with the transition, being an executive for the first time in his life after being a cop for so long. Dressing up in a suit and tie, doing meet-and-greets at Fortune 500 companies, trying to close deals for data protection and internal forensics with corporate controllers and heads of company security who sometimes recognized his name from the prominent cases he had worked.
Part of him still felt like a fish out of water. Even when he deposited his paycheck and saw about three times what he’d been earning before.
Hauck showered and shaved, his short dark hair barely needing to be brushed. He still looked trim and fit in his towel, despite being on the other side of forty. He dressed, choosing an oxford shirt and a salmon-colored tie to go with his blazer. Annie hopped in as he was getting out. It was a visiting day at her son’s school. Afterward she’d trade her dress for jeans and head to the restaurant.
In her towel and with wet hair, she straightened Hauck’s knot as he came in to say goodbye. She centered his jacket across his shoulders and smiled, pleased. “You look nice.”
“So do you,” he said, his finger tracing along the edge of her towel. “We should pick up on that thought later.”
“Sorry. Later I’ve got two turns for dinner and about two dozen lobster and shrimp spring rolls to make. Rain check though.”
“Deal. Anyway, say hi to Jared for me. You remind him I want to see him at practice Wednesday.” Hauck had begun coaching a twelve-and-under hockey team and he was teaching Jared, Annie’s son, who was nine and had Down’s Syndrome, how to skate. The other kids seemed to like having him around and all picked up on his positive attitude. Jared seemed to enjoy it too.
“I will. And you sure you’re okay, babe? I know how you can’t do anything about that poor family now and how that makes you feel.”
“I’m okay,” he said, patting her butt. “Promise.”
Annie smiled and pushed him to get out. “Like you would even tell me if you weren’t…”
Downstairs, Hauck tossed the newspaper and his briefcase into the front seat of his new, white BMW 550i—the one change he’d allowed in his life since accepting the job with Talon, having traded in his ten-year-old, gas-guzzling Bronco—and pulled out of the garage.
He drove down to Greenwich on the Post Road, which ran parallel to the highway. Greenwich was different now. Even here, downturn had hit hard. For the first time in years, you could find vacancies along the Avenue. Whole floors were now empty in the red-brick office complexes where once-inviolable hedge funds had reigned supreme. Word was that half the gated homes along North Street were privately for sale.
For years, the joke was that “white-gloved” cops directed the traffic on Greenwich Avenue, past Saks and Polo.
Now the cops were gone—no need anymore.
Stopping at a light, Hauck went over his day. He’d been trying to track down this mortgage “thief” who had closed on three multimillion-dollar refinancings on the same property on the same day—the county clerk’s office having taken several months to catch up with the high volume in mortgage recordings—and was now, surprise to no one, nowhere to be found. He also he had a one o’clock with Tom Foley, his boss, who wanted him to meet someone.
At every light, the image of the murdered Glassman family kept edging into his mind.
C’mon, he urged himself, flicking on the radio. Like Annie said, that chapter of your life is over now. He had to accept there was nothing he could do. He turned to the all-sports channel and wove onto Bruce Park toward the bottom of Greenwich Avenue, past the station where he used to work, minutes from his new, fancy office on Steamboat. He listened vacantly to the sports jockeys rambling on about the free-agent baseball signings, basketball playoffs, all the while his blood continuing to heat like a backed-up furnace and throbbing with a familiar ardor.
Are you okay, Ty…? No, he wasn’t okay. He sat at the light with this pent-up feeling in his chest, fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel.
Until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Hell with the new chapter.
As the light changed, he jerked the Beemer into a sharp left onto Mason, barely avoiding a turning bakery truck, its horn blaring. He sped back up the hill and onto the Post Road, swinging a left onto Stanwich, his heart racing with the same familiar rush he’d felt for twenty years.
About two miles down, Hauck hung a right at Cat Rock Road, the fancy houses thinning on each side. A mile down, he ran into a police barricade, the winding road narrowing to one lane. A blue and white police car was set up blocking the road, waving only local traffic through. Hauck downshifted. A chain of news vans had pulled up on the side of the road like a caravan.
Lowering his window as he approached, Hauck saw a patrolman he recognized, Rob Feretti.
“Lieutenant!” the cop exclaimed, peering in the window, instinctually addressing Hauck with his old rank. “Nice wheels…What brings you out here?”
“Steve Chrisafoulis up there?” There were lots of flashing lights up near the house.
“He is, sir.” The patrolman nodded.
“You mind if I go through?”
“Thought you gave all this up. The house is just up there on the left. It’s a bad scene in there.”
“I bet it is, Rob. Thanks.”
He was waved forward, around a short bend where there were two more blue-and-whites stationed, lights flashing, blocking the entrance to a drive. Feretti had radioed ahead and Hauck was let through. Just a few months ago he was in charge of these men. No way the fact that he was a civilian would change that now.
He drove between the stone pillars and down a long, curving driveway leading up to the large house. It was an impressive red-brick Georgian. Hauck parked at the far end of the circular drive. There was a heavy congestion of police vehicles and medical vans in front. In the months since he had left, he’d only been back to the office a couple of times—once for the opening of the new first responders wing, and once for a retirement party for Ray Reiger, one of the old-timers on his staff.
A couple of dozen police and crime-scene techs were crowded around the entrance. Hauck said hi to a couple of them, who instinctively waved back with surprise. “Hey, lieutenant!” No one stopped him. He stepped past a uniformed officer stationed at the door. Inside, there was a large, two-story foyer with a round marble table and a winding staircase leading to the second floor.
A small crowd was gathered in a room off the entrance hall. Hauck stepped in. It looked like someone’s office, probably Marc Glassman’s. Built-in shelves filled with books and photos. Signed baseballs. The actual bodies were gone, but the blue outline drawn on the floor by the desk next to a large bloodstain was marked “1.” Marc Glassman had been shot downstairs, Hauck recalled. He took a look around and saw a wall safe open and the desk drawers removed and overturned on the floor. Police believe that the motive behind this family’s tragic end was simply a robbery gone bad…
Across
