“Our guess,” Uzi said, “is that the guy used a suppressor. The sound was kind of dispersed—”
“Very good. Yes,” Meadows said. “A suppressor will scatter the crack of the shot. The cartridge travels faster than sound and makes a fairly loud sonic boom. In a sniper situation, using a suppressor doesn’t mask the sound, especially on a round as big as this one is. What it does do is change the sound signature enough that the target is unable to determine which direction the shot came from, so he can’t return fire.”
“We already knew that.”
“I didn’t know that,” Vail said.
“You know serial killer shit,” Meadows said. “None of us expect you to know about high-powered sniper rifles.”
Vail tilted her head. “‘Serial killer shit’? You think that’s all I’m good for?”
“Tim.” Uzi shook his head. “Tim, my man. You just stepped into some seriously rank horse poop.”
Meadows looked from Vail to Uzi and back to Vail. “That is what I said, but it’s not what I meant. I mean, we all have our specialties. And you’re so good at what you do that I don’t look at you as having such a broad knowledge base dealing with the kind of minutiae I wade through.”
“I accept your lame apology,” Vail said. “Mostly because you’re a tough guy to stay angry with.”
Meadows shifted his feet. “Do you? Know a lot about rifle calibers and the science of suppressor technology?”
“Hell no,” Vail said. “I know serial killer shit. Other things, too. But not that kind of picayune stuff. Especially suppression technology.”
“Suppressor,” Meadows said with a frown.
“Speaking of suppressors,” Uzi said. “Can a device like the one our shooter used affect the accuracy of a shot?”
“Unlike our Renaissance-ish FBI profiler,” Meadows said, “you ask good questions. Have I ever told you that?”
“Couple a dozen times.”
Meadows zipped the jacket up to his neck, then began walking. “That’s debatable. My sense is that it depends a lot on the particular weapon matched with a specific suppressor. Good match, less chance it’ll divert the shot. But it definitely shouldn’t affect accuracy to the point where a trained sniper would miss completely.”
Uzi’s head snapped up. “How’d you know that’s what I was asking?”
“’Cause I’m smart and I know how you guys think.”
Uzi frowned. “Here’s the deal. Three guys are standing around talking and one of them gets popped from three, four hundred yards away. So was the guy actually aiming for me or my partner and missed? At four hundred yards, an inch or two is only significant to the guy who gets nailed and the guy who lives to tell about it.”
“As good as I am, as we all are—Karen excluded—I don’t think I can answer that one. As much as I want to ease your mind.”
Uzi stopped walking, and Meadows and Vail did likewise. “It’s more than just easing my mind. It’s a matter of pointing us in the right direction. This investigation takes on a different flavor if I’m the target—or my partner—instead of Tad Bishop.”
“Understood,” Meadows said. “I’ll do my best to answer whatever questions you’ve got.”
“I have an opinion on this,” Vail said.
“You mean a guess?” Meadows quipped.
“Uh, no, Tim. An informed opinion. If this is the work of a pro—and that seems to be the case here—a pro would match his equipment well, wouldn’t he? The best suppressor to the best rifle, just like he measures dew point, humidity, wind conditions, and so on to make sure that when he pulls the trigger, he stands a damn good chance of hitting his intended target. Not the guy standing next to him.”
“Well, well,” Meadows said. “The distinguished lady from the BAU does know a thing about snipers.”
“Yeah,” Vail said. “Or two.”
Uzi pulled a toothpick from its plastic wrapper and stuck it in his mouth as he looked off, surveying his colleagues swarming the area. “Deductions are great. But I want as definitive an answer as possible.”
Meadows pulled another evidence bag from his pocket. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Let me know as soon as you figure it out.”
“I know, you need it yesterday.”
Uzi held out a hand. “Hey, did I say that?”
“No, but I’m so used to hearing—”
“This one I need day before yesterday.”
Meadows stared deadpan at Uzi. “It’s almost nine o’clock. I was off three hours ago.”
“And now you’re back on.”
“You suck, you know that?”
Uzi nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”
“McCormick and Schmick’s. That’s where I want to go.”
Uzi winced. “That hurts, Tim.”
“A little pain is healthy, didn’t you tell me that once?”
Uzi jutted his chin back. “I never said that.”
“Well, someone did.”
“I did,” Vail said. “When I kicked you in the balls for insulting my new haircut.”
“You never kicked me,” Meadows said.
“You’re lucky. I really wanted to.”
Uzi pointed at the Ziploc-enclosed brass casing. “I want the answer, Tim. Fast. Even if it means working through the night.”
Meadows groaned.
“The way I see it,” Vail said, “sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet.”
NINETY MINUTES LATER, MOST of the task force members had secured what they needed and left. The forensic crew thinned as well, most of the evidence collection having been accomplished in the first hour at both crime scenes. They focused on the assassin’s perch, hoping to find an errant identifying mark in or around the house. With a handful of technicians remaining to finish combing the grounds, Uzi found Leila hovering around Bishop’s vehicle.
“Find anything?”
“Nothing useful. Just the usual stuff we all keep in our cars. No tracking devices. Most importantly, no smoking guns.”
Uzi cringed. “That was bad.”
Leila grinned. “I thought it was quite clever.”
He grabbed a peek at his watch. “So much for dinner at Amir’s. How about something that’s still open?”
“According to Shepard, you’re the boss. If you say it’s time to quit, we quit.”
“One thing you’ll learn about me, Leila, is that I never quit. But all good intelligence officers know that when you’re facing uncertain or unstable situations, and you get a chance to eat, you take it—because you never know when you’ll get another.”
“Very good. I didn’t realize you were ever in intelligence.”
“Actually,” Uzi said with a chuckle, “intelligence is something I’ve never been accused of.” He motioned toward the street, then led the way to his car.
UZI HELPED LEILA PULL her chair up to the small, square table in the rear of Georgetown’s Thunder Burger & Bar. Despite the hour, the place was abuzz with talk and laughter. Uzi sat down heavily, then leaned back as the waitress set two cocktail napkins on their table. Uzi picked up the menu—which was surprisingly diverse—and offered it to Leila. “Hungry?”
“Very. But it’s late. I’ll just have a Caesar salad.”
A rush of grief washed over Uzi. Dena made the best Caesar dressing he had ever tasted: just the right amount of garlic and anchovies. It was so good he would lick out the Cuisinart bowl while they were cleaning up the kitchen. Dena could whip up something sumptuous from scratch, with whatever ingredients she had in the apartment.
Uzi couldn’t cook a can of soup, let alone figure out what all the different mixing bowls and oven settings were for. His mother never taught him the ways of the kitchen, but to be fair, he’d had no desire to learn. He was too interested in playing football, a tag game known as Ringalevio, or riding his bicycle.
“You there?”
Uzi focused his gaze on Leila. “What?”
“You were spacing out on me.”
>
“Sorry.” He turned his attention to the menu. “I’ve never been able to eat Caesar salad in restaurants.” He glanced up and noticed the confused look on Leila’s face. “My wife made the best Caesar in the world. Ordering it in a restaurant would always be second rate. Or worse.”
“You’re married?” Her question carried the tone of an inquiry, not an accusation.
Uzi buried his face again in the menu. “Used to be.”
“Oh.” After a moment, she said, “Nasty divorce?”
His eyes shot up. “No, no. Nothing like that. She was...murdered.”
Leila’s face remained impassive. “Murdered.”
“Murdered.”
“How long ago?”
“Six years.”
She seemed to examine his face a moment, then said, “It still carries a lot of pain for you.”
Uzi didn’t respond. If only she knew.
“That’s a long time to suffer.”
Uzi closed the menu. “It’ll be with me the rest of my life. That kind of pain never heals.”
The waitress turned from the adjacent table and asked if they were ready to order.
“Caesar salad for the attractive young woman, and the falafel sliders for me.” He looked at Leila. “Bottle of—”
“How about a Pinot Noir?” she asked.
“We’ve got an ’09 Acrobat from Willamette Valley,” the waitress said. “Cherry and blackberry, firm tannins, with a silky mouthfeel. One of my favorites and reasonably priced.”
“Sold,” Uzi said.
The woman collected the menus and headed off.
Uzi dipped his chin. “Dena liked Pinot.”
Leila smiled. “She had good taste.”
“Yeah, she did.” Uzi lowered his eyes. All this talk about Dena— After his session with Rudnick, the old can had been opened and he was now sloshing around amongst the worms. Too many emotions to deal with now. He had a job to do, and walking around with a heavy heart and drudging up old feelings of guilt were affecting his focus. Maybe he should talk to Shepard, ask for a temporary reprieve on his counseling sessions. If he could make the case that it was impacting his performance in running the task force, he might allow him to forego treatment for a while. Then again, could he face Shepard after conspiring with Knox?
“You’re doing it again.”
Uzi shook his head. A beautiful woman is talking to me and I’m zoning out on her. “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind. This investigation, other things...”
“I lost a loved one, too,” she said. “My only brother.”
Uzi looked at her, and instantly saw the pain in her eyes. Why was she telling him this? To make him feel better—as if that would help his pain?
“Murdered, too.”
Uzi tilted his head. “Really.”
She nodded. “In Gaza.”
The waitress appeared with the bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses. She placed them on the table and seconds later had twisted the cork from the wine. She poured an inch and waited for Leila to taste it and nod her acceptance. Leila did and the two glasses were filled.
Uzi took a sip and let it float over his tongue. Memories of Dena again. Sitting in Venice on their fifth anniversary, sipping Chianti and watching the water taxis depart for Murano. They had taken one themselves, wandered the glass galleries and finally bought a bud vase that still sat on his dresser today, filled with a desiccated red rose. A constant reminder of their trip together. A constant reminder of her. Dena got pregnant with Maya on that trip—
He realized he had been staring at the table. “Spacing again, sorry.”
Leila was refilling her glass with more wine. “I’m beginning to think I’m poor company.”
Uzi forced a smile. “If anything, I’m the poor company here.”
She set down the bottle and swirled her glass. “You’ve hardly touched your wine.”
“Brings back memories.” He lifted the glass to his lips and drank.
“You’re thinking about your wife.”
Uzi’s eyes drifted down again. “And my daughter. She was killed too.”
Leila leaned forward. “Same time?”
Uzi nodded.
Leila reached out and touched Uzi’s right hand, which was resting on the table near his glass. The contact made him flinch.
“I understand the pain,” she said.
Uzi gently pulled his hand away and lifted the glass for another sip. “Did your brother live in Gaza?”
“Live there?” Leila snickered. “He was part of an IDF patrol.”
“How did you deal with his death? If you don’t mind me asking.’
Leila sucked in some air and blew it out slowly. “Anger, anger, and more anger. Some grief thrown into the mix somewhere along the line. Guilt, then more anger. The usual, I guess.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Remember back in 2001 when Hamas killed a bunch of IDF soldiers? He was one of them.” She studied her wine. “Terrorist sons of bitches.”
Uzi tightened his grip on the glass. “I wish they could feel the pain they cause. I wish on them what I’ve had to live with the past six years.”
“They’ll get theirs,” Leila said. “Sooner or later.” She nodded, apparently lost in thought herself. She took a long drink of Pinot.
“When did you leave Israel?”
“Shortly after. I needed a change of scenery.”
I totally understand. “Is that when you went to Jordan?”
Leila’s brow lifted. “How do you—”
“You CIA spooks aren’t the only ones with good intel.” He grinned.
“First I went through training at The Farm. Then, yeah, they placed me in Jordan.”
The waitress approached the table and set down their two dishes.
“I think I need this,” she said. “The wine, empty stomach...” She threw her hands out to her sides, swayed in her seat, forced a smile.
They finished their food, Uzi paid the tab over her objections, and they headed out to his Tahoe.
As he left the parking lot, he asked, “Back to the crime scene to pick up your car?”
“No, I got a ride there. Take me home.”
THEY ARRIVED AT LEILA’S Hamilton House apartment building on New Hampshire Avenue NW a few minutes before midnight. A doorman stood just inside the lobby, unsure if he should approach the car. Leila waved and he nodded back, understanding that she did not need his assistance.
Uzi pushed the gear shift into park and crooked his neck to gaze up at the nine-story, block-long monstrosity that looked more like a hotel than an apartment building. “Nice place.”
“I’ve lived in caves, tents, and the desert. Compared to that, this is the lap of luxury. But really, home is what you make it.”
Uzi knew she was right. He looked at her large brown eyes and felt something in his chest. He struggled to define the sensation. Warmth? “Your eyes are so beautiful.” He saw the pleased look on her face before he realized what he had said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Do I look like I feel uncomfortable?”
Uzi turned away. “No. I think it’s me who’s uncomfortable.”
She pointed to the ignition. “Shut the engine.”
He craned his neck to look out at the No Parking placards at the curb. “I can’t park here.”
Leila tilted her head. “Alec and Jiri are my buddies. They’d do anything for me. Don’t worry about your car. Give Alec the keys. He’ll move it if there’s a problem.”
Uzi looked from Leila to the windshield, but still had not turned off the engine.
“Go on. Shut it off and come up with me.”
This was moving faster than he’d intended. Faster than he was prepared for. He had clearly indicated his attraction and the desire to get to know her better off the clock. She picked up on those signals—but now Uzi was unsure if this is what he really wanted. He was a healthy male and Leila was
a beautiful woman; of course he wanted this. But am I ready for it?
“Problem?”
“I... I’m not sure I should come up.”
“You don’t like good company? Do you think I’m inviting you up for sex?”
“No, I— I don’t know. No.”
“No, you don’t like good company?”
Uzi blew some air through his lips. He wasn’t used to being so flustered around anyone— let alone an attractive woman. “It’s not that.”
“Then let’s go.” She reached over, turned the key and removed it. She clutched the fob in her hand and popped open her door. She swung her feet out and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You coming?”
LEILA’S APARTMENT WAS an orderly one bedroom, generously appointed with a large living room and an equally small kitchenette. The parquet wood floor was well maintained, with an earth-toned Indian area rug providing warmth and muted color. Two loveseats sat around a glass coffee table, where a hand-carved matchbox rested alongside a couple of porcelain candlestick holders.
Uzi picked one up and examined it. “I recognize the artist. From the Old City?” he asked, referring to that section of Jerusalem.
Leila smiled. “For Shabbat. Hard to break old habits.”
“I lost interest after Dena’s death. Lost my faith, I guess.”
“You’ve always got to have faith, Uzi. No matter what happens, you need to believe in your cause. When things hit bottom, that’s the time to turn inward and renew your faith, not lose it.”
Uzi took a few steps into the hallway. A few carefully placed framed photos hung on the far wall, sporting images of people he didn’t know—but places with which he was intimately familiar: a younger Leila hiking in the Golan Heights, a few street shots from the artist colony, Tzvat, and Leila in a bikini on the beach in Tel Aviv.
“You still wear your star.” Leila motioned to the Star of David necklace peeking through his shirt collar. It was an unusual piece consisting of two separate gold triangles, one pointing up and one pointing down that, when they overlaid each other, formed a six-pointed star.
He touched the necklace. Most of the time he forgot he still wore it. Nevertheless, it had special meaning to him. “My wife gave it to me.”
Hard Target Page 22
