Chapter 62

The parking lot was chaos. People were screaming. People were injured. People were crying.

The Chief spoke quickly but calmly on his radio. He was summoning more help. He put out a call for all available emergency medical response units. And he called the State Patrol to put them on alert.

“Why isn’t their security coming out to help?” he radioed Michelle.

“Don’t know, sir. Probably busy dealing with the situation inside.”

The Chief turned to Bruno. “What are you doing?” he shouted. The psychic had been lurching from student to student, trying to find out what had happened. The responses were incoherent. The Chief pulled him away and led him to Randy. “I want you two to stay together. Keep a low profile, and if you see Jurevicius or Fischer, let Randy know right away.”

They got into Randy’s Charger and pulled into a spot in the parking lot where they wouldn’t look too conspicuous.

They waited for what seemed an impossibly long time. The line of cars trying to clear the parking lot had almost dissipated. Medical vehicles were arriving with sirens blaring and their crews were rushing around treating the victims. Then the radio crackled to life. It was the Chief. “I’m inside the building. Security is non-existent; they seem to have melted away. One of the professors got shot; it’s sort of serious, but not life-threatening. Fischer’s having a nervous breakdown. No sign of Jurevicius.”

“What about Alison?” shouted Bruno.

“No sign of her either,” the Chief reported. “I guess she escaped.”

Bruno knew he should not be taking this as good news. Nevertheless, he felt elated. Alison wasn’t killed or injured. She was safe.

A few minutes later, a red 5-series BMW whipped out of the garage and headed out of the parking lot. Serge Jurevicius was at the wheel and he appeared to be alone.

“That’s him,” said Bruno, hopping into the passenger’s seat.

“What are you doing?” asked Randy.

“It’s simcha time. Let’s party.”

Randy stared at Bruno with a mixture of dismay and disbelief. He had come to the NGBS circus in undercover attire, jeans, and a leather jacket—the right look for someone driving a ’68 Charger. After facing combat in the first Gulf War, with live ammunition spraying at him from hostiles with automatic weapons, he was not prone to getting too worked up over matters of lesser urgency. He saw Bruno as a civilian, nothing more, nothing less. Bruno’s lack of training concerned him. However, the Chief had ordered them to stay together.

He grunted, “Fine,” and dropped the Charger into gear. “Don’t touch this unless things get really crazy.” He placed a small revolver on the console. “It’s my backup. Smith and Wesson 340PD.”

“You just point and shoot, right?”

“Very funny. It’s got .357 loads, five of them. Use two hands or it could break your wrist.”

Jurevicius drove furiously out of the gate. He took the turn onto Marter Avenue with tires squealing, then slowed to a moderate pace when he saw no one in hot pursuit. He didn’t seem to notice Randy, who was following at a prudent distance. Slowly, they wended their way through downtown Maplewood and the endless succession of traffic lights in Berry Hill.

Bruno had nothing to do and, after the excitement of the meeting, a peculiar sort of manic boredom started to set in. His face twisted into a snarl as he assumed a crazed Edgar G. Robinson voice: “Coppers ain’t gonna get me! Not me. Yahahahaha?”

Then he switched to a different character, a big, dumb lug, who replied, “Yeah boss.”

Randy stole a quizzical look at Bruno, who was grinning idiotically. “Dow. Dow. Dow. Dow. Dey shot the door off, but dey ain’t gonna get me! Yeah, boss.”

Randy shook his head. Guys had funny ways of preparing themselves for battle, but this was pathetic. He tried to ignore it, but Bruno wouldn’t let him.

“Ganefs,” he pronounced, putting down his imaginary gun and resuming his own voice. “The story appeared in the premier issue of Mad Magazine. October 1952.”

“OK.”

“‘Ganefs’ means ‘thieves’—not that they ever bothered to translate, or even tell you it was Yiddish. The ganefs are the boss and his assistant, Bumble. They’re trying to get away, but the coppers keep shooting their car apart, a piece at a time. The boss keeps yelling, ‘Nyaah, coppers. You’ll never get me.’ And Bumble keeps saying, ‘Yeah, boss.’”

“I think I get it.”

“You do?”

Randy thought for a moment. “Hold on a second.” They were on Old Kings Road in Gardenfield, right in front of the Municipal Building. He called to report his position. They were stuck at the light at Garden Avenue, about four cars behind Jurevicius. Then he said, “I think we’re the coppers. So we don’t want the bad guys to get away.”

Bruno had to admit he had a good point. Jurevicius turned down the old Lenape trail. The light turned yellow, but Randy was able to nip through. The way Jurevicius was driving, he didn’t seem to notice he was being tailed.

—“We’re leaving Gardenfield,” Randy radioed to the dispatcher. “Heading south into Barrington.” He turned to Bruno: “Does the boss have a name?”

That took Bruno by surprise. He thought Randy was ready to change the subject. Before he could answer, Randy stomped on the brake and swore, “Hot damn.”

They had just passed the White Horse Pike and Jurevicius had pulled over at a gas station. Randy eased off the brake and kept driving.

“What do we do?”

“Pull over and hope for the best.” Randy drove ahead two more blocks and pulled into an empty parking lot. It was a Korean restaurant that didn’t open until 5. Randy warned Bruno not to turn around. Instead he slumped down and used the side mirror to keep an eye on their quarry. Jurevicius gassed up his car, and even took the time to clean his windshield. He handed the attendant his credit card and waited.

Randy whistled. “Either this guy’s innocent or else he’s cold as ice. Look at him standing there like he’s got all the time in the world.”

“Something’s funny,” said Bruno.

“What?”

“His license plate. It reads SBGN.”

“You’re looking at it backwards,” Randy scoffed. “NGBS is the company’s stock symbol.”

“Yeah. But when I first started working on the case, I dreamed about SBGN. Now I know what it means.”

“Too bad you didn’t figure that out two months ago …”

Bruno could tell Randy was starting to get antsy. He resolved not to say anything for a while, but then he noticed something else. “His car is shaking, isn’t it?”

“I see what you mean.” Randy looked closer. “It could be a rough idle. That car doesn’t look like much, but I have to admit it’s got some muscle to it.”

“But the engine’s shut off, isn’t it? Don’t you have to shut it off before you fill up?”

“I don’t know. Crooks don’t always follow the rules,” said Randy. “Get down, don’t let him see you, he’s pulling out.” Moments later Randy eased into traffic about a half-dozen cars back. The next intersection was the Black Horse Pike. Jurevicius turned left and Randy followed him.

“This will take him to Atlantic City,” said Bruno. “Why would he go down the shore?”

“Maybe he’s feeling lucky …”

“Or he’s looking for a small, out-of-the-way airport. Do they have one in Atlantic City?”

Randy shook his head. “I dunno. I think they keep an eye on who comes in and goes out of ACNJ. Maybe Jurevicius has contacts at one of the casinos who can help him disappear.” He called on the radio: “Heading south on 168. Repeat that, 168, the Black Horse Pike. We’re heading to Atlantic City for an afternoon of fun and entertainment. Still on his tail. No sign of evasive action. Over.”

The Chief came on the radio. “Change of plans. Repeat. Change of plans. We believe Jurevicius has kidnapped Alison Wales. We don’t know if she’s dead or alive, injured or healthy. It’s time to reel him in. Confirm.”

“Got it, Chief. Will proceed to apprehend suspect. Over and out.” He turned to Bruno. “Here, open your window and put this on the roof.” He handed Bruno a detachable red roof light.

At that moment Jurevicius started to accelerate. They were right at the junction with 42, the north-south freeway that led to the Atlantic City Expressway. Randy floored the Charger and Bruno felt like he’d left his stomach back in Gardenfield.

“Make sure you’re buckled tight,” Randy howled, “’cause I promise you’ve never seen driving like this.”