Don’t Look Twice. Andrew Gross

“He’s got no priors. There’s nothing to tie him to it other than a few random threats that he made three months ago after his sister’s death. And he’s not the person I saw with the gun.”

      “Still,” Taylor questioned, “you’re pretty sure this adds up to a gang-related shooting?”

      “I’m pretty sure it adds up to a revenge-related shooting. You got a better idea?”

      “Only that when a federal prosecutor is gunned down, it might at least seem prudent to knock over every possible angle. The personal backgrounds of everyone involved. Their contacts, case loads…”

      “Then you might as well start with me.” Hauck looked back at him. “I was there too.”

      “What Special Agent Taylor is suggesting,” Sculley said, a hand on his colleague’s arm, “is totally customary in the case of a federal investigator who’s been killed. I’m sure you’d do no less here. We’re only down here to offer our support…”

      Hauck knew that when the FBI offered their “support,” it generally meant that his case files were being requested as they spoke and that a room full of eager recruits down in Washington would soon be pouring over them. And that things continued to remain an entirely local matter as long as nothing was happening that might advance anyone’s career, but as soon as a possible suspect was in custody, everything quickly became joint, with someone with a federal seal on the podium leading the press conferences.

      “I think you realize better than anyone, Lieutenant,” AC Sculley said, rubbing a small Band-Aid on his temple, “that there are a lot of important interests at play in a town like this who would have a keen desire to see this incident managed in the quickest and most thorough way—”

      “If by interests,” Hauck said, nodding, “you mean a wife whose husband was murdered going out to fill up his tank, or two young kids who’ve just lost their father, I’m with you one hundred percent. The rest—” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. “Why don’t we just see how they play out as we go along?”

      Hauck looked at Vern, sensing what was going on. A brazen act of violence. A rising star in the Justice Department killed. The press all over it. This was Greenwich. Behind those high stone gates and redbrick office complexes, the cogs of influence were turning. The governor himself had probably already called in.

      “All we’re suggesting, Lieutenant,” Agent Sculley said, “is that we have a Gang Violence Task Force, C-12, a phone call away. Our lab guys could be all over that pickup within the day…”

      “So far, what we have is a homicide,” Hauck said, his tone declining.

      “In which the victim was a government prosecutor,” Stan Taylor chimed in.

      “No worries, Lieutenant.” AC Sculley smiled at him, rubbing his sore. “It’s your case.”

      “This thing has everyone pretty well riled up, Ty,” Fitzpatrick said. “All I promised was that you were the type of guy who would do whatever he could to see this solved.”

      “We can probably use all the help we can get,” Hauck said, meeting their eyes.

      There was a rap against the door. Freddy Munoz stuck in his head.

      “Sorry to interrupt, Chief…Lieutenant…” His gaze fell on Hauck. “When you’re done there’s someone you need to speak with downstairs. Something’s come up.”

      “We were just finishing,” Hauck said. He stood up, said to Taylor, “You’ll let me know whatever you need. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

      “I’ll be sure to do that, Lieutenant.”

      In the hallway, he patted Munoz on the back. “Thanks for bailing me out. I owe you one, Freddy.”

      “Hey, I wasn’t kidding, Lieutenant,” his detective said. “There’s someone down there you need to talk to now.”

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      She was sitting on the bench outside the squad room, a gray cowl-neck sweater underneath a short leather jacket over jeans, her hands cupping a mug of coffee.

      “This is Lieutenant Hauck,” Munoz said. “This is Ms. Fletcher. I want you to tell him just what you told me.”

      “Annie…” She nodded, standing up. Hauck shook her hand. She was pretty, maybe around five-four, with dark, round eyes. Her black hair was clipped up in a barrette, loose strands curling along the sides.

      Hauck led her back into his office. “Why don’t we talk in here?”

      He cleared a spot on his long Formica desk, which was piled with papers, a photo of Jessie and Norah, and his yawl. A large glass window partitioned them off from the busy squad room.

      Hauck pulled out a chair. “You want some more coffee?”