“It fits. The shooter at Prince George’s Mall badged the two guards and drove a Crown Vic-”
“But he was a fake cop. There’s no ‘Detective Lex Talionis.’ The name’s a joke-Latin for ‘eye for an eye.’ The badge number didn’t check out legit, the car’s plate was phony, and the security camera down the road showed the Crown Vic was civilian, not a P71. Come on, Ed, all that proves is that these people are good at masquerading and flashing fake IDs. We already knew that, from the Alexandria courthouse.”
“That’s not my point, Marty. I’m only saying the guy knew enough police procedure to convince the guards he was the real deal. Besides that, they know how to pick locks, bypass alarms and security gates, rig electronics, keep a crime scene clean. And they get in and out of places without arousing suspicion. Especially that. If they’re police, that would explain it. Who stops a cop from going anywhere?”
Erskine was studying the exposed wiring around the elevator buttons. “I’m with Ed on this. We’ve already established they have a pile of money, multiple vehicles, a bunch of guns, plus people experienced in planning, logistics, surveillance, and conducting hits. Who else except cops would know all that stuff?”
Abrams shrugged. “People in government. Military, ex-military. Former SWAT or Navy SEALs or something.”
“So what’s their motive?” Cronin asked.
They looked at each other blankly.
Abrams turned to stare at the corpse. He sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. We still got jack shit.”
Bethesda, Maryland
Sunday, November 16, 9:35 a.m.
She drifted awake, wondering if she had been dreaming or if something had touched her bare shoulder. She kept her eyes closed and pulled the comforter higher around her.
Seconds later, a light tap on her cheek.
She opened an eye. Luna was a foot away from her face, paw extended.
“No,” she groaned.
She felt Dylan stir somewhere behind her.
“We don’t use that word here. Remember?”
“Not you. Your cat.”
“Luna, let the lady sleep.”
“Mrrrroww.”
“Get your paw away from my face!”
“She’s probably out of food. I’ll take care of it.”
She felt the bed quiver as he got up. Heard the thump of the departing cat hitting the floor. Felt herself drift off again…
*
She awoke some vague time later to the smell of coffee. After stopping in the bathroom, she padded out in her bathrobe and bare feet.
Dylan was also in his bathrobe, reading the Sunday paper at the dining table. He looked up at her and smiled.
“Hi, you.”
“Hi, you,” she answered. “Thanks for letting me sleep. At least this morning. ”
He chuckled, raised his mug. “Made another pot. You have first dibs.”
“Great.” She went into the kitchen, poured a cup, fetched a container of yogurt from the fridge, then joined him at the table.
“So where’s Luna?”
“Curled up on my office chair.”
“Ah. What’s in the news today?”
He gave her that crooked grin she loved. “Only the greatest piece of writing in the history of investigative journalism.”
“Oh Dylan! You didn’t tell me! Another big crime expose?”
“See for yourself.” He slid the editorial section over to her, then got up with his empty mug and headed for the kitchen.
She spun it around, saw the headline spread across the front page of the section.
Felt her smile fade and blood drain from her face.
MACLEAN FAMILY FOUNDATION: THE CRIMINAL’S BEST FRIEND
News and Commentary by Dylan Lee Hunter
It is a tax-exempt charity, controlling over a billion dollars in assets. Every day, without fanfare, it serves and defends a clientele that it characterizes as “society’s stigmatized victims.” But its furtive, publicity-shy ways are completely understandable. After all, it is responsible for some of the most heinous crimes of the past decade. Let me introduce you to the MacLean Family Foundation: the nation’s most influential champion of murderers, rapists, and assorted predators. It’s the source of endless studies that excuse criminal behavior, and of countless policies that turn loose convicted criminals to prey on others. It’s the pillar that supports what I’ll call “the Excuse-Making Industry.”
She stopped reading. Her eyes drifted to the middle of the page.
To the large photo of her father.
She felt disembodied, unreal.
She was staring at the handsome, smiling face-her father.
Steps away, whistling in the kitchen, was his enemy-her lover.
Well, what did you expect? You knew it had to come to this.
“Wonk? You up?” He was on his cell with somebody. “Good, you already saw it, then… Well, thanks. But you outdid yourself, too. Can’t thank you enough for all the research.” He paused, then laughed. “For sure. We’ve turned over a rock, my friend. Now all the roaches will be scurrying around, looking for cover… Oh yes. The fireworks this time will be incredible…”
She closed her eyes.
“…No, not today. I expect they’ll issue some response tomorrow, though. They’ll have to. And thanks to you, I’m ready for it. You’ll get a bonus for this one, Wonk. I’m doubling your usual rate…Absolutely, I’m serious. The check will go out tomorrow… No, you deserve it… You, too. Now go enjoy your afternoon.”
She felt as if the walls in the apartment were shrinking, threatening to crush her.
You’ve been living a lie.
How could you do this to him?
And how could you do this to your own father?
“What’s wrong?”
She realized she was shaking. With a great effort, she forced herself to raise her head, meet his eyes. He stood near, staring at her, his eyes wide with alarm.
She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. She needed time to think.
“I don’t feel very well.”
“I can see that. You’re all white! I should call a doctor.”
“No, no! It’s not that bad. I just… It must be all the Mexican we ate last night. My stomach isn’t right and I just had a dizzy spell… Maybe I should lie down a bit.”
He took her arm as she got up and he led her back into the bedroom. He helped her under the covers, pulled them up around her.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“No, I’ll be okay. Really, Dylan. Just let me be for a bit.”
“All right.” He bent and kissed her cheek. Then went to the window and drew the heavy curtains closed.
Each act of tenderness made her feel more guilty. She blinked back tears as he turned to leave.
“Dylan.”
“Yes?”
She had to say it. Now. Whatever happened later, he had to hear it.
“I love you… I want you to know that. I really do love you.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Then he approached the bed. Leaned down, took her face in his big, strong hands. His eyes, usually so intense, were soft now.
“And I love you, Annie Woods. I really do love you.”
It was the first time they had said it.
He kissed her, gently.
Then he straightened, smiled down at her, and left, closing the door softly.
She turned into the pillow to muffle her sobs.
*
After about an hour, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror.
You fraud.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. It would be obvious she’d been crying.
First, a shower.
Then she had to make an excuse and get out of here. Get away for awhile. Think.
She had deceived him. And he would hate her for it.
She ran the water as cold as she could stand. Stepped in and stood there, taking it.
You frau
d.
TWENTY-THREE
Alexandria, Virginia
Monday, November 17, 9:45 a.m.
“You look like you just ate a crap sandwich,” Erskine said.
From behind his desk, Erskine stared up at him over his half-moon glasses.
“Just did,” Cronin said. He tilted his head toward the chief’s glassed-in office.
“Let’s have it.”
Cronin flopped into Erskine’s visitor chair. Around them, the other desks were half-occupied by uniforms and investigators working leads and catching up on weekend paperwork. As usual, they had to talk over a steady din of chatter, chirping phones, and questions shouted and answered across the room.
“Read the latest Hunter article in the Inquirer yesterday?”
“Naw, I’m illiterate, Ed. Of course I did. He really laid it out, didn’t he?”
“Too well. He’s been pissing people off for weeks. People with clout. Judges, prosecutors, attorneys, prison officials. Now this MacLean guy, who’s politically connected and has boatloads of money. Going after him seems to have been the last straw. Chief got a call last night, he wouldn’t say who. He told me the Powers That Be want us to lean on Hunter and get him to shut up.”
Erskine’s mouth fell open. “Lean on a reporter? That’s nuts!”
“Of course it is. It shows how desperate they’re getting. They tried to talk to his bosses at the newspaper, but it didn’t work. So now they’re telling us to play hardball with him. They’re pretending it’s because he’s encouraging the vigilantes. ‘Every time he writes, somebody dies,’ is the official line. But it’s really because he’s embarrassing a lot of suits.”
“But why ask Alexandria PD to go after him? We’re small potatoes.”
“I asked. Chief says he owes a big favor to some guy, and now the guy’s calling it in. He was told they don’t want the whole task force to be implicated if it goes bad. So, guess who’s our department’s designated hitter?”
Erskine stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish. Chief told me, ‘Nose into his background a bit. Find something we can use to persuade him to back off.’”
“Jesus. That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.
His eyes drifted around the room, watching his friends work. Most of their faces looked like he felt. Worn. Tired. He thought of his rookie days, when he showed up here every day full of piss and vinegar and pride and idealism. He hadn’t felt any of that for-hell, he couldn’t remember how long. And he knew why. Too many days like this one.
He faced his partner. “Dammit, Paul. I like the guy. I even told him the whole department was behind what he’s doing.”
“He’s saying all the things that need to be said.”
“And now I’m being ordered to go back on what I said to him.”
“I’m sorry, Ed… So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He moved a paperweight on Erskine’s desk in small circles. “I’ll start poking into his background this morning. Go through the motions, anyway. Just enough to keep the brass and the mayor from breathing down my neck. Hell, it’s not like I don’t have enough to do already.”
“Ed. You know I’ll cover for you, if you need me to.”
He met his partner’s eyes. “Thanks, Paul. But I’ll be okay.” He sighed and rose to his feet. “It’s just that, days like this, I wonder whose side we’re really on.”
Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Monday, November 17, 10:35 a.m.
As always, the dozen men sat in a circle in the second-floor meeting room. As always, each of them spoke in turn, and to all appearances, spontaneously and sincerely.
As always, they’d rehearsed their lines together ahead of time.
Adrian Wulfe looked around at his fellow inmates. At all the jutting jaws, the bulging biceps, the scars, the tats, the dreads. At the feigned expressions of interest and contrition, masking boredom. He glanced at the clock for the third time in a minute, wishing the hands to move faster toward eleven.
Frankfurt’s group counseling sessions were scheduled twice a week. Almost all of them hated being here. Except for Preacher Jim, of course. The gaunt-faced old-timer with the stringy gray hair sat across from him, rocking back and forth in his chair, looking up at the ceiling periodically, like he was waiting for Jesus or something. Whenever anybody spoke, Preacher would mumble to himself, then say “Amen!” when they were done.
The others, though, were here for the same reasons he was. They volunteered for Group only to get good-behavior credits and knock some time off their prison terms. Occasionally, if you impressed The Hairball with your “progress,” he’d put in a good word and you’d get some perks, too. More free time in the music room or library, better jobs. And you made him feel important, like he was accomplishing something. A win-win situation. Sure, they all hated sucking up to him, but you did what you had to do.
His eyes followed The Hairball, who strolled in the center of the ring, like a lion tamer. He didn’t know who had come up with Frankfurt’s nickname, but it stuck. The shrink’s frizzy, unkempt hair and beard did kind of remind you of something a cat coughed up.
Wulfe was one of the few in the joint who had some college, so they all came to him when they needed something to be written, or for help in what to say in situations like this. He traded on his education and literacy for favors, cash, and contraband. For Group, he coached them to think of it like an acting class. You’re putting on a show, a performance. You have to seem credible. And if you can impress The Hairball, you could probably snow parole and probation people later, too.
They listened to him, not only because he was smart, but because he’d actually taken two semesters of drama in college. Mainly to get near the theater girls, because he’d been told that artsy bitches would do pretty much anything, in bed or out. So he took acting classes and learned some Stanislavsky bullshit, before the college tossed him out on his ass near the end of his sophomore year. But he could still cry on cue, if he wanted to. Not here, of course, or they’d think you were a pussy, which could be fatal. But outside, it came in handy, sometimes. Like if you wanted to get in some broad’s pants, and maybe there were people nearby, so you couldn’t just force her, and you had to do the Mr. Sensitivity act. Sure, it was better when you just forced them, but sometimes you had to make do.
Bo Weller, the Aryan Brotherhood enforcer, was into his routine, now. It was all Wulfe could do to keep from laughing. Here’s this three-hundred-pound dude with a broken nose and all those gang tats bullshitting Hairball about how his parents’ divorce when he was thirteen left a “hole in his emotions.” Wulfe had given Weller that line yesterday, in exchange for a couple of cigarettes. Weller was a moron, and Wulfe wasn’t sure if Hairball would see right through a line that lame; but he could tell that the shrink was eating it up. People believe what they want to believe. So, you feed them what they want to hear, and you own them.
But he could tell that Hairball was sulking today. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what the guys were saying. He had a grim expression on his face and a faraway look in his eyes while he paced in the middle of the circle.
Wulfe knew it was the article in yesterday’s paper by that smart-mouthed prick Hunter. He was pissed off when he read it, so he could only imagine how pissed The Hairball was. It was bringing all sorts of unwanted attention to the shrink’s programs, including this one.
That could screw his own chances to get out early. He had to try and move the ball down the field now, if he could.
“Excuse me, Bo,” he said, “I’m sorry for interrupting. But I wanted to ask Dr. Frankfurt something.”
The dude blinked. “Ah…okay.”
The shrink frowned at him. “Mr. Wulfe?”
“I hope I’m not being out of line, doctor-and please tell me to mind my own business if I am. But you seem-I don’t know, a bit distracted today. I just wonder if there’s a problem?”
It was as if Wulfe had lanced a boil. The shrink started to pace more rapidly around the middle of the circle, his words pouring out in a torrent.
“Perhaps some of you saw the Inquirer yesterday. That horrible article about the MacLean Foundation and its inmate rehabilitation programs?” The guys looked at each other and some nodded. “Well, as you may know, I head the Psychological Services Program for the foundation. And this outrageous attack cuts at the heart of everything we’re trying to do. Including this counseling program.”
Everybody made the appropriate faces and angry noises.
“The author, some hack writer named Dylan Hunter, who must think of himself as the Lone Ranger, has been riding his ‘crime-fighter’ hobby horse for months. He’s doing tremendous damage to years of work serving clients like you, undermining our public and political support. I just spoke to Kenneth MacLean himself about an hour ago, and he’s extremely worried that some key backing we’ve had for the sentencing reform bill in Congress might now be in jeopardy. In fact, immediately after this session, I have to drive to Washington for a press conference with him. We’re going to set the record straight.”
Wulfe nodded sympathetically at the jerk. “I’m truly sorry, doctor. Your work has been such a big help to all of us, and I’m sure to many others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe. I appreciate that more than you could know.”
Oh, I’m sure of that, Hairball.
“It’s really an either-or choice for society,” the pompous ass continued. “We can dwell in the bitter past, looking behind us down the path of retribution and recrimination. Or we can look forward and take a new path to personal rehabilitation and restoration.”
“What he’s writing, if you ask me, it’s downright un-Christian,” Wulfe interjected. “It’s contrary to the virtues of forgiveness and trust as rewards for sincere repentance.”
“Amen, brother!” Preacher Jim chimed in.
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