My thighs ached from the way I'd been squatting and I desperately wanted to stand up and stretch. Instead, I held my crouched, slumping walk and moved to the transition area between my dining and living rooms. I made myself stop and listen.
Nothing.
I started to straighten up and move to the bottom of the stairs when some instinct made me freeze. I suddenly paid attention to what I was feeling, instead of the nothing I was seeing.
You know your own house. There's a smell and a feel to things that you recognize as integral to your home. Anything else is alien. You know when you've had guests and visitors, you know the way it sounds when rain hits the roof, or how the pipes rattle when you take a shower.
And you know how it feels when there's someone else in the room.
Standing in the pitch dark, with his back to me, was a man. He was watching the street through one of my door's side windows, being careful not to tug the miniature curtains too far, only enough to see out. Every ten or fifteen seconds, he would glance up the stairs.
My heart jumped up in my throat. I'd been a second away from strolling past him like he was a piece of furniture. I got my breathing under control, watching him the whole time. Weak light filtering in from a street lamp traced his outline, but he was dressed in black or Navy blue from head to toe and was close to invisible. He was white, shorter than me, slim. Salt and pepper hair. Gloves. Nothing in his hands, but that didn't mean he wasn't carrying. He wore a pea coat or something else cotton that didn't shine or make a noise like synthetics do when they rub together.
It wasn't Wheeler. A dozen years had passed and people can change their appearance in less time than that, but Wheeler had been over six feet tall, with a round body and moon-pie face that not even a celebrity diet could've changed. This guy was lean, with an eagle's beak for a nose.
I had to fight not to jerk my head at a deep, rolling rumble coming from upstairs. The guy by the door glanced up the steps, then went back to staring out the window. The sound was repeated five more times. It dawned on me that it was the filing cabinet being opened and closed, once for each drawer. A succession of dull thumps followed: files and folders being dumped on my desk.
I thought about the situation. My legs and calves were on fire and it wasn't long before they gave out on me. I knew how many bad guys were in the house and I had the jump on them. It was time to act. I brought my gun up to train it on the guy by the door when quick footsteps sounded overhead and whoever had emptied my filing cabinet came hurrying down the steps. In the dim light, I couldn't make out many details. He was short and wiry and his face looked pushed in around the nose and cheeks, like he'd been a bad amateur boxer. He was dressed in black like his partner. A stack of folders was tucked under one arm and he held a Maglite in the other hand. The guy by the door looked up.
"Find anything?" he said.
"Yeah," the guy on the steps said. The flashlight was on and the light waggled across the walls and stairs as the he came down.
"Turn that fucking thing off," the first guy said. "Why don't you throw all the lights on, let him know we're here?"
"I already figured it out, boys," I said, training my gun on them.
They were fast, I'll give them that. The first guy yanked the door open and was halfway out before I'd stopped talking. The short dude on the steps sidearmed the Maglite in my direction, then sprinted back upstairs still holding the files. The flashlight tumbled end-over-end, covering the room in wild arcs of light. I sidestepped the flashlight and squeezed off a round at the guy by the door. I missed and drilled a hole in my front door , sending splinters of wood everywhere.
I jumped across the living room and poked my head out the front door in time to see the first guy sprinting across my front lawn and down the street. Cars and trees blocked my view and my shot, so I turned to go after the guy behind me. I flicked the hall light on--there was no element of surprise left--and moved up the stairs, gun ready. When I was halfway up the steps, I heard a crash and the sound of breaking glass. I took the stairs three at a time and ran down the hall to the office. I kicked the door open, swinging my SIG in short movements to cover the room.
A cold, cruel breeze blew through my office from the broken window, scattering papers across the room. The short guy had thrown my office chair through the window, then jumped off the roof of my front porch. I spun and raced back through the hall and down the steps, bursting out the front door and off the front porch. To my right, at the far end of the street, backup lights flared from a parked car, maybe an SUV or pickup with a cab. They illuminated the short guy, who was halfway between me and the car, hoofing it as fast as he could go. I fought the urge to put my sights on his leg or arm, to wing him, but this wasn't the time to play the Lone Ranger. Taking low-percentage shots in urban neighborhoods is a great way to end up killing the wrong person.
I jogged down the street after them. The short guy had a lead on me, but was slowed by a limp--probably from the fall off my porch roof. Tucked under one arm like a football were the files he'd lifted from my office. Combined with the limp, the little bit of weight from the files kept him from breaking into a full sprint. In a matter of seconds, I'd be close enough to take a better shot or at least get a license plate number. Piece of cake.
But I'd gone about fifty feet when my feet started to drag. It was as though I had an extra person along for the ride. My steps slowed to a shuffle. Digging deep, I called on that extra kick I needed to catch up, but…it wasn't there. Halfway down the block I was lurching like a zombie while the short guy was almost to the SUV. By the time I took five more steps--all I could manage--he'd yanked the passenger door open and jumped inside. I stumbled to a halt and watched the back of the SUV as it peeled away. The license plate was strategically covered with mud and I was still too far away to take a shot. The bad guys took off down the street and I leaned over, my hands on my knees, gasping for breath and cursing.
. . .
I was sifting through the disaster the two guys had made of my files when Kransky came up, looking rumpled and tired. He stood in the doorway for a minute, watching me.
"Any news?" I asked, picking some papers off the floor and putting them in a folder.
"No," he said, sitting down in the one remaining chair in the office. The other was still on my front lawn. "It's on the wire, so Metro patrols are looking for it, but there's not much to go on. A black, four-door SUV driven by two white guys is going to scoop up half the cars on the road."
"I know. Still worth a try." I closed my eyes for a second, trying to banish the exhaustion I was feeling, then slammed the files I was holding onto the desk. "I wish to fuck I knew who those guys were."
He watched me for a second. "Neither one was Wheeler?"
I shook my head. "No way. Wrong shape, wrong look. And two of them?"
"Partner."
"That would work if he'd been the other guy. But I know Wheeler. I interviewed him a ton of times, saw him every day for weeks at the trial. Neither one of those guys was him, even twelve years later."
"Hired hands?"
"Maybe," I said, doubtful. "Seems strange for a guy like Wheeler to sub out his dirty work. He's no kingpin."
"What did they take?"
I gestured to my desk. "Files."
Kransky leaned forward. "Let me guess, something to do with Brenda Lane and Michael Wheeler?"
"And a couple of others, maybe to throw me off, or maybe just mistakes."
There was a noise in the hall. Amanda and Julie poked their heads in the door. I waved them in.
"Marty, what's going on?" Amanda asked.
"I don't know," I said. Something more reassuring was in order, I guess, but I didn't have the energy or the creativity to come up with anything else. "It wasn't Wheeler, that's all I know. Whoever it was, they like to look through old case files. Including Wheeler's."
We were all quiet, looking at what had once been a neat and tidy office. Every drawer of the desk had been emptied and spilled o
nto the floor. Files had been removed from the cabinet and the papers that had escaped were being blown by the wind coming through the broken window.
"What are you going to do now?" Julie asked.
I glanced at Amanda. "First, we've got to get you out of here. I don't know who those clowns were, but my place is now officially compromised. Which sucks, I know, but we can't take any chances."
She gave me a pained look. "I just got here."
"I know. I'm sorry. But, until we know where those guys fit in, we can't act like everything's fine. Whoever it was that busted in here tonight knew about me and about Wheeler, which means they probably know about you."
"What are you going to do?" Kransky asked.
I waved at the mess that had been my office. "Clean this up, get some sleep, and then I think it's time to chase the one good lead we've got."
"The sister," Kransky said.
"Assuming you got an address for me."
"Waynesboro," he said. "I got it right as you called about your shooting match."
"What if Michael is there?" Amanda asked.
"Unlikely," Kransky said. "He's making a six-hour roundtrip to throw flowers on your desk?"
I held up my hands to stop the guesswork. "Either way, now that I'm done with chemo for a few weeks, I can run down there and get some answers."
"You might be done with chemo, but how do you feel?" Amanda asked.
"Like shit in a cup. But I'm angry, so it's a wash," I said. "Besides, I don't have the luxury of feeling lousy. Whoever broke in here tonight upped the ante in a big way."
Julie had been leaning against the door frame to my office, arms folded. Now she spoke up. "You shouldn't go alone. You weren't in good enough shape to even run down the street after those guys."
I colored. I didn't need to be reminded that I'd nearly passed out jogging a half block. Before I could defend myself, though, Kransky said, "I'll go."
"No," Julie said, with some force. "You should stay here. I'll go."
Kransky turned slowly in his chair to look at her.
She raised her hand. "Before you lose it on me, listen for a second. We just got done saying Wheeler probably isn't down there, which means he's where? Here. In DC. Amanda can't stay at Singer's and I'd put her up, but I'm a target, too. I'm living out of a hotel room. If he finds out where I'm at, or if tonight's two goons do, we're sitting ducks."
Kransky said nothing.
"So Amanda stays with you. You watch her. Singer and I go south and find out what we can. We come back in a day or two at most and take it from there."
I started to protest, more because I was still stinging from Julie's remark about being out-of-shape than any problem I had with her plan. Then I shut my mouth, because it wasn't such a bad idea.
"Can you take the time off?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said. "It'd be better if we didn't have to chase around GW, though. With you gone, I've got no backup."
"Amanda?" I asked.
She said, "My classes are done for the week and I can cancel office hours. What about Pierre?"
I turned to Jim.
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
"I'll take care of him," Amanda said quickly. "You won't even know he's there."
"That's it, then," I said, ignoring the look on Jim's face. "You two hole up. The Counselor and I are heading south. And Layla Green is going to tell us everything she knows about her brother."
vii.
"He had nothing?"
"We've only skimmed the files," the man said. He took a deep breath and got ready to take a verbal beating. It wasn't the news he'd been told to get. "But, no. Nothing off the top."
But instead of swearing, the old man simply grunted. A minute passed with only rasping, labored breathing coming over the line.
"Chief?"
"We're in good shape, Taylor," the old man said. "Or at least we're not in bad. Singer doesn't have a clue. It would've been nice if he'd had a map, I suppose, and painted a big red X telling us right where we wanted to go, but this news...it makes me realize we're all in the same boat."
"What about...?"
"The girl's with Singer, right?"
"Her stuff was there."
"So, she hasn't been found. Which means all three of us are operating in the dark. But those two more than us. And maybe we can use that."
"What do we need Singer for, then? Take him out, grab the girl, make the rest happen the way we want it to."
"Maybe," the old man said slowly, considering. "But I like having Marty as a control. I know how he thinks. How he works. It's what let me lead him around by the nose twelve years ago. Plus he'll keep my...he'll keep the target occupied, distracted."
"Removing the problem worked last time," Taylor offered.
"Because nobody gave a damn," the old man said, his voice calm. "That's not the case with Singer. The man's got friends. His body turns up somewhere and we'll have a load of hurt. No, keep an eye on the girl. Put Jackson back on patrol. We just might get lucky."
Chapter Twenty-four
The next morning, I packed a day bag for the trip south to Waynesboro. It should've been three hours away--and in most parts of the country, I could get there and back in a day--but in our neck of the woods, traffic could turn the trip into a full day extravaganza.
Julie and I met at the parking garage for the Vienna Metro Station, as innocuous a spot as we could think of to stow her car while I drove us to Waynesboro. She was waiting for me in the multi-day parking area, looking preppy in jeans, black boots, and a fleece. I popped the trunk so she could chuck her overnight roller-bag into the car. She slammed the trunk shut, then flopped down in the passenger's seat.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey." She had wide, dark aviator sunglasses on that gave her a sophisticated look. Her hair was held back by a simple band. "Ready for some answers?"
"If we get lucky," I said, then tried to backpedal when I saw her smile. "You know, with what we're trying to find out."
She reached over and patted my hand. "Why don't you just drive, Singer?"
Any drive south and west of DC starts with Route 66 West which, around DC isn't the romantic highway of song and film, it's more like the world's largest continuous strip mall. Green trees arched into sight over the highway wall from time to time, but more often we were treated to unending stretches of shopping centers that could've been airlifted from anywhere in the U.S. There were so many pizza joints, nail salons, and big box stores that I wondered who went there. If everyone worked at these places, who was left to go shopping?
In time, the malls released their hold on the land and gave way to farms and the kind of grassy, green hills you typically only find on postcards. When we saw horses grazing and running through fields on either side of the highway, I knew we'd left the parts of Virginia that are really just suburban extensions of DC. The Blue Ridge swelled on the right, the hills layered in the distance like two-dimensional cutouts, with one set of slopes giving way to a larger, smokier, more beautiful set right behind them. Weathered plaques along the side of the road marked the sites where Civil War battles had been forgotten, Confederate flags flew in yards where they hadn't. Julie spent most of the drive on her cell phone, doing lawyer-type things and arguing with people while I concentrated on driving. When signs for Waynesboro starting showing, however, she ended her last call, snapped the phone shut, and looked over at me.
"What's the plan?" she asked
I scrounged around a pocket near the arm rest and handed her a map. "Kransky wrote down where she lived. We can try and find it on the map or we could go to the Visitors Center and ask--"
I stopped because she'd tossed the map on the backseat and had pulled her phone out again. "What's the address?" she asked.
"460 Catalpa Street."
"Hold on," she said and peered at the two-inch screen of her phone, biting her lip as she concentrated. She typed into the phone with two thumbs faster than I could with ten fingers. "Got it. W
hen you hit Market Street, turn right at the light, go three blocks. Take a left, then go about two miles."
"You sure we don't want to go to the Visitors Center?"
She shot me a look. "I'm sure, Singer. It's GPS, for Pete's sake."
We followed Waynesboro's broad, sleepy streets to the historic town center with its red brick Federal-style homes and right out the other side. Main Street fell behind as the road snaked its way to the outskirts of town where homes became modest and modern. Brick and wood gave way to vinyl and plastic, front porches and gliders to cement steps and folding chairs. The lawns were larger, but more apt to have pink flamingos and gazing balls in them. We pulled onto Catalpa and counted house numbers until we neared the one that Kransky had given me. I eased up onto the gravel shoulder when I was fifty yards away and we took a long look.
The house was like the others in the neighborhood, a two or three bedroom rancher with a cracked asphalt driveway and in desperate need of landscaping. An ugly, half-height cyclone fence surrounded the property. Fake shutters screwed into the siding made a passing attempt at colonial respectability that was obliterated by a herd of plastic deer arranged in a semi-circle around a birdbath. The lawn had been cut recently, though weeds and grass grew in the no-man's land between the fence and the street. A beat-up blue Chrysler mini-van rusted away in the driveway with a license plate too far away to make out clearly. A robin took a crap on the front porch. There was no one in the yard and no movement from inside that I could see. I shut the car off and unlatched my seat belt.
We sat for ten minutes.
Julie wriggled in her seat, trying to get comfortable. After five more minutes, she asked, "What are we doing, exactly?"
"We're waiting."
"For how long?"
"For a while," I said. "Wheeler could be sitting behind the door with a shotgun. It would kind of ruin my day if I got smoked strolling down the driveway."
"We'd have our man, at least."
"You would have your man," I said. "I would have a whole new set of medical bills."
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer1) Page 18
