CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The interstate that ran barely a mile from where Hauck lived in Stamford, I-95, turned into the New Jersey Turnpike south of the George Washington Bridge.
He took it, past the swamps of the Meadowlands, past the vast electrical trellises and the warehouse parks of northern New Jersey, past Newark Airport, over two hours, to the southern part of the state, north of the Philadelphia turnoff.
He got off at Exit 5 in Burlington County, finding himself on back roads that cut through the downstate-Columbus, Mount Holly, sleepy towns connected by wide-open countryside, horse country, a universe away from the industrial congestion back up north.
Dietz had been a cop in the town of Freehold. Hauck checked before he left. He’d put in sixteen years.
Sixteen years that had been cut short by a couple of sexual-harassment complaints and two rebukes for undue force, as well as some other issue that didn’t go away involving an underage witness in a methamphetamine case where Dietz had been found to apply excessive pressure for her testimony, which sounded more like statutory rape.
Hauck had missed all this. What reason had there ever been to check?
Since then Dietz was self-employed in some kind of security company, Dark Star. Hauck had looked them up. It was hard to figure out just what they did. Bodyguards. Security. Private contract work. Not exactly installing exclusive security systems, or whatever he had said he’d been doing in the area when AJ Raymond was killed.
Dietz was a bad guy.
As he drove along backcountry stretches, Hauck’s mind wandered. He had been a cop for almost fifteen years. Basically, it was all he knew. He’d risen fast through the bureaucracy that was the NYPD. He’d made detective. Been assigned to special units. Now he ran his own department in Greenwich. He’d always upheld the law.
What was he going to do when he got there? He didn’t even have a plan.
Outside Medford, Hauck found County Road 620.
On each side there were gently sloping fields and white fencing. There were a few signs for stables and horse farms. Merry-vale Farms-home to Barrister, “World’s Record, quarter mile.” Near Taunton Lake, Hauck checked the GPS. Dietz’s address was 733 Muncey Road. It was about three miles south of town. Middle of nowhere. Hauck found it, bordering a fenced-in field and a local firehouse. He turned down the road. His heart started to pick up.
What are you doing here, Ty?
Muncey was a rutted blacktopped road in dire need of a repaving. There were a few houses near the turnoff, small clapboard farmhouses with trucks or the occasional horse van in front and overgrown, weeded yards. Hauck found a number on a mailbox: 340. He had a ways to go.
At some point the road turned into dirt. Hauck bounced along in his Bronco. The houses grew farther apart. At a bend he came upon a cluster of RD mailboxes, 733 written on one of them. The postal service didn’t even come down any farther. A tremor shot through Hauck as he knew he was near. Boundaries, he knew he’d left them behind long ago. He didn’t have a warrant. He hadn’t run this by the office. Dietz was a potential co-conspirator in two homicides.
What the hell are you doing down here, Ty?
He passed a red, fifties-style ranch house: 650. A film of sweat had built up on his wrists and under his collar. He was getting close.
Now there was a huge distance between homes this far down. Maybe a quarter mile. There was no sound to be heard, other than the unsettling crunch of gravel under the Bronco’s wheels.
Finally it came into view. Around a slight bend, tucked away under a nest of tall elms, the end of the road. An old white farmhouse. The picket fence in front was in need of repair. A loose gutter was hanging down. What lawn there was looked like it hadn’t been mowed in months. Except for the presence of a two-seater Jeep with a plowing hitch attached in the driveway, it hardly looked as if anyone even lived here. Hauck slowed the Bronco as he drove by, trying not to attract attention. A Freehold Township Police sticker was on the back of the Jeep. A number on the column of the front porch confirmed it:
733.
Bingo.
The dilapidated two-car garage was shut. Hauck couldn’t see any lights on inside the house. Cars would be few and far between down here. He didn’t want to be spotted driving by again. About fifty yards past, he noticed a turnoff, more of a horse trail than a road, barely wide enough for his car, and he took it, bouncing over the uneven terrain. Partway in, he cut a left through a field of dried hay, his path concealed by the tall, waist-high brush. A couple of hundred yards behind, Hauck had a decent view of the house.
Okay, so what happens now?
From a satchel Hauck removed a set of binoculars and, lowering the window, took a wide scan back at the house. No movement. A shutter hung indolently from one of the windows. No indication that anyone was there.
From the same satchel, Hauck took out his Sig automatic, safety off, checking that the sixteen nine-millimeter rounds were loaded in the clip. He hadn’t drawn his gun in years. He recalled running into an alley, firing off three rounds at a suspect fleeing from a building, who had sprayed his TEC-9 at Hauck’s partner in a weapons bust as he was running away. He’d hit the guy in the leg with one shot. Brought him in. Received a commendation for it. That was the only time he had ever fired his gun on the job.
Hauck rested the gun on the seat next to him. Then he opened the glove compartment and took out the small black leather folder that contained his Greenwich shield. He didn’t quite know what to do with it, so he placed it in the pocket of his jacket, and took out a two-liter bottle of water and drank a long swig. His mouth was dry. He decided not to think too hard on what he was doing here. He took another sweep on the house with the binoculars.
Nothing. Not a fucking thing.
Then he did what he’d done a hundred times in various stakeouts over the years.
He uncapped a beer and watched seconds tick off the clock.
He waited.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
He watched the house all night. No lights ever went on. No one ever drove up or came home.
At some point he looked up the phone number Dietz had given him along with his home address and dialed it. After four rings the answering machine came on. “You’ve reached Dark Star Security… Please leave a message.” Hauck hung up. He turned the radio to 104.3 Classic Rock and found the Who. No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man… His eyes grew heavy, and he dozed off for a while.
When he woke, it was light. Nothing had changed.
Hauck tucked the gun into his belt. Stretched on a pair of latex gloves. Then he grabbed a Maglite and his cell phone and stepped out of the Bronco. He pushed his way through the dense hayfield until he found the trail.
He decided that if Dietz was somehow there, he’d arrest him. He’d call in the Freehold police and work out the details later.
If he wasn’t, he’d take a look around.
He made his way down the dirt road to the front of the dilapidated house. There was a sign on the scrabbly lawn: PRIVATE PROPERTY. BEWARE OF DOG. He climbed up the steps, his heart beginning to pound in his chest, his palms slick with perspiration. He stood to one side of the door and peeked in through a covered window. Nothing. He drew a breath and wondered if he was doing something crazy. Here goes… He put a hand on the grip of his automatic. With the other he took his Maglite and knocked on the front door.
“Anyone home?”
Nothing.
After a few moments, he knocked again. “I’m looking for some directions… Anybody home?”
Only silence came back.
The porch was a wraparound. Hauck decided to follow it around the side. On the lawn, just off the dirt driveway, he spotted a condenser box hidden in a bush and went over and lifted the metal panel. It was the main electrical feed to the house. Hauck pulled it, disabling the phone line and the alarm. Then he went back to the porch. Through the window he could see a dining room with a plain wooden table inside. Farther along he came upon the kitchen. It was old, fifties tile and linoleum, hadn’t been updated in years. He tried the back door.