unable to let go. “He didn’t deserve this.” For that moment, it felt as if nothing bad had happened, as if we’d been transported back in years. “I’m sorry too.” I felt tears running down my cheeks.

  “I’m glad you found the place okay. Sorry about the heat. It’s real nice in the summer. The lake is just down the road. I know I didn’t leave you much in the way of food. I haven’t been up here since September—”

  “Joe, it’s perfect, please.” I pulled away, wiping the tears from my eyes. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I had nowhere else to turn.”

  “Well, I’m glad you came to me, Trey.” Trey was my nickname as a cadet on the Nassau force. Third-generation cop. “We’re gonna see what we can do. First,” he said, rubbing his palms together, “let’s crank up that burner. I don’t thaw out as well as I used to anymore. Any coffee?”

  There was, and I made some. He took off his jacket and sat at the wood table in a plaid, wool shirt. I noticed his hands shaking as he lifted the mug, and it became clear it wasn’t from the cold. Our eyes met as he steadied it with his other hand. This time I was the one looking on with empathy.

  “How long?” I asked him.

  He shrugged, like a guilty child who’d been discovered. “Three years. Just after Grace passed away. It’s not as bad as it looks. I can still take care of myself.”

  I knew that he had lost most of his medical benefits as a result of the incident. A subsequent civil suit and lawyer’s fees had taken much of the rest. Parkinson’s required treatment. And care. Lots of it.

  “Robin and Steve are going to add something onto the house if it reaches that point,” he said with a resigned sigh. Robin was his daughter, a couple of years older than me. “Though, uh, we’re not exactly tooting our horns over the construction business about now, are we? Anyway, we’re not here about me. I thought the plan was to figure out how we’re gonna have you get out of this mess.”

  I nodded and put my hand warmly on his shoulder. “Ten-four, Sarge.”

  “This morning I went into town and grabbed a few minutes with an old buddy of mine. Jack Burns. Remember him?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “He was captain of detectives at One Police Plaza back in the day. He was at Mike’s funeral. Timmy’s too. Anyway, ten years later he’s got the gold stars on his sleeve now. Assistant chief. In charge of Borough Services.”

  “What did you tell him?” I swung my chair around.

  “I told him what you told me. All of it. Including how you say it happened at your house. With Dave. And how you never took the gun. I told him I could get you in. But we had to do it safely. Without it getting out.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Wendy, what do you know about this guy? Curtis, you said his name was, right?”

  “Yeah, Curtis.” I shrugged. “I told you. I don’t know anything, Joe.”

  “What about why these particular people would be in his room?”

  “The guy said something about Gillian. Before he shot him. I think that was it. I was scared. ‘This is for Gillian.’ I looked through Curtis’s cell phone. I couldn’t find anyone by that name. I’m hoping they’ll find something in his computer.”

  “I mentioned that,” Joe said, his face sagging into a frown. “To the NYPD.” He leaned closer, forearms on his knees. “They didn’t find any computer, Wendy.”

  “What? It was in the room, Joe. On the desk. It was a Mac. I saw it before I left.”

  “I know you told me it was there. But according to the evidence sheets, in the reports, there was nothing.”

  “There was something there, Joe!” Again, my stomach twisted into a knot. “The feds took it. Just like with the gun. Like how they’re trying to pin Dave’s murder on me. They’re whitewashing the whole thing. There’s something in there they don’t want anyone to find.”

  “You said you had his phone?”

  I nodded. I reached into my jacket pocket and put it out on the table.

  Joe said, “Maybe they can find something in there. Jack remembered right away that you and I had a history together. He never li
ked how it all ended up with me. He knows we did good work in that Street Crime Unit.”

  “You can trust him that it won’t go straight to the investigation?” To Dokes.

  “Look, I can’t promise where any of this goes … only that he committed to take you in and hand you over safely to the FBI, and not the people who came after you. I told him you were scared and that the sit-uation at your house didn’t go anywhere near how the government people are saying it did. But that’s a stretch, for someone like him to believe. You understand that? You have a lawyer?”

  I shrugged. “Harvey Baum. He was Dave’s—”

  “I don’t mean a divorce lawyer, Wendy. Someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing in a criminal court.”

  “Then, no. I don’t.”

  “This is the United States, Wendy. Whatever you stumbled into, they’re not going to just take you into a cell and you won’t come out. You’ll get to tell your story.”

  “There’s my car. It was shot up pretty good. I left it in Vermont. That has to count for something.”

  “The word coming down is that they arrived there just as you were fleeing the house, after killing Dave. And that they shot at you only as you tried to avoid capture.”

  “That’s just not true …”

  “Apparently their vehicle is pretty battered up, Wendy.”

  I nodded sullenly. “That part is.” Everything fit their narrative. I sucked in a nervous breath. I knew that if I was taken into custody, I’d be arguing for my life. I knew it would be a hell of a lot more intense than this. “So when does this all happen?”

  “Tomorrow. I told them I’d get back to them with a place. Somewhere public. Midtown. A hotel lobby, maybe. Bryant Park.”

  “What about Grand Central?” I proposed.

  “That could work.”

  “At rush hour. It’s crowded. There are multiple entrances and exits if something goes wrong.”

  “Nothing’s gonna go wrong, Wendy …”

  “They killed my husband, Joe. They’ve completely twisted things around and tried to cover up what really happened. I watched them kill an innocent man right in front of my eyes. They’re the ones who have something to lose if this all comes out. They’re never gonna let me tell my story. We both know that, Joe. They can’t. I’m scared …”