BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers)

by Robert Bidinotto

  “Well, I just heard some news that has me thinking maybe you were too hasty.”

  “Paul, I have to take my kid to a basketball game. Don’t tell me another dirtbag just got whacked.”

  “No, nobody whacked. But last night, somebody takes a backhoe or something like that, and he, or they, use it to demolish the offices of Capital Resources Development.”

  The name rang a faint bell. “What’s that got to do with Hunter?”

  “Okay, in his article about CarboNot he also mentions this other company, Capital Resources. Remember? The one he says is involved in private land grabs up in Pennsylvania?”

  “I remember now. Well, they must be making a lot of enemies. Maybe somebody wanted to get back at them. Again, what’s that got to do with Hunter, or the vigilantes?”

  “How’s this: Remember all the news clips left behind at the vigilante crime scenes, and how a lot of them were written by Hunter?”

  Cronin pulled in a slow breath. “You’re about to tell me this latest Hunter article was found at the vandalism scene.”

  “Bingo. And not just that. They also leave a sign behind, planted right on top of the rubble. In big red letters: ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING.’”

  Oh shit …

  Erskine continued. “So we have this Hunter article. Then somebody demolishes the office of this company he mentions in that article. And they leave a message at the scene, suggesting their motive. Sound familiar?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “I mean, if they just wanted simple revenge, they torch the place, right? But this backhoe stuff, and the clipping, and the sign—that’s ritualistic. Symbolic. The same M.O. as before.”

  “You’re right … Okay, Paul. I’ll talk to him.”

  He snapped the phone shut. Heard the sound of a basketball bouncing in the driveway.

  “Goddamn you, Hunter!”

  He pawed through his desk drawer, found a business card. Punched in the numbers, waited impatiently for the greeting on the answering machine, then the beep. He tried to force a smile into his voice.

  “Danika, this is Sergeant Ed Cronin, Alexandria Police Department. Remember me? I’m the detective with the Vigilante Task Force who visited your office some months ago. When you get this message, please contact Dylan Hunter and tell him I need to see him right away.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Hunter rose at dawn. He fed Luna, got in a fast, hard workout in the building’s exercise room, showered, shaved, then put together a light breakfast. Just before seven-thirty he went downstairs to “Wayne’s” apartment. He drank his second coffee as he sorted through more of the files and papers he’d carried off in big plastic trash bags from the Capital Resources office before he tore it down. In the background, the scanner monitored the three bug frequencies.

  He was jotting notes from one of the files when he heard something and glanced up. The scanner display hovered on the frequency set for Nature Legal Advocacy. Noises of movement in Lockwood’s office. A door closing. Another thump, much closer … two clicks … papers rustling …

  A briefcase being opened?

  He noted the time: seven forty-five.

  The scanner resumed its rapid cycling through the three channels, then paused again on Lockwood’s office. More noise … Then:

  “Hello? … Thanks for taking my call so early …”

  Hunter hit the start button on the digital recorder on his desk.

  “… Yes, I know … Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of more bad news. Our senior associate phoned me late last night. He spoke to the insurance company. He doesn’t know how it happened, but somebody—probably the same people who did that to the office—also canceled the property insurance on it last week … That’s right. A total loss. And without insurance coverage, the company has to eat it … Well, how the hell do you think I feel? I have a big stake in this, too … He’s beside himself. After all, he’s the one who put it together and brought us in … No idea at all. Face it: A lot of those people up there would be motivated to do something like this … Sure, but there’s not much we can do yet. That’s his opinion, too. Now, we just have to get past the hearing and wait until they decide on the moratorium … Okay, I said ‘decide,’ but we both know that’s just a formality, barring the unforeseen … Fair point: Who could have foreseen something like this? But he assures me it’s a done deal. So, after the moratorium, I’m confident we can bounce back … Yes, he thinks so, too … Sorry to interrupt, but I hear some people showing up outside my office. I’d better run … Sure, I’ll keep you posted.”

  Silence.

  The scanning resumed.

  He shut off the recorder. Got up and paced the room while sipping his coffee.

  They were playing it safe on the phone. No names—he had no idea who had been on the other end of the call. Nor the identity of the “senior associate.” Not a peep about Silva’s murder. Nothing legally incriminating at all.

  Not that he could use his tape in court, or even in the newspaper, anyway. But the call did confirm his broad suspicions, and tell him a few new things, too.

  He would have to put in a long day sifting through the pile of the files stacked on the floor and waiting for something more to happen on the scanner.

  Just after eight his new burner chirped. He saw that the call was from Danika, forwarded through the usual circuitous relays. She told him that Cronin wanted to see him this morning.

  “Call him back and tell him that I’ll be in at eleven,” he said.

  Well. That didn’t take long.

  “Hell-o, Mr. Hunter!”

  Danika Cheyenne Brown sang out from a visitor’s chair in the reception area of the office suite. Seated beside her a little boy, feet dangling and kicking restlessly, gripped a children’s picture book in his lap.

  “Good afternoon, Danika.” He approached and bent over the child. “And this must be Tyrone.”

  “My one and only.” She slid her arm around the child’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. He looked up at her and smiled; he had inherited his mother’s dimples. “Tyrone’s grandma had to go to the doctor today, so he’s been here keeping me company. Tyrone, this is Mr. Hunter.”

  “Hi, mister!” He grinned and raised a tiny brown fist.

  Hunter chuckled and gave it a light fist-bump. “Hi, Tyrone. Your mama told me you’re four years old now. What a big boy you are!”

  “I’m gonna be real big, like Daddy!”

  “I bet you’re going to be even bigger.” He asked her, “And how is Melvin doing?”

  Her smile melted into a cute little pout, making the dimples stand out even more on her smooth coffee skin. “He’s working nights. But he’s in line to get promoted to supervisor at the security company, so he doesn’t have to work those scary night shifts.” She patted the boy’s tight black curls. “Maybe we can afford to get married then.”

  “Well, he’d better not wait forever, or somebody else is going to come along and scoop you up.”

  “I’m not so sure.” She looked at him impishly through half-closed eyes and crossed her long dark legs under a tight beige skirt that rode to mid-thigh. “All the good men have been scooped up by gorgeous ladies.”

  “Any man would be lucky to have you, Danika. I hope Melvin realizes that.”

  “Any man, huh?”

  “So, is Detective Cronin here yet?”

  “I see how you just changed the subject. But yes. Office D.”

  “Now, now, I know that look. Sorry to break the news, but the detective is happily married.”

  The little pout again. “Aw, that’s too bad.” She closed her eyes. “He’s certainly another fine-looking gentleman.”

  “Um … Danika: Remember Melvin? You know—Tyrone’s daddy?”

  She rolled her eyes, but planted a kiss on the little boy’s forehead.

  “Yeah,” she sighed, “I remember.”

  Before Hunter entered the office, he saw the trim figure of the man framed at the window, looking out a
t Connecticut Avenue.

  He came in and Ed Cronin turned to face him. The detective looked exactly as he had the first time they’d met on these premises months before: a lean, strikingly handsome middle-aged man with a square jaw, intense blue eyes, and a fringe of close-cropped blond hair on his balding head. This time, though, his expression lacked any of the warmth of that first occasion.

  “Sergeant Cronin,” Hunter said, approaching and extending his hand.

  Cronin just looked at it. Then back at his face. Unblinking.

  Hunter dropped his hand to his side. “Yikes. Is my deodorant failing?”

  “Something smells, all right,” the cop said. He nodded his head toward the coffee table and nearby chairs. “Why don’t we have a little chat?”

  Cronin took a chair where he’d already draped his overcoat, while Hunter settled into the one opposite him. The cop crossed his arms over his brown tweed jacket. Then continued to stare at him.

  “So, detective, how do we score this? Does the first guy to blink lose?”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  “Oh, I get it, now. You’re here to test my psychic powers.”

  “Quit horsing around. Capital Resources Development.”

  “Aw, you read my article. I’m flattered.”

  “Not the article.”

  He frowned. “Then what?”

  “So you still want to play games. Pretend you don’t know anything. We’ve been to this rodeo before, Hunter. Last year you write articles about killers getting turned loose—and days later, they turn up dead, with your articles left at the crime scenes. Now, you write an article about some crooked ‘green energy’ outfit stealing land in Pennsylvania. And just days later, their headquarters is ripped down. And—guess what?”

  Hunter blinked. “Capital Resources—was torn down?”

  Cronin stared at him.

  “Cronin, are you telling me that somebody—” He stopped. “Somebody did that, and left my article there?”

  Cronin just stared.

  Hunter rose to his feet. “Oh, come on, Cronin! Use your common sense. Do you think I could be that stupid? Even if I wanted to do something that bizarre, do you think for one minute that I’d leave my own name at the crime scene? Put my signature on the act?” He glared down at the cop, hands on his hips. “You’re damned right. We’ve been to this rodeo before. And I’m getting more than a little pissed about it.”

  Cronin stood, too. “No, you’re just trying to be very clever, in your own twisted way. You figure that by making yourself too obvious a suspect, I’d think exactly that: that there’s no way a smart guy like you would possibly be that obvious. But this latest crime is the same M.O. as the vigilante killings. And you are the only common denominator tying them all together.”

  “No. From what you’re saying, newspaper clippings are the only things tying them together. Do you have any idea just how many people buy the Inquirer every day? It could be anybody doing this.”

  “But why your articles? You attack the legal system in the paper, all of a sudden a bunch of criminals you mention wind up dead; the legal shysters who turned them loose are targeted with all kinds of embarrassing publicity stunts; and your articles are left behind. Now you write about some environmental scam, and the same thing happens. So, you ‘come on’! Do you really expect me to believe that the same person or persons who are ripped about the legal system also have their panties in a bunch about ‘green energy’? Enough to do crazy shit like this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe whoever did this latest thing are just copycats. Besides, I don’t expect you to believe anything. You’re a cop—so I expect you to stick to the facts. And the fact is that, except for some newspaper clippings with my name on them, absolutely nothing links me to any of this.”

  “It’s not just the clippings. That’s just one set of facts. Here are some others.” He held up his fingers, ticking them off. “Fact number two: You’re a man without a past, living under an alias. Three: You have a girlfriend in the CIA—an interesting coincidence for a guy with an alias. Four: Her CIA boss interferes with my investigation last month. Five: You are able to take down a guy almost twice your size—a serial killer with advanced martial arts skills—in a knife fight.”

  “I’ve explained every single one of those things.”

  “No, you only explained them away. But that’s not all. I was going to hold this back from you, but what the hell is the use? Six: In some of the vigilante crimes, the perp or perps used symbolic names. That fact was never reported in the media. Names like Lex Talionis and Edmond Dantes. So we find a sign posted at this new crime scene, with your clip nailed on it. Then we find out the excavator used to tear down the place is rented, and the renter signed the agreement Rob N. O’Locksley. It took a while for me and my partner to figure it out. But I suppose I don’t have to explain any of those names to you, do I?”

  Hunter tossed his hands skyward. “How am I supposed to answer? Either yes or no, and I’m guilty. Right?”

  Cronin went on. “No ‘copycats’ could possibly know about those names. Yet they link all the vigilante crimes with this new one. So, it has to be the same perps.” He paused. “Or perp.”

  “It seems you’ve already decided that I’m guilty. Guilty, until proved innocent. So, are you here to inform me that the legal system has suddenly flipped the burden of proof?”

  Cronin glowered at him a moment more. Then he shook his head and sat down again. Hunter remained standing for a few seconds, then returned to his own seat.

  “Look,” Cronin said, his voice lower. “Whatever it is you think you’re trying to do, this can’t go on.” He raised a hand. “No, don’t bother denying anything. Just let me talk. Maybe this is the last time I can say this to you, in private.

  “Hunter, I’ve been on the job a long time. I’m good at what I do. Maybe you can fool lots of people. But you can’t play me for a fool. I’m on to you. And I’m going to stay on you, like a flea on a dog. That has nothing to do with what I think about your goals, incidentally. Hell, I agree with them. Those criminals that you—that were iced last year? Glad to see them gone, every goddamned one of them. Makes my job easier. And this energy company? If what you write is true, they deserve what happened to them this weekend.”

  He paused, scratched his scalp, dropped his hand on his lap. Slumped forward.

  “But we have a system of laws in this country. Nobody gets to decide which ones they obey, and which ones they don’t. You start taking the law into your own hands, where does it stop? You do it—and maybe the right people get the justice they deserve. But then other people do it, too. And maybe they aren’t like you. Maybe they don’t have your morals. They start using violence, but against the wrong people. Or they go to extremes—shooting somebody just for looking at them the wrong way. Pretty soon, it’s like Mexico. Blood vendettas. Bodies in the streets everywhere. Total anarchy.”

  Hunter watched him, remaining silent.

  “You’re a real smart guy, Hunter—or whoever you are. Smart enough to know that this has to end badly. So use your head, dammit. You’ve got a great job where you do lots of good exposing bad shit. I gather you’ve got a lot of money. You certainly got yourself a gorgeous girlfriend. You’ve got it all, my friend. But the way things are going, you are about to blow it all.”

  Hunter had to work to keep his face blank.

  “You don’t need to make private war on all the world’s bad guys. That’s why they hire schmucks like me. Why they give us a badge and a gun. Making war on the bad guys—that’s our job. Not yours. But meanwhile, we all have to obey the laws. I do, you do. The laws are for everybody.”

  Hunter couldn’t resist.

  “Including the people I’ve been writing about?”

  Cronin lowered his gaze. “If we don’t like the system, we’ve got to change it. But at the ballot box. Not in the streets. We can’t let that happen.” He looked up, his blue eyes intense again. “I can’t let that happen, Dylan.�
��

  Hunter nodded slowly.

  “I know. You’re a good cop, Ed.”

  The desk phone beeped.

  “Excuse me a second,” Hunter said, rising. He went to the desk and poked the speaker button. “Yes, Danika?”

  “It’s Mr. Bronowski on line two.”

  “Thanks.” He turned to Cronin, who was getting up and putting on his coat. “No, wait—I’ll be just a minute.” He hit the button. “Hey, Bill. What’s up?”

  “Glad I caught you. Maybe at last we’ll get to meet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I have a package for you. It just arrived by messenger. He said you’re supposed to pick it up in person, but I signed for it. Now you’ll have to come in, at long last.”

  “What package? From whom?”

  “I can’t make it out … They used some kind of green ink, and the return address is all smeared, and—”

  Hunter sagged forward, his arms propping himself on the desk over the phone.

  “Bill! Shut up and listen to me! Do exactly what I say … Very gently, put that package down. Very gently, on your desk, Bill. Do it right now. Don’t touch it anymore. Get out of the building. Get everybody else out of there, too. Do it now, Bill!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cronin got patched through to the bomb squad dispatched to the Inquirer Building. The team sent in a remote-controlled robot that confirmed the package did contain some kind of explosive, and they used the device to transport the bomb away from the scene.

  The cop put his phone away and faced Hunter.

  “So how did you know the package was a bomb?” he demanded.

  “Just a hunch. I’d already gotten a threatening email a few days ago. And I’d been thinking a lot about that scientist I met up in the Allegheny Forest, the one who was killed by a bomber. Besides, nobody has ever sent me a package before. It all set off my warning bells.”

  Cronin watched him, stone-faced. “Why do I think there’s a lot more to the story?”

  “As I said: What does it matter what I tell you? You’re going to believe what you want to believe.”