by Marie Force
“Nah, I got it. I still wish it hadn’t happened, though. He was a cute kid who had the supreme misfortune of being born to scumbags.”
“Very true.”
They arrived at HQ and used the morgue entrance to avoid the mob gathered out front.
“What’ll we do when they move their circus to this door?” Freddie asked.
“Bite your tongue. They know we’ll never talk to them anywhere but outside the main door. If they ever move their show over here, we’ll have to ask the department to get us a helicopter so we can land on the roof.”
“That’d be cool. I get to drive it.”
“As if.” Sam rolled her eyes at him and headed into HQ, making a beeline for the pit. “Who’s got something for me?”
“Nothing yet, LT,” Jeannie said from her cubicle. “Patrol is working its way through the owners of the black sedans, and I’m looking for retired sharpshooters in the area. I might have something on that, but I’m not quite there yet.”
“Keep me posted,” Sam said. “We need to keep up the pace. I’m not convinced their campaign was a one-night deal.”
“We’re moving as fast as we can,” Jeannie said.
Sam went into her office and read through the various reports that had come in while she was out. They revealed nothing particularly helpful, which left her feeling frustrated. Then she turned her attention to the reams of information they had on Trace Simmons, who’d been in and out of the system since he was fifteen on a series of escalating offenses. What had begun as shoplifting and simple assault as a teenager had led to multiple drug offenses, felony assault and domestic assault. The guy was a prince among men.
Archie popped his head into her office. “Hey, you got a minute?”
“Sure, come on in.”
“I was going through the various feeds from the shootings, and I was able to isolate one number on the plate.” He handed over a sheet of paper that showed the number 8 clearly visible as the last number. “You see how it looks blue? That means it’s a District plate. I took the liberty of running a list of black sedans with District plates that end in the number 8. There are seventeen of them.”
“Wow, that’s fantastic work. You just saved us hours.” She called for Jeannie.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Sam handed her the page that Archie had given her, and he handed off the list of cars. “Let’s get patrol to focus on these seventeen cars.”
“That narrows it down from hundreds to a few,” Jeannie said to Archie as he headed out of the office. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“Happy to help,” he said on the way out. “Let me know what you find.”
“I’ll get this info out to Patrol,” Jeannie said as she left the office.
Sam’s stomach growled, letting her know it was almost time for lunch, and then her cell phone rang. “Holland.”
“Lieutenant Holland,” a female voice said, “I’m calling on behalf of U.S. Attorney Tom Forrester. He would like to see you in his office tomorrow at two o’clock. Are you available?”
Sam’s stomach fell and hit the ground. “Um, yes, I can do that.”
“We’ll see you then.”
When the line went dead, Sam found the number for Nick’s friend Andy in her contacts.
“Hi there, Sam,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you on a holiday, but I got a call from Forrester. He wants to see me tomorrow at two. Can you and Kurt be there?” she asked of the criminal defense attorney from Andy’s office who’d attended her first meeting with Forrester about the Ramsey situation.
“We’ll be there.”
“Do I need to be worried?”
“It’s hard to say, but if I had to guess, there’s no way the grand jury is going to indict you in light of who you are to the city and the country.”
Sam clung to his assurances with everything she had. “Thanks for the optimism. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“We’ll be there.”
She put down the phone and dropped her head into her hands, thinking about the circle of life in her world. Stahl took her hostage and tormented her with razor wire and gasoline, and was looking for an Alford plea while she waited to find out whether she’d be indicted for punching Sergeant Ramsey for inferring that Stahl should’ve finished the job when he had the chance.
She could live without the whole mess coming to a head at the same time she had a shooter picking off innocent people in her city. Not to mention the goings-on in the White House and the possibility that… No. Don’t think about that. Do not think about that.
Her brain was going to melt out her ears at any moment.
Freddie came to the door. “Sam?”
She looked up at him. “Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
Everything? “Nothing. What’ve you got?”
He eyed her skeptically because he knew her too well. “The Gang Unit has delivered Simmons to Interview 2.”
Sam took a moment to get her head on straight, shaking off the call from Forrester’s office, her thoughts about Stahl and the proposed plea, the Nelson mess and everything else that would keep her from doing what needed to be done in this interrogation.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yep.” She made a spot decision to keep the info about Forrester to herself for now. No sense getting everyone wound up about that when she needed them focused on the case.
Taking the file on Simmons with her, she got up to follow Freddie to Interview 2.
CHAPTER TEN
OUTSIDE THE INTERROGATION ROOM, Freddie said, “How’re we playing this?”
“Follow my lead.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“It tells you what you need to know, Detective.”
His scowl would’ve made her laugh if she hadn’t been trying to bring her badass persona into the room with her. A little intimidation went a long way in situations such as this.
Two detectives from the Gang Unit were keeping Simmons company in the room.
“We’ll take it from here, gentlemen,” Sam said. “Appreciate your assistance.”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of them said. “We’ll be outside if you need us.”
The meaningful way he said that, as if he was certain they would need them, spiked Sam’s anxiety.
Simmons glowered at her from his seat at the table. He had one of those tattoos that came out of the collar of his T-shirt and went up around his neck. A serpent maybe. How anyone got the big idea to tattoo their neck and face was beyond her. Did they ever consider they might one day apply for a job in which face tattoos were discouraged? Although, a banger like Simmons probably didn’t need a job to make a living.
“I ain’t saying a word to you until my lawyer gets here.”
“Great,” Sam said. “Let’s go get some lunch, Detective Cruz.”
“Did someone say lunch?” Freddie asked, following her lead with his usual perfection.
“Wait,” Simmons said. “How long is that gonna take? I got shit to do.”
“Depends on when your lawyer shows up. You should know how this works by now.”
His scowl spoke volumes.
Before he could say anything more, Sam herded Freddie out of the room. To the two Gang Unit detectives, she said, “He lawyered up. Let us know when or if his attorney arrives.”
“Will do.”
Freddie followed her back to the pit. “Um, don’t get me wrong because I’d always rather eat lunch than deal with thugs, but could I ask why you didn’t try to get him to talk now the way we usually do?”
“It’s like this, young Freddie. If he’s our shooter, he’s off the streets for now.”
“Ah, gotcha.”
“It won’t kill us to wait an hour or two or ten, especially since w
e know he’s never going to tell us anything willingly. Let’s get some food before the warrant we requested for his place comes in.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” His appetite was the stuff of legends.
They left HQ and went to one of their favorite sub shops where she got a small veggie while he had a large meatball.
“It’s so not fair that you can eat anything you want and not gain a freaking pound,” she said, eyeing his lunch with lust in her heart.
“What can I say? I’m metabolically blessed.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said around a mouthful of meatball.
“Right at this moment, I actually do hate you.”
“What were you brooding about in the office earlier, and don’t tell me it was nothing. I know it was something.”
“Forrester wants to see me tomorrow at two.”
“Oh.” He took a drink from his extralarge soda and wiped the sauce off his face. “Did they give any indication…”
Sam shook her head. “They just asked me to be there for the meeting.”
“I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”
“I wish I was as confident as you and my attorney are.”
“Come on, Sam. There’s no way regular people are going to indict you for punching that loudmouth when he so totally had it coming.”
“It still counts as assault. Last time I checked, assault is a crime.”
He popped a fry bathed in ketchup into his mouth. “They won’t indict you. The citizens of this city want you doing what you do best—tracking down real criminals.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Her phone buzzed with a text from Malone. Got your warrant.
“The warrant is in. Eat up.”
* * *
OVER THE NEXT five hours, they tore apart the town house in Southeast where Trace Simmons lived with his sister and her two young children, who’d been asked to leave the house while the police were there. The sister had put up such a fight that Patrol had taken her in, and the kids were in the custody of the Simmons’s mother.
“That was Captain Harrison,” Freddie said when he ended a call. “Nothing in the way of black sedans in Simmons’s group of known associates.”
Sam growled with frustration.
“Doesn’t mean they didn’t get their hands on one and drove around the city shooting people,” Freddie said. “It only means they don’t own one.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam’s phone rang and she took the call from a number she recognized as Minnesota. “Lieutenant Holland.”
“This is Robert Brinkley, Caroline’s father.”
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“My wife and I are on our way to Washington and were hoping we might see our daughter.”
“I’ll ask the Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Lindsey McNamara, to get in touch with you to make that happen.”
“Thank you.” After a pause, he said, “Have there been any arrests?”
“Not yet, but we are working the case and following several leads.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll see you when you get here.” After she ended the call, she said to Freddie, “Write down this number.” She dictated Robert’s number.
“Did you know that on smartphones, you can share the contact, and there’s no need to write anything down?”
“Stop being a smart-ass and call that number in to Lindsey. Ask her to get in touch with Caroline Brinkley’s parents, who want to see their daughter when they get here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever I can do to help.”
Sam went to confer with Haggerty, the Crime Scene lieutenant overseeing the search. “Any sign of a nine millimeter?”
“We haven’t found any weapons.”
“Keep looking.”
“That’s the plan.” He went to rejoin his team while Sam cooled her heels, waiting for something, a thread to pull that would lead them to their shooter.
She took a call from Captain Malone.
“Anything at Simmons’s place?”
“Not yet.”
“Patrol has a lead on a possible car. Campus police at American University reported they found it in one of their lots without an AU parking sticker. They noticed what might be gunpowder residue on the passenger-side window frame. I’ve sent a team to pick it up and bring it to the lab.”
“Have you expressed the supreme urgency to the slow-as-shit lab?”
“I have.”
“Do we know who it belongs to?”
“We do.”
“Let’s go get him!”
“The owner reported it stolen two days ago. I’ve sent someone to collect their prints so we have them.”
Sam deflated. “At least we can dust it for the shooters’ prints and other evidence.”
“There is that.”
“But that’ll take time.” She glanced at the sun, which sank toward the western horizon as her anxiety spiked. Would the shooters strike again tonight? “We need to put out the word that people have to stay off sidewalks tonight. No sidewalk service at restaurants or cafés, no gatherings on street corners or stoops. Residents need to stay inside until we know for sure this is over.”
“I agree. The chief and I were just saying the same thing. Tough time of year to tell people to stay in.”
“Tough choice—do I dine al fresco and possibly get shot or do I stay the hell inside and not get taken out by someone who’s clearly shooting to kill? Such a tough decision…”
“Your sarcasm is one of your most charming attributes, Lieutenant.”
“What’re some of the others?”
His loud laughter echoed through the phone. “I’m gonna take the Fifth on that one.”
“Hey, Cap… So, um, I got a call from Forrester’s office. They want me there at two tomorrow.”
“Did they say—”
“Nothing more than they want to see me.”
“Ugh. Let’s hope the grand jury did the right thing.”
“What if they didn’t?”
“Don’t go there, Sam. Just don’t even think about it until or unless you have to.”
“Got it. Denial. I’m following that strategy a lot these days.”
“Whatever works.”
“Do me a favor and don’t say anything about this to the chief or anyone else until we know what it’s going to be, okay?”
“I won’t say a word, but please let me know as soon as you hear anything.”
“I will. After we’re finished here, I’m going to call it a day until we have more on the car. You’ll take care of issuing the statement to the public?”
“We’ve already got the Public Affairs people working on it.”
“Good. Don’t let them screw it up.”
“I’ll see if we can avoid that.”
“Call me if anything pops tonight.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Lucky me. I hope I don’t talk to you later.”
“I hope not either.”
Sam slapped her phone closed and updated Freddie on what the captain had told her about the car found at American University.
“What now?”
“Let’s finish up here and call it a day. Hopefully, the lab will have something for us from the car by the morning. They know it’s urgent, and perhaps they might actually treat it as such for once.”
“We can only hope. Does finding the car mean it might be over?”
“Nothing stopping them from grabbing another one. We’ll have to wait and see if they’re done with us. The PAO is putting out a release to warn residents and visitors to stay off the sidewalks. If they’re out hunting again tonight, hopefully people won’t make it easy for them.”
His deep sigh
said it all. In a big, vibrant city like theirs, it was almost impossible to expect everyone to stay inside and off the sidewalks. “So that’s it? We’re just going home?”
“Well, our tour is up, and we’ve done everything we can for now. Simmons has lawyered up, and since his lawyer didn’t arrive by the end of our shift, he can be our guest overnight. Let Harrison know that.”
“Will do.”
Haggerty came out a short time later to let her know they were done with their search. “We didn’t find any weapons, but we uncovered a drug stash that may result in a parole violation for our friend Mr. Simmons. You can let the family come back.”
Sam glanced into the house that had been turned upside down by the search and felt for people who’d be returning home to such a mess, even if the sister had been a huge pain in the ass. “Let’s make it so they can walk in the door at least,” Sam said.
She and Freddie went into the house and spent thirty minutes clearing a path through the destruction. When they’d done what they could to restore some order, they walked out together.
“I feel bad for her coming home to this,” Freddie said.
“That’s what she gets for letting her felon brother live with her and her kids.”
“I suppose.”
“Can I drop you at HQ?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’ll hop on the Metro and leave my car at work for the night.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. I’ll see you at zero seven hundred?”
“If not before.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“I’ve got my fingers and toes crossed for a quiet night—but not my legs.”
“Ewww, gross.”
“Nothing gross about it, my friend.”
“On that disgusting note…” He waved and jogged off toward the Metro.
Sam drove home thinking about the families of her four victims and wishing they’d made more concrete progress that day, but investigations like this required methodical police work that didn’t happen quickly. The Secret Service waved her through the Ninth Street checkpoint, and she parked in her assigned space in front of their home.
Since the street was devoid of black SUVs, Sam decided to pop into her dad’s before she headed home. “Where are they?” she asked Eric, the agent on duty at the door.
