James PATTERSON - Cross Fire

“Max Siegel, Washington field office. How’re you doing? Not so good, I imagine.”

Cross shook Kyle’s hand begrudgingly, but it was still an electric moment, like the tip-off of an NBA game. Here we go, here we go, here we go, now!

“What are you doing in here?” Cross wanted to know.

“I’m just hitting the ground on this one,” Kyle told him.

“No shit. I mean, what specifically do you need on this body?”

It was magnificent – Cross had no idea who he was looking at! The face was flawless, of course. If there was any danger here, it was with Alex’s ears, not his eyes. This was where the weeks of audio surveillance on Max Siegel in Miami would really start to pay off.

But first he did exactly what Cross wouldn’t expect. He turned his back on him and knelt down to look at the entry wound again.

A blue-and-black residue covered the skin around the opening. Some of the man’s hair had been sucked inside with the bullet as it broke through the skull. So efficient. So impersonal. He was beginning to like this killer.

“Ballistics,” he said finally, and stood up again. “My money’s on 7.62 by 51 NATO match grade, but not jacketed. And some kind of military training on this shooter.”

“You’ve read the file,” Alex said, not offering any compliment, just noticing. “Yeah, we could definitely use some ballistics support from the Bureau to confirm, but let’s get the ME in here before anything else. In the meantime, I need you to step out.”

Cross couldn’t have been easier to read. Right now, he was hoping a little bluster would tamp down this aggressive new FBI agent, who was no doubt just another overreaching Bureau asshole with an inflated sense of entitlement – kind of like Alex himself had been when he was an agent.

“Listen,” said Kyle, “I’m not going to stress about who gets credit for what on this one. I mean, the U.S. attorney’s going to step in and get all front and center no matter who brings it home, am I right?”

“Siegel, I don’t have time for this right now. I–”

“But make no mistake.” Kyle let the last of Siegel’s buddy-buddy smile fade away. “We’ve got two incidents and three homicides, all inside the District. That’s a federal crime. So you can work with us if you like, or you can get the fuck out of the way.”

He showed Cross his sweet little encrypted Sigillu, fresh off the line. “One call, and I can make this whole crime scene my own private country club. It’s up to you, Detective. What do you want to do?”

IT TOOK ABOUT ten seconds for me to figure out what Max Siegel was all about, and I wasn’t going to have any of it.

“Listen, Siegel, I’m not going to pretend I can keep you off this case any more than you can do the same to me,” I told him. “But let me make one thing very clear here. This is an MPD crime scene. I’m ranking Homicide, and if you want to take that up with the chief, he’s right outside. Meanwhile, if I have to tell you how quickly a room like this can cool, then you shouldn’t be here to begin with.”

No doubt, there would be a full task force after tonight, and I’d probably find myself working with this Bureau jerkoff as we moved forward. But right now was not the best time for pissing contests. By him – or by me.

Sampson came in from the yard, looking at me as if to say, Who is this guy? I made the necessary introductions.

“Agent Siegel and I were just comparing theories,” I said, trying to lighten things up a little and put us back on track. “He’s got a military take on this, too.”

Right away, Siegel started talking again. “Holding forth” was more like it.

“Military snipers go after high-value targets – officers, not enlisted men,” he said. “The way I see it, that’s what these victims are. Not the bank president but the congressman and the lobbyist who keep him juiced. And not the taxpayer who’s been ripping off Uncle Sam but the other way around.”

“A killer for the common man,” Sampson said.

“With the very best training in the world.” Siegel reached out until he was almost touching the black hole centered one inch above Mel Dlouhy’s left ear. “That kind of accuracy doesn’t lie.”

I listened without saying too much. This guy wanted to lecture, not collaborate, but he was also pretty good at what he did. If there were things he could see here that I couldn’t, then I needed to bite my tongue long enough to find out what they were.

It was just what Nana Mama’s old refrigerator magnet had been telling me to do for as long as I could remember: You find yourself with a lemon – make lemonade.

THE STREET OUTSIDE the Dlouhy house was filling up slowly and steadily – a thing of beauty. Denny and Mitch hung around the edge of the crowd, not coming too close but close enough to take it in. Given the shitty night they’d had at the shelter after the first hit, Denny figured Mitch could use a little positive exposure.

Either Mel Dlouhy’s body was still inside or they’d snuck the fuck out the back. Cops in jackets and ties kept walking past the living room windows, and you could see that there were brilliant floodlights on behind the house.

Mitch didn’t say much, but Denny could tell he was pumped. The scope of this whole thing was really starting to settle over the big guy. Nah, big kid was more like it.

“Excuse me, Officer. Did they catch the guy?” Denny asked one of the cops around the perimeter – and now he was just showing off for Mitch.

“You’ll have to check the paper or TV, sir,” the cop told him. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

Denny turned halfway around and spoke low. “You hear that? Sir. Must be a good neighborhood.” Mitch looked off to the side and scratched at his jaw to keep from cracking up too much.

The cop was just about to get on the radio when Denny spoke up again. “Sorry, but I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare ciggie on you?” He held up a blue Bic lighter. People always like to see the homeless guy with his own match, and sure enough the porker reached into his cruiser for a pack of Camel Lights.

“One’s fine,” Denny said, making sure Mitch was visible over his shoulder. “We can share.”

The cop took two out of the pack. “What unit were you with?”

Denny looked down at his faded camo jacket. “Third Brigade Combat Team, Fourth Infantry Division, best unit overseas.”

“Second best,” Mitch said. “I was New Jersey Army National Guard, out of Balad.”

In fact, Mitch had never known a uniform, but Denny had drilled him enough that he could fake it a little. People loved vets. It always worked to their advantage.

Denny took the ciggies from the piggy with a friendly nod and handed one over to Mitch. “Word on the street is that this guy might be one of us, the way he’s been shooting,” he said.

The cop shrugged in the direction of the sloped front yard. “Word don’t trickle down that hill too quick. You should ask a reporter. I’m just on crowd control.”

“All right, well…” Denny lit his own cigarette, blew smoke, and smiled. “We’ll get out of your hair now. God bless you, Officer, and thank you for what you’re doing.”

THE FRIDAY AFTER the Dlouhy shooting was one of those breezy spring days, the kind where you can feel summer coming on the wind, even though it was still jacket weather.

Kyle buttoned his blazer as he turned onto Mississippi Avenue and walked north, blending in with the local color, so to speak. His wig, makeup, and contacts were all perfectly effective, even if they were comically rudimentary. Ever since the surgery on his face, anything less was simply beneath him – if not also a necessary evil.