Veil

6

Robert and Thorne searched their building and the immediate area around it. Nothing. They fanned out separately covering a half-mile radius, but Charlie was a ghost. Robert grabbed a couple of winks on the couch in his office then headed for Skid Row and the homeless area across town. Thorne opted to look for the Bear.

By noon, most of Washington shook off the Monday morning blues and charged full steam into another week of the important and unimportant. Only a trace of the previous night’s cold remained, and a clear cloudless sky teased the first hint of spring.

Robert’s shark gray Mustang muscled in and out of the traffic. At Constitution Avenue he waited for ten minutes as two busloads of British children crossed the street to the Capitol Building, cameras flashing, fingers pointing. Ten minutes later, the pristine buildings, Hugo Boss suits, leather briefcases, and Rolex watches, disappeared; giving way to the bastard child half of the city’s strange dichotomy.

Homeless men, women, and children lined the streets less than a few miles from the White House. Robert pulled past the aftermath of failed lives and empty promises, unconcerned. Sad, but not my problem .

He parked in a narrow alley between two dingy brick buildings and negotiated with six grime-covered, half toothless men eager to insure his car’s safety. Minutes later, he methodically navigated through an endless maze of cardboard condos and rusted-out shopping carts, carefully searching each weathered face, describing Charlie to anyone lucid enough to understand.

“Help me get something to eat?”

“Brother, can you spare a quarter?”

“Mister, I’m hungry and can’t find my mommy.”

“My wallet was stolen and I need carfare to get home.”

“I ain’t gonna lie. I need some money for beer. Will you help?” Panhandlers, drug addicts, the mentally ill. Some slept under staircases, between garbage dumpsters, and in open fields, their bodies wrapped in large sheets of plastic or copies of the Washington Post.

Soup and bread lines stretched for blocks, like concert-goers waiting for tickets to see Springsteen or Madonna. Kids “dumpster dived” for food or things they could trade, and an elderly black man in dark glasses played a plastic flute for spare change.

“No, I ain’t never seen nobody like that,” a bag lady stammered, swigging beer from a can in a brown paper sack. “If ya gots a few dollars I’ll be careful to watch out tho.” Robert smiled, declined her offer, and moved through a small park in the middle of the area. Crowded with destitute men, prostitutes, johns, drug dealers, addicts, and a few neglected children, used needles and crack vials peppered the grass like common pieces of trash, picked up, examined, and reused at random. Urine and decay fermented the air.

Sirens competed for attention with rap music pounding from a boom box.

At picnic tables, some played chess and dominos, while onlookers drank wine, stared blankly into space, or just talked to themselves.

Ninety minutes later, Robert got the feeling even if they did know, no one here would tell him where to find Charlie. An outsider, he could expect little more than silence. He finished up in the park and headed back for his car.

“Hey you, Mister,” a cement mixer voice shouted.

A haggard man in a wheelchair waved to him from a half a block away, rolling in his direction. Legless from the knees down, his clothing looked so worn, it was not readily obvious he wore Marine dress blues.

Three tarnished medals dangled from his chest.

“Popeye Michaels at your service,” he said, pushing long salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes. “People around here call me Popeye.” Robert introduced himself and shook Popeye’s hand. He recognized one of the ornaments clinging to the old vet’s chest. The Congressional Medal of Honor.

Popeye wrapped his hair in a ponytail, securing it with a rubber band.

“I understand you’re looking for someone, and thought I could be of help.”

“Can you?” asked Robert.

“That depends on who you are,” answered Popeye. “Folks around here ain’t big on strangers, especially ones carrying that kind of heat.” He pointed to the bulges under Robert’s arms. “Looks like nine’s from here.”

Robert smiled and knelt down. The stench of cheap gin on Popeye was strong, but better than most of what he’d smelled that day.

“Yes, they’re nines,” said Robert. “Look, Charlie’s a friend, and I need to speak to him. It’s urgent.”

Popeye flashed a mouthful of deep yellow teeth and black cavities.

“Everything’s urgent around here, Mr. Veil,” he said. “And I’m sorry, but Charlie ain’t got no friends.”

He spun the chair around and rolled away, forcing several cursing people off the sidewalk.

Robert caught up and jumped in his path.

“You idiot,” Popeye snapped. “You could’ve killed me.” Robert took a deep breath. “Listen, Charlie came to my office last night looking for help, then disappeared. No, we’re not friends, but it’s very important that I see him right away.” Popeye’s eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned his head to one side.

“Okay,” he said, after a long minute. “Follow me into my office.” He wheeled up the street, whirled into an alley, and stopped. “Exactly what do you want with ole Charlie?”

Exasperated, Robert bit his tongue. “Like I said, he came to me with a problem, then disappeared.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I can’t say. It’s confidential.”

“Good,” said Popeye, a smile on his face. “I like that. You sure you’re not a cop?”

“No, I’m not,” said Robert. “Let’s just say I’m a freelancer.” Popeye sucked air through one of his cavities then took a deep breath.

“I don’t exactly know where he is,” he said. “Charlie’s always moving around, coming and going. And around here, everybody minds their own business.”

Robert pulled out his wallet, a business card and two twenty’s, and handed them to Popeye.

“I know you probably don’t like charity,” said Robert.

“Whatever gave you that impression?” answered Popeye, snatching the money from his hand.

Robert laughed. “If you hear or see anything, hit a pay phone and call me.”

Popeye pocketed the card and money. “I never said I didn’t have any info for you. I just said I didn’t know where Charlie was right now.” Robert raised an eyebrow.

“Go over to the Crossroads Rescue Mission on R Street NW. Ask for Patrick Miller. He’ll be able to help you. Meanwhile I will keep an eye out.”

Robert jumped out of the way as Popeye hurled out of the alley. He called out to the crippled vet, who turned his chair.

“Was Charlie sick or injured that you know of?”

“Down here, we’re all sick and injured,” said Popeye. He turned, and rolled away.

Robert headed for the Crossroad’s Rescue Mission. He vaguely recalled the mission’s late night commercials soliciting used vehicles and contributions. From R Street he could see the building from nearly three blocks away. Its loud lime paint and huge green and white florescent sign “Crossroads Rescue Mission” stood out even in the daylight, an oasis in a trash-heaped desert.

Something sparked Robert’s senses. A wiry, weasel-looking man stared at him from across the street. He’d been stared at all afternoon, but this guy stood out. When Robert’s eyes fixed on him, the man abruptly looked away. His clothes were tattered, but his shoes barely worn. His face looked pampered, not weather-beaten and heavily lined like most people in the area.

Robert stepped into the street, but a fast-moving Federal Express truck cut him off, splashing mud and slush on his pants and shoes. The truck passed. The weasel was gone.

Except for it’s bright hue and long food lines, Crossroads appeared more like a four-story office building than a shelter. Unlike the rest of the area, nobody slept on the sidewalk out front or in its alleys. The space around it-clean, immaculate. Not a candy wrapper or empty cigarette pack in sight.

A nondescript truck with a trailer the size of a forty-foot container pulled up, and a mangy, but orderly crowd lined up at the trailer’s back door. A group Robert pegged as volunteers, about college age, wearing green polo shirts that matched the building, streamed out of Crossroads, all smiles and waves, greeting some of those in line by name. Brown paper grocery bags, filled with canned food and produce were passed out, and Robert wondered if even so large a trailer could feed such a long line of people.

Inside, the mission buzzed, as more lime green shirts scampered about well-lit hallways like leprechauns, discussing, laughing and pointing people in all directions. Robert noted a room filled with computers, a well-stocked library, and a bustling free clinic. Bronze plaques lined the walls naming benefactors, from Microsoft and McDonald’s, to Barbra Streisand and Kirk Douglas.

At the end of the hallway, at the back of the building, a large cafeteria fed row after row of hungry mouths-chomping, chewing, and drinking.

It seemed the perfect place for Charlie to hide. One face looked like another. Everyone minded their own business. Secrets remained buried, buried alive.

Robert asked where he could find Patrick Miller. A gregarious Bahamian woman wearing a white lab coat and stethoscope directed him to the fourth floor. The top level, a lively sea of cubicles greeted him; as men and women, some in suits, but most in Crossroads signature polos, hurried about with purpose and determination. He heard someone on the phone ordering supplies, while others solicited donations.

“Now there’s a look I’ve seen before,” a smooth baritone voice said behind him.

Robert accepted the outstretched hand of a tall jovial fellow who introduced himself as Executive Director of Crossroads, Patrick Miller.

“Most people are a little surprised when they see the operation at work,” he said, a broad smile pinned to his face. “We don’t all stand on corners panhandling, Mr. Veil.”

“You already know who I am?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Most people don’t have cell phones or e-mail out here on these streets, but our system is almost as fast.”

“Then you know why I’ve come.”

“Yes,” said Miller, dropping his voice. “You’re looking for Charlie Ivory.” He looked around, then signaled Robert to follow him.

What Miller’s office lacked in size, it made up for in substance.

Plaques, commendations, and celebrity pictures lined the walls like a hall of fame, including a picture of Miller playing golf with the President, William Claymore, at Pebble Beach. Robert took a closer look.

“Great President,” said Miller, “ Not a very good golfer. I’m going to miss him when he’s gone. He made me look good out on the links. You play?”

“It’s more like golf plays me,” said Robert, wincing at the thought of his last game.

Miller offered Robert a seat and some jellybeans from a large jar on his desk, next to a copy of a popular novel about a young wizard growing up into his own.

“I’d tell you that book was my ten year old daughter’s, but I’d be lying,” said Miller, popping a few jellybeans into his mouth, leaning back in his chair. “So, what does a gun toting bounty hunter want with a beat-up homeless veteran?”

Robert made a mental note. So, Charlie was in the military. “He’s not in any trouble with me. In fact, he came to me for help, then vanished.” He gave Miller a few more details than he’d given Popeye.

“I need to follow-up and make sure he’s okay.” Miller stroked his chin, grabbed a few more jellybeans, and shook them like dice.

“It’s kind of strange,” he said, as if thinking to himself. “Charlie’s been coming and going for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been working on these streets for almost twenty-five years. Hell, I spent two or three sleeping on them myself. But as long as I can remember, I’ve never known Charlie to reach out to anyone.” Miller’s face colored with uncertainty. Robert looked him directly in the eye. “You don’t know me from Adam,” he said. “But trust me.

Charlie needs my help.” He grabbed a fistful of jellybeans from the jar and tossed a couple in his mouth. I haven’t eaten all day.

Miller hesitated, tapping his desk. “He stays here sometimes,” he finally said. “We haven’t seen him in awhile. That’s not unusual for most of the people around here. We only allow them a bed for forty-seven consecutive nights before they have to move on, sixty if it’s a woman with a child. If they get lucky, they may get back in after three or four months. So they come and go.”

“What about Charlie?” asked Robert, finishing the jellybeans and grabbing a few more.

“Oh he’s as regular as clockwork. He shows up every spring and stays as long as we let him, then moves on. Sometimes we see him twice a year. From time to time he even helps out around here.”

“Helps out?” asked Robert.

Miller’s eyes flashed upward, narrowed, then relaxed. A sign of truth. “Yes,” he continued. “Charlie’s quite a unique fellow. We get all kinds in here, stockbrokers, government workers, business executives, even one or two White House aides over the years. Talented people who for some reason end up on the street burned out.” Robert wanted more jellybeans but didn’t want to be greedy. “And Charlie?”

“That’s what makes him so different,” said Miller. “Most of the time he’s very sharp, clear headed, even shows signs of extreme intelligence.

He’s never told anyone what he did for a living, but I imagine he was good at it.”

Yeah, Robert thought. Real good. “Are there any other places, other missions, where he may have stayed occasionally?”

“None that I know about, but like I said, people come and go. Some make their way across country and back, year after year. There’s no telling where Charlie is when he’s not here.” Robert grabbed more jellybeans anyway. “Did he have any friends or groups he ran with?”

“Now that was one thing strange about Charlie,” said Miller. “Most people out here run in groups, or at least have a partner who’ll have their back in a pinch. Know what I mean?”

Robert thought of Thorne. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Charlie kept to himself,” continued Miller. “He’d help out, but never seemed to get close enough to anybody to say he had any real friends. Miller smiled and popped a jellybean in his mouth. “Then again, I don’t know everything.”

The phone rang and after the call, Miller asked Robert to join him down in the kitchen where the cooks and kitchen staff, all dressed in white, moved at a pace just short of frantic. From what Robert could surmise, they were getting ready for the dinner rush.

Miller glided through the kitchen tasting food from several pots, smiling, and patting workers on the back. The rich smell of beef stew, baked bread, and apple pie made Robert’s stomach rumble violently.

Miller offered him a small bowl of stew, which he scarfed down while the director dealt with questions from the staff. The stew was surprisingly good.

Miller looked around the kitchen and smiled. “This is what it’s all about,” he said. “We serve over a thousand meals a day. When you’re out on the street, a decent meal is like gold.” Robert didn’t share Miller’s enthusiasm for housing and feeding the poor. For him it was the law of the jungle. Eat, or be eaten. “Do you know if Charlie was injured or sick?” he asked, as a whiff of hot bread teased with him. He recounted to Miller an edited version of the scene at his office. The overturned chair. The drops of blood.

Miller’s face flashed concerned. “I’m afraid…” Robert’s cell phone interrupted. Thorne. The Bear. More dead bodies. Judge Jonathan Weiss and his wife.

Robert hung up cursing loudly. Miller and the others froze. He apologized, but didn’t mean it. He pulled out a business card and a small roll of bills, and handed them to Miller. “I have to run. If you come up with anything, or see Charlie, call me right away.”

“You don’t have to oil me,” said Miller. “Like I said, no one has seen Charlie in awhile. He stretched out his hand to give back the money.

“Keep it anyway,” said Robert, heading for the exit.

“Remember, Mr. Veil, even the unforgivable deserve forgiveness.” Robert glanced back. So he does know.

He hustled outside and noticed the same weasel-looking man he saw earlier standing across the street from the mission sipping from a bottle and talking to himself. Pressed for time, Robert kept going, reached his car, then drove back by the mission. The weasel stood directly in front looking lost. Miller came outside, put his arms around the derelict and gave him a big bear hug. From his rear view mirror, Robert saw Miller lead the man inside. Jumped the gun. Just another lazy drunk looking for a free ride. Robert hit Pennsylvania Avenue and headed west toward Georgetown.

He shifted gears away from the Kennedy case and Charlie, and focused on the matter at hand. The Bear killed again.

Ten minutes later, he pulled through a swarm of media trucks, reporters, and nosey bystanders, past a young policeman who examined his temporary Justice Department credentials and waved him through.

Police black and whites, the coroner’s wagon, and a crowd of unmarked government vehicles sat in every available space. He spotted Thorne’s Rover parked on a lawn next to a gated swimming pool and managed to squeeze in beside it.

Detectives and agents, their game faces on, scoured every inch of the area, some with dogs. Each townhouse loomed large and impressive, sand-colored in rows of five, about four thousand square feet each.

Eight-foot English-style lamps, the kind one might expect to see in a Jack the Ripper movie, stood sentry in front of each unit. The judge’s lamplight, shattered, posed for the police photographer snapping pictures from multiple angles. The officers and agents barely acknowledged Robert’s presence.

Thorne appeared at the front door, a digital video camera in one hand, a notebook in the other, and quickly walked his way.

“It’s him for sure,” she said. “He broke their necks. Mrs. Weiss was raped.”

Broken neck. A message. Fuck you guys. You’re vulnerable.

“Did you get everything on film?” Robert asked. “We can load it in the computer. Maybe find something these guys missed.”

“That’s a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?”

“The guys are acting a little stranger than usual,” said Thorne. “I was told not to take any pictures and they’ve kept me out of the loop. They won’t even let me get a close look at the bodies. All my information has come second hand.”

“But we’ve been given complete access,” said Robert, grinding his teeth.

“Tell it to them sweetheart,” said Thorne, pointing to the agents working the grounds.

Robert stormed inside the townhouse. Agent Sams appeared, arms across his chest, a smirk on his face. “Sorry Mr. Veil, we’ve been ordered to keep the place clear. You and the Mrs. will have to wait outside.”

Thorne stepped forward. Robert held her back. The officers and agents working the crime scene stopped to look.

“Who issued that order Agent Sams? You?” asked Robert.

“Like I told you and this android you call a woman…” Throne slapped the words back down his throat. Even the agents watching winced.

“Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” snapped Thorne, staring him straight in the eye. Agent Sams stood with his mouth open, stunned.

“I’d pay close attention to her,” said Robert. “Next time she may not be so nice.”

Furious, Agent Sams stepped forward. “I could arrest you for that,” he bellowed.

Robert backed away. “Go ahead,” he said. “I haven’t seen her bend up a fool like you in quite some time.”

Thorne smiled and blew the agent a kiss. “Come on sugga. Let mommy teach you how to dance.”

Agent Sams took another step.

“Agent Sams, stand down,” a stern female voice ordered.

The agent abruptly fell back.

A leggy blonde in a plain charcoal gray business suit approached them. Before she spoke, Robert knew she was FBI or Secret Service brass. Definitely not CIA. Company agents would have let Thorne and Sams fight, then sort it out later.

“I’m Special Agent in Charge Marilyn London, FBI. This morning the Bureau assigned me as lead on this case, and told me to make sure you were given full access.”

Agent Sams sneered and stormed outside.

“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Agent London continued. “You know how it is when you piss in somebody’s pond.”

“We’re invited to this party,” said Robert, shaking her hand. Her grip impressed him. “This is no way to treat a guest.” Agent London smiled, extended her hand to Thorne, and was left hanging.

“I’ll get started Robert,” said Thorne, eyeing the agent suspiciously.

Agent London stood there, mouth agape.

“She’s not one to insult,” said Robert, a sarcastic smile on his face.

“Well, maybe she should get laid,” Marilyn responded, abruptly walking toward the den. Robert eyed her figure. Nice. He shook off the trance. I’m the one who needs to get laid.

The den, as Robert expected, housed columns of shelves, floor to ceiling, lined with walls of books. Loose papers cluttered a round oak table and the judge’s desk. Judge Weiss, clad in a half buttoned tropical shirt and khaki pants, lay dead on the floor behind the desk next to a computer workstation, his head twisted grotesquely to one side, eyes open. Photographers snapped pictures, while Thorne moved about the carnage with her camcorder.

“As you can see, His Honor and Mrs. Weiss were on their way out of town,” said Agent London. “We found two tickets to the Cayman Islands on the dresser upstairs.”

“Anything missing?” asked Robert

“Credit cards and ten thousand in cash were found untouched on the dresser next to the tickets. We checked the judge’s bank records and it’s the exact amount he withdrew on Friday. This is definitely our guy.

Besides, he left us a little gift on the bed next to Mrs. Weiss. I’ll show it to you later.”

Robert removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and knelt down, gently lifting the judge’s head off the floor. It felt loose, like a tetherball on a string. The esophagus, crushed. He lowered the head back down on the emerald green carpet; the crunch of vertebrae vibrating in his hand. Deep black and blue bruises covered the throat. The eyes, open, blank and glassy, glistened like a couple of well-matched marbles.

Robert detected the scent of cologne, Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men.

The half buttoned shirt exposed a small amount of salt and pepper hair on the judge’s chest. Robert opened it all the way. An Air Force skull and crossbones tattoo, surrounded by the words “Mess with the best, die like the rest. AF 463 Vietnam” sat cold. One navy blue deck shoe clung to the judges’ right foot; Robert saw the other underneath the desk. A diamond encrusted wedding band shimmered on the magistrate’s finger. Out of place in such a gruesome scene.

Thorne knelt down to get a better shot of the bruises.

“The judge tried to defend himself,” said Marilyn. “In addition to the broken nose, bruised face and neck, you’ll also notice bruising and swelling around the knuckles.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t go as easy as the others,” said Robert. “I bet he caught our Russian friend off guard, but never had a chance.” Marilyn agreed and stepped over to the gun cabinet. “He picked the lock and came in through the back door. We believe things started upstairs.”

“What about the alarm?” asked Robert, a smirk on his face. He knew the system the judge installed to be grossly inferior. He’d inspected it himself only a few weeks earlier and suggested an upgrade.

“He beat it without a hitch,” said Marilyn, smiling as though she could read his mind. “No wonder. I think he bought it at Toys R Us.” Robert returned the smile then examined the gun cabinet. Impressive.

He counted fifteen guns. Several immediately caught his eye, including a very rare Model 1803 U.S. Flintlock rifle dating back to the Lewis and Clark Expedition, an almost extinct Israeli Mauser, and a Colt Z 40 semi-automatic, highly prized by collectors and nearly impossible to find.

Robert shook his head in sad disgust.

“Yeah, I know,” said Marilyn. “All this firepower didn’t do the poor bastard a bit of good.”

“Anything missing?”

“No, nothing was taken,” said Marilyn. “We found the gun inventory in his desk. Every weapon is accounted for.” Robert smiled. He liked Agent London. Beautiful and smart, she appeared to be tough. None of which hurt if a woman wanted to succeed in a man’s world.

“Looks like Mrs. Weiss walked in on them, dropped her packages and ran upstairs,” she continued. “Obviously the Bear wasn’t expecting her.” Robert examined the packages. Neiman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Prada, spread randomly in front of the study’s door. “Well, let’s have a look at the Mrs.,” he said, standing.

Robert stole another look at Agent London’s firm hips and sultry walk as they climbed the soft-carpeted stairs. Thorne shook her head.

Her eyes saying keep it zipped up big boy. His partner wasn’t the jealous type, but somehow Agent London had landed on Thorne’s bad side. A barren place where one stayed for an eternity.

The master bedroom took up most of the second floor. A large marble fireplace dominated, and two inviting, soft leather recliners faced it. Impressive artwork adorned the walls, and the oversized custom bed, the largest he’d ever seen, made Robert wonder just how much a federal judge earned.

Sprawled across the flowered peach comforter, face down, naked, lay Mrs. Weiss. Her neck, unceremoniously twisted, looked more like coiled rope than a human appendage. Her left eye bulged. Her right, swollen shut. Horror plastered her face, and blood trickled down each side of her mouth.

Robert moved closer.

A red puddle soaked the bedding below her rectum. Her left arm a pretzel, it dangled off one side of the bed. A dazzling marquis diamond ring sparkled on her finger.

“He chased her upstairs and kicked in the door,” said Marilyn, pointing to the bare hinges. “No flesh under her nails or bruises on her torso. Except for the eyes there’re no other marks on her face.”

“She gave in to him,” said Robert, in a whisper.

“We believe so,” said Marilyn. “She tried to cooperate to save her life, but the bastard killed her anyway.”

“No witnesses,” said Robert. “It’s a Russian Mafia rule. Men, women, children and the family dog, it doesn’t matter. If they’re at the scene when a hit takes place, they die.”

Robert examined the body carefully and gave the bedroom one last look. Thorne recorded as many details as possible. After writing down a few notes of his own, he removed his gloves and returned them to his pocket. “You mentioned he left a little gift,” said Robert. “Let’s have a look at it.”

Marilyn asked all of the other agents and forensic team to leave.

When the room cleared she walked over to Robert, arms across her chest.

“You know, most of the agents aren’t too keen on having you and your partner butt in,” she said.

“No shit Sherlock. We went over all this downstairs,” said Robert, more than a little impatient. “And who cares anyway. Like I said before, they didn’t hire us, the head brass did.”

“I know, I know,” said Marilyn. “You have full access. It’s just that some question your effectiveness. After all, the entire local and Federal law enforcement system is on the case.”

“Yet Judge Weiss and his wife are dead,” said Thorne. “I’m sure they appreciate the government’s effort.”

Marilyn looked her up and down. Then, what started out as a look of contempt, morphed into an insincere, sly smile. She pulled a small plastic bag from her pocket and handed it to Robert, her gaze never leaving Thorne’s.

Robert ignored the two and moved to the window for light. America: You have spent years causing pain and suffering all over the world, for no other reason than your own personal gain and greed. I watched your hypocrisy in the Middle East during what you called Iraqi Freedom, and I’ve burned with hatred as you’ve used and abused my brothers and sisters in Russia, pretending to offer support and a helping hand while all the time spying and plotting behind our backs. Men, women, and children continue to die because of your treachery and dishonesty. Your system of justice is a prime example of your bad faith and pretense of piety and virtue. Now you will know pain and suffering, and I will continue to deliver blows to your system of justice, unto death.

The Bear

“We’ll need a copy of this as soon as possible,” said Robert, handing back the letter.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Exactly what’s the problem?” Thorne demanded.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m just the messenger,” Marilyn snapped.

Thorne walked forward, Marilyn didn’t back down. Robert jockeyed between them and turned toward his partner. “Thorne, wait for me outside.”

Thorne hesitated, then moved back. “We don’t need this Robert, and I won’t take it. Not off her, or any of these other sorry ass stuffed shirts.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. Wait for me outside. I’ll handle it.” Thorne pierced Marilyn with her eyes, and left the room.

Agent London seemed amused. “Next time,” she mouthed in Thorne’s direction.

“That was out of line, Agent London,” said Robert.

“She had it coming, and feel free to call me Marilyn. We’re going to be working together so let’s kill the formalities. At least when it’s just the two of us.”

She walked over to Robert and stood chest to chest, a playful, inquisitive look on her face. “Exactly who at the Justice Department is backing you?”

“That’s classified,” said Robert. “Let’s just say you’ll probably never reach that high.”

“Oh you’d be surprised,” said Marilyn. “You’re not the only one who likes this pretty blonde ass of mine.” Robert walked toward the door.

“Mr. Veil,” Marilyn called. “If you can stop this guy, fine. If not, then you’re wasting time and money.”

Robert turned. “You can call me Robert, and we’ve never missed yet.

Furthermore, this is the sixth judge the Bear’s killed and you haven’t got a clue. So I think you can use all the help you can get.” Robert started out of the bedroom, then stopped. “And next time you fuck with Thorne, I won’t stop her. Trust me, it’ll be the last person you fuck with for a long, long time.”

“Stop, you’re making me all weepy and nervous.” Robert smiled and left the room. Lady, you have no idea.

Outside, Thorne leaned against her SUV, smiling. “I wasn’t going to kill the cow, just rough her up a bit.”

“Yeah right,” said Robert. “Remember, I’ve seen you get rough.” Thorne laughed.

Robert surveyed the grounds once, making sure they didn’t miss anything. “So what’d you think?”

“He had it staked out ahead of time just like the others. Knew exactly when to strike and expected the judge to be alone. His wife bought it by accident.”

“That means he’s definitely not choosing them at random,” said Robert. “He has a plan and we don’t have a clue. Let’s get an updated list of judges and note any who’ve turned down protection. We better review your tape. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed.” Robert’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number and ignored it. A few seconds later, it rang again, same number. This time he answered.

“Mr. Veil, this is the D.C. police department calling from the Crossroads Rescue Mission.”

“Yes?”

“It’s about Patrick Miller. He’s dead.”