The Killing Kind

17

“Yo, Chazz,” said Hank Garfield from the open doorway of Charlie Thompson’s file-strewn, overstuffed office, nestled deep inside the concrete monstrosity of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in DC. “You got a sec? I got something you oughta see.”

Thompson wasn’t wild about her partner’s new nickname for her-or the fact that he’d waited until she was on the phone to interrupt her-and she was pretty sure he knew it. But she didn’t get as far as she had in the Bureau by letting pricks like Garfield push her buttons, so instead of giving him the satisfaction of correcting him, she told Jess she’d call her back and then asked Garfield, “Is this about my ghost?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he scoffed, “but not all roads lead back to your little pet obsession. As you may or may not know, there are one or two other bad guys in the country the FBI’s been tasked with nabbing.”

Shit. It’d been nearly a week since the trail in Miami ran cold, but Thompson had been holding out hope some of the feelers they’d put out among their community of confidential informants would pay off. She felt sure someone had to be helping this guy-funding him, arming him, issuing his marching orders. And any organization brazen enough to order the hits they had-not to mention powerful enough to pull them off-had to leave a footprint of some kind. But there wasn’t one. It was so damned maddening she was starting to half-believe Garfield’s gibes that she was hunting Batman.

She extended a hand toward the manila folder Garfield was holding and curled her fingers twice in a gimme sign. “What’ve you got?”

He handed her the file. It contained a photocopy of a commercial airline’s passenger manifest and a series of grainy, black-and-white security-cam photos of a burly, mustachioed man walking through an airport concourse with the sort of hunched, furtive demeanor that suggested he knew damn well he was on camera-and that he didn’t like it one bit.

“Fella you’re looking at is a hitter by the name of Leon Leonwood,” Garfield said. “TSA forwarded along the passenger list when one of his aliases popped.”

“I know the name,” said Thompson. “This guy’s got one hell of a nasty reputation. How come he’s not no-fly?”

“Rep aside, we’ve got nothing on him. He’s suspected in no fewer than a dozen hits in the past five years alone, but as bloody as he leaves his vics, he never leaves us much to go on by way of evidence. But if he’s on the move, maybe we can catch him in the act.”

“Where were these pictures taken?”

“Saint Louis International. He landed an hour ago.”

“Any idea who the target is?”

“Nothing yet. I figure he’s got a job lined up in town. I’ve got Atwood and Prescott looking into it.”

Thompson shook her head. “The hit won’t be in St. Louis. Leonwood’s a pro-he’d never fly into the city the job’s in. My guess is, the hit’s someplace close, but not too close. Have Atwood and Prescott comb through the chatter out of Kansas City, Louisville, Nashville, Memphis, Chicago-anywhere we’ve got ears out within a day’s drive. And have our agents on the ground circulate these pics at every rental car company in town, with special attention to the ones near-but not in-the airport. He’ll be looking to break up his trail, and my bet is, he won’t want to run the risk of a cabbie remembering him, which means he’ll leave the airport on foot. Get them a complete list of Leonwood’s aliases, too-he’s gonna switch up now that he’s on the ground.”

“Anything else, boss?” Garfield asked, both annoyed by his partner’s marching orders and embarrassed he hadn’t gotten there on his own.

Thompson thought a moment, her gaze passing over the stacks of unread files and unfinished reports on her desk-all awaiting her attention, and a good three-quarters of them unworthy of it. “Yeah,” she said, finally. “Two things, actually. Thing one: book us on the next flight to St. Louis. You and me are gonna track Leonwood from the ground.”

“Okay-what’s thing two?”

“Thing two, Henry, is if you call me anything other than Charlie, Charlotte, or Special Agent Thompson again, me and my trusty sidearm are gonna make sure the only thing the boys around here ever call you is One Ball, comprende?”

Garfield gulped. “You got it, b- Special Agent Thompson.”

“Good,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Now get moving. We’ve got a bad guy to catch.”