Washington DC

by A. C. Fuller

  “Why use that instead of a phone?”

  Warren gestured down at the motionless body. “In case that happened. Now we have no idea who he is. Phone or ID or anything else, and if we got the jump on him, as we did, we’d know who was after us.”

  “You still think it was Mazzalano’s guys?”

  Warren ignored her question. He tossed the GPS chip onto the unconscious man’s chest. “He’ll be down for a few minutes. Let’s go.” He nodded toward a road that led from the memorial, barely visible in the snow. A faint set of tire tracks, likely left by a maintenance cart because they were narrow and close together, traced down the road and around a curve.

  They followed the tracks until they saw the main cemetery entrance and a wall much too tall to climb. Warren jutted left. Cole followed.

  A couple hundred yards from the entrance, they escaped the cemetery over a low stone wall. They walked along the cleared road to avoid leaving tracks, then turned right and walked onto Arlington Memorial Bridge, which led into downtown D.C.

  The streetlights that lit an arched trail across the bridge were shrouded by a low fog from the Potomac, taking on the appearance of cloudy yellow orbs floating every twenty yards. It was nearly midnight and the bridge’s wide sidewalks were empty. At the halfway point, where the bridge hit its crest and sloped down toward the Lincoln Memorial, Cole looked back at the massive stone entrance to Arlington National Cemetery.

  She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t told Warren that Matt was buried there. She tried to tell herself it was because they were in a hurry. But she feared it was her own guilt. Since Matt’s funeral, she hadn’t visited his grave. Not once. Instead, she’d visited their favorite places in New York City—the north end of Central Park, a hole-in-the-wall noodle place in Hell’s Kitchen, a Seahawks bar where Matt watched the games with other Seattle expats. Sometimes, to make it through a difficult day or month, she’d chosen not to think about his death at all.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Warren slowed until she caught up. “Train.”

  “What about your car? Our stuff?”

  “You want to head back there?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.” They passed under a streetlight and Cole caught the side of Warren’s face. His mouth was half-open, like he was trying to decide whether to say something.

  “I can see you thinking, Rob. What is it?”

  “I need to tell you about Maiale da Tartufo.”

  23

  Half an hour later they sat side-by-side on the floor of the grand lobby in Union Station. Octagonal insets rimmed with gold dotted the high, curved ceilings, and the black and white marble floor gleamed from a recent waxing.

  Cole had used cash to purchase two one-way tickets on the next train to Miami, which left in six hours. She’d withdrawn $500 from her checking account—the maximum allowed—and used $400 on the tickets, figuring it was better to be broke than to leave a credit card trail of where they were headed. She’d wanted to purchase toiletries and cell phone chargers, but, aside from an automatic coffee machine, everything was closed. That left them $100, two dying cell phones, and the clothes on their backs.

  Warren slid a coffee across the floor to her, but she ignored it. “There’s something I don’t get,” she said. “Why would Samuel Bacon text you about Maiale...da...Tartufo?” She said the name slowly, poorly attempting an Italian accent.

  “Feels guilty, probably. Saw the gun transaction go down in real time and didn’t do shit.”

  “I get that, but why not tell his bosses, or the FBI?”

  Warren considered this. “Complicated, but I see two options. One is, he did share it with his bosses. But the JTTF is NYPD and FBI, two groups who don’t always get along. It’s supposed to be butterflies and rainbows, sharing and caring, all for the greater good. Doesn’t always work out that way. JTTF team members like Bacon, who come from within the NYPD, leak stuff when they don’t think the FBI side is handling it right. Or, he didn’t report it to his superiors because he’s worried it’ll come back on him and his partner. If he admits they saw the post about the sale of the weapons and didn’t follow up, not good.”

  An uneasy feeling settled in Cole. She didn’t like not knowing whether the FBI was following the same lead she and Warren were. “Earlier, why’d you say I wouldn’t want to know who Maiale da Tartufo is? And what does that name mean, anyway?”

  “Maiale da Tartufo isn’t a name. It’s a nickname. It means The Truffle Pig.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Truffle Pig.”

  “Odd.”

  “It’s not odd, it’s terrifying. Maiale da Tartufo is one of the most notorious hitmen on earth. Came up in the old school mob in Italy. Said to have a hundred murders under his belt. First one at age eleven. Decade ago he killed a boss for no apparent reason, then escaped to the U.S.”

  “No apparent reason?” she asked.

  “I’m sure the reason was apparent to him. I’m saying I don’t know it. After three years, he resurfaced. Rumored to be responsible for at least six murders in the U.S. since then, though of course we don’t really know.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  Warren shrugged. “No one knows.”

  “Why do they call him The Truffle Pig?”

  “He’s from northern Italy, near the French border. Before he was taken in, he and his family hunted and sold truffles. Now, it’s the connotation. Even if you’re literally buried underground, he’ll sniff you out. No matter what, if your number is called, he’ll find you.”

  Cole shivered. “And that’s the guy we’re following to Miami?”

  Warren didn’t reply.

  She took a long swig of coffee, expecting a cup of burnt black crap. It was sweet and creamy. “Thanks for not foisting your black coffee nonsense on me.”

  “Obviously your body hasn’t yet been fully destroyed by sugar. You were able to get the drop on whoever the hell that was.” He looked at her, and for a moment she locked in on his dark eyes. “Thanks for that.”

  His face was scratched and a few grains of dirt clung to his forehead. She brushed them away. “You would have gotten the upper hand on him eventually.”

  “That’s true.”

  Cole leaned back and shot him a look. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”

  He looked at her, side-eyed.

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘No I wouldn’t have, Jane Cole, you saved my ass.’”

  “You did, but I would have rolled him in another few seconds. I don’t say that to brag. I know what I’m doing in a fight.”

  “He did land a couple shots on you.”

  Warren rubbed a swollen spot on his right temple. “Barely. But seriously, listen. I’ve got Marine Corps and NYPD hand-to-hand training, but that guy...he was big, but he was an amateur. Hadn’t been trained in anything. Makes me think.”

  Cole followed his eyes across the station, waiting for him to continue. In the far corner, a young couple sat on a large backpack, giggling under the twinkling lights of a thirty-foot-high Christmas tree. Across from the couple, a man in a filthy coat sat on a bed of garbage bags, mumbling to himself. And in the center of the cavernous station, a couple in evening wear slow danced, tipsy and oblivious to the world around them.

  “Mazzalano would have sent cops, or ex-cops,” he said finally. “Cops would have been trained. That guy was unarmed, untrained. He wanted to follow us, to keep an eye on us, but he had no intention of killing us. That guy wasn’t sent by Mazzalano.”

  “So you think Mazzalano had us trailed to Jersey, but someone else picked us up in D.C?”

  Warren nodded.

  Cole leaned her head on his shoulder. She was tired and increasingly confused. “Who?” she asked quietly. “And why?”

  Warren let out a long sigh. “I have no idea.”

  —End—

  Preview of THE CRIME BEAT, Episode 3: Miami

  Friday

  Marco De San
tis eased the eighteen-foot runabout through the misty bay, guided by the blinking blue light on his phone. The water glimmered as the sun appeared in the east, a speck of orange across miles of dark water. His phone beeped every few seconds, keeping time with the light of the GPS marker.

  He was only a thousand yards from the weapon.

  It was barely five a.m. and already the air was sixty-five degrees. De Santis was comfortable in his black speedo and plain white t-shirt. Knowing he’d have to swim, he’d tucked his clothes and keys in a duffel bag. He’d noticed that, in most of America, men didn’t wear speedos as European men did. But everything was different in Miami. A fit sixty-year-old man in a speedo wouldn’t even draw attention. It didn’t matter anyway. He wouldn’t run into anyone out here. Not this early.

  He navigated the boat around a small island the shape of a crescent moon. According to his phone, he was still on course. The dead drop location was four hundred yards away.

  He slowed the boat, enjoying the thick, salty air. For ten years he’d toiled, working to stash away two million, enough to retire. Tomorrow, he’d have it. The money he was about to pick up—plus the additional $150,000 he’d receive once the job was done—would give him two million plus enough for three or four plastic surgeries. Enough to ensure his anonymity and safety long term. He’d always been proud of his nose. When he was a boy, his mother called it a “Roman nose.” She’d said the prominent raised bump in the center was the mark of a “true Italian.” It was too distinctive, though. Flattening it would be his first surgery.

  Hell, maybe he’d retire in Miami. Going home to Italy was never in the cards. He’d planned to go to a small country where his olive skin would blend in—Latvia, or maybe Crete. But a day in Miami had made him reconsider. He had fifteen more good years, maybe twenty, and he vowed to spend them in the sun. A good surgeon could sculpt a few Cuban features, allowing him to blend in with the community in Miami. Then again, actual Cubans would be more likely to know he was a fraud. In any case, he was less than a week from retirement and he could already taste the Barolo. No matter how hard he tried to not appear Italian any more, he couldn’t give up the wine.

  Tied to a dinghy fifty yards from the tip of the crescent island, a rowboat bobbed in the water. De Santis killed the engine, drifted, then threw the anchor. A second later it landed with a light tug against his boat. He was still in shallow water.

  He put on goggles and pulled an exacto knife and a diving light from the duffel bag, then folded his t-shirt neatly, flicked on the light, and slipped silently into the water.

  The water was warmer than the air, an odd sensation. The lakes of Northern Italy had never been this warm, especially in December. He swam easily—his taut, wiry body a coiled spring—and found the bottom of the rowboat. The package was there. Three feet long and maybe a foot deep, it was held in place by duct tape. With four deft strokes of the exacto knife, he cut it loose, expecting it to drift down into his arms. It didn’t. He tugged, but the package didn’t move.

  He came up for air, holding the side of the boat and emptying droplets of water from his goggles. Across Biscayne Bay, a boat moved through the orange dawn. Judging by its lights, it was roughly the same size as his runabout.

  He dunked back under the water, moving swiftly to the bottom of the rowboat. He held the light up to the spot where the package was attached. A makeshift loop of duct tape had been hooked to a short length of rope tied to a metal ring on the bottom of the boat. Extra protection. The men who’d hired him were cautious.

  With a swipe, he cut the loop. The package fell free, floating down into his arms.

  He swam back to his boat and, treading water, hoisted the package over his head. It weighed about fifteen pounds, just what he’d expected. All U.S. bills weigh roughly one gram. So 2,500 hundred dollar bills would weigh five and a half pounds. The rifle, assuming it was the same model he’d used in D.C., weighed another six. The ammo and the case, another two. All the waterproof bags and tape added another pound. He tossed it into the well of his boat and climbed aboard.

  The other boat was moving toward his. It was a small fishing yacht, maybe twenty-five feet, and it had already covered half the distance between him and the shore. He looked to a wooden dock jutting from the center of the crescent island. He allowed himself to hope that the boat was heading for the dock.

  If the boat didn’t get any closer, he wouldn’t have to do it.

  The boat kept coming. “Damn,” he said quietly. Judging by its speed, he had a minute until it reached him. Using the exacto knife, he slit open four layers of heavy-duty plastic bags. Inside the fifth bag, in shrink-wrapped plastic, he found the money. Always find the money first. Without it, nothing else matters.

  Next, he unwrapped the black rifle bag. Since coming to America, he’d had a policy: always make the customer provide the weapon and ammo. The process of acquiring these was one more way to get caught. He only worked for top-tier customers who knew the best weapon for the job, and how to get it. This job had been unusual. The men had the weapons before contacting him. He couldn’t complain. The custom fifty-caliber rifles were the finest he’d ever seen. He stowed the weapon and the money and pulled a Beretta from the duffel bag, placing it under his hamstring as he sat.

  The boat pulled alongside his. A handsome man around his age waved, smiling. He wore white shorts and an unbuttoned pastel-blue shirt, his large round belly leading the way as he waddled to the edge of the boat. “You alright?”

  De Santis waved toward the rowboat. “Fine. Saw this old boat tied up and thought I’d check it out. That’s all. It’s anchored.”

  “Odd. Abandoned, you think?”

  The Beretta pressed into Marco’s hamstring. “Guessing so.”

  Two fishing poles were propped in their holders off the back of the man’s boat, which had the words Marlin’s Tomb stenciled on its side. He gestured at the poles. “Fishing?”

  A woman appeared from a small cabin. She was younger, maybe late thirties. Black hair, with a pretty round face. “Let’s go, papi.” She stood next to the man on the side of the boat, wrapping an arm around his waist.

  Marco felt a twitch of conscience. She was pregnant.

  The man said, “Alright then. Wanted to make sure you weren’t stranded.”

  “Thank you,” Marco said.

  As the man turned, Marco stood, sliding the Beretta from under his leg and disengaging the safety in one deft motion.

  When he was a boy, he’d hated this part. As a teenager he’d resented it. By his early twenties he’d gone numb to it. Now, well, he’d woken up this morning telling himself he had one kill left. Counting the baby, it was four. So be it.

  He squeezed the trigger, striking the man in the back of the head. He crumpled instantly. The woman spun and opened her mouth to scream when she saw the gun. No sound came out. She glanced back at the cabin.

  “Don’t move,” De Santis said cooly.

  She turned back and he met her eyes. She opened her mouth again, stammering, “I…I…a baby…I have a baby.” She ran a hand over her belly, swollen like it contained a perfectly round melon. “Please. You were a baby once.”

  “Once I was a baby, baby Marco. For the last fifty years I’ve been Maiale al Tartufo. Do you speak Italian?”

  She had a slightly Italian look, but spoke without an accent. Miami was diverse enough that she could have been from anywhere.

  She shook her head. “My parents were from Barcelona.”

  “Born here, then?”

  She nodded.

  “You live in Miami?”

  She nodded again.

  “Where would you recommend a new resident live?”

  Her eyes flicked left and right. Desperate. Confused. She began to shake.

  “No recommendations? I hear Coral Gables is nice, but I might move to Little Havana just for the food. Last night I had chorizo croquetas and…what do you think a two-bedroom on the beach costs these days?”

  She didn’
t respond, just hugged herself tightly, shaking.

  Marco sat, holding the Beretta by his side. He started the engine and let the runabout drift toward the side of the fishing boat. As one boat glided past the other, he stood and shot the woman in the heart. Leaning forward slightly, he put another bullet in the man’s head—just to be sure—and one in the woman’s belly.

  The echoes faded. The morning was silent, and Marco aimed the boat at the shore.

  —End of Sample—

  —Continue Episode 3 Here—

  Author Notes, September 2019

  Thanks for reading Episode 2 of The Crime Beat!

  Response to Episode 1 has been excellent, and I’m eager to get the rest of the series out to you. That’s why I’m locked away every morning, writing like a man possessed.

  I’m working with a consultant on this series, a man named Gary Collins. I met Gary at the 20Books Writing Conference in November of 2018, and we hit it off right away. For The Crime Beat, Gary is providing important insights into weaponry, military life, and police work. He’s also a consistent sounding board and story fixer. Many of the coolest little nuggets in this series were his idea. In addition to having a military and law enforcement background I don’t have, Gary is the author of seven non-fiction books. Find out more about them, and about Gary, by flipping a few pages.

  Now, some thanks…

  Special thanks to everyone in the A.C. Fuller Fiction Fans Group on Facebook. Your interest in my work—plus your constant support and encouragement—keeps me going.

  Thanks to the good people at Rocking Book Covers, who designed the art for all the books in The Crime Beat series.

  Thanks to Chet Sandberg, who edited this book, to Noah Brand, who also edited it, and to Jennifer Karchmer, who proofread it. And thanks to Kay Vreeland and Nancy Swanton, who caught some typos at the last minute.

  Thanks to my wife Amanda, who read multiple versions of this book and improved it in so many ways.