Under Siege

CHAPTER ONE

Walter P. Harrington was eastbound on the inner loop of the beltway around Washington, D.C., this December evening, in the leftmost lane. He kept the speedometer needle rock-steady at fifty-five miles per hour. Traffic swirled past him on his right.

Harrington ignored the glares and occasional honks and upthrust fingers from drivers darting into the middle lanes to get around and kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead, though he did occasionally glance at the speedometer to ensure the needle was on the double nickel. It usually was. Maintaining exactly fifty-five was a point of pride with him. He often thought that if the speedometer ever broke he could nail fifty-five anyway. He had had plenty of practice.

He also ignored the car that hung three feet behind his rear bumper flashing its lights repeatedly from low to high beam and back again. His rearview mirror had been carefully adjusted to make such shenanigans futile.

Walter P. Harrington had absolutely no intention of moving into the middle or right-hand lane. He always drove in the left-hand lane. Walter P. Harrington was obeying the law. They weren’t.

The car behind him darted past him on the right, the driver shaking a fist out his window. Harrington didn’t even glance at him. Nor did he pay any attention to the next car that eased up behind him, a white four-door Chevrolet Caprice.

In the Chevy were two men wearing surgical gloves. The driver, Vincent Pioche, muttered to his passenger, “It’s him, all right. That’s his car. A maroon Chrysler. License number’s right and everything.”

The passenger, Tony Anselmo, swiveled his head carefully, scanning the traffic. “No cops in sight.”

“What’cha think?”

“Well, we could just pass him and be waiting for him when he gets home.”

“Neighbors, kids,” Vinnie Pioche said disgustedly.

Both men sat silently staring at the back of Walter P. Harrington’s balding head. “Little jerk driving fifty-five in the left lane,” Tony said.

“Yeah, he’s an asshole, all right. The problem is, he may swerve right and nail us before we can get by.”

“He won’t,” Tony Anselmo said thoughtfully. “He’ll go out like a light. Won’t even twitch.”

“In his neighborhood, there may be a cop two blocks away and we won’t know. Or some broad looking out the window ready to call nine-one-one. A kid screwing his girl under a tree. I hate the fucking suburbs.”

They followed Walter P. Harrington for a mile, weighing the risks.

“I dunno, Vinnie.”

“In a right-hand curve, with him turning right, when he goes out the car will tend to straighten and go into the concrete median. I’ll floor this heap and we’ll be by before he smacks it and rebounds.”

“If he comes right he’ll clip us,” Tony objected.

“Not if you do it right. Stick it in his ear.” When Tony didn’t move, Vinnie glanced at him. That moved him.

Tony Anselmo crawled across the passenger seat back and flopped onto the rear seat. He paused to catch his breath. He was getting too old for this shit and he knew it.

Under a blanket on the floor were two weapons, a twelve-gauge sawed-off pump shotgun and a Remington Model Four Auto Rifle in .30–06 caliber. Both weapons were loaded. After he rolled down the left rear window, Tony Anselmo picked up the rifle and cradled it in his arms. He flicked the crossbolt safety off. The shotgun would be easier, but the buckshot pellets might be deflected by the window glass. It would take two or three shots to be sure, and they didn’t have that kind of time.

“Okay,” he told Vinnie. “Get in the next lane, pull up beside his rear bumper, and sit there until you see a right curve coming. Try to let some space open up in front of you.”

“Got it.” Vinnie used his blinker to ease into a space in the traffic on his right. That stream was flowing along at sixty-five to seventy miles per hour but he was still doing fifty-five, so a space quickly opened as the car in front pulled away.

Tony scanned the traffic for police cars. He saw none, nor did he see any cars that might be unmarked cruisers. Harrington was plainly visible, his head about twenty to twenty-five feet away, his hands in the ten-and-two position on his steering wheel. He was concentrating on the road ahead, looking neither left nor right.

“Looks good. Any time.”

“Curve coming up. Fifteen seconds. Get ready.”

Anselmo scooted to the right side of the car, then leaned left, resting the barrel of the rifle on the ledge of the open window. “I’m ready.”

“Five seconds.”

Anselmo concentrated on the open sights of the rifle. This was going to be a shot at a bouncing, moving target smaller than a basketball at a range of about a dozen feet, from a bouncing, moving platform. Not a difficult shot, but tricky. An easy shot to miss and wonder why.

“Here we go.” Anselmo felt the engine rev. Out of the corner of his eye he saw they were gaining on Harrington’s Chrysler.

Then they were there, right alongside, passing with a three or four mile per hour edge, Harrington’s head plainly visible. Tony could feel the centrifugal force pushing him toward Harrington’s car, feel the Chevy heel slightly.

Tony swung the rifle gently, adjusting for the jolts of the car. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Harrington’s head exploded as the rifle bellowed.

Vinnie floored the accelerator and the Chevy began to pull away. As expected, with a dead hand at the wheel, Harrington’s car eased left, toward the concrete median barricade.

“Get by, get by,” Tony shouted.

In the car immediately behind Pioche, the horrified passenger screamed at her horrified husband behind the wheel. He swerved right as far as he could and still stay in his lane. It wasn’t enough. The rear end of Harrington’s decelerating Chrysler swung ponderously into the traffic lane as the front ground spectacularly on the concrete barrier. The left rear fender of the maroon Chrysler kissed the left front corner of the swerving vehicle, a gentle impact that merely helped the Chrysler complete its 180-degree spin.

The wife screamed and the husband fought the wheel as their car swept past the Chrysler, which, with its entire right side in contact with the barrier, rapidly ground to a smoking halt as pieces of metal showered the interstate.

In the backseat the two teenagers cursed and looked back at the receding Chrysler. The wife’s screams died to sobs. “Did you see that man shooting, Jerry? Jerry? My God!”

Behind the wheel of his car Jerry McManus of Owosso, Michigan, strove manfully to keep the vehicle going down the highway in a straight line as he began to feel the full effects of a massive adrenal shock. In front of him the white sedan that contained the gunman accelerated and pulled away. A moment later another vehicle, a van, swung left into the widening gap and McManus lost sight of the gunman.

Jerry McManus had just been driving down the road on the way back to the motel, comfortably following these two cars at fifty-five miles per hour while all the locals played NASCAR in the right lanes and the kids in the backseat hassled each other and his wife gabbled on about her rich great-aunt who lived in Arlington or someplace.

Owosso, Michigan, didn’t have any freeways, and even if it had McManus wouldn’t have driven them, living as he did immediately behind the gas station that he owned. But now, on the big annual vacation, the pilgrimage to the tourist traps of Washington, D.C., that his wife had insisted upon—“it will broaden the children, make them understand what America’s all about, make them appreciate their heritage”—out here on these goddamn racing strips they call beltways, these maniacs are murdering each other with guns. Why in hell can’t they do it downtown, around those marble monuments to dead politicians? And to think we took the kids out of school for two weeks for this!

“We’re going home,” Jerry McManus told his wife grimly.

She looked at him. He had his jaw set.

Behind them the teenagers resumed their interrupted argument. The youngsters had been bickering at each other for the entire week. When in Washington …

“We’re going home,” Jerry said again. “Today.”

“Okay,” Tony Anselmo said as he rolled up the rear window to staunch the flow of fifty-degree air into the vehicle. “Nobody’s following us.” He turned his attention to the rifle. “Let’s get off at the next exit.”

He flipped the box magazine from the weapon and jacked the bolt to clear it. Then he broke it into two pieces and placed it in a shopping bag that also lay on the floor. The magazine, the loose cartridge, and the spent brass all went into the bag.

Vinnie steered the Chevy down the off-ramp and turned right, toward the District. After two blocks he turned into a narrow side street and pulled to the curb in the middle of the block. No vehicles followed.

Tony got out of the car carrying the shopping bag and went around to the trunk. In fifteen seconds he had the license plate slid from its holder and another in place. The original plate, stolen, went into the shopping bag. From the trunk Tony took two cartons of eggs wrapped in plastic. After taking the plastic off, he dumped the eggs into the shopping bag, then threw the plastic wrap on top. Holding the bag shut, he broke the eggs. These were old, old eggs that had never been refrigerated. They would make the bag and its contents stink to high heaven.

Holding the bag firmly shut, he climbed back into the passenger seat, beside the driver.

A half mile from the beltway they saw the tops of a large apartment complex. Vinnie Pioche steered slowly through the parking lot. The dumpster was in back. No pedestrians were about.

Tony Anselmo hopped out, tossed the shopping bag into the dumpster, then got nimbly back into the car. The vehicle was stopped for only fourteen seconds.

Out on the beltway traffic had ground to a halt. A Maryland state trooper arrived within three minutes and blocked the eastbound fast lane with his cruiser. After a quick glance into the remains of the maroon Chrysler, he used his radio to call for an ambulance and the crime lab wagon. Soon another trooper stopped his car behind the first one and began directing traffic.

A curiosity slowdown developed in the westbound lanes, but traffic was still getting through until a third cruiser with lights flashing parked immediately beside the concrete barrier westbound. Traffic on the beltway around the northern edge of Washington, D.C., stopped dead.

Pioche and Anselmo took the Baltimore Parkway into the heart of Washington and found a spot in a parking garage. They had dinner at a small Italian restaurant where they were known. The headwaiter insisted they try a fine red wine from northern Italy, compliments of the house. After the uncorking ceremony, they sipped the cool, robust liquid and languidly studied the menu. They had plenty of time.

Outside on the streets the evening dusk became full darkness and the temperature began to drop. It would get down into the thirties tonight.

The reporter and photographer for The Washington Post entered the beltway jam-up from the east, westbound. The police scanner had warned them. After thirty minutes of stop-and-go creeping, the reporter, who was driving, eased the car to a stop in front of the police cruiser halted against the median barrier. The two men exited through the driver’s door and stood for a moment staring at the wreckage of the maroon Chrysler on the other side of the barrier. A television chopper was hovering overhead, just high enough so that its downwash created a gentle breeze and cut the fumes from the idling vehicles creeping by.

The reporter approached the plainclothes detective who was in charge, Detective Eddie Milk, who was standing to one side watching. Milk had a meaty face, a tired face, noted the reporter, who wasn’t feeling so chipper himself after a long day.

“Hi, Eddie. Some fucking mess, eh?”

Even though Milk knew and tolerated reporters like this young one from the Post, he had other things to do at the moment. Milk concentrated his attention on the ambulance attendants, who were placing the remains of Walter P. Harrington on a stretcher. They were in no hurry.

The reporter got a good look. The head was gone from the torso: all that remained was a bloody fragment of tissue on top of the neck. There was no face at all. The photographer had his equipment out and began snapping pictures. He even got a close-up of the corpse, though he knew the editors would never use it.

Milk finally opened up. “At least one shot, maybe more, from the right side of the vehicle. One of them hit the driver smack in the right side of the head. Killed instantly. Can’t give you his ID yet. Get it downtown.”

“Any witnesses?”

“You kidding?”

“Dope or guns in the car?”

“Not so far.”

Jack Yocke, the reporter, was twenty-eight years old, two inches over six feet tall, and he still had a flat stomach. He silently watched the ambulance crew carry the corpse to their ambulance, then pile in and roar away with lights and sirens going.

The Post photographer, a dark man clad in jeans and tee-shirt and wearing a ponytail, stood atop the median barrier and aimed his camera down into the front seat of the Chrysler. From where Yocke stood he could see that the left side of the vehicle’s interior was covered with blood and tissue. Sights like this used to repulse him, but not now. He thought of them as surefire front-page play in an era when those boring policy stories out of State and the White House and overseas usually had top priority on “the Front.”

In the cars creeping past, faces stared blankly at the smashed car, the police, the photographer. Slowly but perceptibly, the speed of the passing vehicles began to increase. The body was gone.

Yocke looked around carefully, at the traffic, at the huge noise fences on the edge of the right of way, and at the tops of the trees beyond. To the west he could just see the spire of the Mormon cathedral.

“An assassination?”

“How would I know?” the cop grunted.

“Rifle or pistol?”

“Rifle. You saw what’s left of the driver’s head.”

“Color of the car that impacted the victim’s car?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. Check downtown.”

“What do we know about the victim?”

“He’s dead.”

“Gimme a break, Eddie. It’s all got to come out anyway and I’m close to a deadline.”

The cop regarded Yocke sourly. “All right,” he grunted. “Victim’s driver’s license says he was a male Caucasian, fifty-nine years old, Maryland resident.”

“How about his name and address, for Christ’s sake! I won’t print it until you guys release it. I won’t bother the family.”

“Don’t know you.” That was true.

And Yocke didn’t know the cop, but the reporter had seen him twice and learned his name and had made the effort to associate the name and face.

“Jack Yocke.” He stuck out his hand to shake, but the cop ignored it and curled a lip.

“You kids are ignorant liars. You’d screw me in less than a heartbeat. No.”

Jack Yocke shrugged and walked past Harrington’s car, looking around the technicians into the bloody interior. The photographer had finished shooting pictures and radioed in to the Post’s photo desk. Now he was standing beside the Post’s car.

Yocke walked eastward, back along the way the victim had come. He could see where the car had impacted the concrete barrier, scarring it and leaving streaks of paint and chrome. Fragments of headlight and the colored glass of blinkers lay on the pavement amid the dirt and gravel and occasional squashed pop can. He kept his head down and his eyes moving.

He walked on up the road another hundred yards, still looking, past the cars and trucks, breathing the fumes.

The motorists regarded him curiously. Several of them surreptitiously eased their door locks down. One guy in the cab of a truck wanted to question him but he moved on without speaking.

Facing eastward, Yocke could just see the crash site. He looked to the right, the south. Nothing was visible but treetops. Where was the rifleman when he pulled the trigger? He walked back toward the curve, carefully inspecting the naked, gray upthrust branches of the trees.

This was crazy. The guy wasn’t up in a tree! Only military snipers did that kind of thing.

Yocke slipped through the standing vehicles to the south side of the road and walked along scanning the terrain which sloped steeply downward to the noise fence. The rifleman could have stood here on the edge of the road, of course, and fired through a gap in traffic. Or — Yocke stopped and looked at the cars — or he could have fired from another vehicle.

Somewhere in this area, then, the Chrysler impacted the median barrier in that curve.

Yocke took a last look around, then trudged back toward the officials around the wreck.

Milk glanced at him. Yocke thanked him, was ignored, motioned to the photographer, then vaulted the barrier.

The photographer got behind the wheel. Looking back over his shoulder, he put the car in motion as Yocke pulled his door closed.

Yocke extracted a small address book from a hip pocket, looked up a number, then dialed the cellular phone.

“Department of Motor Vehicles.”

“Bob Lassiter, please.”

“Just a moment.”

In a few moments the reporter had his man. “Hey Bob. Jack Yocke. Howzit going?”

“Just gimme the number, Jack.”

“Bob, I really appreciate your help. It’s Maryland, GY3-7097.”

Silence. Yocke knew Lassiter was working the computer terminal on his desk. Yocke got his pen ready. In about fifteen seconds Lassiter said, “Okay, plate’s on a 1987 Chrysler New Yorker registered to a Walter P. Harrington of 686 Bo Peep Drive, Laurel.”

“Bo Peep?”

“Yeah. Cutesy shit like that, probably some cheap subdivision full of fat women addicted to soap operas.”

“Spell Harrington.”

Lassiter did so.

“Thanks, Bob.”

“This is the third time this month, Jack. You promised me the Giants game.”

“I know, Bob. I’m working on it.”

“Yeah. And try to get better seats than last time. We were down so low all we could see was the asses of the Redskins standing in front of the bench.”

“Sure.” Yocke broke the connection. Lassiter wouldn’t get tickets to the Redskins-Giants game: Yocke had already promised those to a source in the mayor’s office.

The reporter made another call. He knew the number. It was The Washington Post library where researchers had access to back issues of the paper on microfilm. The indexes were computerized.

“Susan Holley.”

“Susan, Jack Yocke. Helluva accident on the beltway. Guy shot in the head. Can you see if we have anything on a Walter P. Harrington of 686 Bo Peep Drive, Laurel, Maryland.”

“Bo Peep?”

“Yep. Harrington with two r’s. Also, remember that epidemic of freeway shootings out in California a couple years ago? Can you find out if we ever had any of that around Washington?”

“Freeway snipers, you mean?”

“Well, yes, anything we have on motorists blazing away at each other on the freeway.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

Yocke hung up. He had a gut feeling Harrington had not been a sniper victim since the terrain offered no obvious vantage point for sniping. Sitting a long distance away and potting some driver was the whole kick for the sniping freaks, Yocke suspected.

Yet the freeway shootouts, didn’t those people usually use pistols? He tried to imagine someone using a high-powered rifle on another driver while he kept his own vehicle going straight down the road. That didn’t seem too likely, either.

So what was left? The rifleman in another vehicle with a second person driving. An assassination? Just who the hell was the dead man, anyway?

The story for tomorrow morning’s paper would be long on drama but short on facts. Getting your head shot off on the beltway was big news. But the following stories would be the tough ones. The who and the why. He was going to have to try to get hold of Mrs. Harrington, if there was a Mrs., find out where the dead guy had worked, try to sniff out a possible reason someone might have wanted him dead.

“Drugs, you think?” the photographer asked.

“I don’t know,” Jack Yocke replied. “Never heard of a killing like this one. It had to be a rifle, but there’s no vantage point for a rifleman. If it was close range, why didn’t he use a pistol or submachine gun?”

“Those heavy drug hitters like the Uzis and Mac-10s,” the photographer commented.

“If it had been one of those the car would look like Swiss cheese.” Yocke sighed. “It’s weird. I’ve seen quite a few corpses over the last three years. Who did it and why has never been a mystery. Now this.”

The photographer had the car southbound on Connecticut Avenue. Yocke was idly watching the storefronts. “In there,” he demanded, pointing. “Turn in there.”

The photographer, whose name was Harold Dorgan, complied.

“Over there, by that bookstore. I’ll be in and out like a rabbit.”

“Not again,” Dorgan groaned.

“Hey, this won’t take a minute.” When the car stopped, Yocke stepped out and strode for the door.

It was a small, neighborhood bookstore, maybe twelve hundred square feet, and just now empty of customers. The clerk behind the register was in her mid-to-late twenties, tallish, with a nice figure. She watched Yocke’s approach through a pair of large glasses that hung a half inch too far down her nose.

The reporter gave her his nicest smile. “Hi. You the manager?”

“Manager, owner, and stock clerk. May I help you?” She had a rich, clear voice.

“Jack Yocke, Washington Post.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “I was wondering if you had any copies of my book, Politics of Poverty? If you do, I’d be delighted to autograph them.”

“Oh yes. I’ve seen your byline, Mr. Yocke.” She came out from behind the counter. She was wearing flats, so she was even taller than Jack had first thought, only two or three inches shorter than he was. “Over here. I think I have three copies.”

“Only two,” she said picking them up and handing them to him. “One must have sold.”

“Hallelujah.” Jack grinned. He used his pen to write, “Best Wishes, Jack Yocke,” on the flyleaf of each book.

“Thanks, Ms. …?”

“Tish Samuels.”

He handed her the books and watched her put them back on the shelf. No wedding ring.

“How long have you lived in Washington, Mr. Yocke?”

“Little under three years. Came here from a paper in Louisville, Kentucky.”

“Like the city?”

“It’s interesting,” he told her. Actually he loved the city. His usual explanation, which he didn’t want to get into just now, was that the city resembles a research hospital containing one or more — usually a lot more — specimens of every disease that affects the body politic: avarice, ambition, selfishness and self-interest, incompetence, stupidity, duplicity, mendacity, lust, poverty, wealth — you name it, Washington has it, and has it in spades. It’s all here in its purest form, on public display for anyone with the slightest spark of interest in the human condition to muse upon or study. Washington is El Dorado for the sly and the bold, for every identifiable species of pencil thief and con artist, some in office, some out, all preying on their fellow man.

“Say, Tish,” Jack Yocke said, “I’ve got a party invitation for tomorrow night. How about going with me? I could pick you up after work, or …”

She walked back behind the register and gave him an amused half smile. “Thanks anyway, Mr. Yocke. I think not.”

Jack lounged against a display case and looked straight into her eyes. “I’ve been taking a class at Georgetown University and the instructor is throwing an end-of-semester class party. The people in the class hardly know each other, so it’s sort of a get-acquainted thing for everyone. Low key. I really would enjoy the pleasure of your company. Please.”

“What’s the class?”

“Spanish.”

Tish Samuels’ grin widened. “I close the store at five on Saturday.”

“See you then. We’ll get a bite somewhere and go party.”

Yocke actually was taking Spanish. He had hopes of breaking out of the cop beat and getting sent to Latin America by the foreign desk. This, he hoped, would be a way to leapfrog over endless, boring years on the metro staff where there were too many reporters covering too few stories — few of them worth the front page.

Out in the car Dorgan asked him, “How many books did you sign, anyway? A couple dozen?”

“Naw. She only had two.”

“If it takes that long to sign just two, you better never write a best-seller.”

By eight p.m. Jack Yocke had learned several things. The Post had never before mentioned the late Walter P. Harrington in any of its articles, and the police had brought in the victim’s wife to make an identification. She had recognized his wallet and wedding ring, so the victim’s name and address were officially released to the press.

Ruing the impulse that had made him tap his Maryland DMV source and renew the man’s claim on a pair of Redskins’ tickets, Yocke wrote as much as he knew, which wasn’t much, and padded the story with all the color he could remember. After he had pushed the right keys to send it on its electronic way to the metro editor, he spent a moment calculating just how many ducats he was in debt. Two pairs for every home game should just about cover it, he concluded. He had a source for tickets, a widow whose husband had bought season tickets years ago when the Redskins weren’t so popular. She kept renewing them to maintain the connection with her husband but almost never went to the games herself.

He was getting his assignments at the metro editor’s desk when one of the national reporters rushed in with a printout of wire service copy he had read on his computer terminal. “Listen to this, you guys. The Colombians just captured Chano Aldana, the big banana of the Medellín cartel. They’re going to extradite him tonight.”

Yocke whistled softly.

“Where are they going to hold him?” the editor asked.

“An ‘undisclosed’ place. The Air Force has a plane on the way down to Bogotá now. Going to bring them back to Miami and turn them over to U.S. marshals. After that, they’re all mum.”

“I guess the lid’s off, now,” Yocke said to no one in particular as the national reporter hurried away. “It’ll blow off,” he added, scanning the big room for Ottmar Mergenthaler, the political columnist with whom he had been having a running argument about the drug issue. Mergenthaler was nowhere in sight.

Just as well, Yocke concluded. The columnist believed, and had written ad nauseam, that traditional law enforcement methods adequately funded and vigorously applied would be sufficient to handle the illegal drug epidemic. Yocke had argued that police and courts didn’t have even a sporting chance against the drug syndicates, which he compared to a bloated, gargantuan leech sucking the blood from a dying victim.

The verbal sparring between the talented newcomer, Yocke, and the pro with thirty years of journalism experience had not prevented a friendship. They genuinely liked each other.

As Yocke marshaled his arguments yet again to fire at the man who wasn’t there, he took stock of the Post newsroom. It was populated by literate, informed, opinionated people, every one of whom subconsciously assumed that Washington was the center of the universe and the Post was the axis on which it turned.

This newspaper and The New York Times were the career zeniths that every journalist aimed for, Yocke thought, at least those with any ambition. Yocke knew. He had ambition enough for twenty men.

Jack Yocke and the photographer were headed for Laurel to interview the Harringtons’ neighbors — and, if possible, the widow herself — when Vinnie Pioche and Tony Anselmo finished their meal and strode out into the gloom of the Washington evening.

They took their time walking toward the parking garage. A lady of the evening standing on the corner watched them come toward her, took a step their way, then abruptly changed her mind after a good look at Vinnie’s face. Tony knew Vinnie pretty well, and he knew that look. It would freeze water.

Once in the car they drove to a garage in Arlington and beeped the horn once in front of the door, which began to open within seconds.

The fat gent inside was smoking a foul cigar. He handed them a pair of keys to a ten-year-old Ford sedan. Tony used one of the keys to open the trunk. Inside was a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump shotgun, a box of twenty-five buckshot cartridges, latex surgical gloves, and two nine-millimeter pistols. They pulled on the gloves before they touched the weapons or the car.

Vinnie stared at the pistols, then ignored them. Tony helped himself to one and made sure the clip was full and there was a round in the chamber while his companion carefully loaded the shotgun, then placed five more cartridges in his right jacket pocket.

Tony slid behind the wheel and started the car. The engine started on the first crank and the gas gauge read full. He let it idle while Vinnie arranged himself in the passenger seat and laid the sawed-off on his lap, the barrel pointed toward the door.

Anselmo nodded at the cigar smoker, who pushed the button for the garage door opener.

“Nice car,” Tony said to Vinnie, who didn’t reply. He had used up most of his conversational repertoire at dinner, when he had grunted and nodded to acknowledge Tony’s occasional comments on the food or the weather.

Vinnie Pioche had the personality of a warthog, Tony reflected yet again as he piloted the car across the Francis Scott Key Bridge back into Washington. Still, a more workmanlike hitter would be hard to find. Through the years, when somebody had a contract and wanted it done just right, with no repercussions, they sent for Vinnie. He was reliable. Or he used to be. These days he was getting … not goofy … but a little out of control, out there on the edge of something that sane men rarely see. Which was precisely why Tony was here. “Make sure it goes okay, Tony.”

They found a parking place a hundred feet from the row house they wanted, just a block east of Vermont, a mile or so northeast of downtown. Tony killed the lights and the engine. The two men sat silently, watching the street and the occasional car that rattled over the potholes.

Streetlights cast a pale, garish light on the parked cars and the row houses with their little stoops and their flowerpots on second-floor windowsills. This neighborhood was much like home. Here they felt comfortable in a way they never would in the sprawling suburbs with huge lawns and tree-shaded dark places and the winding little lanes that went nowhere in particular.

Tony checked his watch. Thirty minutes or so to wait. Vinnie fondled the shotgun. Tony adjusted the rearview mirror and his testicles and settled lower in his seat.

Twenty-six minutes later a yellow cab slowly passed. Tony watched in the driver’s door mirror as the brake lights came on and the cab drifted to a stop in the middle of the block.

“It’s them,” he said as he started the engine. “Remember, not the woman.”

“Yeah. I’ll remember.”

Vinnie got out of the car and eased the door closed until the latch caught. He held the shotgun low against his right leg, almost behind it, and waited.

Tony watched a man and a woman get out of the cab and the cab get under way. Vinnie started across the street.

No one else on the street. The wind was beginning to pick up and the temperature was dropping. Tony turned in the seat and watched Vinnie cross the street and stride toward the couple, now standing on the stoop, the woman digging in her purse.

Vinnie stopped on the sidewalk fifteen feet away from the couple, raised the shotgun, and as the man turned slightly toward him, fired.

The man sagged backward. Vinnie shot him again as he was falling. The victim fell to the sidewalk, beside the stoop. Vinnie stepped around the stoop and shot him three more times on the ground.

The shotgun blasts were high-pitched cracks, loud even here. The woman stood on the stoop, watching.

A pause, then one more shot, a deeper note.

Now Vinnie was walking this way, replacing the .45 in his shoulder holster, the shotgun held vertically against his left leg.

Anselmo eased the car out of its parking place and waited.

Vinnie Pioche just walked. Lights were coming on, windows opening, a few heads popping out. He didn’t look up. He opened the car door and took his seat, and Tony drove away, in no hurry at all.

Just before he turned the corner. Tony Anselmo glanced in the driver’s door mirror. The woman was unlocking the door to her town house and looking down off the stoop, down toward the dead man. Well, she had been paid enough and she knew it was coming.