Denny sat back and lit one of the half-smoked butts in the ashtray. He handed it to Mitch and then lit another for himself. While he was at it, he lit the orange envelope with the parking ticket inside and dropped it, burning, onto the cement.
“Yeah, Mitch, I think maybe you are ready. The question is, are they ready for us?”
Mitch’s knees started to jackhammer up and down. “When do we start? Tonight? What about tonight? What about it, huh, Denny?”
Denny shrugged and leaned back. “Just enjoy the peace and quiet while you can, ’cause you’re going to be famous as shit soon enough.” He blew a smoke ring, then another, which passed right through the first. “You ready to be famous?”
Mitch was looking out the window at a couple of cute, short-skirted coeds crossing the parking lot. His knees were still bouncing. “I’m ready to start this thing, that’s what.”
“Good boy. And what’s the mission, Mitchie?”
“Clean up this mess in Washington, just like the politicians always say.”
“That’s right. They talk about it–”
“But we gonna do something about it. No doubt. No doubt.”
Denny extended his fist for a bump, then started up the car. He backed out the long way to get a good look at the ladies from behind.
“Speaking of tacos,” he said, and Mitch laughed. “Where you want to eat? We’ve got paper to burn today.”
“Taco Bell, man,” Mitch said without even having to think.
Denny pulled hard on the gearshift to get it into drive and took off. “Why am I not surprised?”
Chapter 3
THE LEAD STORY in my life these days was Bree – Brianna Stone, known as the Rock at Metro Police. And, yes, she was all of that – solid, profound, lovely. She’d become a part of my life to the point where I couldn’t imagine it without her anymore. Things hadn’t been this sane and balanced for me in years.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that Homicide at Metro was so quiet lately. As a cop, you can’t help but wonder when that next ton of bricks is going to fall, but in the meantime, Bree and I had an unheard-of two-hour lunch that Thursday afternoon. Usually the only way we see each other during the day is if we’re working the same murder case.
We sat in the back at Ben’s Chili Bowl, under all the signed celeb photos. Ben’s isn’t exactly the world capital of romance, but it is an institution in Washington. The half-smokes alone are worth the trip.
“So you know what they’re calling us around the office these days?” Bree said, halfway through a coffee milk shake. “Breelex.”
“Breelex? Like Brad and Angelina? That’s awful.”
She laughed; she couldn’t even keep a straight face at that. “I’m telling you, cops have no imagination.”
“Hmm.” I put a hand lightly on her leg under the table. “With exceptions, of course.”
“Of course.”
Any more than that would have to wait, and not just because the bathrooms at Ben’s Chili Bowl were definitely not an option. We did in fact have somewhere important we had to be that day.
After lunch, we strolled hand in hand up U Street to Sharita Williams’s jewelry store. Sharita was an old friend from high school, and she also happened to do outstanding work on antique pieces.
A dozen tiny bells tinkled over our heads as we breezed in the door.
“Well, don’t you two look in love.” Sharita smiled from behind the counter.
“That’s ’cause we are, Sharita,” I said. “And I highly recommend it.”
“Just find me a good man, Alex. I’m in.”
She knew why we were there, and she removed a small black velvet box from under the case. “It came out beautifully,” she said. “I love this piece.”
The ring used to belong to my grandmother, Nana Mama, she of the impossibly small hands. We’d had it resized for Bree. It was a platinum deco setting with three diamonds across, which struck me as perfect – one for each of the kids. Maybe it’s corny, but it was like that ring represented everything Bree and I were committing to. This was a package deal after all, and I felt like the luckiest man in the world.
“Comfortable?” Sharita asked when Bree slipped it on. Neither one could take her eyes off the ring, and I couldn’t take my eyes off Bree.
“Yeah, it’s comfortable,” she said, squeezing my hand. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter 4
I PUT IN a late-afternoon appearance at the Daly Building. This was as good a time as any to catch up on the flood of paperwork that never seemed to stop flowing across my desk.
But when I got to the Major Case Squad room, Chief Perkins was just coming out into the hall with somebody I didn’t recognize.
“Alex,” he said. “Good. You’ll save me another trip. Walk with us?”
Something was obviously up, and it wasn’t good. When the chief wants a meeting, you go to him, not the other way around. I did a one-eighty, and we headed back over to the elevators.
“Alex, meet Jim Heekin. Jim’s the new AD at the Directorate of Intelligence over at the Bureau.”
We shook hands. Heekin said, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Detective Cross. The FBI’s loss was MPD’s gain when you came back over here.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “Flattery’s never a good sign.”
We all laughed, but it was also true. A lot of new managers at the Bureau like to shake things up when they start, just to let people know they’re there. The question was, what did Heekin’s new job have to do with me?
Once we were settled in Perkins’s big office, Heekin got a lot more specific.
“Can I assume you’re familiar with our FIGs?” he asked me.
“Field Intelligence Groups,” I said. “I’ve never worked with them directly, but sure.” The FIGs had been created to develop and share intelligence “products” with the law enforcement communities in their respective jurisdictions. On paper, it seemed like a good idea, but some critics saw it as part of the Bureau’s general passing of the buck on domestic criminal investigation after 9/11.
Heekin went on, “As you probably know, the DC group interfaces with all police departments in our area, including MPD. Also NSA, ATF, Secret Service – you name it. We’ve got monthly conference calls and then face time on an as-needed basis, depending on where the action is.”
It was starting to seem like a sales pitch, and I already felt pretty sure I knew what he was selling.
“Generally, police chiefs represent their departments with the FIGs,” he continued with his steady, well-paced speech, “but we’d like you to take over that position for MPD.”
I looked at Perkins, and he shrugged. “What can I say, Alex? I’m just too damn busy.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Heekin said. “I spoke with the chief here, and with Director Burns at the Bureau before that. Your name was the only one that came up in either meeting.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s very nice, but I’m good where I am.”
“Yes, exactly. Major Case Squad’s a perfect fit for this position. If anything, it’s going to make your job easier.”
This wasn’t an offer, I realized, so much as an assignment. When I’d rejoined the force, Perkins had given me just about everything I’d asked for. Now I owed him one, and we both knew it, and he knew that I liked to play fair.
“No title change,” I said. “I’m an investigator first, not some kind of administrator.”
Perkins grinned across his desk. He also looked relieved. “Fine with me. Keeps you in the same pay grade.”
“And my cases take priority over anything else I might have to do?”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Heekin said, already standing up to go. He shook my hand again at the door. “Congratulations, Detective. You’re moving up in the world.”
Yeah, I thought. Whether I want to or not.
Chapter 5
DENNY LED THE way, and Mitch followed like the ma
n-child in that old Steinbeck book Of Mice and Men. “Right up here, bud. Let’s keep it moving.”
The tenth floor was also the top floor. Sheets of plastic hung over sections of two-by-four wall frame, with nothing but raw plywood underfoot. A stack of pallets by the Eighteenth Street windows made a good roosting spot.
Denny unrolled the plastic tarp and spread it on the floor. They dropped their packs. He put a hand on Mitch’s back and pointed to where they’d just come up.
“Primary exit,” he said, then turned ninety degrees to face another door. “Alternate exit.” Mitch nodded once each time. “And if we get separated?”
“Wipe down the weapon, dump it, and meet you back at the car.”
“That’s my man.”
They’d been over it maybe fifty times, beginning to end. Drilling was the key. Mitch had all kinds of raw talent, but Denny did the thinking for both of them.
“Any questions?” Denny asked. “This is the time to ask them. Later on, it won’t matter worth a damn.”
“Nah,” Mitch said. His voice had gone flat and distant, the way it always did when he was concentrating on something else. He’d already set the M110, fitted with a sound suppressor, on its bipod and was zeroing it out, calibrating the scope.
Denny assembled his own M21 and slung it flat against his back. If everything went according to plan, he’d never have to use it, but it made sense to have a backup. The Walther was also holstered on his thigh.
He used a compass-set diamond blade to cut a perfect two-inch circle in the window, then pulled the section away with a small suction cup. The streetlights outside sent up a glare that made the window act like a mirror from below.
While Mitch got into position, Denny cleaned another small spot just up and to the left, where he could practically look over Mitch’s shoulder and down the rifle barrel. Even their difference in height worked well.
He took his sighting scope out of its case. From here, they had a clear line to the entrance of Taberna del Alabardero. With the scope’s 100x magnification, Denny could practically see the pores on the faces of the people coming and going from the hot-shit restaurant.
“Here, piggy, piggy, piggy,” he whispered. “Hey, Mitch, you know when a pig knows he’s had enough to eat?”
“Nope.”
“When he’s stuffed.”
“Good one,” Mitch said, in the same dead voice as before. He was in his stance now – a slightly freaky looking, ass out, elbows cocked kind of thing, but it worked for him. Once he hit the position, he would not move or look away until it was over.
Denny made his final check. He eyeballed the steam coming from a vent across the way – how it traveled straight up. The air temperature was approximately sixty degrees. Everything was a go.
All they needed now was a target, and that would be arriving real soon.
“You ready to let this genie out of the bottle, Mitchie?” he asked.
“Who’s Jeannie, Denny?”
He chuckled low. Mitch was a beautiful piece of work, he really was. “Just the girl of your dreams, man. The girl of your wildest goddamned dreams.”
Chapter 6
AT AROUND 7:35, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up in front of Taberna del Alabardero, a hotsy DC eatery for the stars.
Two men got out of the back on either side and another emerged from the front, while the driver stayed in the car. All three wore dark suits, with barely distinguishable ties.
Banker’s tie, thought Denny. Wouldn’t wear one to my own funeral.
“The two from the backseat. You got it covered?”
“I got it, Denny.”
Everything was dialed in. The scope’s bullet drop compensator would account for the two biggest drags on any bullet – wind, if there was any, and gravity. From this angle, the barrel might be pointing high, but the crosshairs would put Mitch’s eye right where it needed to be.
Denny watched the targets through his own scope. This was the best seat in the house. Second best anyway. “Shooter ready?”
“Ready.”
“Send it.”
Mitch slowly exhaled, then pulled off two shots in the same number of seconds.
Vapor trails showed in the air. Both men went down – one on the sidewalk and the other flat up against the front door of the restaurant. It was kind of visually spectacular, actually – two perfect head shots to the bases of two skulls.
People were already freaking out in the street. The third man literally dove back into the car, while everyone else ran or ducked and covered their heads.
They didn’t need to worry. The mission was over. Mitch had already begun to break down – the man was as fast as a speedway mechanic.
Denny unslung the M21, pulled off the magazine, and started packing. Forty seconds later, they were both on the stairs, double-timing it down to street level.
“Hey, Mitch, you weren’t planning on running for elected office, were you?”
Mitch laughed. “Maybe president someday.”
“You did perfect up there. You should be proud.”
“I am proud, Denny. That’s two dead crumbums nobody’s got to worry about no more.”
“Two dead piggies in the street!”
Mitch squealed, a pretty good imitation of swine, actually, and Denny joined in until their voices echoed up the empty stairwell. Both of them were drunk on how well it had gone. What a rush!
“And you know who the hero of the story is, right, Mitchie?” he asked.
“Nobody but us, man.”
“Damn straight. We did it ourselves. A couple of real live American heroes!”
Chapter 7
THE SCENE OUTSIDE Taberna del Alabardero was a total zoo when we got there. This was no ordinary hit or rubout. I knew that much without even getting out of the car. The radio had been blaring about a long-distance hit, from a gunman that nobody had seen, firing shots that nobody had heard.
And then there were the victims. Congressman Victor Vinton was dead, along with Craig Pilkey, a well-known banking lobbyist who had recently dragged both of them into the headlines. These homicides were a scandal wrapped in another scandal. So much for quiet times in Homicide.
Both dead men were the subject of a federal inquiry regarding influence-peddling on behalf of the financial services industry. There were allegations about backroom deals and campaign contributions and all the wrong people getting rich – or richer – while middle-class citizens had continued to lose their homes in record numbers. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone wanting Vinton and Pilkey dead. A lot of people probably did.
Still, motivation wasn’t the first question on my mind right now. It was method. Why the long gun, and how did someone pull this off so effortlessly on a crowded city street?
Both bodies were covered on the sidewalk when my buddy John Sampson and I reached the awning in front of the restaurant. Capitol Police were already there, with FBI on the way. “High profile” means “high pressure” in DC, and you could all but cut with a knife the mounting tension inside that yellow perimeter tape.
We found another of our own, Mark Grieco from Third District, and he briefed us. Given all the noise in the street, we had to shout just to hear one another.
“How many witnesses do we have?” Sampson asked.
“At least a dozen,” Grieco told us. “We’ve got them all corralled inside, each one more freaked out than the last. No visual on the shooter, though.”
“What about the shots?” I asked in Grieco’s ear. “We know where they came from?”
He pointed over my shoulder, up Eighteenth Street. “Way over there – if you can believe it. They’re securing the building now.”
On the north corner of K Street, a couple of blocks away, there was a building under some kind of renovation. Every floor was dark except for the top one, where I could just make out people moving around.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “How far is that?”
“Two hundred fifty yards –
maybe more,” Grieco guessed. The three of us started jogging in that direction.
“You said these were head shots?” I asked as we went. “That’s right?”
“Yeah,” Grieco answered grimly. “Dead on, pardon my pun. Someone knew what the hell he was doing. Hope he’s not still around somewhere, watching us.”
“Someone with the right equipment, too,” I said. “Considering the distance.” With a suppressor, the shooter could have gone completely unnoticed.
I heard Sampson say under his breath, “Damn, I hate this thing already.”
I looked back over my shoulder. From this level, I couldn’t even see the restaurant anymore – except for the red-and-blue lights flashing off the buildings around it.
This whole MO – the distance of the shot, the impossible angle, the murders themselves (not one perfect hit, but two in a crowded environment) – was completely audacious. I think we were meant to be impressed – in a strictly professional capacity, I was a little stunned.
But I also had a sinking dread in the pit of my stomach. That ton of bricks I’d been wondering about – it had just fallen.
Chapter 8
BACK AT HOME, I high-stepped over the second and third porch steps, avoiding the squeak with my long legs. It was just after one thirty in the morning, but the kitchen still smelled like chocolate chip cookies when I came in. They were for Jannie, who had some kind of school function. I gave myself half credit for knowing she had a function but points off for not knowing what it was.
I stole one cookie – delicious, with a hint of cinnamon in the chocolate – and took off my shoes before I snuck upstairs.
In the hall, I could see Ali’s light was still on, and when I looked in, Bree was sleeping next to the bed. He’d been running a slight fever before, and she had dragged in the ancient leather armchair, aka laundry stand, from our room.
A library copy of The Mouse and the Motorcycle was open across her lap.
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