Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

Keith saw a skinny woman dressed in a T-shirt and panties step into the darkened doorway to his left, but he also saw a man speeding toward the other bedroom. Keith turned toward the man just as a body crashed into him, sending him to the floor. Before he could react, a shotgun blast whistled over his head, hitting the man in front of him. The officer pitched forward as several guns fired behind him. The weight on Keith’s back eased as Maggie rolled onto the floor.

Keith pushed up and turned. The woman was sprawled on the floor, her body riddled with bullets, a shotgun inches from her hand. A SWAT team member kicked the gun out of reach. Another checked to make sure the woman was dead. Then some of the officers went to their downed comrade while others spread out to search the rest of the house.

“Holy shit,” Keith whispered when he realized how close he’d come to being dead. Maggie stood unsteadily, adrenaline still coursing through her.

“Thanks,” Keith said.

“Don’t mention it,” Maggie gasped as she bent forward and rested her hands on her knees.

Keith heard raised voices in Reynolds’s bedroom, and he and Maggie walked in. A blond man clad in boxer shorts and a T-shirt was lying facedown on the floor with his hands cuffed behind him.

Keith had his boss on speed dial, and Johnson picked up after the first ring. Keith was still shaken from his close encounter with death, and he had to fight to keep his voice steady.

“We got him, Harold. There was a woman with Reynolds. She killed an officer and was killed by return fire. There are no other casualties.”

“Where is Reynolds?”

“They’re just taking him out.”

“Stop them. I want him brought to the Department of Justice and not booked into any jail. Drive him into the basement garage.”

“Okay. Hold on.”

Keith was a little surprised by the change of plans, but he was sure Johnson had a good reason for having Reynolds transported to the DOJ. He pulled the SWAT team commander aside and relayed Johnson’s instructions.

“Someone will be there to take custody of the prisoner. Maggie and I will wait for the morgue wagon and the team from the crime lab. And I’m sorry about your man.”

While they were talking, a hood was slapped over the prisoner’s head, and he was hustled out of the house. When the members of the SWAT team were gone, Keith and Maggie stepped outside into the cold night air. They stood without speaking for a while. Then Keith turned to Maggie.

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“I didn’t even see the broad,” Maggie joked to ease the tension. “I just thought this was a great opportunity to knock you on your butt.”

Keith smiled. “You did that, all right.”

Maggie returned the smile. “Think of this as payback for Webster’s Corner.”

During the Farrington affair, Keith had saved Maggie’s life during a shoot-out at a West Virginia motel.

The couple’s banter was interrupted by the arrival of the forensic experts. Keith briefed them, then he and Maggie headed downtown.

“D o you want to come in for a drink?” Maggie asked when Keith parked in front of her duplex three hours later.

Keith hesitated. The thought of being alone with Maggie made him nervous.

“Come on, Keith,” Maggie insisted. “I’m too wound up to sleep and I can use the company.”

“Sure. Thanks. I don’t think I’d get much sleep, either.”

Keith followed Maggie upstairs, his heart beating almost as wildly as it had just before he had rushed into Steve Reynolds’s house. Maggie turned on the lights. It dawned on Keith that this was the first time he had been in Maggie’s place.

Keith’s apartment looked as though it belonged to someone who had just moved in, even though he had lived there for years. Maggie’s looked like a home. It was neat and clean, with none of the pizza boxes and carry-out cartons that were scattered around Keith’s living room and kitchen. The walls of Maggie’s living room were decorated with abstract art. Some were lithographs, but Keith spotted two oils. The furniture was modern, and a few large pillows lay in front of a fireplace.

“This is nice,” Keith said.

“It’s convenient for work, and there’s a park, a movie theater, and a lot of shopping nearby. What’s your poison?”

“Scotch, neat,” Keith said.

Maggie walked into the kitchen and Keith realized that he was terrified. He was drawn to Maggie, but they worked together, and no good could come from a relationship with a partner.

Maggie returned with Keith’s drink. She stopped in front of him, but she didn’t hold out the glass. They looked at each other. There were only inches between them. Maggie put down the glass and leaned in to kiss Keith. He put his hands on her shoulders to hold her back.

“Have you thought this through? We work together, I’m eight years older.”

Maggie looked Keith in the eye. “Let’s get this on the table. I want you. Unless I’m a piss-poor detective, I’m sure you want me, too. If you’re not interested, tell me. There’ll be no hard feelings. So do you want to talk about the Redskins or politics, or do you want to make love?”

Keith only hesitated a second before taking Maggie in his arms. Years of built-up tension evaporated after one long and fantastic kiss. Then they were staggering into Maggie’s bedroom, shedding clothes along the way.

K eith had fantasized about making love to Maggie, but the real deal was better than anything he’d imagined. When they finally lay next to each other, all the ugliness of the night was forgotten. Keith found Maggie’s hand and squeezed.

“Not bad for an old man,” Maggie said softly.

Keith wished he could think of a witty comeback, but all he did was smile.

Deputy Assistant Attorney General Terrence Crawford’s square jaw looked as though it had been created by a cartoonist who illustrated superhero comics. His adversaries likened his piercing blue eyes to laser beams, and his shaved head resembled the battering-ram noggins of professional wrestlers. When he wasn’t prosecuting terrorists and the heads of drug cartels, Crawford was training for marathons or in the weight room in the basement of the Department of Justice working on the body he’d been building since junior high.

After being educated at the finest prep schools, graduating with honors from Princeton, and making the Yale Law Review, Terrence Crawford had scandalized his parents by choosing government work over an associate position in Wall Street’s most prestigious law firm, where his father was a senior partner. Since his teens, Crawford had secretly fantasized about being a crime fighter like the superheroes he resembled, and he lived for the opportunity to send bad guys to prison.

When Jorge Marquez knocked on his doorjamb, Crawford was seated behind his desk, reading preliminary reports about the raid. Marquez was wearing a mismatched sports jacket and slacks he’d thrown on twenty-four hours ago, and he had not been home since to change. Marquez was a trial attorney in his fourth year at the DOJ. He’d worked his way up from a barrio in Los Angeles using scholarships to finance degrees from UCLA and its law school. Crawford used Marquez when he could because he respected his diligence and high IQ.

“What have you got for me?” Crawford asked.

“Scary shit, Terry. I ran Reynolds’s prints. His real name is Ron Tolliver, he’s originally from Ohio, and he’s dead.”

Crawford waited for Marquez’s explanation.

“Tolliver was in the Special Forces and was listed as MIA after an operation in Afghanistan. He’s been officially dead for several years. We have no idea where he’s been since he went AWOL. Best guess is Pakistan, because two of the detainees say he’s fluent in Urdu and the FedEx plot probably originated there.”