The line went dead.
As soon as he hung up Houston checked caller ID, hoping it had captured a phone number. The sniper was smart enough to block his phone. He pressed redial, hoping it would call the sniper back. Nothing happened.
He dialed 911, identified himself and told the dispatcher that he needed a crime scene team. Then he called Anne.
14
“Cities are sniper country.”
—Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC
Anne had finished taking a shower and was dressing when her phone rang. She glanced at the display and saw Houston’s number.
“Hey,” she said.
“I need you—”
“Mike . . . ”
“The sniper just took a shot at me . . . ”
Anne’s stomach sank. “Are you all right?”
“He didn’t hit me. In fact, I think he missed me intentionally.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He called me after the attack. I just hung up with him.”
“I’ll be right there.” She raced out of the apartment.
Anne walked through the door and immediately took control. A cursory glance at Houston’s bloody, ripped pants and the wounds on his hands and knees was all she needed to determine what was in order. “We need to get you to the emergency room—”
Houston grunted. She knew he would never admit it, especially to her, but when it came to doctors and dentists, he was less than heroic. “I don’t think I need medical attention.”
“Michael Burnham Houston, I didn’t ask what you thought,” she said.
“I told you what we are going to do. If you think I’m going to drag you all over the city while you whine every time you put pressure on a piece of that glass, you had better think again.”
There were two telltale signs that always told Houston when Anne was truly angry: her left eye twitched and she used the full name of the object of her ire. When she turned to him and he saw her eye jerking as if she had a pebble in it, he knew she was really pissed. When she used his full name, Michael Burnham Houston, it was a definite sign that she was not going to back off. He stood silently by while she called in and told the dispatcher the address of the hospital where they would be. Finally, she pushed him out the door.
The emergency room was everything Houston had thought it would be. A sweet, little old woman took down his information and typed it into the computer. He admired her one finger technique and studied her arthritic hands as she hunted and pecked at the keyboard. In the course of the interview, she accidentally deleted his information three times and had to start over. It took every bit of his strength to keep his cool and patiently repeat the information each time she goofed. He even asked if they had ever met before—maybe at the Registry of Motor Vehicles.
“Do you want me to call Susie?”
Houston stared at Anne. “No, she’s upset enough as it is. Besides, right now she’d just push the glass in deeper.”
“Mike, she should be told.”
“Anne, let it rest . . . okay?” He turned his attention back to the little old lady, effectively cutting off the discussion.
The admissions secretary finally got it right and a nurse led him to the real chamber of horrors, where a horde of psychopaths in green scrubs poked and dug into his tender flesh with lobster picks. When they swabbed the cuts with antiseptic, it hurt more than his injuries. They stuck him with a tetanus shot and then handed him a prescription for some antibiotics and pain pills. The doctor stepped back, turned the task of bandaging his knees and hands over to the nurse and left.
When they returned to his apartment, Houston took the CSI team through the sequence of events related to the shooting and watched with great interest as the lab people lifted a number of fingerprints from the surface of his mailbox. “I doubt anything will come of this,” a petite blonde-haired crime scene technician said. “In the course of a day, mailboxes have more hands on them than the only hooker at a teamster convention.” She smiled demurely, grabbed her equipment and bounced down the stairs.
“She must be late for a date,” Anne said.
It was after midnight before everyone left and Anne and Houston were alone. They sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and discussing Houston’s first direct encounter with the sniper.
“I must know this guy,” Houston said.
“It certainly looks that way.”
“He knows a lot more about me than I know about him. He knows my address, phone number and even my military history.”
“Maybe you know more about him than you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe that when we learn this shooter’s identity, you’re going to remember him. It’s obvious that he’s someone from your past.”
He watched Anne while she sipped her coffee and remained silent. She was intelligent enough to leave it up to him whether or not to continue. If he opened up, she would listen and not be judgmental. On the other hand, if he decided to clam up, she would accept that too.
“When we find this guy I know it will be someone from Somalia. He as much as said so when he mentioned the Mowg.”
“The Mowg?”
“That’s what we called Mogadishu. Only someone who was there would use that term.”
“We need to get the military to do a search of their records to see if they can provide us with the names of everyone who has been through that training.”
“I may be able to help there. I know a guy, Danny Drews. He and I met when we were in scout/sniper training at Quantico. He’s kept contact with many of the guys over the years.”
Anne glanced at the clock and stood up. “It’s past one in the morning. I need to get home and you need to get some rest.”
Houston tossed and turned, unable to find a position in bed that didn’t hurt. He took two of the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. He was convinced that the word was an oxymoron, the pills didn’t kill pain; they merely postponed it until the wee hours of the morning when you were alone and feeling shitty. Each beat of his heart sent a throbbing pulse of pain through his hands and knees. He hurt so badly that rather than sleep, he turned on the television and tried watching an old mystery on one of the classic movie channels.
Houston stared at the TV. George Raft had just solved the mystery and all was well. Houston dialed his sister’s number. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Maureen? It’s Mike.”
When she heard her brother’s voice, Maureen’s groggy voice softened.
“I’m glad you called—even if it is at a ridiculous hour. Not to mention that the whole neighborhood is probably wondering why I have cop cars parked in front of my house.”
“Do you think she’ll talk with me?”
“She’s asleep, Mike. She’s angry with you right now. The first time that you come near her since the divorce is to tell her that her mother was murdered. Have you any idea what it’s been like for her to have to deal with this? Why didn’t you call me and wait until I got there?” Maureen sighed. “But then, that’s usual for you, isn’t it? You’re the first to rescue a perfect stranger, but the last to do what your family needs.”
Maureen’s words struck him like a five-pound hammer. He’d been an absentee father for most of Susie’s life and it was only natural for her to resent him for showing up now. “Mo, she all but threw me out. I didn’t know what else to do . . . besides my partner, Anne, was with her.”
“Susie told me about it. That’s the one good thing that came out of this. She made the most of a bad situation.”
“Yeah, Anne’s a true friend.”
“Don’t hurt her like you did Pam.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s obvious to everyone but you that she cares a great deal for you.”
“Don’t be crazy. She’s my partner . . . nothing more.”
“Are you sure that she feels the same?”
&
nbsp; Houston paused and for several moments said nothing. Feeling uncomfortable, he switched the subject. “Mo, I called to talk about Susie. If she’d had a weapon in her dorm, I think she’d have used it on me.”
“Well, you have to admit that you really mucked this one up, brother.”
“C’mon, Mo, give me a break here. I got a full plate as it is without you busting heavy on me. Do you think Susie will see me if I came by later?”
Maureen’s voice softened. “I don’t know. You two have a lot to work out. Even if she doesn’t want to see you, I think she needs to.”
“Tell her I’ll be by around noon. Maybe we can go to lunch together.”
“That would be nice, Mike. I think deep down, she needs you now, even if her actions don’t show it. I’ll talk to her in the morning and if there is any problem, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, Mo. How are Lee and the kids?”
“We’re all fine, Mike. You just take care of yourself, okay? We’re your family, we care about you. Call or come around now and then, okay? You know, after all is said and done, all we have is each other.”
A lump filled Houston’s throat. “Yeah, I know . . . love you, Mo. Good night.”
“Good night, Mike.”
Anne lay in bed, thinking through the evening’s events. She couldn’t stop thinking about how close she had come to losing Houston. Thinking about the prospect of a life without him in it left her feeling scared and empty. Old self-doubts returned. Why couldn’t she allow Mike in? She had wanted to for the past two years. The taboo against workplace relationships was a factor. Was being a cop more important to her than letting everyone know who she was? The thought made her pause. Her thoughts turned to her father, the one man in her life that she had truly loved more than life itself. She remembered how devastated she had been when he was killed. It was not that she didn’t miss her mother too, but she had been a daddy’s girl and adored her father and everything he did. For years she had known that her father wanted a son, but he had never let on to her that that was the case. If anything, the opposite was true—he was the most dedicated and understanding father a girl could ever hope for. The abandonment and loss she felt when he was killed returned and swept over her like a heavy fog. Had his death and her loss left her incapable of giving her heart to a man? She thought of the men she had dated over the intervening years and how none of them met her standards. Maybe, she wondered, I never let them. Did she hold them to a standard even God couldn’t meet? Just as she felt she was close to a decision, the job got in the way. She loved being a cop, but there was the dangerous aspect of the job. Then she realized what the real roadblock was. Houston was the only cop who accepted her as a partner and it would ravage her if they were separated. She burrowed down into the bed and tried to turn her mind off. Shortly she dozed off.
15
“The withdrawal route should differ from that of the approach . . . ”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Jimmy O hung up the phone and ground his cigarette into the ashtray. Before it stopped smoldering, he lit another. He stared into the smoke for several seconds and then picked up the phone and banged a number. “Gordon? Get your ass out of bed and come over here. We’re going to rattle a few cages and see if we can’t stir up a rat.”
The Escalade turned the corner and crept up the street. The driver stayed on the dark side of the thoroughfare, staying close to the empty warehouses and avoiding the few lights in the abandoned industrial park. O’Leary stood back from the alley’s entrance—hidden in the shadows—and glanced at his watch. Right on time, he thought. Being predictable is a very stupid thing for a drug dealer; but what the hell, if they were smart they would be doctors or lawyers. Jimmy tossed his cigarette to the ground and watched the wind tumble it end over end deeper into the alley. He nodded to Gordon.
O’Leary and Winter watched the SUV until it reached the end of the block and coasted to the curb. A man stepped out of a dark doorway and looked both ways, checking for unwanted observers. Satisfied the street was empty, the pusher approached the car.
They waited until they were certain that the pushers felt safe and then walked out of the alley. Even though he saw no weapons, O’Leary knew the dealers had guns hidden from sight. The street pusher stood on the sidewalk and leaned so close to the Escalade’s tinted window that his face almost touched the glass. The driver lowered the window. A nickel-plated revolver appeared through the window, sparkling in the amber light of a nearby streetlamp. The pusher held his hands up so they were visible and backed up a step. Whoever was in the car appeared to be ready to shoot if the face belonged to anyone other than his expected contact. Their voices carried in the quiet early morning air.
“Whoa, motherfucker,” the street dealer said, “ain’t any call for the gun, man.”
“How yuh doin’, Jamal?” the man in the car asked. He had a Latino accent.
O’Leary and Winter closed with the SUV. At the last minute, the one named Jamal noticed them. O’Leary shoved him out of the way and grabbed the revolver. On the other side of the truck, Winter pushed a 9mm pistol against the driver’s temple before he could stomp on the accelerator.
O’Leary looked at Jamal. “Take a hike, douchebag. I got business with Ricky and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.
The pusher gave the gun O’Leary held a nervous look and, like a wraith, disappeared into the night.
“Let’s put the hardware aside, shall we?” O’Leary said. “I wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ hurt for no reason.”
The drug dealer knew he had no chance and held his weapon up. O’Leary took it.
“Hey, Jimmy, since when you ripping off bidnezzmen?”
“I got no interest in your cash or the goods you sell.” O’Leary opened the door, grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him onto the pavement.
“Damn, man, what’s with you?”
O’Leary grabbed the man called Ricky by the back of his shirt collar and lifted him until his tiptoes barely touched the ground. He kept a tight grip on him and high-stepped the Hispanic along the sidewalk and into the alley he and Winter had just left. Once they were safely in the shadows, O’Leary slammed him against the brick wall so hard that the dealer’s head bounced against it. “Talk to me, Ricky.”
“I been tryin’ but you actin’ all postal and shit . . . ”
Jimmy slammed the dealer’s shoulders and head against the bricks again.
“Okay, okay. What you want to know? Jeezus, that fuckin’ hurts—stop it, will ya?”
“The Common shooter . . . ”
“Hey, man, I got nothin’ to do with that. You know me Jimmy. I ain’t never offed nobody ’less it was bidnezz.”
“You know people who know people, Ricky. I want to know what you know about this guy.” He thumped Ricky’s head against the wall again.
“Okay, man. Shit, no reason for you goin’ all fuckin’ crazy about this. What happen, this dude do you wrong or sumptin?”
“Ricky, I’m getting tired of your bullshit act.”
“All right.” The ghetto dropped out of his voice. “The only thing I know about this shooter is that he’s one whacked-out motherfucker. I’ve been told he looks like he’s made of silly putty.”
Jimmy leaned closer to Ricky, his eyes shining in the ambient light. “Silly putty?”
“Yeah, that stuff we had when we were kids . . . ”
“I was never a kid . . . ”
“Anyhow, this guy is burned so bad that he looks like he walked out halfway through his cremation.”
O’Leary stepped away, released Ricky’s shirt and took out his cigarettes. He lit a smoke and offered the pack to Ricky. The dealer pulled one out and lit it from O’Leary’s lighter. He rubbed the back of his head. “Jesus, Jimmy, you like to busted my damn head.”
“You got a name for this cowboy?”
“Nope, but I hear he’s got a crib in Mattapan somewhere.”
“I want that address.�
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“I don’t know where it is, man. Like I said, this dude isn’t put together normal. He’s not like you and me. We’re businessmen—we take people out only when it’s necessary. This guy does it because he likes it.”
O’Leary stepped out of the alley and motioned to Winter. He turned back to Ricky. “Put the word out, I want this guy. I’ll make it worthwhile to anyone who leads me to him. And Ricky . . . ”
“Yeah?”
“If you want to stay in bidnezz, you better stop being so goddamned predictable. You need to vary your routine a bit, know what I mean? Hell, I knew down to the minute when you’d be here.”
Ricky stared at him as if he had no idea that he was stuck in a routine. Jimmy shook his head; some people just never get the concept. “You know, Ricky . . . what you lack in intelligence, you more than make up for in stupidity . . . ”
When they were back in his Lincoln Navigator, Winter asked, “Where to next?”
“I want to hit a couple of places, one in Charlestown and another in Southie.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“The places we’re going don’t close.”
Charlestown was a square mile in size and divided into two different and distinct cities. The title of Dickens’s novel A Tale of Two Cities would have been ideal for a book about the city. The south side, around the Bunker Hill Monument and extending to Rutherford Avenue was the domain of the upper-middle class—called Tunies by the longtime residents—complete with successful small businesses and exorbitantly priced condominiums. On the other hand, the north end was where the working and non-working poor, the people known as Townies, were crammed into triple-decker apartments and low-income housing projects. This was where Jimmy O and Gordon were headed.
O’Leary and Winter parked alongside a hydrant on a street so narrow that a single car could barely fit. They walked down an alley between two of the triple-decker apartment houses that lined the street. The passage was barely wide enough to hold the garbage cans that filled the air with a ripe aroma. In the absolute dark Jimmy stumbled into one of the metal cans and cursed.
Sniper Page 10
