By the end of the meeting, Gene felt like he needed a shower. Captain Stukly obviously didn't care much about the poor woman blown to pieces only sixteen blocks away, except insofar as it affected his bid for mayor. Gene left the office with Stukly staring holes into the back of his head.
He made it down the hall, past rows of cubicles, barnyard pens for human cattle with crummy jobs, and saw a lean, young man in an LAPD uniform hurrying toward him. He looked familiar. Right. The guy from the crime scene yesterday. Anderson.
The smiling young man had his hand out and an expectant look on his face. Gene took his hand and shook it. Too hard again. He probably wants a job with the FBI. "You here to keep me out of trouble, Officer?" Gene asked, his attempt at levity murdered by his scowl.
Officer Anderson's smile faded to a constipated grimace. "Wasn't very good at it yesterday, Agent Palomini. Not sure what good it'd do today." He looked even more chagrined as the implications of his statement caught up to him. Gene didn't give him the chance to back out.
"It didn't do any 'good' yesterday, and it wouldn't do any 'good' today, because we're the 'good' guys, and getting the 'bad' guys is our job. Why is it your job to get in our way, Officer? Aren't you supposed to be catching the bad guys, too?" He jerked a hand up to stifle a reply and added, "What can I do for you, Officer Anderson?"
Anderson flushed and looked out the window. "Detective Rodriguez told me you were with Stukly. I thought you'd want to know we've got preliminary analysis on the explosive back from the lab. Ammonium nitrate. Fertilizer. We're working on a source now, but that could take weeks."
Gene softened his tone, embarrassed. "Sorry, you didn't deserve that. Thanks for the info. Let me know if…. Let me know when you get the results back." He took out a business card and handed it to the policeman. "My cell's the second number. Call any time, day or night, if something breaks." Officer Anderson took the card, and it disappeared into a pocket.
Inwardly, Gene sighed. Timothy McVeigh used ammonium nitrate to blow up the Federal Building in Oklahoma City. It was as common as anything and could have come from anywhere. In a month anyone could buy enough of the stuff from a garden supply store to make a car bomb without tripping a Department of Homeland Security threshold on dangerous substances. That's if you didn't just pay a farmer for a truckload of pig crap and make it yourself.
Anderson's irrepressible smile reappeared. "No problemo. You just let me know if there's anything else we can do. I don't have much pull around here, but I'm well-liked, and Marco—that's Detective Rodriguez, homicide—might be able to help you cut through any bullshit Stukly throws in your face. And call me Jimmy."
Maybe this cop was one of the good guys. "I'll do that, Jimmy. I'll do that." His mood lightened ever so slightly, Gene headed to his car.
Chapter 2
July 17th, 2:25 PM EST; Wegmans Supermarket; Fairfax, Virginia.
Three weeks later, Gene pushed his cart up and down the aisles of the supermarket, trying to stick to his list as much as possible in light of all the temptations offered. He caught a whiff of the in-store Chinese buffet and his stomach growled. Why do I always come here hungry?
Every other weekend he drove to Fairfax to get "the good stuff" from Wegmans grocery store. More like the Taj Mahal of eats. He wandered aisles packed with everything he could ever want for his kitchen, whether he felt like cooking or just wanted something to take out. Even if it wasn't crowded, it took at least an hour to get out of there, and he always spent more than he meant to. Why do I come here, again? By way of reply, his stomach tried to convince his brain that, yes, he did need a two-pound bag of jumbo shrimp to go with the cocktail sauce already in his cart.
His FBI-issued cell phone rang and jolted him out of his reverie. He looked at the caller ID. Unknown name, Unknown number. And on a Saturday. He frowned and hit the green "talk" button.
"Hello, this is Gene."
"Hello, Special Agent." The voice on the other end was filtered through a computer scrambler, with no discernible accent. He hoped it wasn't Marty. His childish older brother hadn't met a practical joke he didn't like.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Scrambled-Voice Guy?" He cradled the phone on his right shoulder, grabbed the shrimp, and tossed it into his cart.
"Missouri," the voice said.
"Missouri?" Gene asked. The only reply was a dial tone.
He hung up and moved to dial just as it rang again. It was Samantha Greene's desk.
"Sam, I just got a call…." He didn't know why he bothered. All of their work phones were tapped. Their home phones probably were, too, even though that wouldn't be legal. And Sam was always listening. Even at two-thirty on a Saturday.
"Yeah, got it," she interrupted. "NetPhone. New account. This is the first time it's been used. Um, hold on."
Gene pushed his cart toward the front of the store, his mood obliterated along with his free weekend. So soon after the Sykes murder, and that case dead in the water. The explosives hadn't panned out to anything. The ammonium nitrate came from a Home Depot in Fresno that sold thousands of pounds of fertilizer a week. The case was idle, Officers Rodriguez and Anderson had been tasked to other investigations, and Chief Stukly was making "the incompetent feds" a campaign point in his bid for mayor. Sam spoke up as he reached the checkout.
"The account is tied to a new phone purchase with prepaid minutes, activated 2:18 PM July 3rd. Bought at, let's see…."
He loaded the heavy stuff onto the belt as Sam pulled up the information. The cashier started scanning his items.
"Yeah, okay. Maybe an hour out of town. The Wegmans Supermarket in Fairfax, Virginia."
Gene went cold. He looked around. No one seemed to be paying him any particular attention. He stepped out of the line and scanned the crowd. There were hundreds of people in the store. At least twenty blabbed away into handheld and Bluetooth phones.
The cashier gave him a concerned look. "You lose something, sir?" Gene looked through the cashier, not seeing her.
"Um, no, I—" He held up a finger. "Hold on a minute." She rolled her eyes.
"Crap, Sam, that's where I am now. I mean, crap. I was here on the third, in the afternoon! CRAP!" He slammed his hand down on the conveyor. The woman in line behind him glared and pointed at the toddler in her cart.
* * *
July 17th, 8:48 PM EST; Wheelan Air Services Flight 827; somewhere over the Eastern United States.
Gene grinned and looked out the window. Everyone laughed over the droning roar of the twin-engine airplane. Marty clapped him on the shoulder while talking both into the COM and to the rest of the team.
"Yelling 'crap' in public…. Would it kill you to just say 'shit' like a normal person?"
Gene's glare focused on nothing. Thanks, Sam. How do you glare at someone who isn't there? "I was freaked out. You would have been, too. I thought the guy was right there. I mean, like right next to me or something." The team sobered and got down to business.
Gene briefed them on what little they knew. Missouri. A phone call instead of a text message. The D Street Killer hadn't done that in years. Sam had accessed the security tape of register three, from which the I-590 NetPhone was purchased on July 3rd. Some guy had paid an eighty-nine-year-old World War Two veteran twenty dollars to buy it for him. A store regular, he couldn't describe the guy. Of the hundreds of people who entered and exited the building about the same time, none triggered as suspicious on the video feeds. Many were store regulars or townies, identified by employees and the local police, but many were strangers. Parking lot cameras didn't catch the exchange. Interviews had gone nowhere. They had nothing, again.
And yet, here they were at fifteen thousand feet and heading to Missouri at over three hundred miles an hour to try to catch the D Street Killer before he killed again. The problem was, as usual, that states are awfully big.
* * *
July 17th, 9:12 PM CST; Terminal G, Lambert-St. Louis International Airport; St. Louis, Missouri.
Gene g
rabbed his bag and looked out the window. A hodgepodge of suits, uniforms, and five-o'clock shadows waited for them on the tarmac. The men stood in a half-circle at the bottom of the retractable stairs, sheltered under umbrellas from the thunderstorm.
First were two Missouri state troopers, two St. Louis County deputies, and a member of airport security, all of whom looked nervous. Lurking behind the uniformed men stood a sandy-haired man in his early thirties wearing a tailored business suit. Next to him stood a short, black-haired man in a fed-issue suit whom Gene recognized as Special Agent Robert Barnhoorn. Barnhoorn was the local FBI liaison, one of Doug's former classmates from the academy, and the brother of Doug's long-time girlfriend.
Gene half-stumbled down the stairs, legs stiff from hours of sitting. Doug's face was green. He sighed when his feet touched the asphalt and he looked ready to kiss the ground.
They shook hands and introduced themselves. Mr. Tailored-Suit, an attaché to the mayor's office, was concerned about a potential killing in his city. Gene forgot his name the instant he'd heard it, then blew him off as diplomatically as possible to talk to the policemen.
Twenty minutes later, Gene found himself in a private suite reserved for airline executives. It had a fully stocked bar that no one was allowed to touch while on-duty. Marty sauntered over and poured himself a Glenlivet on the rocks, then got trapped in the role of bartender. Everyone but Gene and the mayoral suit ordered a stiff one.
Once comfortable, Gene got started. "Thanks, everybody, for coming down, but I'm sure Agent Greene has already briefed you." Sam chirped a "yup" into his earpiece. "The D Street Killer is going to kill someone in Missouri this week unless we stop him." He held up his hand to prevent the suit from interrupting. When the man closed his mouth, Gene continued. "What we don't know is who, or where in Missouri. Or why. Or by what method. Basically, all we know is that we're in the right state."
Robbie Barnhoorn let out a low whistle. "Y'all have your work cut out for you, that's for sure." He handed Gene a folder. "We're getting you set up with a full suite down at the Marriott. Computers, beds, doughnuts, coffee. The works. The place is booked up with the big tech conference this week, but we managed to squeeze you in." He inclined his head toward the sandy-haired gentleman. "The mayor's office is covering food and coffee as a gesture of good faith, as well as Mr. Gardner here, to help cut through any red tape. You tell him anything you need that I can't get you, he'll make sure to get it done."
Sam spoke in Gene's ear. "Tell them we need access to the hotel's security tapes for the past week and a direct feed ongoing while you're there. We can try to face-match anyone from the store camera back here. He knew where you were shopping, so he might know where you're staying."
Gene looked up to see the others staring at him. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry, that was Sam Greene on the COM. She wants security tapes from the hotel, dating back at least a week, and their video feed ongoing."
The mayoral attaché patted his briefcase. "I can pressure them to release the tapes and patch you in without letting them know why you're there. Hotels are pretty cooperative with open investigations."
Gene nodded, grateful for the assistance. Political appointees to investigations were usually more of a pain in the butt than a help. He opened his mouth to reply when his phone rang. The caller ID said D Street Killer. Unknown Number.
"It's him." The background chatter in the room came to an immediate halt. "He's spoofed caller ID, identified himself as the D Street Killer." He put his hand on the button and spoke into the air. "Sam?"
"Tracing," Sam said. "Keep him on as long as you can."
Gene hit "speaker." "Hello?"
The voice was the same, mechanical and without inflection or accent. "Did you have a nice trip, Agent Palomini? I've always hated those tiny little planes. They suck in this kind of weather. Is Agent Goldman keeping his supper down okay?" Everyone looked at Doug, who flushed with anger.
"I—" Gene began. D Street cut him off.
"I can't have you tracing this call past Singapore, so I'll keep this short. I'm feeling feisty and wanted to give you a bit of a head start. J.Z.B." The phone went dead.
Sam's voice spilled out of it. "DAMN IT! I had him in Singapore, where I hit one hell of a glitch. The trace went in eight directions at once. Not sure if it's hardware or what, but we'll see if it's physically there, then call their government. I bet I could have cracked it with a few more seconds."
Carl frowned. "This guy knows too much, Gene. Way too much."
Jerri pursed her lips, pensive. "What I don't get is, why is this one different? The call instead of the text, the two calls in one day. He’s even changed his M.O. on timing."
Marty looked annoyed. "Yup. Gave us the state, and now the initials. He didn't give us the city."
"I think he did," Doug said. "Maybe." He pointed at the TV, where a meteorologist droned on about the weather. A little dot of dark green surrounded by a larger wash of lighter green covered the St. Louis area. The rest of the Doppler screen showed nothing. "He said 'this weather.' He's in St. Louis, right under our noses." He sighed. "Maybe."
"Fuckin' A," Marty interjected. "Good catch."
Gardner swore under his breath. "I have to tell the mayor." He stood to leave and dropped a business card on the table.
In response, Agent Barnhoorn yelled, "NO PRESS LEAKS!" Gardner waved him down as he headed for the door.
"Got it, got it. Secrecy's the game, even though this guy already knows you're here. Whatever. You need something, you call me." He walked out.
Gene put his head in his hands, rubbed his temples, and spoke. "Sam?"
She already knew the question and had an answer. "There are only six J.Z.B.s in St. Louis on public record. There are another nine statewide. I'm sending the addresses to your phone right now."
Gene smiled. "You know I love you, don't you, Sam?"
"Who wouldn't, babe?"
Jerri raised her hand, like a teenager in high school. "Hey, Gene?"
Gene smiled. "Don't worry; I love you, too, Jerri."
She frowned and looked at the floor. "That's not it, Gene." She paused.
Never a patient man, Marty glared at her. "What?"
"My middle name is Zoe."
* * *
July 23rd, 7:58 AM CST; The Hotel Marriott Pheasant Room; St. Louis, Missouri.
Gene's heart pounded as he stared at the phone. This could be the day. The loud mid-morning traffic had a hard time competing with the noise coming from the lobby. The Innovators of Tomorrow technology conference, sponsored by the State of Missouri, had the whole city jammed to peak capacity, and the Airport Marriott was no exception. Gene blocked out the noise. This just had to be the day.
With help from the Mayor's office, they were staking out every J.Z.B. in the greater St. Louis area. The state police covered the rest of Missouri. It was a huge expenditure of police power dedicated to one and only one goal—catching the D Street Killer before he killed again.
Special Agent Jerri Zoe Bates bided her time in the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover building back in D.C., surrounded by the best security in the world. Gene couldn't think of a safer place. Even though she was out of the state, and thus shouldn't be the D Street Killer's target, she'd been closed in for six days, under constant guard like a prisoner, and she was suffering for it.
Jerri had begged Gene to allow her to do something, anything, useful. Gene hadn't budged, so there she sat. Gene knew he'd catch holy heck for it later, but it beat getting her killed. Even if he could forgive himself, Marty never would.
Gene paced back and forth in the Marriott conference room that served as their headquarters. His cell phone sat idle in his hand. He checked his watch. 7:58 AM, day six. The D Street Killer always took his victim within six days of calling the FBI. Always. It was day six. So today had to be the day. But then again, he always gave them a city after two days and initials the morning of the kill, before 8:00 AM. The call with the full name and street always c
ame too late.
This time was different. He hadn't called the second time with the city, and they'd already known the initials. Gene looked at his watch again. One minute to go.
The phone rang. D Street Killer. Unknown Number, taunted him on the Caller-ID. Gene hit "talk."
"Hello?"
The mechanical voice greeted him. "Hello, Agent Palomini. I'm just calling to say that you missed one. You have a good morning." The phone went dead.
Gene hit autodial and spoke, his message patched through to the unit commanders in charge of surveillance. "This is Special Agent Gene Palomini. We got the call, I repeat, we got the call. Look sharp." He hung up and spoke into the air. "Sam?"
She replied immediately, an edge of hurried panic in her voice. "I know, I know. If I knew about it, we wouldn't have missed it. Let's hope it's him missing a surveillance team and not us dropping the ball."
He speed-dialed his team. "Go, Gene," his brother said, echoed by the others.
"D Street said we quote-unquote 'missed one.' Sam's looking into possibilities." Marty swore. "Ideas?"
Nobody said anything.
Gene walked to the door. "I'm going to check and see if the front desk—"
The caller ID beeped in Gene's hand. D Street Killer. Unknown Number. Gene stopped dead in his tracks. Oh, no, he thought. He pressed "talk" to jump lines. "Jui Zhou Bai, Airport Marriott, lobby. Better luck next time, Agent Palomini."
His phone forgotten, Gene ran to the end of the hall. He took the stairs three at a time, flew down two flights, and slammed into the crash bar on the door with both hands. As it flew open, a crack of thunder and the sound of shattering glass cut through the din of traffic and babble of people. A woman shrieked. Gene pushed through into the lobby and entered complete chaos. Panicked people screamed and trampled one another. The revolving doors stuck in place, jammed with a tide of flesh. He dodged to the side as part of the crowd rushed his position to escape up the stairwell.
Blood List Page 2
