“But why send a man to war if you’re not going to support him once he gets there?”
“Don’t let it get to you. Nasty politics happen in every war.”
A sharp popping sound jerked Roy’s head toward the sparse crowd gathered at the World War II Memorial.
“Gunshot,” Connor declared, already running toward the scene.
Backfire, Roy hoped as he sprinted the distance.
The ambulance had barely pulled away when they arrived. Police, Secret Service, and FBI swarmed the area and had already cordoned off the crime scene. Roy hailed one of the FBI agents he recognized, and shortly, he and Connor were allowed within the police line. According to the officer at the scene, this shooting was identical to the others. Senator Covington had been killed with one round to the forehead.
Roy scowled. “You need to be finding out if Covington was another one of those extreme left politicians like the others. Then we might have something to work with.”
Connor’s fingers were already tapping on his cell phone. Roy could read the answer in his eyes.
“Okay. We’ve got possible motive. What else do these three politicians have in common? And where’d the shot come from?” He eyed the range of buildings to the north. Any of them would make a perfect sniper hide, but they were too far away and trees stood between them and the Memorial. All those trees would hinder a clean shot.
Even now an army of law enforcement, FBI, and Secret Service swarmed the street and the buildings. Metro police blocked Constitution Avenue. Another ambulance sounded in the distance. There was no sign of a covert concealment among the trees. No sniper hide. Nothing.
“We’re missing something.”
“You’re telling me. There’s too much security and law enforcement on the scene,” Connor observed. “Any one of them could be the sniper. They’re all carrying ARs.”
“Good point.” Roy activated his earpiece and contacted Mother to double-check traffic cameras and any other video surveillance along Constitution. Anything that moved before, during, and after the shooting he wanted to see it.
“Found something.” Connor crouched by the sidewalk snaking through the tree-lined path north of the memorial. With the end of a pencil, he lifted a cylinder out of the trampled mud.
The sniper had not policed his brass.
“Like I’ve told you, we’d barely gotten in from walking the dogs. It was ten after eight. I know because I checked my watch.” Alex was tired of the same questions over and over again, first by the police officers and now Detective Hemmings.
“What year was the Ford?”
“Maybe a sixty-five. Full of rust. The back left tire was low.”
“And that’s all you know? That someone in an old truck might have taken your wife?”
“What I said is the truck was the only thing out of the ordinary. Have you got anyone at all looking for her?”
Detective Hemmings ignored the sarcastic question. “What we’ve got is a warrant to check your home.”
“And?”
“Besides a mighty fine gun safe which we couldn’t get into, we found three sets of fingerprints—yours, your wife’s, and some fella’s named Harley Mortimer. You know him?”
“Yes. He’s a good friend and employee. He’s always at our place.” Alex sighed heavily. “Everything I’ve told you is easy enough to double-check if you’d call—”
“We did call your office, if that’s what you’re gonna say next. Your secretary gave us some real interesting news.”
“What?”
“Seems like your good friend didn’t make it to work today, or did you already know that too?” Hemmings leaned forward with a know-it-all look on his smug face. “You want to explain one more time why your employee’s fingerprints are all over your home?”
“Harley didn’t come in?” Alex rubbed both temples in an attempt to ease the fracturing headache pounding behind his eyes.
“Seems mighty funny that your friend goes missing the same day as your wife. Makes me wonder.”
Alex caught the implication. “Harley has a girlfriend. Judy O’Brien. Check with her if you want to know where he is.”
“I’ll just bet he does.”
“Listen, I know my wife, and—”
“And the husband is always the last to know. I get it, but let me tell you something, buddy, I’ve seen this kinda thing happen a thousand times before, and—”
“I’m not your buddy!” Alex hit the table with both fists, startling the detective enough that he jumped.
“Get used to it,” Hemmings shot back at him. “She’s a cute little thing. You work long hours. Figure it out. Once they leave, they never—”
“You arrogant—”
“You told me yourself. You’re a busy man. Well, maybe she got sick of waiting for you to show up. Maybe, she went looking for something on the side like—”
“No!” Alex slammed his fist down again. This time it was he who leaned across the table. He wasn’t handcuffed or shackled, and he’d had enough. “You need to be real careful what comes out of your mouth next.”
Hemmings blinked, straightened his tie and screeched his chair away from the table. “I’ll be back.”
Alex glared at the glass window across from him, not caring who was on the other side. He’d only stayed to give the police their due, but he was done playing nice.
Within minutes Hemmings returned. “You’re free to go, but let me make something perfectly clear. There’s nothing suspicious about your wife’s disappearance. There’s no evidence. It looks like she ran away with your friend. This is a domestic issue. Nothing more. And you can’t prove otherwise. Call us when she turns up. I’ll bet she’s in Tahiti soaking up the sun with your buddy. They’re laughing at you and drinking margaritas while they do it. You should’ve called the airlines. Not us.”
Alex jerked the interrogation door open and walked away, choking on words that would only create more trouble. He’d wasted enough time. First call he made was to Mother on his way out the main precinct doors. “Any news?” he barked, his temper loaded and ready to fire.
“Umm, Boss, on—?”
“My wife!”
“David and Rory returned from your place. They didn’t come up with anything unusual, but Mark got a call from Judy. He and Zack are on their way to her apartment right now. Ember and I are gathering everything we can get our hands on. We’ve pulled images from DPS, the Defense Support Program, and GOES, the Geostationary Operations Environ—”
“Stop!” His last inkling of patience was gone in an instant with her incessant techno babble. When she ceased jabbering, he knew he was being an ass. Redirecting what was left of his unvented anger, Alex softened his voice to deal with the woman he truly understood was working her guts out for him. “Has anyone found a clue? Anything?”
“No,” she answered meekly. “We’re still looking, Boss. Honest. We won’t quit.”
He stopped walking, his heart dashed to pieces in the middle of the Alexandria police station’s parking lot. Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me where on this sonofabitchin planet my wife is!
“I’ll be in shortly. Thanks.” He hung up, not knowing how to staunch the gaping hole in his heart. Kelsey was everything—his reason for breathing, working and living all rolled into one. Not knowing where she was ate up every last shred of patience, and he never had much to begin with. An old mantra kicked in, reminding him how useless he was. You should have been there.
Walking quickly to his truck, Alex remote unlocked it. His dogs, Whisper and Smoke, would be hungry, so he detoured home, not able to think if he’d fed them or not. When he pulled to the curb and hurried to his front door, Alice Spencer, the neighbor lady, intercepted him.
“Alex.” She stopped with one foot on the bottom step to his three-step porch, her fingers on the rail as if she didn’t dare come any closer.
“Anything I can do for you?” He spared her a quick glance. All he knew about Alice was she lived across the street with her
husband, Rand, who’d had a stroke several years ago. Her grandson lived with her to help manage her husband’s needs. Alice was friendly enough when he’d run into her on the street, and she minded her business.
Kelsey was the friendly one who made pies at Christmas if only because someone might have extra family come to visit. He, on the other hand, was the neighborhood’s endangered species, rarely spotted and only when migrating between office and home. After his wife and daughter’s funeral, he’d barricaded himself behind closed doors and pulled drapes, hell-bent on self-destruction and his mind made up to keep the world at bay. He’d done a good job.
“I think the better question is what can I do for you? We’re so sorry about Kelsey.” Alice did look sincere.
“Thanks.” He unlocked his door as he answered, not intending to be rude, but not going to feed the gossip mill either. “But no. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” she snapped and took another step closer, the sympathy in her eyes mixed with a touch of defiance. He didn’t remember the gray tinting her dark hair. “Stop acting like I don’t live right across the street from you, Alex Stewart, like I don’t know what’s going on over here. I saw what the police and that stupid reporter did to you.”
He swallowed hard. Her words sounded like they came from the stern but loving woman who’d raised him, only Grandma Stewart would have used his entire Christian name if she were still alive. Alexander Bradley Stewart. He could almost hear her. Tender and tough, it was the last thing he needed.
“I’m not some stranger, Alex. For heaven’s sake, let me help.”
“Okay. Did you see anything unusual last night?” he asked hoarsely. “Anyone prowling around my place?”
“No, and the police asked me about the truck in my driveway,” she answered. “I wish I knew who it belonged to, but I don’t. Some of your neighbors are organizing a search. I can’t leave Rand, or I’d be out there with them, but I can help in other ways. My grandson, Jimmy, can take care of your dogs while you’re busy. This is an awful thing you’re going through.”
“I might need help with the dogs if you’re serious. Jimmy is it?”
“You’re darn right I’m serious.” Alice visibly relaxed, her smile sad and caring at the same time. She looked so sincere. “I’ll send him over.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Alex opened his door to signal the end of the conversation, but Alice had a different idea. Her hand on his arm brought him about-face.
“Don’t do it again,” she scolded, her eyes welled with tears. “Not like last time. Please don’t shut us out, Alex. You have to know by now how much we care about you and Kelsey.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, struggling to maintain his invisible force field.
“Good.” She nodded like she’d solved something. “I’m bringing dinner over so plan on it. Every night. You’ve got to keep your strength up. I’ll leave it here on your front step. Go ahead and keep the dishes. I’ll make sure they’re disposable.” She gave him no chance to argue, just turned on her heel and marched across the street. Her kindness touched him. Alice must have been watching for him to come home. She’d just showed up—like the good neighbor he’d never been.
Stepping into his home, the silence stopped him cold. There was no lunch waiting in the microwave and no radio down the hall in Kelsey’s office. Just chaos. Evidence of the police search warrant was everywhere, from the books pulled off his bookshelf to the couch cushions left on the floor. Kitchen cupboards were open, the silverware drawer too. Even the carefully folded contents of the linen closet in the hall were left in disarray.
Kelsey’s cologne hung in the air, a reminder she’d slipped through his hands the same as that atomized mist. For the first time in their married life, he did not know where she was. A familiar paralysis crept into his heart, its mantra bitterly accusing. I should have been there.
Refusing to succumb to the hopelessness of the day, he reached for his cell phone and speed-dialed Murphy.
“Covert Teamwork, Murphy Finnegan speak—”
“What’s this about Harley not showing for work?”
“How’d you know?”
“The police. What’s going on? Where is he?”
“All we know right now is what Judy told Mark. Said she can’t raise him on his cell. There’s blood on his gun safe at their apartment. His weapons are gone. Ammo too. Hang on. Mother’s got something.”
Alex stilled as Murphy spoke with Mother in the background. In seconds, he was back on the line. “Guess Mark already had her checking Harley’s GPS. Looks like he’s on the freeway. Ah, never mind. Hold on. Sorry.” Murphy covered the phone with his hand. All Alex could hear was muffled conversation before Murphy came back with a quick, “Let me call you back. Give me a couple minutes.” He hung up.
Alex sat with a thump on his sofa. First Kelsey? Now Harley? Hemmings’ snide comment replayed in his head. Maybe, she went looking for a little something on the side.
But Alex knew better. He’d mentally gone over every case he’d ever worked, every black op, surveillance and mission. There were many in the world who might want to strike out at him, and maybe that’s what this was all about. Abducting her would certainly destroy him. The nightmare had to be his fault. He was the one with enemies. Not Kelsey.
His phone rang.
“Speak.”
“Got his GPS, only it’s not good news. Seems he was involved with the oil tanker disaster on the interstate this morning. I know you probably didn’t see it, but it was all over the news. Five people died. Dozens were injured. Eastbound traffic’s been shut down. They’ve got one lane open now, but it was a helluva fire.”
“Murph?” His breath caught. Is there no good news in the world today?
“I already checked with the Highway Patrol. He was there. His Jeep burned, but none of the injured matched his description. Mother’s double-checking hospitals to be sure.”
“And?”
Again the muffled conversation on Murphy’s end of the line before he came back with, “He’s not at any of the local hospitals and Ember checked the morgue. No one there we know either.”
“What about the blood in his apartment? Is Judy sure it’s—”
“It was still sticky, Alex. Judy would know. He’s been home since the accident. No doubt about it.”
Alex shoved a hand through his hair, his nerves wound beyond the breaking point. “Then where is he?”
Six
“Thirty-aught-six? Not military issue?” Murphy asked about the brass cartridge Connor had found. For now, it was the only evidence in a notorious case that was quickly leading to martial law. Citizens were urged to stay indoors as much as possible until the sniper was caught. But citizens were not the problem. They knew how to listen. Congressmen and women obviously did not.
“It would do the job,” Roy countered. Everywhere he looked in the office, television sets were tuned to news channels for any break in the three operations The TEAM was suddenly engulfed in.
Murphy pushed back from the table, his arms folded across his chest in his prove-it-to-me posture. “So answer me this. How could a man in a crowd get a rifle shot off without being noticed?”
“Just because these bozos thought they were untouchable, didn’t mean John Q Public wanted to be out there with them. And just because we found an empty shell does not necessarily mean it’s the murder weapon. Covington should have listened to the FBI.”
“He told the press he was not going to be bullied by some two-bit thug.”
“Well, how’d that work for him? A two-bit thug with a gun is still deadly.”
Murphy shook his head in disgust. “I checked with Metro PD. A few witnesses do remember hearing noises that sounded like cars backfiring at the first two murders too.”
“But, guys. The shooter had to have been pretty close to the targets. None of these victims had their heads blown off. All three entries show very little tear.” Connor slid the three photos from the morgue across the
table to Roy, referencing the terminal ballistics damage caused when a round the caliber of a thirty-aught-six passed through the human body. “I gotta give it to him. This guy’s got guts.”
Roy studied the photos. Each showed a whitened face with a hole centered in their forehead. Understandably, the exit was larger, but none showed the devastation of a long distance hit. It was the simple physics of kinetic energy, velocity, and the trajectory decay of a bullet en route. Less distance equaled greater accuracy equaled definite death, but it also equaled less physical trauma, not that it mattered to the victims. Dead was still dead.
“Maybe he’s using a ghillie suit,” Connor offered.
“No way,” Roy said. “You and I would have seen him. I’m more inclined to think he was passing himself off as one of our boys in blue. Maybe even FBI.”
“I’m surprised he’s not using a fancier gun though,” Murphy said.
“Hell, Murph, you and me used whatever we could get our hands on in Vietnam,” Roy explained. “We didn’t have it easy like kids these days with all their fancy designer rifles. Even Hathcock used a heavy-barreled Winchester and thirty-aught-six rounds.”
“When he wasn’t using a fifty-cal,” Connor added.
“You’re right.” Murphy scowled. “I’ll have Mother and Ember check military records for malcontents and dishonorable discharges, anyone with a grudge. Who knows? Maybe it’s one of our boys.”
“I’d bet on it.” Roy’s mind back in the days when he’d owned a weapon like the assassin appeared to be using. It had been one of those coming of age things, the rifle given to him by his dad on the best three-day fall weekend ever. His father and a few neighbor men rounded up their sons and a few of the less fortunate boys whose fathers didn’t hunt, and off they went. It was a simple thing. They’d gotten hunter safety training up close and personal in the forests of Virginia. Three of the boys bagged their first deer. Not Roy. All he got was his very own rifle – and closer to his old man. Best weekend ever.
“I hate to give our current jackass with a gun any credit, but Connor’s right. This guy’s good. He’s got ice water in his veins.”
Harley (In the Company of Snipers Book 4) Page 5
