Dennis remembered all too well that the big break in the most heinous mass murder spree of all time in New York came not from some spectacular, police-show-styled shoot-out or car chase, but from some grunt cop — a blue uniform doing bench-warming work, sorting through thousands of parking tickets written around the times and places that the “Son of Sam” killed and killed again. It was a parking ticket, written to the mass murderer’s VW Beetle on the night he shot two lovers necking in their car that led to his arrest in Yonkers. More often than not, police breakthroughs turned on the details.
Dennis drew a second circle on the map in green that limited the distance by fitting Regan’s available time into the probable return schedule of the Long Island Railroad. It was a smaller circle subsuming 130 miles that embraced the Meadowlands Sports Complex, some radio transmission towers, the port of Newark, and the like. All of these potential targets were heavily protected and would not be severely damaged by a backpack full of explosives, especially since these places would be on high alert for Regan or any shoulder-bagged citizen. There were no apparent high-value targets that made sense. But when did a terrorist or madman ever make sense? There were thousands of lower-value or grudge-fuck targets that might be sacrificed to settle some imagined slight by a corporation or government.
Too many possibilities were like no possibilities at all. Dennis felt helpless. His eyes rested again on the center of the board. This rest area on the NJT kept coming back in focus. His hunter’s sense told him this animal was hungry, risking exposure, coming out from his sheltered cover to feed. This is when “patient” hunters got their chance. His phone rang.
“I figured I should make it up to you,” a familiar female voice said.
“I’m flattered.”
“How about I treat you to a late-night snack, say somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike tonight?”
“Brooke, you know I’m a married man,” Dennis said with a smile.
Brooke affected her best Southern-belle accent. “My word, Dennis, can’t a girl ask a father figure out for a bite to eat without being accused of being a harlot? Besides, the EI boys came up with a match. I’ll tell you all about it on the drive out.”
“What’s a father figure to say, except, ‘Your car or mine?’”
“Mine. I got all the radios and shotguns and stuff.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“I’ll pick you up tonight at eleven?”
“Thanks for including me.”
“You’ve earned it.”
It was a beautiful, cloudless night as they exited the tunnel with all of Jersey laid out before them. Little Miss “by-the-book” Brooke took a deep breath and a career-busting chance. Against the orders of her director, she blurted out, “Sabot!”
“The frankfurter?”
“No, that’s Sabrett. I’m talking about the Sabot Society. They’re against the industrial age.”
“A little late, aren’t they?”
“We’ve been monitoring their e-mails. There’s a person on the list whose address matches the one registered to Thomas Regan’s Camaro.”
“You mean the upstate New York woman, Williams?”
“You’re good!”
“Hey, I was running plates while you were having tea parties with your dollies.”
“Williams was her second husband’s name …”
Dennis snapped his fingers, “Regan was her first! So that’s why we couldn’t find him. He was hiding behind Mommy’s apron.”
The constant, unrelenting swoosh of New Jersey Turnpike traffic and the whine of big truck tires greeted them as they opened the car doors at the rest area at about 1 AM. Brooke checked all the tables.
Dennis went straight to the girl at the register.
“Hi. Were you working here last night?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did you see this man?”
“Yes, he’s here a lot lately. Must have a route that takes him through here.”
“Route?”
“Yeah, isn’t he a truck driver?”
“Ever see him in a truck?”
“No.”
Dennis smiled to keep her talking. “About what time usually?”
“Around now. In fact, I saw him already tonight. About two minutes before you came in.”
Dennis quickly scanned the restaurant as Brooke came over to him. “He was here in the last two minutes. I’ll check the lot. You check here and the rest rooms.”
Dennis rushed outside and surveyed the cars in the lot. There, near the road, was the old, beat-up Camaro. The retired detective approached it cautiously. In the darkness, he could not tell if anyone was inside so he did what any guy would do. Walking about ten feet beyond the asphalt into the grass, he made a motion that made it appear he was unzipping his fly and assumed the universal stance of a man relieving himself. He counted to fifteen, faked a shake, then zipped up. As he turned, he looked casually into the car. The lights from the turnpike lit the interior from that angle. No one was inside. Peering through the windows, he checked the front and backseats but saw nothing except a mess. He walked back to the restaurant.
Brooke met him halfway. “You could’ve killed two birds with one stone if you had checked the men’s room,” she said, nodding to the grass area.
“That’s his car. Hood’s still warm.”
“I’ll call this in. Get some Jersey troopers to canvas.”
Dennis went back inside to the girl at the register. “Did you ever see him with anyone?”
“No, not that I remember.”
“Thank you.”
He rejoined Brooke outside. “How about we hang around for a while and see what happens?”
“Fine with me. I’ll bring the car over and we’ll go on our first stakeout together.”
“And you thought this wouldn’t be fun!”
In the car, Dennis squinted to keep a lookout for any suspicious car or person who came and went. Brooke reached around behind her and handed him a set of binoculars. “Here, use these.”
He brought them to his eyes, focused, and panned the area. “I just got a feeling about this guy and it tells me sooner rather than later.”
Through the binoculars, he was able to watch the Camaro, the approach to it, and any slow-moving vehicles passing by it. In the binocular’s field of view, trucks zipped back and forth at a dizzying rate. Big stainless steel tankers reflected the light from the rest area right back at him, like a mirror. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness after each one.
Then he caught sight of a figure near the pedestrian walkway that spanned the turnpike. The man was wearing a backpack and was starting up the stairs on the near side. He stopped at a landing midway. Dennis tried to look closely, but another truck’s reflection obliterated the view.
The figure on the stairs took off the backpack. As he turned to do so, Dennis saw the outline of … “A beard! I got a man on the stairs over there with a beard!”
In the middle of the staircase landing, Tommy reached into the backpack and turned on the gyroscope. The package suddenly had a mind of its own, as the minute jostling of it was resisted by the gyroscopic action. He held it like a basketball at the foul line.
Dennis caught a glimpse of the man holding the pack out in front of him, pumping it as if he was going to throw it, as yet another stainless steel truck washed his vision white. Then it hit him.