by A. C. Fuller
After a minute, he returned to the café.
Cole had the video ready the moment he sat down. He watched it twice, then leaned back. “I think I know where you want to go with this, but—”
“Hear me out. We agree the guy everyone thinks did it didn’t do it, right?”
Warren nodded but his face showed skepticism.
“We think there’s going to be another shooting, right? And this shooting happened differently than the last.”
“How so?”
“Wragg shot Ambani, then disposed of the weapon and went home. In this case, the shooter took out the VP and, assuming the dead guy isn’t really the shooter, the fact that he died right around the same time means only one thing.” Warren was shaking his head, which made her pause. “What?”
“Journalists.” He passed his coffee cup from hand to hand, head still shaking like a disappointed father. “It doesn’t mean only one thing. I can think of a half dozen things it could mean.”
“Can I finish?”
He nodded.
“My guess is that it means, for whatever reason, the person who killed the VP wanted everyone to fall for a misdirection. He or she left that body on the rooftop, then killed the VP, throwing the cops and the press off the scent. That’s what makes it different than the Wragg killing. Then, whoever it was started leaking the far-left terrorism stuff on social media.”
“I’m betting you have an idea about why one might have done that?”
“Because whoever killed the VP is going to make the next kill as well, maybe all the rest. Maybe the Wragg killing was first because it was on his home turf, and because he was a lead organizer. I don’t know. Maybe they knew it would get harder after the first one because, eventually, everyone would know the murders are connected.”
Warren went quiet. Cole watched him watch the video again. When it ended, he said, “So you think whoever this dude is killed the VP and somehow set up the guy on the other roof as the patsy?”
“It’s a theory. And it’s even possible the man on the other roof did kill the VP, and right afterwards”—she tapped the phone—“this guy killed him.”
“If that’s true, either of those scenarios, police will figure it out from an autopsy, ballistics.”
“But not for a day or two. Plenty of time for the guy on the video to disappear.”
“To Las Vegas, or Miami, or Los Angeles. Even to Paris or London.”
“Or Tokyo, or San Francisco.”
Warren pulled out his phone.
“Who are you calling?” Cole asked.
“If your guess is right, we need to prove it. Has anything leaked yet on the weapon found with the dead man?”
“Nothing solid. Just anonymous police sources speculating that it was a fifty cal.”
“My hunch is that FBI, Secret Service, everyone fighting over jurisdiction on this mess will have the same hunch as you. If they don’t already have the video from the tweet, they will soon. And they won’t leak the type of gun.”
“So who are you calling?” Cole asked.
“I know a guy in Quantico.”
15
Not wanting to drive Warren’s Cougar through the increasingly snow-covered streets, they ordered an Uber to FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia. On the ride, Warren made arrangements to meet a classmate from the police academy who’d been in the NYPD only two years before the FBI recruited him as a ballistics expert.
She followed Warren into his office and realized immediately that she’d had a false assumption that all FBI agents looked and acted a certain way. She’d imagined a clean-cut, athletic man. All business. In reality, Bakari Smith was short and a little dumpy. His blue suit was too tight and his wide, jovial smile caused his wire-rimmed glasses to bow outwards, as though they might pop off his round face.
Warren took the lead, so she studied the office quietly as they caught up on old times. A small, triangular room, it had a single window looking down on a courtyard, where the wind whipped snow around in violent flurries. On a ledge behind the desk, a framed photo depicted Smith standing proudly before the Great Pyramid in Egypt. Another showed him on the field level of Yankee Stadium, holding up two hot dogs and pretending to take a bite. A third frame lay face down, causing her to frown curiously, wondering what it might display.
She tuned into the conversation when Smith said, “I’ve got a thing in ten minutes. It’s great to see you, War Dog, but what brings you out here?”
“Came to get you back into shape. Man, what happened?”
Smith laughed, patting his round belly. “Desk job, and Ben’s Chili Bowl. They say the body is seventy percent water. I think mine might be thirty percent half-smokes.”
“What are half-smokes?” Cole asked.
“Spicy local sausage. Half pork, half beef, smothered in chili.”
“Ya gotta skip the bun,” Warren chimed in. “Empty carbs. Want me to send you some info?”
Smith nodded enthusiastically. “Hell yeah, War Dog. Hit me up with some links.”
Their interaction felt odd. Smith was being overly friendly, trying too hard. It might have just been his personality, or maybe he was uncomfortable around Warren since they’d gone through police academy together and Smith had since fallen out of shape. Simply being in Warren’s presence was enough to make all but elite athletes feel out of shape. But something didn’t feel right, and she wanted to get to the point of the visit. She inched her foot toward Warren’s and gave it a tap.
He didn’t look over, but he seemed to get it. “The Meyers killing,” he said casually. “The VP. You in on that?”
“Nah, and neither are you, so…”
“Cole’s a reporter, like I said on the phone, and since I’m about to be unemployed, I’m helping her out. Kind of a consulting thing. Show him the video.”
Cole slid her phone across the desk. Smith watched the video the news helicopter had taken of the dead man on the roof, next to what they assumed was a rifle.
Smith handed her the phone. “I’ve seen this half a dozen times. So?”
“Can you tell what kind of rifle that is?”
“No, and if I could, I wouldn’t tell you.” His face softened. “Look—and I’m not breaking any news here—only a few types of guns can make an accurate shot from a mile.”
“Fifty-cal?” Warren asked.
“Or a .338 Lapua Magnum. That thing was designed for sniping. Craig Harrison has a confirmed kill from a mile and a half using it. Also, .408 CheyTac. A thirty-cal Winchester is great, but accurate only to about three-quarters of a mile. There are some weapons that would get the job done, and”—he pointed at the phone—“I assume the weapon in the video is one, but I can’t tell just by eyeballing it.”
Cole slid forward on her chair. “But you have equipment here to zoom in, digitally enhance or whatever, right?”
“Zoom-and-enhance, like this is a TV show? You know it doesn’t work like that.”
“C’mon,” Warren said. “Help me out.”
“You gotta be kidding me. No.” Smith stood and paced behind his desk, pausing to stare at the pictures. This drew Cole’s attention to the face-down photo. The office was spotless, neat and tidy. Why would one of the photos be face-down?
An ex-girlfriend?
Or maybe a current girlfriend?
Warren tried another approach. “I get it, ballistics are your thing. Probably couldn’t ID it anyway.”
Smith laughed. “Playing to my ego? Of course I could ID it, if I could zoom in on that video.” He held out his hands, palms up. “War Dog, I could lose my job.”
The statement hung in the air. Warren’s eyes shifted from Smith to Cole, who broke the long silence. “Obviously it’s asking too much for you to help. We’ll go. But Bakari—quick thing—when was the last time you were in New York City?”
“Couple years ago.” His eyes darted left. “A conference. All the best ballistics guys from around the country.”
“That when the photo was
taken?” She pointed at the shot of Smith at Yankee Stadium, the one with the two hot dogs.
“Yes. Why?”
“Those half-smokes?” she asked, smiling.
“Regular...regular…” he stuttered. She was trying to make him uncomfortable, and it was working. “Regular ballpark dogs,” he finished.
“The Yankees signed Martinez, the third baseman standing off to your right, in March of this year.”
Warren gave Cole a long, puzzled look. She met his eyes briefly. He wasn’t following her.
She turned back to Smith. “How were you at Yankee Stadium after March of this year if you haven’t been there since the conference a couple years ago?”
He looked at the floor. “I forgot. I went up there for opening day.” His face grew red, then redder.
She pounced. “Who was the second hot dog for?”
Like most people, he was much less in control of his responses than he believed. Flushing, like most body language tics, originated in the limbic system, the mammalian part of the brain not controlled by conscious decision-making. Being anxious causes some people to release adrenaline, which temporarily dilates blood vessels in the cheeks, causing the reddening.
“You flew to New York City for a single ballgame?” She softened her tone to seem less like a shark, less like a reporter out for blood. “Must be a real fan.”
“You can take a man away from the Bronx,” Smith offered, “but you can’t take the Yankees out of his heart.”
“Who’s holding the camera?”
Smith raised his hand defensively, looking at Warren for help. “What’s her deal? I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Who’s in the picture?” Cole asked, pointing at the face-down photo.
“Get outta here, lady. War Dog, c’mon.”
Warren stood and walked around the desk.
Cole shot up from her seat. “Warren, don’t!”
It was too late. Cole watched Warren pick up the photo. The back of his neck tensed. The vein on his temple popped. He set the photo down calmly, then pressed his hands into his cheeks, expelling a long breath.
She took him by the arm and led him back to his chair. “Sit down before you do something you regret, Rob.”
She picked up the photo and, as she’d suspected, it showed Smith with an attractive Latina woman. Warren’s wife. A selfie taken outside Yankee Stadium.
“I was with Marina that day,” Warren said quietly. “That was the last time I got to spend a whole day with her. Sarah asked me to watch her. Now I know why.”
“Everybody calm down,” Smith said.
Warren looked anything but calm.
Cole put a hand on his knee and pressed firmly. “Rob, don’t say anything. Look at me.” His face shook. Sweat rolled from his forehead down the side of his nose. “I need you, Rob. If you do something dumb, you’ll be arrested. Or worse. I shouldn’t need to remind you that we’re at the”—she clearly enunciated every letter—“F-B-I right now.”
Warren closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Cole turned to Smith, who sat back down behind the desk. “I don’t know how long you’ve been seeing Rob’s wife, and I don’t care. What I do know is...you’re going to help us.”
“Why would I do that? I want you out of here.”
“How do you think your colleagues are going to enjoy the fact that you’re sleeping with your friend’s wife?”
“They’ve been separated for—”
Warren moved to stand, but she pressed him down.
Cole leveled her gaze on Smith. “Trust me, you don’t want to finish that thought. And you don’t want me to move my hand. Rob was a good cop, but I think even he’d admit he has some anger issues. How about you help us for ten minutes, then we leave in peace.”
Smith looked at Warren, then back to Cole. He gave a short nod. “Okay, but get him out of here first.”
Five minutes later, Cole was behind Smith’s desk, peering over his shoulder as he zoomed in on the helicopter video. He’d found the clip on his computer, downloaded it, and opened it in a program she’d never heard of. The situation was tenuous, so Cole had implored Warren to wait in the hallway, and he’d left, still fuming.
“What can you see?” she asked.
Smith ignored her. He tapped his keyboard and the video switched to a photographic negative, making the gun appear like a white stick on the roof, which had been silver but now took on a gray tone. “Not a fifty-cal.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure. Hold on.”
He paused the video, zoomed again, and rotated the image. He pointed at the barrel. “This is a thirty-cal. Barrel length compared to stock.”
“And a thirty-cal can’t shoot a mile, correct?”
He paused and sighed. “It’s possible, but unlikely. No one would choose a thirty-cal for that shot. No one who knew what he was doing.”
“How can you tell it’s a thirty-cal? Assume I don’t know anything when it comes to guns.”
“A fifty-caliber round is about three times the size of a thirty, so the frame and barrel have to be larger. Much larger.” He pointed at the barrel of the gun on the screen. “This gun looks like a thirty-ought-six. Range of around a thousand yards, little over half a mile. A fine weapon—great deer rifle, which is what most people use it for—but no way a pro would attempt that shot with that gun.”
Cole had no reason to doubt his expertise. Still, it was hard to believe he could distinguish different types of rifles from a blurry video taken from a helicopter hundreds of yards over a rooftop. More importantly, it didn’t seem as though the significance had struck him. If he was right, the dead man on the roof hadn’t killed the VP. The story the cops, the FBI, and the Secret Service were running with was false. The implications were massive, the proof right in front of their eyes, but he was acting like he’d spotted a minor typo.
Cole sometimes noticed this with experts. As good as they were at their jobs, they often missed the larger implications of their work. Perhaps it was better that he didn’t grasp the implications. She changed the subject abruptly. “Is it serious with Warren’s wife? What’s her name again?”
“Sarah.”
“Is it serious?”
“I…”
His eyes dropped. He seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t know whether it was serious. She took the opening. “For whatever reason, Warren listens to me. And he just found out you’re sleeping with his wife. Can I offer a...trade?”
His face showed confusion. “That was the trade.”
“I think you know that if you’re serious about Sarah, Warren can make that unpleasant in more ways than you care to think about.”
He nodded.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll do everything I can to help him move on and—”
“Everything?” he smirked.
“Not like that. I meant…look, I’ll try to convince him to move on and not harass you, but I need something from you.”
He raised both hands defensively. “Not promising anything, but what?”
“The VisionKey system used in most hotels. I’ve read that hackers created a master key that gets them into any hotel. My bet is the good people of the FBI have it as well. I’d like one.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m a ballistics guy.”
“We’re sitting, quite literally, in the most powerful law enforcement agency in the history of the world. You’re telling me hackers created a universal hotel key card reader and the FBI doesn’t have one?”
“I’m telling you I don’t know. Not my department.”
“Find out.”
Smith let out a long sigh. “Keep Warren away from me.”
Cole found Warren in the lobby, sipping a paper cup of water that looked ridiculously small in his large hand. He stood when he saw her. “So?”
“It’s not the gun. My theory was right.” Warren looked torn between wanting to ask follow-ups and wanting to ask whether she’d found out anything else about Smith�
��s relationship with his wife. “He’s finding out how we can get a universal key card reader.”
“For what?” Warren asked.
Cole smiled.
“No. We’re not breaking into hotel rooms.”
“I am. You can come if you want. Wanna know how I got him to help us?”
Warren frowned.
“Told him I’d try to convince you to move on from Sarah, free him up to date her.” She said it with a wry smile, but Warren didn’t pick up on it.
“You said what? It won’t work. I—”
“I know, and don’t worry, I’m not actually going to try to do that. Quite the opposite, I think you should try to win her back.”
“Why?”
“I asked him how serious they were and—”
“What did he say?”
“Didn’t say anything, but they’re not serious. I can tell.” She was lying. No man displays a framed photo of his girlfriend in his office if they’re not serious, but she needed to get Warren out of Quantico without a fight.
Smith appeared from the far side of the lobby, flanked by two other men, both about Warren’s size.
Warren stepped forward. “For real? You brought security?”
Cole put a hand on his forearm. “Lemme handle this. Please.” She stepped in front of him. “You get what I need?”
Smith handed her a notecard. “Address on there is a gray hat we’ve worked with. He’ll help you. Probably.”
Cole took the card. The address was in Alexandria, just across the river from downtown D.C. “Probably?”
“He doesn’t work for us. I mean, he does and he doesn’t. He’s not on our payroll. I can’t make him help you. Take it or leave it.”
