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She’s out on the pavement, borrowed iPhone in her hand, and leans down. “Get the job done, Jeremy. I don’t care what day he’s commemorating. We’re depending on you.”
He says, “On it,” but she has already slammed the driver’s door shut.
Jeremy is about to back up the Impala when he spots one, then two police cruisers pull up before the clubhouse, lights flashing. Two cops jump out and—
Start running across the nearby practice green.
Like they’re chasing Amy.
Not the Impala.
Jeremy calmly reverses, then puts the car in Drive and gets the hell out, glancing at the dashboard clock.
It’s 10:27 a.m.
He has a tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, Gus the train enthusiast has raised the alarm.
Chapter99
AT THEdispatch center for the Hoboken Police Department on 106 Hudson Street, Sergeant James Washington is sitting in his chair, left foot aching, looking forward to the end of his shift as a dispatch supervisor.
Not that he minds being here, but he’s been in dispatch since surgery to remove a cyst from his foot, and even though it hurts like a son of a bitch this morning, he’s determined to tell his doc tomorrow that everything’s okay so he can get back on the streets.
Tony Russo—young, heavyset, wearing a civvie dispatch uniform and holding a slip of paper in his hand—pokes his head in and says, “We got another train call a few minutes ago.”
“What kind of call?”
Russo glances down at the paper. “Like the previous dozen we’ve gotten the past two weeks: explosives have been set on the southbound and northbound trains of the Hudson Valley Railroad.”
Sergeant Washington groans, picks up his coffee cup. “Not again. Christ, first and second calls, we sent the bomb squad in and there was nothing. Damn hackers. I can’t imagine anybody getting their jollies making prank calls like this.”
“Yeah, but this one’s different,” Russo says. “The caller didn’t use a spoofing program. Made the call legit. Some guy from Bayonne.”
“Great,” the sergeant replies. “Call Bayonne PD and tell them to pick that guy up. Maybe he can tell us why we’ve gotten so many goddamn fake warnings about bombs on trains.”
Chapter100
I’M RUNNINGacross the perfectly manicured grass of the Bayonne Golf Club’s practice green as the perfect men and perfect women with their golf gear look at me, wondering if I’m some crazed groundskeeper, or perhaps a clubhouse manager gone rogue. Among the thoughts and possibilities racing through my mind, one stands out:
There’s a police cruiser coming up on us.
And not just one. Two rolled in and stopped behind Jeremy and me when we got to that ghastly country-club building. And when I started racing across the beautiful greens, two cops bailed out and began running after me.
Why two? Because I was speeding on a New Jersey highway? That’s practically the state sport.
No.
The cops are after me.
How?
I plow through some low brush, hit the ground and roll, and—
Yep.
Stupid me.
Gassing up the Impala earlier, I was standing outside, in full view of a surveillance camera, if only for a few seconds.
