HUNTER

by Bidinotto, Robert

  “If that’s what you want.” Her voice sounded soft. Tentative.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with what I want. It’s what I think we need, though. You need some time. I do, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll call you again in a few weeks. Right now, though, I feel like crap. I think I’m going to wrap things up here, then turn in early.”

  “All right,” she said. Then: “You promise you will call me, won’t you?”

  “I promise,” he found himself saying.

  “Dylan?”

  “Yes?”

  Her breath was coming in short, broken gasps. He realized she was crying.

  “Dylan...I do love you.”

  Someone was squeezing his chest, so tight that he could hardly breathe. He clenched his jaw tight. No, he wouldn’t say it. He had vowed to himself that he would never say that again. To her. To anyone.

  He closed his eyes. “I love you, too, Annie.”

  He had to snap the phone shut.

  He cursed himself for his weakness. Cursed her for her hold on him.

  This was no time to be a pussy. He had to focus on tonight’s mission. He knew he could always control his emotions when he focused on the mission.

  After a few minutes, he felt the coldness return. She was just an alibi, now. Nothing more.

  He checked his watch. Just after nine. Time to move.

  He removed the battery from the cell, then went through the same routine he’d established on the previous nights. He clicked off the television, rose from the sofa, stood in front of the balcony door, and stretched. Then drew the curtains shut and turned off the living room lamps.

  He went into the kitchen and filled Luna’s water bowl and food dish. She heard the noises and emerged from her hiding place to feast.

  Entering the bedroom, he flipped on the lights and the other TV, then shut the curtains there, too. Unseen now, he spent the next five minutes sweeping the whole apartment for bugs. It was still clear.

  He entered the walk-in closet, changed clothes, then went into the bathroom to do the rest of his prep. When he was done, he stood in front of the full-length mirror on its door, making sure everything looked just right.

  At nine-forty, he set the timers on the circuits in the bedroom. He left the lights and TV on when he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  It was dark in the living room, now. He sat down to wait. After a moment, Luna joined him on the sofa. She pranced back and forth under his hand as he pet her.

  “Well, girl,” he said softly, “I’ve had to make some substitutions on the team. Since Hyattsville, things have gotten a little too hot for Lex, so I’ve benched him. Maybe permanently. Tonight will be Shane Stone’s turn again.” He smiled. “As we know, he’s every bit as good.”

  He felt her flop against him, purring. He reached down, found and scratched her head. Sat there, thinking. Recalling the Vigilance for Victims meeting. Remembering the haunted faces.

  Remembering his silent vow to them.

  “You can’t walk away,” he repeated, aloud to himself. “You have to finish this. But there’s more to do, yet. A lot more.”

  He felt the cat lick his hand with her sandpaper tongue. Felt himself smile in response.

  “So, you still up for this?”

  He heard a contented purr in the darkness.

  “Glad you’re still on the team.”

  *

  He kept checking his illuminated watch. At nine minutes before ten, he rose, opened the door to the apartment, and checked outside. The hallway was clear. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him, then moved quickly to the fire door onto the emergency stairwell. It took him a couple of minutes to descend to the garage level. From behind the door there, he peered outside. Watched an arriving couple get out of their car and walk toward the elevator. When its doors closed, he left the stairwell and walked without hurry over to the car.

  It wasn’t the Forester, which remained in its spot on the other side of the garage. This one was a black 2007 BMW 7 Series High Security sedan. Dark-tinted windows and lots of useful toys. He got in, not worrying about the garage’s security cameras. Their tapes, if ever checked, would reveal the vehicle’s registered owner: the older, wealthy, seldom-seen occupant of unit 7D.

  *

  At two minutes before ten, Cronin nudged his partner. A vehicle’s headlights were visible inside the garage’s entrance.

  They watched a sleek black BMW emerge. “Nice wheels,” he said.

  “Not his, though,” Erskine answered.

  “Don’t assume. Remember, he had that pizza truck in the garage over there across the street.”

  Erskine pointed at the building and raised his binoculars. “Not him, though. I just saw his bedroom lights go off, this very second.”

  Cronin looked. The bedroom window to his apartment, lit brightly just seconds ago, had gone almost dark; only the intermittent flickering of his television screen was visible through the linen curtains.

  “See? He can’t be in two places at the same time. He’s up there watching TV, like he always does before he goes to sleep.”

  At that moment, Cronin felt the vibration in his jacket pocket. He took out his cell and noticed the Caller ID. “It’s our girl,” he said, then flipped it open. “Ed Cronin here.”

  “Sorry to bother you this late, Detective Cronin,” she said. Her voice sounded stressed.

  “No bother at all, Ms. Woods. We’re watching his place. But you sound upset. Is everything all right?”

  He heard her draw a deep breath. “I’m just calling to say that I can’t do this anymore.”

  Erskine threw him a questioning look. Cronin put his finger to his lips, then put her on speaker, so his partner could listen in. “Tell me what’s the matter,” he said, keeping his voice gentle.

  “He called tonight. Just a little while ago. We talked only briefly. But I could tell how hurt he was. He doesn’t think he can trust me.”

  Erskine rolled his eyes.

  “Ms. Woods, I understand you’re upset. But think about it. If he’s guilty of something, of course he would be angry if he thought he couldn’t continue to con you.”

  “You didn’t hear me. I said hurt, not angry. Detective Cronin, I know him. And yes, I realize he’s not telling me everything about his past, and yes, some things still don’t add up. But I also know that he’s a decent man. And a compassionate one, in so many ways. He has the strongest code of personal honor of any man I’ve ever known. So I just can’t buy your theory about him. I don’t think he’s involved.”

  “My theory doesn’t contradict anything you said, though. If I’m right, he’s probably the brains behind the vigilante team. He’s certainly intelligent enough. And as for his code of honor—Ms. Woods, have you ever heard the term ‘righteous slaughter’?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “It’s when somebody kills a bunch of people because he’s convinced himself that they deserve it. You see it all the time with mass murderers—the guys who walk into some fast-food joint or post office and mow down everybody in sight. They always have some grand excuse for it, some grievance or injustice they think rationalizes their revenge. The people they shot all had it coming to them. Well, that’s not much different from the way vigilantes think, is it?”

  “Except that in this case, the people getting shot really do deserve it.”

  Erskine grinned and gave a thumb’s-up; Cronin scowled at him.

  “Well, miss, that’s not for us to decide. We just can’t let individuals decide for themselves who lives and who dies, and for what reason. But you’re forgetting things. Like that pizza van you’re sure he was in. How do we explain things like that?”

  “Detective, we both know he takes elaborate security precautions. He has to. That was probably part of it: something he does so that people can’t follow him. Have you asked yourself how much of his behavior can be explained by simple paranoia?”

  “Fai
r point, I suppose. But why would he have to be paranoid about us? We’re on his side. But he’s not been fully honest, either with me or with you.”

  “You know exactly why he’s not been open with you—he told you himself. He knows you’re associated with the people who want to silence him. And I know why he can’t trust me, either. It’s because I’ve been deceiving him, almost since the day we met. About important things that he has a right to know. I think he senses it. And I think that’s why he’s holding back. He has damned good reason not to trust me. Not to trust either of us, Detective. Maybe if we give him more reasons to believe in us, he’ll open up and tell us the things we need to know.”

  He gave up. “Okay. So how did you leave it with him?”

  “He said we probably both need a little break from each other. A couple of weeks. Then he wants to try to work things out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just that he was really beat tonight and wanted to turn in early.”

  He glanced up at the window, watched the light from the TV moving on the curtain.

  “Ms. Woods, I told you that I’d love to believe this guy. I really would. So you trust him, then.”

  “With my life.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  COLUMBIA HEIGHTS,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Thursday, November 27, 11:10 p.m.

  From his vantage point in the SUV parked next to the kids’ playground, he could see into the rear yard behind the apartment buildings. At eleven-ten, an Hispanic kid in his early teens clambered down the steps of the building to his left, being dragged along by a big Doberman on a leash. The dog couldn’t wait to get out into the small yard the before lifting his leg against a bush.

  During his recons the past few nights, he’d watched the kid walk the dog several times around eleven. He was relieved that the kid, and not his target, owned the dog: No way he’d break into an apartment and face down a guard dog. Still, even though the animal would be in another apartment, he might bark up a storm when he entered.

  In addition, the target, Orlando Navarro, was obviously on guard, keeping out of sight for the most part, and staying close to other people whenever he emerged from his apartment. From all reports, Navarro—a beefy bodybuilder covered with gang tats—was no genius. But it didn’t take genius to figure out that murderers whose names appeared in the newspapers were vigilante targets.

  And the fact that his old amigo, Tomas Cardenas, had been whacked must have scared the hell out of him. Navarro had gone into hiding immediately after Cardenas was killed, changing his residence, with permission of the court. However, he had a problem staying hidden. Though free on appeal for the killing of Tommy Banacek, he was still on the hook with his probation officer for past crimes. Navarro had to show up at the office once a week to check in with the Man and take a urine test. And his P.O. knew where he lived.

  So it really wasn’t too hard to track him down. From a disposable cell phone, he’d called a low-level clerk in the probation department, routing the call through an online Caller ID “spoofing” service. The service allowed his phone to “spoof” the local courthouse’s phone number, so that it appeared on the clerk’s Caller ID. The service was even programmed to alter his voice as he spoke.

  All it took, then, was a little “pretexting”: prying privileged information from an unsuspecting source by impersonating somebody with a legitimate need to know. His pretext was that he was a records manager at the courthouse. He told the probation clerk that the judge needed to know if one Orlando Ramirez Navarro had been complying fully with the terms of his probation. Could the clerk look up his records, please?.... Great. Now, at what day and time are Mr. Navarro’s weekly appointments with his P.O.?.... Uh-huh. And have his urine tests been coming back clean?.... Good. By the way, let me read off the contact information we have, just to make sure it’s all correct in our records.... Oh, you say that’s his old address? Well, please give me the new one, so that I can update our files.... Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Jones.

  Piece of cake.

  So, the guileless clerk had pointed him to Navarro’s new digs in this public-housing complex in Columbia Heights. A lot of Hispanics lived in the area, and his target no doubt hoped that he would blend right in. From his recons, during which he used a different vehicle each night, he was sure that the guy lived alone. Gang pals sometimes showed up in the evening, allowing him to note which second-floor apartment lights went on and off when they arrived and left. That gave him an idea of the layout of the place. Tonight, a couple of them showed up around eight and left at ten-thirty. One set of windows, which he’d figured for the living room, went dark about eleven, and immediately the window to its left lit up. The bedroom. He’d be in there by himself, now.

  For this job, he’d use a combo from the Eastern Shore weapons cache that already had been used previously: the Beretta 92FS with SWR Trident suppressor, popping Alabama Ammo 147 grain Special Ks. Reliable, accurate, and most importantly, very quiet.

  But this couldn’t be like any of the previous missions; that had already been decided. The plan was to leave the target here, with the news clipping on him. It was just too difficult to remove the body, unseen, and deposit it where it might be more symbolically appropriate.

  Still, this guy—the second gang-banger involved in the death of George Banacek’s kid—just had to go. For one thing, he was unfinished business. For another, after he was taken out, the other murderers in the news stories would know that none of them could hide anywhere.

  He waited for the kid to drag the Doberman back inside, then gave it another two minutes for everyone to settle in. His watch said eleven-fifteen. Time to go hunting.

  Once the traffic cleared, he rolled the Chevy Trailblazer out from the curb, down the street past the front of the building, then into the driveway that led behind the complex. He backed into a parking spot close to the building, leaving the engine running. The silenced Beretta and newspaper clipping were inside the deep, right-hand pocket of his long leather coat. A small lock-pick gun was inside the left one.

  There were no security cameras to worry about, but he wore a broad-brimmed leather hat, anyway, and kept his head down as he moved down the sidewalk and up the short steps to the building entrance. He also wore brown leather gloves to match his coat and hat. A good gangster look that wouldn’t be out of place here.

  The door lock was no problem; the electronic pick got him inside within ten seconds. Against the wall to his right, stairs led to the second- and third-floor apartments. He made sure to keep himself physically oriented as he crept up to the second-floor hallway. Estimating the distances from what he’d seen from the front of the building, he knew that Navarro occupied the second apartment to his left.

  He stepped quietly to that door. Listened. Noise from a TV or stereo from within, probably the bedroom. More bass thumping from somewhere else down the hall. Good. The racket would mask any sounds of his entry.

  He glanced down the hallway in both directions. Clear. Then drew the Beretta from his coat. One in the chamber, full mag, hammer down. He thumbed off the safety. With his left hand, he carefully inserted the pick into the upper dead-bolt lock and pressed the button. Even the soft buzz-rattle of the pick made him cringe. Then stuck it into the door-knob keyhole. Another brief buzz. He withdrew the pick, dropped it back into his coat pocket.

  Pointing the gun upward in his right hand, he leaned against the door with his left shoulder. Carefully turned the doorknob with his left hand. Eased the door open, just enough so that he could slip quickly into the darkened room and swing it almost shut behind him, leaving it slightly ajar for a fast exit.

  For just a second, he saw the bright rectangle of the bedroom entrance, ahead and to his right.

  Then there was a rustle and blur of motion on his left.

  The big Doberman, barely visible in the weak light from the bedroom, was so fast that he only had an instant to jerk up his left arm to shield himself as it leape
d. Its weight and momentum knocked him back against the apartment door, slamming it shut loudly.

  His hand banged against something and he dropped the gun.

  He fought to retain his balance as the dog snarled and clamped down on his left forearm. It shook its head violently, its sharp teeth tearing right through the thick leather and into his arm. The pain was excruciating.

  He regained his footing, straightening his body and lifting hard with his arm. But the animal, growling savagely, wasn’t about to let loose; he only succeeded in pulling it upright, flat against his body. Barely a foot from his face, its wild eyes glinted darkly into his.