by Jeff Siebold
“Sounds good,” said Kimmy. She stood and pulled on a light jacket that covered her Jerico 941, holstered at the small of her back. “Do you have your body armor on?”
They had decided that Sarah should wear a light Kevlar vest under her sweater as additional protection whenever she was out of the apartment proper, including when she was on the balcony.
“Yep, I do,” said Sarah with a laugh, pulling up her sweater and flashing Kimmy. She’s nervous. That was out of character, thought Kimmy.
Kimmy smiled. “Let’s take my car,” she said.
They took the elevator down to the parking garage and found Kimmy’s car parked near the elevator. After a quick once-over, Kimmy nodded and the women got into the front seat.
“You want to navigate?” she asked Sarah.
“Oh, sure, nothing to it.” Sarah looked at her phone. “We could have walked,” she said. “Just turn right here, then onto International Drive, and to the mall. It’s like three blocks.”
Kimmy dialed a number and spoke quietly for a moment, then looked at Sarah and said, “OK, here we go.”
Chapter 20
“Hey, Zeke, it’s all quiet here,” said Kimmy, reporting in by phone. “Nothing happening.”
“Any chance the killer knows where you are?” asked Zeke.
“We’ve been pretty careful, but I don’t know. She found Sarah at the coffee shop,” said Kimmy.
“Yep. But that was an easy guess, based on where Sarah works and all. The new location would be harder.”
“But like you say, people always leave footprints,” said Kimmy. “Cell phones, cars, clues in her patterns…”
“Which is why you’re with her,” said Zeke. “Keeping her safe.”
* * *
In fact, Susan had staked out the ED building, watching for Sarah’s unscheduled visits.
It’s a tedious chore, she thought, but necessary. I can’t have her mucking up the money and causing trouble for my clients.
Dressed in uniform as a private security guard—there were many of them in D.C.—Susan stayed in an area close to the entrance to the LBJ Building and monitored the people who came and went. Apparently, Sarah had abandoned her townhouse and, based on Susan’s earlier inspection, she’d taken her car and disappeared. No doubt with help from her friends at The Agency.
However, Susan Del Gato wasn’t without resources. She’d touched all the bases, checking Sarah’s Social Media pages for comments or photos that might reveal her location, checking her mail for a forwarding address, monitoring her credit card charges and ATM withdrawals using passwords she’d taken from Sarah’s townhouse. She also checked dealerships for Susan’s car servicing, calling them with the VIN number and asking about recent appointments or visits.
She realized that there was a good chance Sarah was visiting the office occasionally. She arranged for the Security Guard uniform and took her post, watching the entrance to the LBJ.
* * *
“I found her,” Susan reported. She’d called Benito Diaz on a burner phone a couple days later.
Benito said, “Excellent.”
“She forwarded her mail. I sent her a letter, ‘Address Correction Requested/Do Not Forward’ and the post office did exactly as I asked.”
Benito Diaz waited.
“I’m moving into phase two. I’ll pick her up at her apartment in Tysons Corner, which is her new mailing address. It should be simple, now.”
“Good. Can you finish the job, now?” he asked.
“Yes, I can,” said Susan.
“Good. I’ll tell the appropriate people,” said Diaz.
* * *
Coastal Flats turned out to be a comfortable restaurant with a nautical theme. The walls were a bright yellow, inside and out, and the many windows were designed in a Cape Cod style and painted white. As they entered the building, the smell of roasting oysters and cooking fish greeted them.
“I didn’t realize I was hungry until we got here,” said Kimmy as they were seated. “Smells yummy.”
“Let’s get an appetizer to share,” Sarah said. “I love their crab dip.”
“OK, I’m good with that,” said Kimmy, and they ordered it with glasses of water when the server arrived a moment later.
“Got it,” said the server. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” She walked off to fetch their beverages.
Sarah nodded. Then she said to Kimmy, “I still have trouble believing that someone wants to kill me.”
“Don’t worry, there’s a big difference between ‘wanting to’ and actually doing it,” said Kimmy with confidence. “It’s not as easy as you’d think, to kill someone.”
“You know this…how?” asked Sarah, suddenly cautious.
Kimmy ignored the question and said, “It’s not like on TV.”
Sarah just looked at her.
Kimmy shrugged and continued, “First of all, it’s much harder to kill someone than you’d think because there aren’t a lot of ways to make someone die. It’s easier to hurt someone than to kill them, you know?”
“Like…” asked Sarah.
“Well, to be certain, you’ve got to be in close. And, think about it, getting close to a stranger isn’t all that easy. Plus, once you’ve killed him, you want to be able to get away,” said Kimmy. “That’s a trick in itself.”
“But if they have a gun…” said Sarah.
“Well, if it’s a handgun, it’s only accurate for about ten yards. Not at all what you see on television, really. It depends on the sight radius of the gun. From twenty yards, you may as well just throw it at your victim.”
“What’s a ‘sight radius’?” asked Susan.
“The distance between the handgun’s front sight and it’s rear sight. The longer that distance, the more accurate the weapon,” said Kimmy.
“Really?” asked Sarah.
“Sure,” said Kimmy. “But most handguns are short barreled. Less accuracy. And in public there’s seldom a clear ten-yard alley. There’s furniture, people, walls, trees, cars… The effective range is limited by that, too.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “But aren’t there more accurate guns?”
“Sure. There are a lot of variables. Accuracy depends on the powder charge, the length of the barrel, the weight of the bullet, all variables. But most killers are carrying a handgun because they can conceal it, which implies a short-barrel and a relatively light gun. And with that, accuracy diminishes, almost logarithmically,” she continued.
“I guess I hadn’t thought…” Sarah started.
“Plus, if you’re in a crowded place, you’ve got people in your line of fire,” Kimmy continued. “You can’t predict what people are going to do, either. They’re very random.”
The server arrived and set down their drinks, waters with lemon, along with the crab dip.
Sarah sipped her drink and then said, “Wouldn’t they just start shooting?”
Kimmy was shaking her head. “No, for a number of reasons. First, if they kill two or more people, they’re considered a ‘mass murderer,’ which results in all of the attention from the local and state police, as well as a likely FBI presence. That’s like calling down the wrath of God on yourself…it just isn’t worth the attention. It escalates everything quickly, and you’re going to get caught.”
“OK,” said Sarah. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”
Kimmy smiled and said, “This crab dip is excellent!”
Sarah put some on a toast point and ate it thoughtfully.
“Also, they won’t just start shooting. After all, they want to escape. The element of surprise is important, getting the shooting done and then getting out of the area before anyone realizes that the sound was a gun, not a backfire or an explosion.”
“So the more bullets fired, and the longer it takes, the more likely people will start to realize that’s it’s not background noise…” said Sarah.
“Sure,” said Kimmy. “So one thing we do is we take away the killer�
��s ability to be alone with you. We avoid small, private spaces like elevators or bathrooms, any place that could give the killer an advantage.”
“I see.”
“And another consideration,” said Kimmy. “The activity associated with drawing the gun, bringing it up, aiming it, and firing accurately is a difficult set of motions that have to take place very quickly. Unlike target shooting, there’s a lot of room for error there, too, in those moments.”
Sarah was nodding again, as their server arrived to take their lunch orders. She did so, then scuttled away.
* * *
At a nearby table, Susan sat with her back to the table Kimmy and Sarah shared and listened to their conversation. Her hair had been cut short and died red, and she wore several layers of clothing, shirts and sweaters and a light jacket that together made her look pudgy. Susan had also applied makeup heavily, accenting her eyes and her mouth, virtually transforming her appearance.
It’s a matter of good planning, she thought to herself. No, she corrected herself, excellent planning.
* * *
Kimmy looked around the restaurant again, seemingly fascinated with the nautical and seaside decor. There were crab traps and fishing nets cleverly placed on shelving throughout the building, and the interior walls looked like an ocean cottage, yellow with white trim painted over distressed shiplap.
Sarah sipped her water and said, “How long will this take?”
Kimmy said, “The whole thing? Keeping you safe? Just until we take the killer down.”
Two tables away, Susan overheard and smiled to herself.
“It’s already getting old,” said Sarah, her green eyes welling up with frustration. “I can’t get with my staff with any regularity. And I can’t really plan, because of the uncertainty of it.”
“I know,” said Kimmy, “but we’ve gotta keep you alive. Or else you won’t be going to any meetings anyway.”
As they spoke, the red haired, pudgy woman paid her check and exited the restaurant, careful to avoid looking at Sarah and Kimmy’s table. She walked to the front door, pulled it open and stepped out into the coolness of the Tysons Corner afternoon.
* * *
Earlier, in the parking garage of the apartment complex in Tysons Corner, Susan had no problem locating Sarah’s Toyota Camry, parked beside a concrete pillar. She dialed her cell phone.
“We’ll send someone out,” said the dispatcher. Susan had called AAA.
“Oh, please hurry! I’m late and I’m stuck in this garage here at my apartment building,” Susan said.
“You can wait inside, if you like. The locksmith will call when he gets close.”
“I can’t. I don’t have my apartment key, either. How long do you think…?” she started.
“He should be there within twenty minutes, ma’am,” said the bored dispatcher.
“OK, OK, I’ll wait by the car,” Susan said.
“Yes, ma’am. If you’ll write down the car’s VIN number, and the make and model and year of the car for the locksmith…”
“Certainly, sure, I can do that.”
“And you have an I.D?”
“It’s in my apartment. And the keys to my apartment were on the key ring I lost. I thought it was in my pocket, you know, but when I got here, it wasn’t. In my pocket, I mean,” Susan said.
“Yes, ma’am. He’ll be along soon.” The dispatcher hung up.
Seventeen minutes later, a white panel van with a locksmith’s sign on the side had pulled into the garage and stopped behind Sarah’s car. Susan walked over to the driver’s door hurriedly.
The driver shut the van off and stepped out. He was a thin man, average height, and had a thick, black beard. His skin was pale white and he had what looked like burn marks along both arms. He moved fragilely.
He’s been in prison, thought Susan. She said, “Thank God you’re here! Can you get me a replacement key? Here’s the information.”
She handed him a sheet of paper, which he looked at for a moment and then said, “Sure.”
The locksmith, who said his name was Steven, went to the back of his van and took out some equipment. Within four minutes of his arrival, the door to Sarah’s 2012 Camry was standing open and Steven was programing a new key.
“I’m supposed to see your ID,” he said to Susan.
“I know, but I think it’s in my apartment. I lost my key ring between here and there. Or maybe I left my purse in the apartment. Anyhow, the apartment key is lost, too,” Susan said. “I can’t get in.”
Steve looked at her for a minute, and then said. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah Helms,” she said without hesitation. “Here’s my AAA card.” She handed him the spare card she’d taken from the desk drawer in Sarah’s townhouse.
“Well, that’s what it says here in the system,” Steven said, looking at his iPad. Then he looked at her. “You’re not going to have a problem paying for this, are you?” Suspicious.
“Oh, no, no,” she said. “I have some cash in my pocket, if that’s OK?”
Steven licked his lips, just a flicker of tongue visible. “OK. It’ll be $180, for the door and the spare key, Sarah.”
Susan said, “That’s a lot of money…”
“It is,” said Steve, obviously used to that objection. “It’s these new keys with the chips in them. Everything’s electronic, now, so everything costs more. The key itself is ninety some dollars, and then I have to program it to work with your car. Plus the door opening, and travel to and from. One eighty.” He handed her a detailed invoice.
Susan turned a bit and put her hand in her pocket and looked down at what she was holding. She sorted through some currency, obviously trying to keep Steven from seeing the full extent of her bankroll. In a moment, she turned back and handed him two hundred dollar bills and said, “I’m very grateful.”
Steven reached into his pocket for change, and Susan said, “No, keep it. Thanks for helping me out here.”
* * *
Susan drove from Coastal Flats directly to the parking garage and found an empty space.
She whistled quietly as she approached the car. Guilty people seldom whistle. Manny had taught her that.
It was light outside, but there were shadowy areas in the garage, particularly between cars. Susan stepped between Susan’s car and another.
“Now we just need to get this in place,” said Susan to herself. She opened the door with the spare key she’d acquired from AAA the day before.
The package she held was unobtrusive, a brown paper grocery bag, folded twice at the top. Susan retrieved it from under a car three down from Sarah’s, where she’d left it earlier that morning. The bag wasn’t particularly heavy. It contained three sticks of TNT and a magnet all taped together with duct tape, a blasting cap, some wire, a small battery and a tilt switch.
Susan was proficient with tilt switches, having used them to detonate bombs over the years. The switch, typically a small glass canister of mercury, was wired into the detonation circuit of the bomb. She then secured the canister behind the brake pedal, her favorite spot, and once armed, the bomb would detonate when the brake pedal was pushed and the canister tilted enough to make the connection.
The TNT was attached to the undercarriage of the Toyota, just under the driver’s seat. The circuit wires were pulled through the floorboard near the brake linkage, and the small canister was secured behind the pedal. Ingenious, and almost undetectable, she thought. Susan hummed as she worked.
Susan then retrieved the GPS device she had attached to Sarah’s car, put it with her gloves, car key and brown bag in her purse and walked out of the garage.
* * *
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Zeke,” said Luis Cruz. Dressed in an orange jumpsuit that was stenciled in black with a prison acronym across the back and down one leg, and his arms and legs secured with heavy silver manacles, Cruz nonetheless looked confident, even cocky. As if their roles were reversed.
“You enjoying so
litary?” asked Zeke.
“It’s fine. Just putting in time, anyway, watching the bulls wander around.”
“I think the attempted murder charge will stick,” said Zeke.
Cruz smiled a small smile and shook his head to himself. “Hope the witnesses show up at the trial,” he said, indifferently.
“You know, Luis,” he said, then paused. “That’s your name, right? Luis Cruz? You know, Luis, we’ve been looking into some other deaths. Deaths of Federal witnesses after they testified. We’ve found eight killings in six cities in the past three years, and I think we can pin them all on you.”
Luis Cruz smiled a lazy smile.
“DNA, you know?” continued Zeke. “Now that we know what to look for, we can get the samples the ME’s took from each victim’s clothes and body, and match them to your DNA. You know you were in close on every one of those killings. A garrote, knives, poison. One was beaten to death.”
Cruz shook his head.
“Four of those states have the death penalty. They’re planning to hold the trial in Federal Court in Arizona for all eight murders and the attempt. On me. So you’re basically screwed.”
“You know who runs the prisons?” Cruz asked.
“You think Diaz is going to help you? I think he’ll be cutting his losses as soon as he can get to you,” Zeke said. “As soon as you’re out of solitary, or in transport, or maybe in the prison infirmary. You’ve become a liability to him. And he doesn’t want the trouble that will come if you give him up for ordering the hits. You can see that, right?”
The men were silent for a minute while Cruz thought it over.
“You could possibly avoid the needle, though,” said Zeke.
“What’s this, the stick and the carrot?” asked Cruz.
“Sure,” said Zeke. “Why not?”
