Judge & Jury - James Patterson [58]
“The bastard killed my son, and now he’s free.”
“He’s not free,” I said. “We’ll get him. I know how that sounds, but we’ll get him.” The hospital was only blocks away. “I’ll get him.”
For a second Andie didn’t answer. I didn’t know if she believed me, and in that moment, I didn’t care. Because I meant it.
I’ll get him.
I felt as if I might be passing out as I disconnected from Andie with a mumbled “Bye.” The van was stopping at the emergency entrance.
I never even told her that I’d been shot.
Chapter 72
RICHARD NORDESHENKO SHIFTED the silver Voyager into the entrance lanes for the George Washington Bridge. The tie-up was massive, and Nordeshenko wasn’t surprised. He scanned the radio news channels—they were already all over the story.
Flashing police lights were everywhere. Every single vehicle was being checked, trunks opened. Trucks and vans were being pulled aside, their cargoes searched. Nordeshenko looked up into the sky. Above him, he heard the whip-whip-whip from a police helicopter circling above. This wasn’t good.
They had already changed cars twice. He had removed the beard and eyeglasses he’d worn in the courthouse. There was nothing to worry over, right? Just be calm. Cavello was safely hidden in a hollowed-out compartment under the rear seat. Even if the Bronco had been located by now, what did it matter? Everything was in order. No one could connect him to the vehicle he was driving now. Unless they found Cavello.
The tall steel towers of the bridge loomed about a quarter mile ahead. Police on foot were making their way back toward their car. It was a typical code-red response. SWAT teams and bomb-sniffing dogs. Well-trained perhaps, but with no practical experience.
“What’s the delay?” the gruff voice said from the back. “How does it look up there? Is everything okay?”
“Relax, you should be honored. This is all for you.”
“It’s cramped in here. And hot. It’s been over an hour already.”
“Not as cramped as the isolation unit of a federal prison, yes? Now be quiet, please. There is one last checkpoint to pass through.”
Two policemen wearing armored vests and carrying automatic rifles were coming up to the Voyager. One of them tapped on the window with the barrel of his gun. “License and registration, please. And open the back.”
Nordeshenko handed the officer his documents, which showed he was a resident of 11 Barrow Street in Bayonne—and that the van was registered to the Lucky George Maintenance Service in Jersey City.
“Any word?” Nordeshenko asked him. “I heard what happened. It’s all over the news.”
The officer checking his documents didn’t answer. The other flung open the hatch to the back and peered in. All that was visible back there was an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner, a rug-cleaning machine, and some cleaning agents in a plastic tray. Still, Nordeshenko held his breath as the policeman poked around.
Nordeshenko had a pistol strapped to his ankle. On a dry run the day before, he had decided what he would do. Take out the officers. Run back against traffic to the other lane, where cars were still moving. Pull a driver out of any vehicle and get out of there. Cavello was on his own.
“What’s that?” one of the policemen barked. He pushed aside the machinery and pried open a compartment.
Nordeshenko nearly reached for his ankle, but didn’t. Not yet. His heart stood still. Take out both of them. And run.
“There’s supposed to be a spare in here,” the officer said, “by law. What if this old piece of junk breaks down?” He re-covered the compartment.
“You’re right, Officer.” Nordeshenko slowly relaxed. “I will tell it to my boss. I’ll tell him we owe you a free rug cleaning.”
The policeman handed Nordeshenko back his license as the cop in back slammed shut the doors. “You don’t owe me shit,” he said. “Get a spare tire in here, pronto.”
“Consider it done. I hope you catch him,” Nordeshenko said. He raised the window and started to drive