Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

He nodded immediately. “Susanne, I’d be honored.”

“You, too, Annie. I’ve been inviting you for months, and you haven’t shown up yet.”

“Well…when is it?”

“Wednesday night, 7:30. I know it’s short notice, but-”

“Works for me,” Hunter said, looking not at Susie, but at her.

“Sure,” she found herself saying, breaking eye contact. “I think I’m clear, too.”

“Great. It’s at our…it’s at my home just off Route 193, north of Tysons Corner. Annie knows where it is, but I’ll email you the directions. You’ll be glad you came. The people are wonderful. Inspiring. For me, they’ve meant so-”

“Excuse me,” Dylan said, pulling his ringing cell phone from a jacket pocket. “Yes?… Oh, Danika. Hi. Look, I’m tied up right now. Could I- What?”

His eyes widened, his lips parted. She exchanged glances with Susie.

“Sure… I understand… Listen, let the detective know I can meet him there about 4:30. Then call Bronowski back and tell him I’ll phone in about an hour, okay?… Thanks.”

He closed the phone. “Sorry for the interruption. That was my answering service. Considering what we’ve just been talking about, you’re not going to believe this.”

He pushed his cup and saucer aside, reached across the table and rested his hand on Susie’s. “Susanne, it seems that you have one less criminal to worry about. William Bracey has just been found shot dead.”

Her shoulders began to shake.

Then he was around the table, holding her close as she began to sob.

Washington, D.C.

Monday, September 8, 4:40 p.m.

Dylan Hunter liked Ed Cronin’s face.

The Alexandria homicide investigator had a squarish jaw, a fringe of close-cropped blond hair, and blue eyes that sparked with intelligence. He looked to be in his mid-forties; beneath his blue sports jacket he seemed trim and athletic. Maybe a handball player or runner. One of that minority of balding guys that women go for.

“I appreciate this, Mr. Hunter. I won’t take much of your time.”

“It’s okay, Sergeant Cronin. End of the workday. What can I do for you?”

“As I told your receptionist when I called, it’s about the murder of William Bracey.”

“Right. One of the trio I wrote about last week. I caught the news on the radio on my way here.”

“That’s the guy.”

“Well, I don’t think many people will lament his passing.”

Cronin smiled, the only editorial he would permit himself.

“But I put everything that I learned about the guy in the article. So if you’re looking for more information, I’m not sure I can help you.”

The detective leaned back in the guest chair. It didn’t creak as it had under the weight of its previous occupant. “Maybe you can. We found something unusual at the crime scene.”

He shut up. Waiting for him to fill the silence. The guy was good. But it would seem suspicious not to bite. “Unusual?”

Cronin reached into the large manila envelope he’d brought with him. Extracted a clear, zip-lock plastic bag and slid it across the desk toward him. He leaned over to look at it. Inside was a newspaper clipping with brownish spatters on it.

He looked up at his visitor. “You found this at the crime scene?”

Cronin nodded, watching him.

Hunter sat back, frowned, and spread his hands. “I don’t understand.”

Cronin stared at him for a moment. Then relaxed and sighed. “Neither do we, frankly. We can only speculate. Most likely thing is, somebody read your article, got royally pissed off, and decided to whack the guy. Then leave the clipping at the crime scene. As his justification.”

“You think my article motivated somebody to kill this guy?”

The detective shrugged. “Sure looks like it. From the way the crime scene was staged.”

“Staged?”

“Look, I tell you this, it’s not for public consumption, okay? I don’t want to read about it in the paper tomorrow.”

Hunter didn’t like it, but he raised three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“Okay, Bracey was shot lying in his bed. But that’s not where we found him. The perp, or perps, dragged him off the bed and perched him in a stuffed chair facing his front door. Then they positioned his hands on his lap. And they put your article in his hands. Like he was reading it.”

He blinked, his mouth hanging open. “You’re kidding.”

“Damnedest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

He stared at the cop. Then began to laugh.

Cronin smiled. “We thought it was funny, too.”

Hunter clapped several times. “Bravo! Somebody out there has a sense of-I don’t know, what would you call it?”

“Humor, for sure.”

“I was going to say ‘poetic justice,’ but that’s not quite right. And I don’t pretend my writing is poetic.”

“Whatever it is-between us, the guys in the department like it. We’re glad somebody’s saying this stuff, because we can’t. You know how it is.”

“I know exactly how it is.”

Cronin reached for the plastic evidence bag, returned it to the envelope. “No matter what I think about this privately, though, I have a job to do.”

“Of course. We can’t have killers walking the streets, now, can we?”

The cop caught the irony and chuckled. “No, of course not. Anyway, we’re doing the usual. Looking at Bracey’s associates, enemies. Checking out the families of his vics, to see if anybody might have gone over the edge. They’d probably have the most motive. We also talked to your editor, asked him for all the mail that came in about your article. Has anybody really upset contacted you privately about it? Mail, email, calls?”

Hunter looked off into space. “Not really. Certainly no one who sticks out as being unhinged.”

The detective got up, pulled out a business card, and left it on the desk. “Well, you let me know if anybody communicates with you that we should check out.”

Hunter walked with the detective back to the reception area. Danika looked up and smiled at them both.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you.”

Cronin turned and extended his hand. “Mr. Hunter, what you do, that’s already a big help. To everybody. Please keep it up.”

He held the man’s eyes. “Count on it.”

Washington, D.C.

Monday, September 8, 7:30 p.m.

She turned off 16th onto a side street that curved back into an upscale residential neighborhood of northwest Washington. In a couple of blocks, she pulled into the driveway of a large, stately home. After turning off the ignition, she remained at the wheel a moment, steadying herself for the conversation to come. They’d had a few such conversations before. They never lasted long. They never got easier. And they never got anywhere.

Maybe this time.

She got out and walked up the tidy brick sidewalk that arced toward the front door. Even before she rang the bell, Gracie, the old Irish Setter, began to bark inside.

Kenneth MacLean peered through the arched window of the door, and a smile spread over his face. The door opened a few seconds later.

“Annie dear! What a lovely surprise.” He opened his arms and she returned his hearty hug.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Come, sit down.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the den. Gracie followed and Annie bent to pat her for a minute until, satisfied, the dog wandered off.

Paneled in dark oak, the room was a gentleman’s sanctuary from another era. The wall to the left was lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. The wall opposite featured a massive stone fireplace. Family photos adorned the mantelpiece, and a few paintings surrounded the window on the far wall. It had been her favorite place in the house as a little girl. Curled up with a story book in one of the big club chairs, she felt a sense of security, stability, and permanence.