Michael Harvey - We All Fall Down

“Wipe off your face. And zip yourself up.”

“I’m a federal agent, Kelly. And you’re in a world of shit.”

“Zip yourself up.”

He did.

“Why does a federal agent carry two guns?” I held up the forty. “I mean, what’s wrong with the one they gave you?”

“You got it all figured out. You tell me.”

“Why didn’t you take a run at me when we were in Little Kings?”

“Not exactly the best place for a white guy to be pulling a piece. Even if it is to shoot another white guy. Besides, the woman was a problem.”

“She’s not on your list?”

“Who said I had a list?”

I crouched down. “You got a list, Crane.”

His nose was leaking blood. He wiped it clean, only to have it leak all over again.

“How long you think before the moron up front decides to check on the two perverts in his bathroom?” he said.

I glanced at the latch on the door. “We got time.”

“For what?”

“Why do they want to kill me?”

“Piss off.”

“I’m the one with the gun.”

“Do what you have to. Or give me back my piece and get out of town before your luck runs out.”

“You think I’m gonna shoot you?”

“I’m thinking you better.”

“What does that mean?”

He spit a bright red wad onto the floor, stretched one leg, and rolled his good foot in a small circle. “In a job like this you’re an asset but also a threat. An asset until you’re no longer reliable. Then a threat because of everything you know.”

“No retirement package, huh?”

“They hire your replacement, and his first assignment is you. So we all do what we do. Until we don’t do it so well anymore. Can I stand up?”

I uncuffed him and stepped back as he got to his feet. His nose was badly broken. The blood had slowed to a steady drip. For the first time I noticed his eyebrow was crushed. He winced every time he blinked.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“I always wanted to be standing. Don’t know why, but it seems right.”

I felt my cell phone buzz in my pocket but ignored it. Crane was studying me. Hands loose at his sides. Not looking for an advantage. Just studying.

“It’s not that hard, Kelly.”

“Looks like it took its toll on you.”

“They’re coming either way. For me. For you. So just do it. And don’t spend whatever time you have left worrying about the rest.”

Crane buttoned up his overcoat, wiped his face for a final time, and straightened his shoulders. He looked at the thin gun in my hand and nodded.

“Ready when you are.”

Twenty minutes later I climbed out the bathroom window. The sky was lightening in the east, and I needed some sleep. I’d walked two blocks when my cell buzzed again. I had two text messages. Both from Molly Carrolton. It appeared she’d been up all night as well. And had the piece of the puzzle I’d been waiting on.

I met Molly at a coffee shop in Printer’s Row called Stir. She was bundled into a short black coat, her hair a riot of red tucked under a knit cap. It was 6:00 a.m. We were their first customers. The coffee was fresh and wonderful.

“Have you slept at all?” Molly said.

“I had a busy night. How about you?”

“I have something.” She took a perfunctory sip from her mug, eyes never leaving my face.

“What’s that?” I said.

“A DNA profile from the cigarette butt you gave me.”

I looked out the shop’s front windows. Cold water beaded up and ran in broken rivers down the other side of the glass. Thick wrappings of morning fog floated off the lake and filled the crooked streets. A cop siren whooped once and was squelched. At the end of the block, three unmarked cars had blocked off the intersection. I watched, fascinated, as their blue lights pulsed like muffled heartbeats in the gloom.

“Did you hear me?” she said.

“I heard you. That was quick.”

“I ran it last night. Got a little lucky.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I pulled it from the filter.”

“Saliva?”

“Probably.” She reached down for a file in a leather case at her feet. The black grip of a gun was tucked neatly into her jeans at the small of her back. Scientists with guns. The latest thing, apparently.

“It’s a good profile,” Molly said. “Male. Sixteen distinct loci.”

“What are the chances of an ID?”

“Already on it. Homeland now requires that all employees and private contractors working in classified areas submit genetic samples to keep on file. I was able to run our profile through their database.”

“How did you manage that?”

“You’re probably better off not knowing.” Molly flipped open the file and pulled out a photo. The face looking back at me was maybe mid-forties. Long, thin nose and sharp chin, eyes of mixed color, and black hair, shiny with a shock of white running through it.

I took a sip of coffee. “Who is he?”

“He’s the guy from your photo.”

“You sure?”

“Take a look.” Molly laid the photo Vinny DeLuca’s men had snapped against the profile picture.

“Could be him,” I said.

“Well, he’s a match for the cigarette butt. Name’s Peter Gilmore. Former SEAL. Now in private practice. CIA started using him about ten years ago on some black ops. Strictly a pay-as-you-go thing.”

I picked through the file. Names, dates, operations.

“What else?” I said.

“He has expertise in the deployment of chemical and bioweapons.” Molly paused.

“Yes?”

“And he worked with Danielson. A little more than five years ago.”

I looked out the window again. My reflection looked back, carved out of smoky gray and cold, blowing rain.

“Michael.” Molly had slid a little closer. “You okay?”

My gaze moved across the line of her jaw and fine fuzz on her cheek.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You don’t look so hot.”

“It’s nothing. Rodriguez got back a ballistics report. The bullet you took came from the same weapon as the slug I found in Lee’s cellar.”

“What does that tell us?”

“Maybe he was targeting you. Maybe me.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.”

Molly tapped the photo. “So this is the guy.”

“Seems like it. Now we just have to find him.”

She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and pushed it across the counter.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got a friend inside the Agency. He gave me an address. Says Gilmore uses it sometimes when he’s in the city. At least he’s used it before.”

“And you think he’s there now?”

“It’s a long shot.”

I put the note in my pocket. “I’ll check it out.”

“I’m trying, Michael.”

“I know.” I smiled for the first time and took another sip of coffee.

Molly fidgeted in her seat.

“Is there something else?” I said.

“There is, but I need you to be straight with me.”

“What is it?”

“Ellen was able to slip out of the lab last night. Now she’s off the grid and isn’t picking up her cell.”

“And you want to know if we met?”

A nod.

“We had a drink. Talked for a bit. Then I put her in a cab.”

“We need her, Michael.”

“Why?”

“I told you. Ellen’s one of this generation’s brilliant minds.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I was number three in my class at CalTech, so that’s not a problem. I’m still not Ellen.”

“She was going to pick up her sister’s ashes. That’s all I know.”

Molly wasn’t buying it. I could feel her anger wedged into the small space between us and knew things were about to get worse.