Cross Fire

Chapter 29

BALLISTICS WERE IN. This was the report everyone had been waiting for, and I scheduled it to coincide with that day’s Field Intelligence Group conference call. On the line, we had the whole team from MPD, as well as people from FBI, ATF, Capitol Police – just about everyone was dialed into this case by now.

Reporting in, we had Cailin Jerger, from the Forensic Analysis Branch at the FBI lab in Quantico, and Alison Steedman, who was with their Firearms-Toolmarks Unit.

After a few quick introductions, I handed the call over to them.

“Based on fragments in all three victims’ skulls, I can tell you conclusively that the same weapon was used every time,” Jerger told the group. I’d gotten most of this in the morning, but it was news to almost everyone else on the call. “A 7.62 caliber can trace back to dozens of weapons, but given the nature and distance of these shots, we believe we’re looking at a high-grade sniper system. That brings it down to seven possibilities.”

“And it gets better from there,” Agent Steedman joined in. “Four of those seven are bolt-action rifles. By all accounts, the first two victims, Vinton and Pilkey, went down within two seconds of each other. That’s too fast for bolt-action, which leaves three semiautomatic possibilities – the M21, the M25, and the newer M110, which is state of the art. We can’t rule any of those out, but these shots were all taken at night into variable lighting conditions, and the M110 comes with a thermal optical site, standard.”

“All of which is to say that your shooter is likely to be very well equipped,” Jerger said.

“How hard is it to put your hands on an M110?” I recognized Jim Heekin’s voice from the Directorate of Intelligence.

“They’re made in only one place,” Steedman told us. “Knight’s Armament Company in Titusville, Florida.”

I’d already been tracking this, so I spoke up here.

“So far, all of Knight’s stock is accounted for,” I said. “But once these systems hit the field, mostly in Iraq and Afghanistan, they can and do go missing. Souvenirs from the war, that kind of thing. So they’re pretty much impossible to trace.”

“Detective Cross, this is Captain Oliverez at Capitol Police. Didn’t your report say the fingerprints you found on Eighteenth Street were nonmilitary?”

“Yes,” I said. “But we’re not ready to rule out a military connection, in terms of how the weapon might have been procured and how it’s been used. In fact, that brings up another point.” I’d been sitting on this one for half a day, but really it made no sense not to share it with the group now.

“Let me stress something here,” I said. “I want to keep this out of the press until we have some kind of proof either way. I know it’s like herding cats – there’s a lot of us on this call – but I’m counting on your discretion across the board here.”

“Whatever happens in Vegas…,” someone joked, and there were a few soft laughs.

“The point is this,” I said. “All of these systems we’re talking about are crew-served weapons. The military model is one shooter and one spotter in the field.” I could hear people on the line mumbling to one another in their various conference rooms. “So you can see where I’m going here. It could be shades of two thousand two all over again. We’re probably not looking for a single shooter anymore. Most likely, we’re looking for a two-man team.”

Chapter 30

AS SAMPSON AND I came out of the conference room, we found Joyce Catalone from our Communications Office standing outside the door.

“I was just going to pull you out,” she said. “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

I looked at my watch – four forty-five. That meant at least three dozen reporters were downstairs, waiting to grill me for their five and six o’clock news cycles. Damn it – it was time to feed the beast.

Joyce and Sampson walked down with me. We took the stairs so she could run through a few things for me to consider on the way.

“Keisha Samuels from the Post wants to do a profile for the Sunday magazine.”

“No,” I told her. “I like Keisha, she’s smart and she’s fair, but it’s too early for that kind of in-depth piece.”

“And I’ve got CNN and MSNBC both ready to give this thing thirty minutes in prime time, if you’re ready to sit down.”

“Joyce, I’m not doing any special coverage until we have something we want to get out there. I wish to hell that we did.”

“No prob,” she said, “but don’t come crying to me when you want some coverage and they’ve moved on to something else.” Joyce was an old hand in the department and the unofficial mother hen of Investigative Services.

“I never cry,” I said.

“Except when I get you on the ropes,” Sampson said, and threw a punch my way.

“That’s your breath – not your punches,” I told him.

We’d reached the ground floor, and Joyce stopped with her hand on the door. “Excuse me, Beavis? Butt-Head? We ready to focus, here?” She was also excellent at her job and great to have as backup at these daily press briefings, which could get kind of hectic.

Did I say “kind of”? A buzzing swarm of reporters came at us the second we hit the front steps of the Daly Building.

“Alex! What can you tell us about Woodley Park?”

“Detective Cross, over here!”

“Is there truth to the rumors–”

“People!” Joyce shouted over the group. Her volume was the stuff of legend around the office. “Let the man make his statement first! Please.”

I quickly ran down the facts of the last twenty-four hours and said what I could about the Bureau’s ballistics report without going into too much detail. After that, it was back to the free-for-all.

Channel 4 got in first. I recognized the microphone but not the reporter, who looked about twelve years old to me. “Alex, do you have any message for the sniper? Anything you want him to know?”

For the first time, something like quiet broke out on the steps. Everybody wanted to hear my answer to that one.

“We’d welcome contact of any kind from whoever is responsible for these shootings,” I said into the cameras. “You know where to find us.”

It wasn’t a great sound bite, and it wasn’t badass or anything else that some people out there might have wanted me to say. But within the investigation, we were all in agreement: there would be no goading, no lines in the sand, and no public characterizing of the killer – or killers – until we knew more about who we were dealing with, here.

“Next question. James!” Joyce called out, just to keep things focused and moving along.

It was James Dowd, one of the national NBC correspondents. He had a thick pad of notes in his hand, which he worked off of as he spoke.

“Detective Cross, is there any truth to the rumors about a blue Buick Skylark with New York plates – or a dark-colored, rusted-out Suburban – near the scene in Woodley Park? And can you tell us if either of those vehicles has been traced back to the killer?”

I was pissed and taken off guard all at once. The problem was, Dowd was good.

The truth was, I had an old friend – Jerome Thurman from First District – quietly following up on both of those leads from the night of the Dlouhy murder. So far, all we had was a mile-long list of matching vehicles from the DMV, and no proof that any of them were connected in any way to the shootings.

But more than that, we had a strong desire to keep this information under wraps. Obviously someone had spoken to the press, which was ironic given my lecture about discretion on the FIG call just a few minutes ago.

I gave the only answer I could. “I have no comment on that at this time.” It was like dangling a steak in front of a pack of wild dogs. The whole mass of them pressed in even closer.

“People!” Joyce tried again. “One at a time. You know how this works!”

It was a losing battle, though. I threw out at least four more “no comments” and stonewalled until someone finally changed the subject. But the damage was already done. If either of those vehicles did in fact belong to the snipers, they now had full warning, and we’d just lost an important advantage.

It was our first major leak of the investigation, but something told me it wasn’t going to be our last.

Chapter 31

LISA GIAMETTI LOOKED at her watch for maybe the tenth time. She was going to wait five more minutes and then take off. It was just amazing, the way some people didn’t think twice about wasting your time in this business.

Four and a half minutes into the five she’d allowed, a dark-blue BMW pulled up and double-parked in front of the house. Better late than never anyway. Nice car.

She checked her teeth in the rearview mirror, ran a hand through her short auburn hair, and got out to meet the client.

“Mr. Siegel?”

“Max,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m not used to the city traffic.”

His handshake was warm, and he was just tall, dark, and hot enough to forgive easily. Considering all the eye contact, she figured he liked what he saw as well. Interesting guy, and well worth the wait.

“Come on in,” she told him. “I think you’ll like this place. I know I do.”

She held the door open for him to go first. The place was a half-decent row house on Second in Northeast, a little overpriced for the current rental market but a good fit for the right tenant. “Are you new to Washington?”

“I used to live here, and now I’m back,” he said. “I don’t really know anybody in the city anymore.”

He was doing the code thing – new in town, alone, etc. No ring on the finger either. Lisa Giametti was not an easy mark, but she knew a hungry man when she saw one, and if something happened to happen here, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

She closed the door and locked it behind them.

“It’s a great block,” she went on. “You’ve got the back of the Supreme Court Building right across the street. Not exactly a lot of loud parties over there. And then a nice little yard in the back with off-street parking.”

They came through to the kitchen, where the garage was visible outside. “I don’t have to tell you how handy that can be around here.”

“No,” he said, looking somewhere south of her eyes. “That’s a very nice pendant you’re wearing. You have good taste – in apartments and jewelry.”

This guy didn’t waste any time, did he?

“And how about the basement?” he asked next.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I’d like to see the basement. There is one, isn’t there?”

Normally the client might have asked about the upstairs at this point. Maybe even the bedroom, if she was reading this guy correctly. But whatever. The customer was always right, especially when he looked like this one did.

She left her briefcase on the kitchen counter, opened the basement door, and led him down the old wooden stairs.

“You can see it’s nice and dry. The wiring’s been redone, and the washer and dryer are only a couple of years old.”

He walked around, nodding approvingly. “I could get a lot of work done down here. Plenty of privacy, too.”

Suddenly, he took a step toward her, and she backed into the washing machine.

If there had been any doubt about where this was headed, it was gone now. Lisa tossed her hair. “Do you want to see the upstairs?”

“Of course I do – just not quite yet. You mind, Lisa?”

“No, I guess not.”

When she went to kiss him, he reached between her legs at the same moment, right up her skirt. It was a little presumptuous – and a little hot, too.

“It’s been a while,” he told her apologetically.

“I can tell,” she said, and pulled him closer.

Then, before they ever got to the paperwork still waiting on the kitchen counter upstairs, Lisa Giametti got the fuck of her life, right there on the two-year-old Maytag washer. It was hot, and dirty, and quite wonderful.

And the 12 percent commission was very nice, too.

Chapter 32

THE FEDS DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Metro Police didn’t know shit either. All anyone knew was that Washington was becoming one very hot and scary place to live.

Denny ate up the headlines – page A01 every morning, lead story every night at five, six, and eleven. He and Mitch sold their papers in the afternoon, then caught the evening news at Best Buy or, if they had a few extra bucks, at one of the watering holes that didn’t mind a couple of dusty guys like them sitting at the bar.

It was always the same story: unknown assailant, phantom fingerprint, and very high-grade weaponry. A few channels were throwing around rumors about a Buick Skylark with New York plates, and a supposedly dark-blue or black rusted-out Suburban – which would have worried Denny a lot more if his own Suburban wasn’t white. Even eyewitnesses were going south these days, just like everything else in the republic.

For Mitch’s part, he liked the hoopla well enough, but as the days slipped by, he seemed to get a little more sluggish, a little less engaged. There was no doubt about it in Denny’s mind: these “missions” were the thing that kept Mitch focused. Nothing else did it for the big guy.

So on the seventh day of no action, Denny told Mitch it was time to go again.

They were driving on Connecticut, away from Dupont Circle in rush-hour traffic, which was perfect, as it turned out. The longer it took to crawl past the Mayflower Hotel, the more they could scope it out on the first pass.

“That the place?” Mitch asked, looking up from the passenger seat.

“We’ll do a full recon tonight,” Denny said. “Tomorrow night, we go.”

“What kind of crumbum we bringing down this time, Denny?”

“You ever heard of Agro-Corel?”

“Nope.”

“You ever eat corn? Or potatoes? Or drink bottled water? They were into everything, man, a whole vertically integrated conglomerate, and our boy sat right at the top of the pyramid.”

“What’d he do?”

Mitch kept picking Taco Bell crumbs out of his lap and eating them, but Denny knew he was listening, too, even if some of it went over his head.

“Man lied to his company. Lied to the Feds, too. He sent the whole place down the shitter and took some hundred-million-dollar parachute, while everyone else took the shaft – no pensions, no jobs, nothing. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Mitchie? Doing everything you should, and still getting the short end while the Man just keeps getting fatter?”

“Why ain’t the Man in jail, Denny?”

He shrugged. “How much does a judge cost?”

Mitch stared out the windshield, not saying anything. A light changed, and the traffic surged forward again.

Finally, he said, “I’ll put a bullet in his brain stem, Denny.”

Chapter 33

THE NEXT NIGHT, they did things a little differently, trying to shake up the routine. Denny dropped Mitch off with both packs in an alley behind the Moore Building, then parked a good four blocks away and walked back. Afterward he’d pull the car around again.

Mitch was waiting inside the building. Neither one of them spoke while climbing the twelve flights of stairs. The packs were sixty pounds each. It wasn’t a picnic anyway.

On the roof, they could hear traffic noises from down on Connecticut but could see nothing until they got right up to the edge.

The whole facade of their building was built up, so all anyone could see from the street was a twenty-foot-high triangle of brickwork instead of the usual flat roofline. The spot was like a bird blind, with a perfect view of the Mayflower Hotel across the street – still one of the most famous hotels in DC.

Denny scoped things out while Mitch got himself set up for the turkey shoot.

The target, Skip Downey, had some very regular habits. He liked one suite in particular, which made Denny’s job a hell of a lot easier than it might have been.

Right now, the curtains were open, which meant Mr. Downey hadn’t checked in yet.

Twenty minutes later, though, Downey and his “friend” were waiting around for the bellman to take his twenty-dollar tip and skedaddle out of the suite.

Downey had an embarrassing reddish-blond comb-over to go with his million-dollar bank account. And apparently he liked the Mensa type. His companion today had her hair up in a bun, with heavy horn-rimmed glasses and a little business suit that was way too short for any real librarian to wear.

“Bow-chicka-wow-wow,” Denny sang – a little porn theme for the occasion. “Two windows down and four over – you got it?”

“I’m there,” Mitch said. He was eyeing over his own scope and flipped off the safety as he watched. “Nice-looking piece of ass, Denny. Shame to mess her up, you know?”

“That’s why you’re just going for the shoulder, Mitchie. Just enough to put her down on the ground. Mr. D. first, and then the girl.”

“Mr. D. first, and then the girl,” he repeated, and settled into his final stance.

Downey poured a couple of scotches on rocks. He drained his own and then walked straight over to the suite’s living room window.

“Shooter ready?” Denny asked.

“Ready,” Mitch said.

The man of the moment reached up to close the heavy coffee-colored drapes, his arms spread in a wide V.

“Send it!”

Chapter 34

AT TEN THIRTY that night, I was standing on the roof of the Moore Building, looking across to the hotel suite where Skip Downey had just joined a small but growing fraternity of those recently deceased by sniper fire.

This latest made three incidents – the magic number. Our guys were now serial killers in the public eye.

Connecticut Avenue down below was a forest of mobile broadcast towers, and I knew from experience that the blogosphere was about to officially catch on fire with this thing.

“Can you see me?” I said into my radio.

I had Sampson on the wireless, from inside the hotel room. He was standing right where Skip Downey had gone down.

“Wave your arm or something,” he said. “There you are. But, yeah – that’s pretty good cover.”

Someone behind me cleared his throat.

I wheeled around and saw Max Siegel standing there. Great. Just who I didn’t want to see.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No problem,” I said. Unless you counted the fact that he was up here at all.

“What have we got?” He came over to get the same view I had, and looked out across Connecticut. “How far a shot is that? Fifty yards?”

“Less,” I said.

“So they’re obviously not trying to top themselves. At least, not in terms of distance.”

I noticed he said “they” and wondered if he’d been on that FIG conference call – or if he’d come up with it on his own.

“The MO’s the same otherwise,” I said. “The shots came from a standing position. Caliber seems like a match. And then there’s the target profile, of course.”

“Bad guy out of the headlines,” he said.

“That’s it,” I said. “Plenty of people got screwed over by this Downey guy. The whole thing has vigilante justice written all over it.”

“You want to know what I think?” Siegel asked – of course, it wasn’t really a question. “I think you’re oversimplifying. These guys aren’t hunting, not in the traditional sense. And there’s nothing personal in the work at all. It’s completely detached.”

“Not completely,” I said. “That print they left at the first scene had to have been deliberate.”

“Even if it was,” Siegel said, “that doesn’t mean the whole thing was their idea.”

Already I was getting tired of the jawing. “Where are you going with this?”

“Isn’t it kind of obvious?” he said. “These guys are guns for hire. They’re working for someone. Maybe there’s an agenda – but it belongs to whoever’s footing the bill. That’s who wants all these bad boys dead.”

He had laid out his opinion as fact, not to be questioned – as usual. But, still, the theory wasn’t completely off the wall. I owed it to myself to consider it, and I definitely would. Score one for Max Siegel.

“I’m a little surprised,” I told him honestly. “I’m used to the Bureau sticking to harder evidence and staying away from supposition.”

“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises,” he said, and put an unwelcome hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got to widen your mind, Detective, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

I minded very much, but I was determined to do the one thing Siegel seemed incapable of – taking the high road.

Chapter 35

I LEFT THE MAYFLOWER crime scene soon after that, glad for an excuse to get away from Siegel.

Our second victim that night, Rebecca Littleton, was at George Washington University Hospital with a single gunshot wound to the shoulder. Word from the emergency room was that it had been a penetrating trauma, as opposed to a perforating one. That meant the bullet still had to come out. If I hurried, I could catch her before surgery.

When I got there, they had Littleton on a gurney in one of the blue-curtained ER cubicles. The truss over her shoulder was stained dark with Betadine, and whatever the IV meds were doing for her physical pain, they sure weren’t helping her mental state – she still looked ghost white and scared as hell.

“Rebecca? I’m Detective Cross from Metro Police,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Am I, like, being charged with anything?” I don’t think she was much more than eighteen or nineteen. Barely legal. Her voice was tiny, and it quavered when she spoke.

“No,” I assured her. “Nothing like that. I just need to ask you some questions. I’ll try to make this easy, and fast.”

The truth was, even if someone wanted to pursue the solicitation angle, there were no witnesses to it – with the possible exception of the man who had shot her.

“Did you see anything tonight that might give you an idea of who did this? Anyone outside the window? Or even just something out of place in the hotel room?”

“I don’t think so, but… I don’t remember very much. Mr. Downey started to close the curtains, and then I was just… on the floor. I don’t even know what happened after that. Or right before.”

In fact, she’d been the one to drag a phone off a side table and call for help. The incident would probably come back to her in pieces, but I didn’t push it for now.

“Was this the first time you’d met up with Mr. Downey?” I asked.

“No. He was kind of a regular.”

“Always at the Mayflower?”

She nodded. “He liked that suite. We always went to the same room.”

A nurse in pink scrubs came into the cubicle. “Rebecca, hon? They’re ready for you upstairs, okay?”

The curtain around us slid open, and several other people were there now. One of the residents started unlocking the wheels on her gurney.

“Just one more question,” I said. “How long were you in the room tonight before this happened?”

Rebecca closed her eyes and thought for a second. “Five minutes, maybe? We just got there. Detective… I’m in college. My parents…”

“You won’t be charged with anything, but your name will probably get out. You should call your parents, Rebecca.”

I walked with her as she was rolled out into the hall and toward the elevators. There didn’t seem to be any family or friends around, and it broke my heart a little that she had to go through this alone.

“Listen,” I said. “I’ve been where you are. I’ve had a bullet in my shoulder, and I know how scary this is. You’re going to be fine, Rebecca.”

“Okay,” she said, but I don’t think she believed me. She still looked terrified.

“I’ll check on you later,” I said, just before the elevator doors slid shut between us.

Chapter 36

I HOOFED it back to the car and started scribbling notes against the steering wheel, trying to capture all the different threads running through my head.

Rebecca said she and Downey had been in the room for only a short time. That meant the snipers were set up and ready for them. The killers knew exactly when and where they needed to be, just like they knew when Vinton and Pilkey would be outside the restaurant, and just like they knew Mel Dlouhy’s neighbors were out of town when they came by to murder him.

Whoever was behind this had a firm handle on the victims’ habits, the movements of the people around them, and even the most private details of their otherwise public lives. It struck me that this kind of intelligence gathering took time, manpower, and know-how, and quite possibly money.

I thought about what Siegel had said to me on the roof of the Moore Building tonight. These guys are guns for hire. I hadn’t ruled it out then, and I was a step closer to ruling it in now. I just didn’t like thinking that Siegel had beaten me to it. Usually I’m not like that, but he just rubbed me the wrong way.

There was obviously some kind of specific and disciplined agenda behind these killings. If a shooter as skilled as this one had wanted Rebecca taken out, she would have been dead for sure. But she didn’t fit the profile; her only crime had been to land in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not so for the others. By the apparent rules of this game, Rebecca didn’t deserve to die, but Skip Downey and the other Washington “bad guys” did.

So whose game was it? Who was writing the rules? And where was it all heading?

I still couldn’t dismiss the possibility that our gunmen were operating on their own. But I also was just paranoid enough by now – or maybe experienced enough – that a list of scarier alternatives was taking shape in my mind.

Could this somehow be government backed? Some domestic agency? An international one?

Or was the Mob behind it somehow? The military? Maybe even just a very well-connected individual, with deep pockets and a serious ax to grind?

In any case, the most important questions were still left hanging: Who did they have their eye on next? And how the hell were we supposed to protect every high-profile scumbag in Washington? It just couldn’t be done.

Unless we got very, very lucky, someone else was going to die before this was over. And it was most likely somebody who many people wouldn’t mind seeing dead. That was the beauty of this terrifying game.

Chapter 37

THE NEXT DAY was a benchmark for Nana and me. Things had been chilly between us since I’d brought in the security at the house, but when I came down and found her cooking breakfast for Rakeem and his guys, I knew we were at least partway over the hump.

“Oh, Alex, you’re here. Good. Take these plates outside,” she said as if breakfast delivery were something I did every day. “Scoot, while it’s hot!”

When I came back, my own plate was waiting for me – scrambled eggs with linguica, wheat toast, orange juice, and a steaming cup of Nana’s chicory coffee in my old favorite #1 Dad mug with the dent where Ali had thrown it against the wall.

Her own breakfasts were a lot more heart-healthy these days – grapefruit sections, toast with unsalted butter, tea, and then one half of one sausage link, because as Nana liked to say, there was a fine line between eating smart to live longer and boring oneself to death.

“Alex, I want to call a truce,” she said, finally settling down across from me.

“Here’s to that,” I said, and raised my juice glass. “I accept your terms, whatever they are.”

“Because there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

I had to laugh. “That was just about the shortest cease-fire I’ve ever seen. What is this, the Middle East?”

“Oh, relax. It’s about Bree.”

As far as I knew, Bree was right up there with sliced bread, Barack Obama, and handwritten letters in Nana’s book. How bad could this be?

“You know, after all this, you’d be a silly fool to let that girl slip through your fingers,” she started in.

“Absolutely,” I said, “and if I may, I’d like to draw the court’s attention to the very nice diamond ring on Ms. Stone’s left hand.”

Nana waved my logic away with her fork. “Rings come off just as easily as they go on. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’ve got something of a track record with women, and not in a good way.”

Ouch. Still, I couldn’t deny it. For whatever reasons, I’d never been able to find real stability in a relationship since my first wife, Maria, had been murdered so many years earlier.

At least, not until now with Bree.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “I took Bree up to Immaculate Conception and asked her to marry me all over again, right there in front of God and creation.”

“And what did she say?” Nana deadpanned.

“She’s going to have to get back to me on that. But seriously, Nana, where is this coming from? Have I given you some reason to doubt us?”

She was up to her half sausage now, and she held up a finger for me to wait while she lovingly, almost reverently, devoured the cylinder. Then, as if she were starting a whole new conversation, she looked up again and said, “You know I’m going to be ninety this year?”

It came out with a smile – I think she was going to be around ninety-two – but the words stopped me cold anyway.

“Nana, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, no,” she said. “I’m right as rain. Couldn’t be better. Just thinking ahead, that’s all. No one lasts forever. At least, not that I know about.”

“Well, think a little less ahead, okay? And, by the way, you’re not car parts. You’re one hundred percent irreplaceable.”

“Of course I am!” She reached over to put her hand on top of mine. “And you are a strong, capable, and wonderful father. But you can’t do this alone, Alex. Not the way you run the other half of your life.”

“Maybe so, but it’s not why I’m marrying Bree,” I told her. “And it’s not a good enough reason to either.”

“Well, I can think of worse. Just don’t blow it, mister,” she said, and sat back again with a wink to let me know she was joking.

Half joking anyway.

Chapter 38

I SHOWED UP at St. Anthony’s that morning feeling pretty good about the way the day had started. My conversation with Nana was a little hard, but productive, I thought. It felt as if we were on the same team again. Maybe it was a sign that things were looking up in general.

Then again – maybe not.

Bronson James’s social worker, Lorraine Solie, was waiting for me in the hall when I got there. As soon as I saw how red and puffy her eyes were, my stomach dropped.

“Lorraine? What’s happened?”

She started to explain, and then she just broke down in tears. Lorraine was tall and very thin, but I’d seen her hold her own with some very rough characters. This could mean only that the worst kind of thing had happened.

I ushered her into the office, and we sat down on the vinyl couch where Bronson usually perched for our sessions.

I finally had to ask, “Lorraine, is he dead?”

“No,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But he’s been shot, Alex. He’s in the hospital with a bullet in his head, and they don’t think he’s going to wake up.”

I was stunned. I shouldn’t have been, but I was. This was exactly the kind of thing I’d always tried not to think of as an inevitability for Bronson. It was also why I had tried my best not to care too much about the boy, and had failed.

“What happened?” I asked. “Tell me everything. Please.”

Slowly, Lorraine choked out the rest of the story. He had apparently made a robbery attempt on a liquor store in Congress Heights – a place called Cross Country Liquors, she said. The name – Cross – was enough of a coincidence that I noticed, but I didn’t make too much of it. My mind was on Bronson, and little else.

This was the boy’s first actual armed-robbery attempt, as far as either of us knew. He’d brought a handgun into the store, but the owner had one, too – no surprise. Congress Heights was one of MPD’s designated hot spots for violent crimes. Part of the problem was that the locals had gotten fed up and started fighting back – in the street, at home, and in their places of business.

There had been an argument. Bronson fired first and missed. The man returned fire and struck Bronson in the back of the head. Pop-Pop was lucky just to be alive, if that’s what you could call it.

“Where is he, Lorraine? I have to go see him.”

“He’s at Howard, but I don’t know where Medicaid’s going to land him. The whole foster system’s in a state of flux, as you know. It’s a mess.”

“What about the gun? Do we have any idea where he got it?”

“Take your pick,” she said bitterly. “Alex, he never even had a chance.”

It was true, in more ways than one. If I had to guess, I’d say this was a gang initiation, and whoever sent him in there knew exactly what his chances were. That’s how it worked. If he could pull it off, they’d want him in their crew, and if he couldn’t, then he was no use to them anyway.

Damn it, I hated this city sometimes. Or maybe I just loved Washington too much and couldn’t stand what it had become.

Chapter 39

DENNY STOOD AT THE EDGE of Georgetown Waterfront Park, scoping the scene, while Mitch shifted from foot to foot, finishing off a Big Gulp Mountain Dew.

“What are we doing here, Denny? I mean, I like it fine and all.”

“All part of the big picture, bud. Keep an eye out for anyone surfing the Net.”

This whole stretch, from the Key Bridge down to Thompson Boat Center, was hopping with tourists, locals, and students, all taking advantage of the spring weather before the real humidity set in. Some inevitable number of them were bent over their laptop computers, and some number of those, no doubt, had satellite Internet connections.

Mitch and Denny would kill two birds while they were here: split up to sell their papers while they looked for a good mark.

After about half an hour, some goofball frat boys Denny had his eye on got up from their stuff to play a little Ultimate on the lawn. He sat down in the grass nearby and motioned to Mitch, who took up a position on the fence by the river.

Once the game had moved about as far from Denny as it was going to get, he gave Mitch the next signal – a scratch on the top of his head – and Mitch went into his crazy dance.

He screamed at the top of his lungs. He flapped his arms. He grabbed on to the fence and shook it back and forth like a crazy man in a cage. And for at least thirty seconds, every eye in the immediate area was on him.

Denny worked fast. He slipped one of the frat boys’ laptops – a sweet little MacBook Air – into his stack of papers, stood up, and hurried away. A second later, he was walking a straight line out of the park.

As he passed under the Whitehurst Freeway, he could still hear Mitch going at it, way longer than he needed to. No harm done there – they’d have a good laugh about it later, at least the big guy would. Jeez, he loved to laugh.

The Suburban was parked halfway up the hill, on a side street near the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. Denny climbed in, fired up the computer, and got right to work.

Ten minutes later, he was back out of the car, with only one thing on his mind.

He walked around the block to a rickety wooden staircase that led down to the old canal, twenty-five feet below street level. The crushed-gravel towpath that ran alongside it was popular with joggers, but it didn’t take more than half a cigarette before he got a few moments’ privacy.

He leaned down and gently slipped the laptop into the brackish water, where it quickly sank to the bottom, probably never to be seen again. It was almost too easy.

Mission accomplished, Denny thought, and smiled to himself as he started back up the stairs to go find that wild man, Mitch.

Chapter 40

THE TRUE PRESS OFFICE was hectic this afternoon, but no more than any other deadline day. Final copy was due to the printers by seven, nothing was proofed yet, and the clock was running down.

Colleen Brophy scrubbed at her eyes, trying to focus on her lead article. She’d been editor for two years now and still loved the job, but the pressure was constant. If they didn’t get the paper out on time, eighty homeless vendors would have nothing to sell, and that’s when people started choosing between things like breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

So when Brent Forster, one of the college interns, interrupted her train of thought for the umpteenth time that day, it was everything Colleen could do not to bite his head off and eat it whole.

“Hey, Coll? You want to take a look at this? It’s real interesting. Coll?”

“Unless something’s on fire, just deal with it,” she snapped at College Boy.

“Then let’s say something’s on fire,” he said.

She had to swivel only halfway around to take a look over his shoulder – one of the very few advantages of working in a teeny-tiny office.

An e-mail was up on his screen. The sender was a jayson.wexler@georgetown.edu, and the subject line was “Foxes in the Henhouse.”

“I don’t have time for spam, Brent. Not now, not ever. What is this?”

The young intern rolled his chair out of her way. “Just read it, Coll.”

Chapter 41

to the people of dc – theres foxes in the henhouse. they come at night when no ones looking and take what dont belong to them. then they get fat on what they took while too many others go hungry and get sick and sometimes even die. theres only one way to deal with foxes. you dont negoshiate and you dont try to understand them. you wait until they come around where your hiding and then you put a bullet in their brain. studies show that dead foxes are 100 percent less likely to rip you off, ha-ha. vinton pilkey dlouhy downey are all just a start. theres plenty more foxes where they came from. they are in our government, our media, our schools, churches, armed services, on wall street, you name it. and their ruining this country. can anyone really say their not? to all the foxes out there, hear this. we are coming for you. we will hunt you down and kill you before you can do any more damage than you already done. change your ways now or pay the price. god bless the united states of america! signed, a patriot

Colleen pushed back fast from the computer. “‘A patriot’? Is this for real?”

“Funny you should ask,” College Boy said, and pulled up a second e-mail. “Well, not funny, really, but – check it out.”

p.s. to the true press – you can tell the dc police this is no joke. we have left a fingerprint on the lion statue in the law enforsement memorial, near d street. it will match what they found before.

Colleen swiveled back around to her own desk.

“Do you want me to call the police?” College Boy asked.

“No, I’ll do it. You call the printers. Tell them we’re going to be a day or two late, and I’m going to want to run twenty thousand copies this time, plus another thousand of last week’s issue to tide us over.”

“Twenty thousand?”

“That’s right. And if any of the vendors ask, tell them it’ll be worth the wait,” she said. For the first time that day, Colleen was smiling. “They’re all going to be eating a little better this week.”

Chapter 42

AS SOON AS we got word on the True Press e-mails, I called in an old contact at the Bureau’s Cyber Unit, Anjali Patel. She and I had worked together before on the DCAK case, and I knew she could hold her own under pressure.

A short while later, Anjali and I showed up at the paper’s office, a single donated room at a church on E Street.

“You can’t stop us from printing this!”

That was the first thing Colleen Brophy said when we introduced ourselves. Ms. Brophy, the paper’s editor, just kept hammering away on her keyboard while we stood there, with three other staff members jammed into the tiny space between us.

“Who was the first person to open those e-mails?” I asked the room.

“That’d be me.” A scruffy college-aged kid raised his hand. His T-shirt said PEACE, JUSTICE, AND BEER. “I’m Brent Forster,” he added.

“Brent, meet Agent Patel. She’s your new best friend,” I said. “She’s going to take a look at your computer. Right now.” I’d worked with Patel enough to know she could hold down this end on her own.

“And, Ms. Brophy?” I said, holding the door open to the hall. “Could we talk outside, please?”

She got up then, begrudgingly enough, and took a pack of smokes off her desk. I followed her down to the end of the hall, where she opened a window and lit up.

“If we can make this quick, I’ve really got a full plate today,” she said.

“No doubt,” I told her. “But now that you have your scoop, I’m going to need some cooperation on this. This is a murder case.”

“Of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t made us feel about as welcome as an outbreak of herpes so far. A lot of homeless people – and by extension their advocates – tend to see the police as more obstacle than ally. I got that but thought, Tough.

“There’s not much to tell,” she offered. “We got the e-mails a few hours ago. Assuming they’re not from this Wexler kid, I have no idea who sent them.”

“Understood,” I said, “but whoever it was, they just did your paper a huge favor, wouldn’t you say? I wonder if there might be some connection you can help us with?”

“They’ve also got a pretty good point to make, wouldn’t you say?”

She reminded me of my FBI friend Ned Mahoney, with the rapid-fire speech and hyperactive hands. I’d never seen anyone smoke so fast either. Not Ned – Brophy.

“I hope you’re not going to turn these guys into some kind of heroes,” I told her.

“Give me a little credit,” she said. “I’ve got a master’s from Columbia Journalism. Besides, they don’t need us to turn them into anything. They’re already famous, and they’re already heroes – with anyone who has the guts to admit it.”

My pulse took a step up. “I’m surprised to hear you talk this way. Four people are dead. These punks aren’t any heroes.”

“Do you know how many people die of exposure on the streets every year?” she said. “Or because they can’t afford prescription meds, much less a trip to the doctor? These victims of yours could have made a lot of other people’s lives better instead of worse, Detective, but they didn’t. They looked out for themselves, period. I’m no fan of vigilante justice, but I do like poetry – and this is just a little bit poetic, don’t you think?”

She may have been defensive, but she definitely wasn’t stupid. This case could easily turn into a PR nightmare, for exactly the reasons she was describing. Still, I wasn’t here to debate. I had my own agenda.

“I’m going to need a list of all your vendors, advertisers, donors, and staff,” I told her.

“That’s not going to happen,” she said right away.

“I’m afraid so. We can wait for the U.S. attorney to process the affidavit, and then for the judge to sign off on a subpoena, and the officer to get it over here. Or I can be out of your hair in about five minutes. Didn’t you say something about having a full plate?”

She gave me a glare as she twisted the last of her cigarette ash out the window and pocketed the butt. “It’s not like most of these people have regular addresses,” she said. “You’re never going to find them all.”

I shrugged. “All the more reason I have to get started right away.”

Chapter 43

I STEPPED OUTSIDE of the churchyard about fifteen minutes later and saw a whole throng of press parked up and down the block.

Then I saw Max Siegel. His back anyway.

He was talking to a dozen or more reporters, blocking the sidewalk and running his mouth.

“Our Cyber Unit’s tracking every possible channel,” he was saying as I came up closer, “but we’re inclined to believe what this appears to be, which is a case of a stolen laptop.”

“Excuse me, Agent Siegel?” He and everyone else turned, until I had a face full of microphones and cameras. “Could I have a word, please?”

Siegel grinned from ear to ear. “Of course,” he said. “Excuse me, everyone.”

I walked back into the churchyard and waited for him to follow. It was at least a little more private.

“What is it, Cross?” he said, coming over.

I turned my back to the press and kept my voice down. “You need to be more careful about who you’re talking to.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” he said. “I don’t follow.”

“Meaning, I know Washington better than you do, and I know half of those people out on the curb. Stu Collins? He wants to be the next Woodward and Bernstein, and he’s got everything but the talent to do it. He will misquote you. And Shelly What’shername, with the big red mike? Slams the Bureau every chance she gets. We’ve had one leak we can’t afford already. I don’t want to run the risk of another, do you?”

He looked at me as if I’d been speaking Swahili. And then I realized something else.

“Oh Jesus. Please tell me you’re not the one who talked to the press about those vehicles in Woodley Park.” I stared at him. “Tell me I’m wrong, Siegel.”

“You’re wrong,” he said right away. He took a step toward me then and lowered his voice. “Don’t accuse me of things you don’t know anything about, Detective. I’m warning you–”

“Shut the hell up!” I shouted at him as much for the “warning” as the fact that he’d stepped up on me. I’d had enough of his crap for one day.

Still, I was instantly sorry I’d yelled. The whole press corps was watching us from the sidewalk. I took a breath and tried again.

“Listen, Max–”

“Give me a little credit, Alex,” he said, and stepped back to put some room between us. “I’m not exactly wet behind the ears. Now, I’ll bear in mind what you said, but you’ve got to let me do my job, just like I let you do yours.”

He even smiled and put his hand out, as if he were trying to diffuse the situation and not manipulate it. With everyone watching, I went ahead and shook, but my first impressions of Siegel hadn’t changed a bit. This was an agent with a giant ego for a blind spot, and unfortunately there was only so much I could do to rein him in.

“Just be careful,” I said.

“I’m always careful,” he said. “Careful’s my middle name.”

Chapter 44

“YOU SEE THAT GUY over there, Mitchie? The tall brother talking to the suit?”

“Guy looks like Muhammad Ali?”

“That’s the cop, Alex Cross. And I think the other one’s FBI. Just a couple of piggies from different farms.”

“They don’t look too happy to me,” Mitch said.

“That’s ’cause they’re looking for something they’re never going to find. We’re in the big top now, buddy. Just you and me. There’s nothing gonna touch us anymore.”

Mitch cracked up, too excited to contain himself.

“When’s the next hit, Denny?”

“You’re looking at it. We got to spread the good word, get folks on our side. And then – bam! We’ll surprise them again when the time’s right. That’s what this whole e-mail thing’s all about – getting the word out.”

Mitch nodded like he understood, but he didn’t try to hide his disappointment either. That wasn’t the kind of mission he meant.

“Don’t worry,” Denny told him. “We’ll have you back in the saddle before you know it. Meantime – come on. This is gonna be great, trust me.”

The printers’ truck was just pulling up to the church’s side entrance. Word had gotten around that the new issue – the big issue – was going to take another few days, so they’d printed up some of last week’s paper to tide people over. Anyone who helped unload the truck got thirty extra copies to sell for free. That meant sixty bucks between the two of them, and sixty could go a hell of a long way if you wanted it to.

As they headed over to the truck, a voice exploded out from the churchyard.

“Shut the hell up!” It was Alex Cross.

“Huh-oh,” Denny said. “Sounds like trouble in paradise.”

“You mean piggy-dise?” Mitch said, and this time, Denny was the one cracking up.

Chapter 45

THEY SET UP shop at a construction zone near Logan Circle, and by nightfall, their pockets were bulging with singles and loose change, and their stack of newspapers was gone.

The extra cash got them a couple of nice cheesesteaks, a fifth of Jim Beam, a pack of ciggies for each, a pair of loose joints from a guy they knew in Farragut Square, and, best of all, a flop for the night at a cheap motel on Rhode Island Avenue.

Denny brought the old boom box up from the car. It didn’t have any batteries, but they could plug it in here and have some tuneage for their little celebration.

It was sweet, just to lie back on a real mattress for a change, copping a buzz, with no worries about lights-out or who might be stealing your shit in the middle of the night.

When some old Lynyrd Skynyrd came on the radio, Denny perked up his ears. It had been a long time; Mitch probably didn’t even know this one.

“ ’Cause I’m as free as a bird, now…”

“You hear that, Mitchie? Listen to the lyrics. That’s the shit right there.”

“What is, Denny?”

“Freedom, man. The difference between us and them crooks we been taking down.

“You think people like that are free? Nohow, no way. They don’t wipe their damn noses without checking with some committee on dumbass details first. That ain’t freedom. That’s a fuckin’ anchor around their necks.”

“And a target on their asses!” Mitch started giggling like a little kid. He was definitely feeling the weed. His eyes looked like a couple of pink marbles, and he’d downed the lion’s share of the Beam, too.

“Here you go, man. Drink up,” Denny said, and handed over the bottle again. Then he lay back and just listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd for a while, counting cracks in the ceiling until Mitch started to snore.

“Yo, Mitchie?” he said.

There was no response. Denny got up and prodded him on the shoulder.

“You out cold, buddy? Looks like it. Sounds like it.”

Mitch just rolled halfway over and kept sawing wood, a little louder now.

“All right, then. Denny’s got a little errand to run. You sleep tight, man.”

He stepped into his black engineer boots and picked up the room key, and a second later he was gone.

Chapter 46

DENNY HURRIEDLY WALKED DOWN Eleventh Street and over on M to Thomas Circle. It felt good to get out on his own, without Mitch on his back for a change. The kid could be a lot of fun, but he was a real piece of luggage, too.

Just past the Washington Plaza Hotel, on the relative quiet of Vermont Avenue, a black Lincoln Town Car was parked under a flowering crab apple.

Denny walked up the opposite side of the street and crossed over at N, then came back down. When he reached the car, he opened the back door and got in.

“You’re late. Where have you been?”

His contact was always the same guy, with the same stiff attitude. He went by Zachary, whatever his real name might have been. It didn’t matter. To Denny – whose name was not Denny – this asshole was nothing more than a well-paid mule in a Brioni suit.

“These things don’t run on a fixed schedule,” Denny said. “You need to get that through your head.”

Zachary ignored the tone. He was like Spock, this guy, the way he never showed emotion. “Any issues?” he asked. “Anything I need to know about?”

“None,” Denny said. “I don’t see any reason not to proceed to the next phase.”

“What about your shooter?”

“Mitch? You tell me, partner. You’re the ones who vetted him.”

“How is he in the field, Denny?” Zachary pressed.

“Exactly the ringer I thought he’d be. As far as he’s concerned, this is the Mitch and Denny Show, nothing else. I’ve got him completely under control.”

“Yes, well, all the same, we’d like to take some further precautions.”

He gave Denny two folded sheets from his inside breast pocket. Each one had a simple map printed on it, with a handwritten name and address beneath, and a single color photograph paper-clipped to the front.

“Hang on,” Denny said once he’d seen them. “We never discussed anything like this.”

“We never set any parameters at all,” Zachary said. “Isn’t that the whole point? I hope you’re not going to start quibbling now.”

“That’s not what I said,” Denny replied. “I just don’t like surprises, that’s all.”

Zachary’s laugh was less than convincing. “Oh, come on, ‘Denny.’ You’re the king of surprises, aren’t you? You’ve got all of Washington on tenterhooks.”

Zachary reached over the front seat and took a canvas pouch from the driver, then laid it on the padded armrest between them. This was a pay-as-you-go contract, and Denny’s price, as always, had been nonnegotiable.

Inside the pouch were six unnumbered ten-ounce gold ingots, each with a minimum millesimal fineness of 999. Nothing was more portable, and the fact that the gold was hard to come by only helped Denny weed out the wrong kind of client.

Denny took a few minutes to memorize the next assignment. Then he handed the sheets back to Zachary and picked up the pouch. Once he’d wrapped the goods in an old Safeway bag from his jacket pocket, he opened the car door to go.

“One other thing,” Zachary told him as he started to get out. “It’s a little close in here. You might think about a shower next time.”

Denny closed the door behind him and walked away, back into the night.

I clean up just fine, he said to himself, but you’ll always be a lackey asshole.

Chapter 47

THE DOORBELL RANG in the middle of our dinner the next day. Usually it was the phone, and was almost always one of Jannie’s girlfriends. And she wondered why I didn’t want to get her a cell phone.

“I’ll get it!” she chirped, and jumped right up from the table.

“Five dollars says it’s Terry Ann,” I said.

Bree put her money down on the table. “I’m going with Alexis.”

Whoever it was had obviously been cleared by Rakeem.

But almost right away, Jannie was back. Her face looked totally blank, almost shell-shocked.

And then Christine Johnson walked into my kitchen.

“Mommy!” Ali knocked over his chair getting out of it. Then he ran over to be scooped up in his mother’s arms.

“Look at you! Look at you!”

Christine hugged him tight and smiled at the rest of us over his shoulder – that brilliant smile I remembered so well, the one that said all was right with the world, even when it wasn’t even close to that.

“My God,” she said as her eyes went around the table. “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

In a way, that’s how I felt. A few years ago, at Christine’s request, we’d signed a stipulation reversing legal custody of Ali to me. She saw him at her home in Seattle for thirty days every summer and fifteen days during the school year. My only condition had been that we stick to the agreement, for everyone’s sake. So far, that’s what we’d done… until tonight anyway.

“I can’t believe this boy!” She set Ali down and looked him over again. Her eyes were glassy with tears. “How did you get so much bigger since the last time I saw you?”

“I don’t know!” Ali squealed, and looked over at us.

I smiled for his sake. “Look who it is, bud! Can you believe it?” I stared at Christine. “What a surprise.”

“Guilty,” she said, still smiling. “Hello, Regina.”

“Christine.” Nana’s voice was tight and controlled. It sounded like a slow boil to me.

“And you must be Bree. I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’m Christine.”

Bree was fantastic, no surprise. She got right up, walked over to Christine, and gave her a hug. “You’ve got an amazing son,” she said. Typical Bree – she can always find a way to speak the truth in any situation, even one as uncomfortable as this.

“Mommy, you want to see my room?” Ali was already tugging on her hand, leading her toward the hall and stairs.

“I sure do,” she said, and looked back at me – for permission, I think. In fact, everyone was staring at me now.

“How about we all three go?” I said, and got up to follow them out of the kitchen.

At the bottom of the stairs, Christine stopped and turned to me. Ali ran up ahead of us.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Honestly, it’s nothing more than it seems, Alex. Just a surprise visit. I’ve got a conference in DC this week – and I couldn’t stay away from Ali.”

I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Christine had shown herself to be a very changeable person over the years, including the way she fought for custody so hard and then gave it up just as quickly.

“You could have called first,” I said. “You should have called, Christine.”

Ali practically screamed from the top of the stairs, he was so excited. “Come on, you guys!”

“Here we come, little man!” I called to him. As we started up, I spoke low to Christine. “This is going to be a onetime thing. Nothing more than that. Okay?”

“Absolutely,” she said, and reached back to give my arm a squeeze. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Chapter 48

THE NEXT DAY was jam-packed for me, and I honestly didn’t give Christine much thought as my morning and most of my afternoon slipped away.

I saw both Bronson and Rebecca at their respective hospitals, performed some follow-up interviews in Woodley Park, did a consultation with the DA’s office on a separate case, and, finally, took some much-needed desk time to try and chip away at my stack of overdue reports.

Then, around three, I was picking up a late sandwich at the Firehook near the Daly Building – and I got a call from Ali’s school.

“Dr. Cross? It’s Mindy Templeton at Sojourner Truth.” Mindy was a school secretary and had been there for years, including during Christine’s tenure as principal.

“I feel a little awkward about this, but Christine Johnson’s here to pick up Alexander, and she’s not on his caregiver list. I just wanted to get your permission before we let him go.”

“What?”

I didn’t mean to raise my voice so loud, but suddenly everyone in the coffee shop was turning to look at me. A second later, I was out on the sidewalk, still talking on my cell. “Mindy, the answer is no. Christine may not take Ali, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” I said more evenly. “If you could just please ask Christine to wait, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Maybe fifteen minutes. I’m on my way right now.”

When I hung up, I was already running for the parking garage, my mind completely unsettled. What the hell was Christine thinking?

Had she been planning this all along?

And, for that matter, what was she planning?

As far as I was concerned, I couldn’t get to the school fast enough.

Chapter 49

“I’M HIS MOTHER, for God’s sake! I wasn’t doing anything wrong! I’m not one of your stalkers.”

Christine was defensive from the minute I got there. We had it out in the hall while Ali waited in the school office.

“Christine, there are rules about this kind of thing – rules you used to abide by. You can’t just show up and expect to–”

“What are you saying?” she snapped. “Brianna Stone, this woman I hardly even know, can pick my son up from school and I can’t? Half the teachers here still know who I am!”

“You’re not listening,” I said. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to squirm out of this or if she truly believed she was in the right. “What exactly were you planning to do with him anyway?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she said dismissively. “I was going to call.”

“But you didn’t. Again.”

“When I got him out of school, I mean. We were going to go for ice cream, and he would have been home for dinner. Now he’s all confused and upset. It didn’t have to be this way, Alex.”

It was like listening to an out-of-tune piano. Everything just seemed a little off. Even her clothes. She was dressed to the nines today, in a fitted white linen suit, sling-back heels, and full makeup. In fact, she looked absolutely gorgeous. But who was she trying to impress?

I took a deep breath and tried again to get through to her.

“What happened to your conference?” I said.

For the first time, Christine looked away from me. She stared over at one of the bulletin boards in the hall. It was covered in crayon drawings of cars, planes, trains, and boats, with the word TRANSPORTATION in construction paper letters across the top.

“Did you see Ali’s?” she said, pointing at his sailboat. Of course I had seen it.

“Christine, look at me. Did you even have a conference?”

She crossed her arms and blinked several times as she met my eyes again.

“Well, what if I didn’t? Is it such a crime that I missed my son? That I thought he might want to see his mommy and daddy in the same room, just for once? God, Alex, what’s happened to you?”

It seemed as if there were an answer for everything here, except my questions. The only part I really trusted was that she loved and missed Ali. But that wasn’t enough.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “We’re going to go get some ice cream. You can say your good-byes after that, and then you’ll see him again in July, like always. Anything else, and we’re going back to mediation. That’s a promise, Christine. Please don’t test me on this.”

To my surprise, she smiled. “Make it dinner. Just the three of us, and then I’ll get on my plane to Seattle like a good little girl. How’s that?”

“I can’t,” I said.

Her mouth tightened into a hard, straight line again. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

The answer was both, but before I could say anything else, the office door opened and there was Ali. He looked so all alone, and scared.

“When can we go?” he wanted to know.

Christine scooped him up just as she had the night before. To her credit, there was none of the thunderstorm in her eyes that I’d seen a second ago.

“Guess what, honey? We’re going to go out for some ice cream. You, me, and Daddy, right now. What do you think of that?”

“Can I get two scoops?” he asked right away.

I couldn’t help laughing – for real. “Always the broker, aren’t you, little man?” I said. “Yeah, two scoops. Why not?”

As we left the school, Ali took each of us by the hand, one on either side, and it was smiles all around. But it still wasn’t lost on me that Christine hadn’t committed to a thing.

Chapter 50

BY THE TIME I finally got to the Hoover Building for my five thirty meeting, it was quarter after six. I signed in and took the elevator.

The Information Sharing and Analysis Center where Agent Patel worked could have been anywhere in corporate America, with its ugly tan-and-mauve cubicle maze, low ceiling tiles, and fluorescent box lights. The only tip-off was the endless computers, at least one internal and two outside machines at every desk. The real sci-fi-looking stuff – the enormous servers and surveillance banks – was elsewhere on the floor, behind closed doors.

Patel jumped when I knocked on the half wall of her work space.

“Alex! Jesus! You scared me.”

“Sorry,” I said. “And sorry I’m so late. I don’t suppose Agent Siegel’s still around?” I wasn’t keen to end my day with him, but in the name of collaboration, here I was.

“He got tired of waiting,” she said. “We’re supposed to meet him in the SIOC conference room.”

She called his extension and left a message that we were on our way, but when we got there – surprise, surprise – no Siegel. We waited a few more minutes and then started our meeting without him. Fine with me.

Chapter 51

PATEL QUICKLY BROUGHT me up to speed on the True Press e-mails. Actually, there wasn’t that much to tell, at least not at this point in her investigation.

“Based on the header, the IP address, and what I got from the registry over at Georgetown, Jayson Wexler’s account was open and active at the time both messages were sent,” she told me.

“Which is not to say that Wexler sent them himself,” I said.

“Not at all. Just that they either originated from or somehow passed through his account.”

“Passed through?”

“It’s possible someone used an anonymous remailer from a remote location, but really they’d have no reason to. A stolen laptop that never turns up is a perfect dead end, forensically speaking. You’re better off looking for any witnesses to the theft itself.”

“We canvassed up, down, and sideways where Wexler claims the computer was taken,” I told her. “Didn’t get anywhere. And the closest surveillance cameras are DDOT’s, over on K Street. There’s nothing from the park at all. No one saw a thing – which is a little odd.”

Patel sat back, twiddling a pen between her fingers. “So should I keep going? Because there’s more bad news.”

I ran my hand over my mouth and jaw, an old tic of mine. “You’re just full of sunshine today, aren’t you?”

“Technically, this is Siegel’s piece, so you can’t hold it against me,” she said. I liked working with Patel. She seemed to keep her sense of humor no matter what, and the humor was dark and deep.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I can take whatever you’re dishing out here.”

“It’s about this ‘Patriot’ moniker they used in one of the e-mails. Ever since True Press ran the story, the name seems to have stuck, in a really scary way. We’ve got people at both ends of the spectrum foaming at the mouth, from the radical antiglobalization types all the way over to the hard-right survivalists. The Bureau’s already working up contingencies around the possibility of tribute killings.”

She ran a simple open-source search on her laptop. Less than a minute later, I was looking through pages of results – websites, blogs, vlogs, chat rooms, mainstream commentary, fringe press – all of it giving credence to the supposed “patriotism” behind these sniper murders.

I’d certainly seen this kind of thing before. Kyle Craig alone had legions of fans, or disciples, as he liked to call them. But Patel was right. This had the potential to be something else again – a whole grassroots movement of people who saw nothing less than America at stake, and nothing short of wholesale violence as the only solution with a chance of working.

“Best way to stir the crazy pot?” she said over my shoulder. “Wrap your dogma in an American flag and wait to see who bites. Like I said – scary.”

Chapter 52

AROUND SEVEN THIRTY, Patel and I finally got up to go. As we did, though, she turned away from the door and toward me. The sudden look in her eyes was all but unmistakable – and it was scary in a whole other way.

“Have you ever had homemade chana masala?” she asked.

Still, I didn’t want to be too presumptuous. “Homemade? Never.”

“Because I’m a pretty good cook, despite appearances.” She gestured at her nondescript gray slacks and white blouse. “I think everyone here assumes I’m just some wonk who goes home to her seven cats and a Lean Cuisine every night.”

“I doubt that,” I said. Patel had always struck me as a classic diamond in the rough. She was the kind of woman who arrived at the office Christmas party all done up and dropped every jaw in the room.

“So, my car’s in the shop,” she went on. “I was thinking if you could save me the cab fare home, I’d pay you back with dinner.” Then she really threw me. Patel reached over and put her hand on top of mine. “Maybe even dessert,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re full of surprises,” I said, and we both laughed, a little nervously. “Listen, Anjali–”

“Oh God.” Her hand fell away. “It’s never good when they start with your name.”

“I’m in a relationship. We’re getting married.”

She nodded and started gathering up her stuff. “You know what they say about all the good men, right? Taken or gay. In fact, that’s going to be the title of my memoir. Think it will sell?”

This time we laughed for real. It cut right through the tension, which I think was nice for both of us.

“I appreciate the invitation,” I said, and meant it. If this were some other time in my life, I definitely would have been eating chana masala that night. Maybe dessert, too. “And I can still give you that ride if you want.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She tucked her laptop under her arm and held the conference room door for me. “If I’m not cooking, I’m going to stick around here and get some more work done. Meanwhile, if you wouldn’t mind forgetting we ever had this conversation–”

“What conversation?” I gave her my best wide-eyed innocent face on the way out. “I can’t remember a thing.”

Chapter 53

AFTER SOME REHEATED supper that night, and long after the kids had gone to bed, I got a call from Christine.

The second her name came up on the caller ID, I felt torn in a big way. I couldn’t just ignore her, but the last thing I wanted right now was more talk. The only reason I picked up in the end was to keep her from possibly coming over to the house again.

“What is it, Christine?”

Right away, I could hear she was crying. “It was wrong, what you did today, Alex. You didn’t have to push me away like that.”

I was already walking from the bedroom up to my office, and waited until I’d closed the door behind me to go on.

“I kind of did,” I said. “You showed up out of the blue and, even worse, you lied. More than once.”

“I only lied because I thought our son deserved to see his family together!”

It was as if we’d started fighting in record time, which was saying something for us. The whole thing made me feel exhausted. It brought back the terribleness I’d felt during the court case over Ali.

“Ali sees his family together every day,” I said. “Just not his mother.”

She sobbed again. “How can you say a thing like that?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Christine. I’m just telling it like it is.” My patience, meanwhile, was hanging at the other end of a very thin thread. Christine had brought this on herself with her terrible inconsistency as a mother.

“Well, don’t worry, because you got your wish. I’m at the airport.”

“My wish is that we could all be happy with the choices we’ve made,” I said.

“Just as long as you’re happy first, isn’t that right, Alex? Isn’t that how it’s always been?”

And then my thread snapped.

“Do you remember leaving me?” I said. “Do you remember how I begged you to stay in Washington? Do you remember leaving Ali? Damn it, does any of that even register with you anymore?”

“Don’t you curse at me!” she shouted back, but I wasn’t finished.

“So now what? You think just by showing up here, you can change everything that’s happened since then? It doesn’t work that way, Christine, and I wouldn’t change it if I could!”

“No.” Her voice was constricted now. Tight as a drum. “Apparently not.”

Then she hung up on me. I was stunned but also a little relieved. Maybe this was some kind of test, to see if I’d call back, but I wasn’t even remotely tempted. I sat on the office couch, staring at the ceiling and trying to collect myself again.

It was almost shocking, to think how much I’d loved Christine, once. Back then, there was nothing I wanted more than for all of us to be a family forever. Now, it felt like someone else’s history.

And I just wanted Christine out of my life.

Chapter 54

IT WAS JUST short of midnight when Agent Anjali Patel stepped out to the curb on E Street in front of the Hoover Building, craning her neck, searching for a cab. As soon as he saw her, Max Siegel pulled around the corner and lowered the passenger-side window.

“Someone call for a taxi?”

She gave him a nice view of cleavage as she bent down to see who it was. “Max? What are you doing here? It’s late.”

“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “Had to run out unexpectedly. I just came back for my car, but maybe I could give you a ride and you can fill me in.”

Her glance up the street said everything. Not a cab in sight, not much traffic at all.

Max Siegel’s coworkers seemed to prefer him at a distance, which was exactly according to plan. Distance afforded him the privacy he needed and could always be broached if and when he wanted it to be. Like right now.

“Come on,” he said. “I won’t bite. I won’t even talk about Cross behind his back. Promise.”

“Um… sure,” she said with a practiced smile, and got in.

Her perfume was lemony, he noticed. Or maybe it was her shampoo. Nice anyway. Feminine. She gave him an address in Shaw.

Then she proceeded to chatter on about the case, making sure to fill up any spaces that might have otherwise been left open to the awkwardness of small talk between them.

Siegel drove fast, goosing the yellow lights where he could. He hadn’t been with a woman since the real estate agent, and damned if he wasn’t getting a little hard just thinking about her.

When he turned onto her block, he mashed the gas pedal once more and then coasted to a stop in front of a dark storefront just past her yellow-brick townhome.

“Hey, that was it,” she said, looking back. “You missed my place.”

Chapter 55

KYLE LOOKED BACK, too. The block was still clear of any traffic or pedestrians.

“Oops. Sorry. My fault.”

“All right, well…” Her fingers were already on the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

“That’s it?” he said.

“Pardon? I don’t think I follow.”

“See, this is supposed to be the part where you offer to cook dinner for me,” he said.

Her face fell. She squinted at him in the dark, probably not ready to believe this was anything more than a weird coincidence. “I’m not much of a cook, Max.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Ever seen one of these before?” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a small black box, no bigger than a lighter. “It’s one of those GSM ultraminiature transmitters. You can stick them practically anywhere.”

Patel gave the thing a cursory glance. “Yeah?” she said. Her discomfort, and her attempt to hide it, were absolutely delicious.

“Let’s just say I made the meeting between you and Cross after all.”

Again, her energy shifted. Now she was pissed off and a little embarrassed – too much to be scared anymore.

“You bugged our meeting? Jesus, Max, why the hell would you do something like that?”

“That’s your first good question,” he said. “How much time do you have for an answer?” But before she could say a word, he put a hand to her lips. “Wait, I’ll tell you myself. You have no time at all.”

The ice pick, his old favorite, was up and through her larynx before Patel could even scream. Still, her jaw dropped silently open with the effort.

He was on her now, his mouth covering hers, his hand over her nose – a literal kiss of death, but just an ordinary kiss between two lovers in a car to anyone who might have glanced out his window. Her strength, her desire to live, were nothing compared to his. Even the blood loss was minimal – Patel had been too polite to ask about the plastic seat covers in the car.

Or the raincoat Max Siegel was wearing on this dry night.

Once she’d stopped moving altogether, his excitement only grew. He would have loved to climb into the backseat with her while her lips were still warm and her belly still so soft to the touch. He wanted to be inside her right now. Hell, he owned her.

But it would have been a foolish risk, and an unnecessary one at that. He had decided hours ago that tonight was going to be an exception to the usual rules. He’d earned it after all, and this game was his to change. In fact, there were a lot of changes just around the corner.

But first, Anjali Patel was coming home with him – for a sleepover.