HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)

by Robert Bidinotto

  Erskine smiled. “This could cost them a few of those big clients.”

  “I think that was the idea, Paul,” Cronin said. “So how did this go down?”

  The older veteran ran his palm over his bare scalp, like he was smoothing hair that wasn’t there anymore.

  “This building has private underground parking. No guard in the booth late nights and weekends, just an electronic card reader to raise the gate. This being Saturday, almost nobody is going in and out, except for the people coming to the party.

  “So I’m figuring they drive in there with the stiff sometime before the party. Then they stick ‘out of service’ signs on the elevator doors, down there in the garage and in the first-floor lobby. Then they go back to their vehicle and wait. After noon, when everybody’s here and the coast is clear, they rig up our gang-banger in his chair. Then they fiddle with the electronics in the elevator, as you can see, to bypass the card reader. They press the alarm and push the number-twenty button. The door opens up here. ‘Surprise, everybody!’”

  “Yeah,” Erskine said. “Having a naked broad jump out of a cake is so yesterday.”

  Abrams ignored it. “They needed a key card to get into the garage, but I can’t imagine they had somebody on the inside working with them.”

  “They wouldn’t need that,” Erskine said. “They could’ve used one of those electronic ‘skimmer’ things. It’s a hacker device. They sneak in here late one night, after the guard leaves, and attach it inside the card reader on the gate, then leave it in place. It records the codes whenever anybody swipes his card. Sometime later, they come back, stick a different gizmo into the card slot, and the skimmer transmits the stored card data right into that. Then they remove the skimmer from the gate, leaving no trace. Now they have the data to program their own key card.”

  “Great. Maybe the security-camera video will show something.”

  “Security cams haven’t helped us so far,” Cronin said. He pointed at the body. “So what’s with the news clipping? Another article by Hunter?”

  Abrams shook his head. “It’s several years old, and it’s from the Post. Just like the one on the stiff in Fairfax last week. Forensics don’t want us to touch it yet, but from what I could read of it, this guy Wallace jacked a car four years back, killed the owner.” He indicated a tall, thin man in the conference room, wearing an expensive suit and a look of shock. “Dwight Rogers over there, one of the partners, represented him. He got most of the evidence tossed on a Miranda. So Wallace walked.”

  “Prick lawyer.”

  “That’s redundant, Paul,” Cronin said. “Well, then, the pattern hasn’t changed. These guys, whoever the hell they are, have hard-ons for defense attorneys, liberal judges, lefty legal-aid groups. And prosecutors who do plea deals.”

  “Don’t forget politicians,” Abrams reminded him.

  “Oh, right. That child molester last week, Smith, they dumped him on that state rep’s lawn in Fairfax—what was that guy’s name?”

  “Dinsmore,” Erskine answered. “The jerk-off who blocked the bill about enhanced sentences for baby-rapers.”

  “Which let Smith get out after just six months of some bullshit therapy,” Abrams said. “I gotta say, I liked how they crammed Smith’s pockets full of the kiddie porn they took from his apartment. Wind blew it all over Dinsmore’s yard and into the neighbor’s. And the feds checked Smith’s email. You know that dirt bag was grooming two other young boys from his town?”

  “Say what you will about these shooters,” Erskine said, “but they’re sure as hell taking out the garbage.”

  Abrams nodded. “Feeb profilers figure them as super-conservative, super-pissed-off at ‘leniency in the legal system.’ Their words. They think one or more of them lost a person they loved because some punk went through the revolving door. So this is payback time.”

  Cronin shook his head. “Maybe that’s part of it. But I have a feeling this is more than personal revenge.”

  “Why?”

  “If it was only revenge, then they would’ve hit only the perps responsible for their own losses, and maybe those judges or defense attorneys, but that would be all. I think they would’ve stopped by now. But they haven’t. Besides, we’ve been looking hard at all the victim families in every case, and drawing blanks. None of them are good for this stuff.”

  “So if it’s not personal revenge, where does that leave us?”

  “Well, look at what they’re doing, even here. These guys are getting back not just at specific perps, but at the people who turned them loose. And they seem to be operating by some sort of code. They whack only the killers and sex predators. But they don’t kill anybody in the legal system or in any of those criminal-sympathizer groups.”

  “At least they haven’t so far,” Erskine said. “They just embarrass the hell out of them.”

  “Exactly. They’re doing what the system should’ve done to the perps. But then they bring the criminals right back to the doorsteps of the people who freed them. Literally. Plus the records of their crimes. These newspaper clippings, starting with the Hunter columns: It’s like they’re prosecutors building an indictment—only they’re indicting the whole system. They’re holding everybody accountable.”

  “Justice for all,” Erskine said.

  “There you go. So I don’t see this as being about private revenge. It’s bigger than that. It’s about retribution. These guys don’t think the legal system is a justice system anymore.”

  “Well, they got that right,” Abrams said. He paused, lowering his voice. “So, you still suspect this could be a team of cops or ex-cops, Ed?”

  “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 departi
ng 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 exposé?”

  “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 fraud.

  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 drifte
d 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.