WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

  Her eyes widened and lips parted. “Oh, Avery! You didn’t!”

  “I did.”

  She blinked rapidly, staring at the envelope. “I didn’t dare believe . . .”

  He reached across the table, put his hand on hers.

  “I mean what I say.”

  She looked up at him. Held his eyes again.

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you.”

  He stared back, unsmiling now, rubbing the back of her hand gently with his thumb, letting her words hang unanswered for nearly half a minute. Finally, he turned away, searching the restaurant.

  “Perhaps we should order some wine before lunch.”

  3

  “Hell-o, Mr. Hun— Holy crap! What happened?”

  Danika Cheyenne Brown shot to her feet, then charged out from behind her desk.

  Hunter paused in the lobby entrance of Crown Office Suites, the “virtual office” he used for public contacts and as a mail drop. Before he could utter a word, the gorgeous African-American receptionist rushed to him, hands fluttering helplessly, words a tumbling torrent.

  “Were you in some kinda accident? Y’all need a doctor? I can call—”

  “No, no, it’s okay! I’m fine, Danika. Take it easy! I just had a close encounter with some uncooperative interview subjects.”

  “Y’all got in a fight? Oh my God, y’all look awful!”

  “But as always, you look fantastic, Danika. It happened earlier this morning, but I didn’t have time to go home and clean up before my appointment with Detective Cronin. Has he arrived yet?”

  “Yes, sir. He be— He’s down in 117.”

  He laughed. “You know, when you’re flustered, y’all start to sound like the folks back in your old ’hood.”

  Her mouth worked a few seconds, then she burst out laughing.

  “You mean, I forget everything I learned in school from The Man.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever comes from those lovely lips is music to my ears.”

  If her skin weren’t dark, he was certain he would have seen her blush. She dimpled up and grinned.

  “Well, aren’t you the sweet talker. I bet your pretty girlfriend hangs on every word.”

  “Ha. If only women would pay attention to what I say . . . Well, I’d better join the detective before he thinks I’ve stood him up. By the way, you didn’t flirt with him when he arrived, did you?”

  More dimples.

  “You know, Danika, Melvin would be very upset to know you’ve got the hots for a handsome white cop.”

  An added giggle. “Y’all git on back there and mind your business.”

  “And y’all have a nice day.”

  4

  Hunter found the door to 117 open.

  As on a previous visit, Detective Ed Cronin stood at the window, back to Hunter, looking down toward the traffic and pedestrians on Connecticut Avenue. His short-cropped, balding scalp gleamed in the noon sunshine.

  “Excuse me, officer, but may I borrow some ibuprofen?”

  Cronin turned. His expression morphed from cold and hard to shocked and concerned in an instant.

  “Holy crap! What happened to you?”

  “Those were Danika’s exact words, too.”

  Cronin approached. “You look like you’ve been in a brawl.”

  “Your formidable powers of detection never fail to impress me. I was out in Manassas this morning at the Helm Resort, to interview the boss—”

  “Roger Helm?”

  “Your Sherlockian skills of deduction haven’t failed you, either. Anyway, I had a mix-up with a group of protesters. Well, actually, with one of them.”

  “One guy did this?” Cronin was searching his face carefully.

  Hunter spread his hands. “Yeah. One guy. It was humiliating.”

  “And you let him?”

  “Who do you think I am? Jason Statham?”

  “Hunter, you killed Adrian Wolfe, an MMA champ, in a knife fight.” The hardness was back in Cronin’s face and voice.

  “I told you, Ed, that was sheer dumb luck. He almost killed me. Remember? Hey, mind if we sit down? My leg still hurts.”

  They pulled a couple of office swivel chairs to face each other.

  “So, to what do I owe the dubious honor of your visit this time?”

  “Where were you Friday, mid-to-late afternoon?” A small notebook and pen had materialized in Cronin’s hands.

  “Ah. You’re here detecting, not socializing.” Hunter leaned back in the chair, looked at the ceiling. “Let me see. Friday . . . I was in Bethesda, at my apartment. I got up early, around five-thirty, worked out downstairs. Then made breakfast. Then worked on the research notes for my next Inquirer story. I got hungry again early, so around eleven I ordered in some Chinese. They promise delivery in less than a half hour. So, maybe around eleven-twenty.”

  “What restaurant?”

  “Hey, what’s with the inquisition?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  Hunter sighed and told him. “Look, what’s this all about?”

  “You have any proof—a receipt, or the name of the delivery person?”

  Hunter blinked at him. “Hell if I know. I suppose you can ask the restaurant for name of the delivery guy. And who keeps takeout receipts?” He frowned. “Wait a minute.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet. “I paid the guy at the door, so maybe . . . yes. Here it is. I stuck it in here, with my change.” He dug out a folded receipt, looked at it, and passed it over. “There you go. Time of order, 11:02. Delivery, 11:25.”

  “What about later in the afternoon? Can you account for your time?”

  “About noon I went down to pick up the mail from my lobby box. I remember, because I chatted for a couple of minutes with the guard at the front desk. His name is Darius, if that helps. I asked him if he wanted any of my leftover Chinese, and he said no. I remember he asked if I was heading out to investigate some new story. I told him no, I was staying in to write up my next piece. Which I did: It ran on Sunday. I didn’t go out till the evening, six or so. The swing-shift guard, Earl, saw me leave.”

  “You make any afternoon calls? Send out any emails? Anything with a time stamp on it?”

  “I don’t think so. I turn off my phone and browser to protect my writing time from interruptions. Cronin, what’s going on? You find another stiff or something?”

  “You know Morgan and Lila Jackson?”

  “Sure,” he smiled. “They’re great people. I saw them just last week, at a Vigilance for Victims banquet.” He stopped. “Wait, are they all right? Are you here—”

  “Settle down. They’re fine. You know about their case?”

  “Of course. Their daughter was raped and murdered by some drug gang leader. In fact, they mentioned it again the other night, because they’d just heard that the killer is supposed to be getting an early release sometime soon. They asked if I would write something about it, create some publicity that might prevent it. I told them I’d check into it. Why?”

  Cronin did his hard-stare thing. “You’re telling me you don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That Dixon was released on Friday.”

  “Damn it. So it’s too late to do anything, then.” He looked out the window. “Soon as you leave, I’ll have to call them. Poor Lila. She was beside herself. I don’t know how she’ll—”

  “And he got whacked the same afternoon.”

  Hunter whipped his head around. “What?”

  Cronin didn’t say anything. His eyes were riveted on Hunter’s face.

  “Oh, so that’s why you’re here. For God’s sake, Ed, will you climb down off your hobby horse?”

  “Seems you have no eyewitnesses or other confirmation to actually place you in your apartment at the time of the hit.”

  “Maybe because I’m not in the habit of arranging alibis for my writing sessions at home.”

  “I came here to see if you’re willing to come down and participa
te in a lineup.”

  “What?”

  Cronin gestured toward Hunter’s face. “But with you looking all puffy like this, I don’t think any witness IDs would be worth crap.”

  Hunter leaned in. “You mean someone finally got a good look at one of these vigilantes? That’s a big break . . . Look, Ed, I know we have a history. But still, if you have anything to share, I’d be grateful if you’d feed it to me first, before the Post or somebody else gets—”

  “You’re really some piece of work, Hunter. Or whatever the hell your real name is. You’re a really good liar. Some days, even I almost believe you have nothing to do with these killings.”

  “Gee, could that possibly be because I don’t?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “If you’d stop wasting your time on me, maybe you’d catch these guys.”

  “Guy. Singular.”

  That caught him unexpectedly. He sat back. “There’s just one vigilante?”

  “That’s what me and my partner, Detective Erskine, think.”

  “But . . . but how could that be possible? I thought—”

  “The latest hit. Just one guy. Just a handgun. Middle of the afternoon. He waltzes into Dixon’s gang headquarters up in Baltimore. Single-handedly has a shoot-out with a whole bunch of them. Leaves Dixon and another gangster dead, puts another in the ICU with a slug in his gut. Goes hand-to-hand with three more and sends them to the E.R. Then walks out, nice as you please, and calmly drives away.”

  Cronin paused, staring at him, unblinking. “Just. One. Guy.”

  “That’s . . . unbelievable. You really think—”

  “You know what I think.”

  “For God’s sake, Cronin! Look at me. I can’t even defend myself against one skinny protester.”

  “And about that, I’m thinking: ‘How convenient.’”

  “‘Convenient’? What do . . . Wait. Are you implying I let myself get beat up?” Hunter let his mouth hang open in disbelief. “Why in hell would I do something that stupid? It makes no sense.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It would make perfect sense, if you were trying to convince us you couldn’t fight to save your soul. Which I and Adrian Wolfe found out you can. And maybe also hide signs of any injuries you received during the hit on Friday. See, you—okay, okay, the shooter—got into a fight with one of the gang. Turns out the shooter wore a blond wig and fake beard that came off during the fight. Turns out we have witnesses saying he had dark hair.” He gestured toward Hunter’s head. “One says, ‘dark curly hair.’”

  “So that’s why you’re here. And that’s all you’ve got?”

  Cronin stood. His smile stayed out of his eyes.

  “Who says that’s all we’ve got?”

  5

  Hunter remained in his chair for a moment after Cronin left.

  He had to hand it to the guy. He was good. And relentless.

  A lot like himself.

  In another world, they’d be good friends. Maybe be working together, on the same team. He’d had buddies like that out in the field. Guys you could always trust to watch your six. Like the SOG operator who saved his butt when that warehouse bomb went off in Kandahar . . .

  He stood. Cronin would be watching him closely again, because now he smelled blood in the water. So it would take some new trick to throw him off the scent. Meanwhile, he’d have to lie low.

  He left the room and walked down the hall to the reception area. Danika stood at a file cabinet, her back to him.

  “So, did you give him your phone number on his way out?” he teased.

  She spun around. “Oh, you! Now you stop that!”

  “I know it’s hard, Danika, but you have to be a good girl. Remember, Detective Cronin is a married man. Remember, Melvin is your little Tyrone’s daddy. You do remember Melvin, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember.”

  “Such enthusiasm.”

  “Oh—you got a call while you were talking to him.”

  She glided like a runway model to her desk, her spiky heels clip-clopping across the marble, then swooped into her chair and swiveled to her message pad.

  “Yes, here . . . A Mr. Lasher called to say hello.”

  He searched his memory. “He said Lasher? I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

  “He said you may not recall him. He told me to remind you that he’s the gentleman who met you over a year ago, out in Linden, Virginia. He said he also ran into you outside the EPA some months ago, and then again not long ago outside the Starbuck’s at Connecticut and K.”

  Hunter worked at controlling his breathing and facial muscles.

  “Of course. How could I forget . . . Did Mr. Lasher say anything else?”

  “Just that he’s been enjoying getting to know you and wants to meet you again, very soon.”

  She swung around, extending the pink note.

  “He left his phone number.”

  TWELVE

  Before leaving the office suite, Hunter ducked into the men’s restroom. He washed his hands slowly, mechanically, trying to puzzle it out.

  He recalled this “Lasher” from the previous encounters. The first time was almost exactly one year ago, on that road near the CIA safe house in Linden. The guy had been in camo, carrying a rifle and handgun. Later, Garrett, Annie, and he concluded Lasher had to be a sniper dispatched to silence the CIA mole, Muller—except Hunter beat him to it. So he had to be working for the Russians.

  Then, six weeks ago, he’d spotted Lasher shadowing him outside the EPA. And again, only a week ago, Lasher had somehow tracked him right here.

  After what he had done to the Russians in Afghanistan, they’d tried to kill him and almost succeeded. He’d always worried they might try again, if they could find him—which was why he vanished and changed his identity.

  Well, now they’d found him again. And put a professional assassin on his tail. Somehow they had cracked his cover and knew he maintained an office here. Somebody at the Inquirer probably blabbed.

  But what else did they know? If they knew about his Bethesda apartment or Maryland house, or Annie’s house, and their goal was to take him out, Lasher probably could have done that already. So maybe his journalism cover, and this office, were all they knew about his life.

  Still . . . something was off.

  He’d only seen one guy tailing him, Lasher. Not a surveillance team.

  Why wouldn’t the Russians deploy a full team?

  Something else was nagging at him.

  He stood still, hands dripping over the sink, staring blankly into the mirror, trying to wrap his head around it. He went through each of the encounters, step by step, trying to put his finger on any anomalies.

  Then it hit him.

  The meeting at the EPA, six weeks ago . . .

  That morning, he’d taken the Metro directly from his apartment to the meeting at Nature Legal Advocacy. He was sure nobody had been following him then. He knew he was clean when he visited, then left the environmental group’s offices on 15th Street. After that, he’d grabbed lunch at a restaurant near McPherson Square, to go over his notes in prep for the EPA encounter. Then he took the Metro again to the Federal Triangle stop, right outside EPA headquarters. It was only then and there, just as he arrived for his two p.m. meeting with the administrator, that he picked up the tail.

  Lasher had gotten there ahead of him. Waiting for him.

  How did he know where Hunter would be, ahead of time . . . unless somebody told him?

  He knew that after his testy morning meeting at Nature Legal Advocacy, its president, Gavin Lockwood, had called EPA administrator Jonathan Weaver to warn him what to expect before Hunter arrived for their afternoon meeting. Either of them could have told Lasher. But they were only two players in the extensive political network he had uncovered. After meeting with Lockwood, word would have spread quickly throughout that network that Hunter was investigating them.

  Anyone in that network could have tipped off Lasher.
<
br />   So didn’t that mean one of them was working with the Russians?

  He thought of the message Lasher just left him. If he is a Russian assassin, and targeting him, why would he be taunting him and asking for a meeting? In effect warning him in advance? That made no sense. Just as it made no sense that Lasher appeared to be operating alone.

  Then he understood.

  A contractor.

  That made more sense. Not a Russian national, but a deniable operator hired by the Russians to hit Muller. And now hired to go after him.

  But much of the rest still didn’t make sense.

  After a moment, he had to give it up. He needed more information. And there was only one way to get it.

  2

  He pulled out the message slip, his latest burner, and a fresh battery. He tapped in the number.

  The phone rang for about twenty seconds before it was answered.

  “You’re interrupting my lunch, Mr. Hunter.” A mocking tone. A hint of a Southern drawl.

  Hunter spoke in Russian. “Yesli poyedish vnizu v fud-korte, vstrechimsya seychas.” “If you’re eating downstairs in the food court, we could meet right now.”

  “What?”

  Again in Russian: “Are you afraid to meet me right now, tough guy? Or can’t you speak Russian?”

  “Stop playing games, asshole.” The cockiness was gone. “Speak English.”

  Not a Russian, then. Definitely an American contractor.

  “Your cover is blown, and you know it,” Lasher went on. “And you know I know it. I could expose you any time I want.”

  Hunter reverted to English. “So, you want money?”

  Lasher hesitated. Which meant he had to think about how to respond. Which meant it wasn’t about money.

  “That depends,” he replied.

  “On what?”

  “On you meeting me today.”

  “Why do you want to meet me?”

  “Look, pal, you’re not calling the shots here! I am. You don’t really have a choice, now, do you? So, you’re going to do exactly what I say.”