It was going on midnight when Hauck got back to Greenwich. Instead of heading home, he drove to the station.
The avenue was dark and quiet. All the restaurants had already shut for the night. He parked his car in the back lot and waved hello to Steve Palazzo, the duty officer, doing the graveyard shift at the front desk. Only a handful of people around this time of night. For a second Hauck gave some thought to heading upstairs. He felt like a thousand-pound weight hung on his shoulders. Was it days ago he had burst into Warren’s office and rescued his brother? No, hours… The sweat was still on his hands.
I can give you back your brother.
He went downstairs to the basement.
A dim fluorescent light burned near the row of holding cells.
“How’s it going?” Hauck waved to the young duty officer who was on the overnight down there. Guardino. Ralph. Been on the force for just a couple of years. Most nights they had maybe a domestic dispute or some drunk driver in lockup down here. The Yankee game was on the TV. Guardino was sitting with his feet up on the desk and jumped, straightening his uniform, when Hauck appeared.
“Lieutenant!”
“Relax,” Hauck said. “What’s the score?”
“Yanks by two. Bottom of the ninth. Mariano’s in.”
“Chalk it up!” Hauck said with a nod. “What do you say I take over for a few minutes? Go grab yourself a coffee.”
“No, sir, I’m okay,” the young officer said. Seemed eager to prove it.
Hauck patted him on the shoulder and this time didn’t phrase it as a question. “Go get yourself a coffee, son.”
“Yes, sir,” the young officer muttered, and headed out.
Hauck opened the key box. He searched for the right one and went down the row of six cells. He stopped at the end and stared at the curled-up shape on the cot with his back to him, still in his clothes.
What is it you want, Lieutenant? Wachman had asked.
I want the truth.
“Warren…?”
His brother stirred. He turned over and fuzzily opened his eyes. “Ty…” He looked for his watch. “What the fuck time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
“Midnight? Damn…” Warren sat up and rubbed his face. “How did it go?”
“Raines is dead,” Hauck told him.
“Huh?”
“Shot trying to escape. By the FBI. They trumped our collar and took him in custody on their own RICO charge.”
Warren looked surprised. “The FBI?”
“Seems he managed to steal someone’s firearm on the ride down. Even while in cuffs…” Hauck cocked his finger and squeezed an imaginary trigger. “Pow…”
His brother blinked, his brain kicking. He drew a hand through his tussled hair. “You’re not believing any of that for a second, are you, Ty?”
“Not for a second, Warren.” Hauck shook his head.
He opened the cell.
Warren stood up. He located his glasses on the stool and slipped his feet into his Cole Haans. “Thanks…” He rubbed his back a little stiffly. “Nice décor. A little minimalist for me, and I have to say the mattress sucks…”
Hauck stared. “I’m sorry, Warren.”
“Sorry for what, little bro?”
I can give you back your brother.
“Warren Hauck, I’m arresting you for the murders of David Sanger and Keith Kramer…”
“What!” Warren looked at him, confused. “Ty, please. Don’t…”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say now can be used against you…”
Warren shook his head. “Ty…”
The rest of it Hauck said but never remembered. He pressed his brother against the cell wall, realizing he was fighting back tears.