The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel (9 page)

“What was Ms. Lance going to Connecticut for?”

O’Connor took out his notepad and answered, “She was going to the Harbor Field Arena to a Cobra Starship concert that evening.”

“Who was she going to meet?” Paul asked.

“Her best friend, Patty Saunders,” O’Connor shot back, proud that he knew the answer.

“Why meet her? She lives in Port Jefferson also,” Paul came back quickly.

“She was visiting relatives in Connecticut and was stopping at the concert hall to meet Debbie.”

“So Patty Saunders knows Debbie,” Paul replied, “and has relatives in Connecticut? Have you spoken to her since the kidnapping?”

“Yes,” O’Connor replied. “She was so shaken up about everything that it’s unlikely she’s involved. However, we do have an agent watching her house and keeping tabs on her cell phone use. So far, nothing.”

“What is her relatives name?” Paul asked.

O’Connor looked at his notepad. “Tangretti, first name Linda.”

“Who knew that Debbie Lance was going to be on that exact ferry other then Patty Saunders?” Cronin asked.

O’Connor looked at his notes and started flipping through his pages. He stopped and said, “The father, William Lance, and the butler, Robert Simpson.”

Bud said quickly, “Don’t call him a butler; he’ll have an anxiety attack. He’s the assistant.”

Cronin got on his cell phone, but quickly found out it did not work on the ferry, and looked toward the backseat at O’Connor. He said, “You should have one of your agents dig into Lance’s business affairs.” Then, looking at Paul, he said, “Pay a visit to him again.”

“By the way,” Bud asked, “is Simpson living in the mansion also?”

“No,” O’Connor replied, “he’s staying in the guesthouse.”

“What a sweet deal,” Bud replied. “Good job, good security, banging the boss’s daughter, who is worth millions. I don’t like the guy, but he can’t be involved. He’s got too good of a thing going.”

Cronin looked over at him and said, “I agree with you.”

Behind them, in the other vehicle, Victoria and Rachelle were having a different kind of conversation.

“How long have you and Paul been sleeping together?” Victoria asked.

“Excuse me?” Rachelle responded. “We are not sleeping together. We’ve been friends for a few years, and...well...well, it’s getting a little complicated.”

“If you’re not sleeping together yet, how is it complicated?” Victoria replied. “I see the way you both react to one another, even spending most of my time in the trunk,” she laughed. She continued, “Honey, life is over in the blink of an eye. You need to work this out. See what happens, and if it doesn’t work out, at least you won’t have regrets. Don’t be one of those people who will look back and wonder ‘What if?’”

Rachelle looked at Victoria and smiled, saying, “You’re sweet. Thank you. We’re going to talk this afternoon to sort this out. I do care about him, but he’s been so slow in everything, and I don’t know how to interpret his actions and his lack of expressing himself.”

Victoria replied, “Think about the things you’ve done, the time you’ve spent together. The phone calls, the dinners.”

Rachelle interrupted her, saying, “And the walks.”

Victoria just looked at her and said, “Girl, you better do more than just talk or you are going to bust.”

As they both laughed, Bud got out of his vehicle and went up to the purser’s office and paid cash for both vehicles and gave a ticket receipt to Victoria before settling back into his car.

As the Cross Island Ferry was 15 minutes away from docking in the village, Kyle Winters was standing on the corner of Main Street and East Broadway looking at the statue of the Golden Eagle and the block of granite underneath it that said, IN ALL OUR DAYS WE HAD NEVER SEEN A DAY LIKE THIS 9/11/01. IN MEMORY OF ALL THOSE WE LOST. Long Island was heavily hit with loss of life during 9/11, and memorials were placed throughout the island.

Kyle walked down East Broadway and stopped to look at the statue of the mother with two children on a park bench. It was inscribed, IN MEMORY OF DARLA WHO DIED GIVING LIFE AT THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS. Below the park bench was a quote from Shakespeare: DEATH LIES ON HER LIKE AN UNTIMELY FROST UPON THE SWEETEST FLOWER OF ALL THE FIELD. The statue in front of the Ocean City Bistro was very beautiful and often made people stop to read and wonder about the history behind it. Even people like Kyle Winters.

Kyle was carrying a long box with him as he started to walk behind the Ocean City Bistro building and the slightly taller building behind it with a flat roof. It was a building that looked like eight separate stores from the outside, due to the different signs over each window, but if you walked into one of the doors, you would find it was one store that carried all of the products that were displayed over their windows. They had a giant ice cream cone on the side of the building in front, but interestingly enough, the largest ice cream and confectionary shop on Long Island did not have the name of the store displayed. It was the Port Jefferson Dessert Factory. Apparently the sign had come down and had not been replaced. Kyle walked behind the back of the building into the area that was marked for employee and commercial vehicles. Calm, cool, and collected, he met Phil Smith, who was waiting for him.

Phil said, “Go up these stairs. Once you reach the top of the Ocean City Bistro, take the railing to the top of the Dessert Factory roof. You’ll find the perfect spot to take care of Miss Rachelle Robinson.”

“Come on up with me so you can hand the box up to me once I reach the top,” Kyle said.

They went up the metal stairway, and at the top was an employee door, outside of which were two workers who could not speak English and who did not even seem concerned that there were two guys going onto the roof. They must have seen it quite a few times, with repairmen working on the air ducts. Kyle and Phil made it over to the top of the Ocean City Bistro, and sure enough there was a metal ladder to the top of the Dessert Factory building on the roof. Kyle climbed it, and once he reached the top, Phil pushed the box up to him.

“I’ll be waiting in the car for you,” Phil said. “Remember what John said—only the girl.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Kyle said.

Phil went down to the car and sat in the black Cadillac SRX to await the execution of Rachelle Robinson. John Winters, the leader of this group of thugs, had ordered the hit on her because he was tired of having her articles stir up all the national interest. He didn’t like her theories and had hoped that killing Timothy Mann would scare her off, but he had learned that she was writing another article for next week’s edition of the
Now
paper from her Twitter account. So he was about to give her something to really write home about, but only from within the gates of heaven.

Kyle lay flat on top of the famous ice cream shop and emptied his box. He pulled out a Browning A-Bolt stainless steel stalker. It was a beautiful weapon with a receiver of stainless steel matte finish, glass bedded with a barrel of stainless steel. John had supplied the rifle to him at Kyle’s request, because the firearm was available in left-handed models as well. The rifle was worth more than $1,200, but Kyle didn’t care. He was about to collect $20,000 for the takeout.

Kyle wanted to just break her neck one evening, but she was never alone and they could not find where she lived. They checked websites, and all they could come up with was her place of employment at the paper. If they had only known she was at Z Pita almost every night, it would have been more simple. Regardless, John Winters wanted to make a statement before the ransom was paid, and this was his chance.

Kyle lay there on the roof and thought about what he was going to do that night. Not one thought entered his mind that he was going to take a life and change lives forever. He didn’t care.

The
George Washington
pulled up to the loading dock in Port Jefferson, and Allan was waiting for Paul and the rest to unload from the boat. Allan never got tired of watching the front of the boat open and seeing the cars unload.

As Kyle got comfortable on top of the roof across the street and adjusted the scope on his rifle, he started to get nervous when he didn’t see Rachelle walk off the boat as a pedestrian. No Rachelle. As the cars pulled off the boat, he looked through his scope at the cars. He was lucky that only one car could drive off at a time. Eleven cars had driven off the dock—nothing. Then he spotted the Sebring with two young women inside. He wanted to ensure he didn’t miss Rachelle, so he decided to shoot both of them. He fired at the windshield. Rachelle slumped over, and Victoria stopped the car and called for help. Kyle fired again and caught Victoria in the chest. True to her own words, her life was over in the blink of an eye.

Screams could be heard as cars drove away and people ran for cover. Without thinking, Paul ran to the convertible and jumped in, even as Detective Lieutenant Cronin tried to hold him back. Kyle fired shots toward Paul as Bud and Agent O’Connor tried to reach the vehicle.

Paul grabbed Rachelle and held her head with one hand while holding his gun with the other. Cronin spotted the shooter on top of the roof and started firing. Agent O’Connor also called for help as he returned fire. Cronin started giving Bud hand motions to try and work his way toward the roof. He finally yelled to him, “Get to the parking lot. He’s going to try and make a run for it.”

While the shooting continued, Bud made his move. Agent O’Connor also started to make a move toward the lot, but he caught a bullet in the leg and went down. “Stay put!” Cronin yelled to him.

Allan had been crouched on the side of his car but felt useless. He didn’t know what to do. Kyle dropped his rifle and worked his way down the roof. By this time, Phil had heard so many shots that he drove away as calmly as he could. He felt it was unsafe to stay for Kyle, for it was clear that instead of a single shot, there had been at least 20 to 25 shots fired back and forth.

Kyle got off the roof and started working his way through the parking lot. Bud looked at Paul holding Rachelle and took off toward the lot. Detective Lieutenant Cronin followed Bud toward the lot after checking on Victoria, who was dead. Kyle ran through the metered parking lot, which was full. Saturday in Port Jefferson Village in June was always full, which is why the metered parking was put into effect. The town needed to control the vehicles whose owners used the lot as long-term parking.

Kyle worked his way through the lot as he headed to the stairway between the two main buildings that led to East Main Street. One building housed North Shore Interiors and the Red Sled, and on the other side of the stairway was the Port Jefferson Free Library, which was an added branch from the main library across the street.

As Kyle tried to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, he walked past the free library and opened the door to the Red Onion Café. As he stepped into the famous alternative food café, there was a line of six people in front of him, and he quickly got in line to try and hide in plain sight.

Bud was going through the parking lot looking at cars as he walked quickly toward the stairs. The people in the lot moved out of his way when they saw his gun. Cronin was right behind him and ordered Bud to go up to the stairs leading to East Main. By now, Cronin was in no mood for any games and had his 9mm Glock out. He checked the backseat of a car, and the driver said “Excuse me,” to which Cronin shouted “Shut Up!”

Cronin continued walking through the lot with his gun out in the open as he eyed Bud going up the stairs. He could hear the screaming behind him at the dock. Allan ran over to Paul, who was holding Rachelle in the front seat. “Paul! Paul!” He was there still holding his gun in one hand. Allan reached for it. “Let me hold that for you before someone accidently gets killed.” Allan quickly holstered Paul’s gun for him as he held Rachelle.

“They killed them,” Paul said, with tears in his eyes. “They killed them.”

Allan checked Rachelle’s pulse and said, “Paul, she’s still alive.”

The ambulances came, as did additional FBI, local sheriff’s cars that had been in the area, and at least 10 Suffolk county police cruisers. The manhunt had begun. Victoria was pronounced dead at the scene, while Agent O’Connor and Rachelle were put into separate ambulances.

“Call Madison, Rachelle’s sister,” Paul said, as he got into the ambulance with Rachelle. “She works at Lasting Memories Dance studio next to Play 4 All.”

“I’ll pick her up and bring her to the hospital,” Allan said. The door to the ambulance shut as it headed toward nearby Mather Hospital.

As Bud reached the top of the stairs, he went to the right and opened the door to the free library. People were startled when they saw his gun, so he identified himself. He shook his head and walked out and started scanning the street. He started checking the vehicles parked on the side of the road. He looked at the front of Beverly Frills clothing store and continued to walk toward the Red Onion Café. Bud put his gun away as he entered the café. He had been there many times for a hot green tea chai, which was the best, in his opinion. Most everything offered was organic and gluten free. The place was owned and run by young women who were always there, but this time Bud was scanning the men who seemed uncomfortable.

His thoughts were going a mile a minute. He walked toward the back of the deep and narrow café, where they had different types of colorful sofas and couches. There was a middle-aged woman in a track suit who looked up at him. A young couple on the sofa, alongside a man in his thirties, was staring into his tea. Bud started to walk away, took two steps, paused, and turned around to look at the man on the sofa. He kept his attention on his tea and would not look up. Bud stayed put and decided to play this out. He kept his eyes and attention on him. This went on for more than two minutes, and the longer it went on, the more Bud felt he might have the shooter in front of him. The man finally looked up and stared at Bud looking at him. As Bud made a step to walk forward, the man slowly got up and walked outside to the back deck of the café, which was called “Daniel’s Deck,” named after one of the owner’s sons.