Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“They send that stuff out to the rest of the task force yet?”

“Sure.”

“Give me the talking points.”

Erskine settled his bulky frame into the worn armchair next to the desk. “Let’s start with the ballistics. The slug they retrieved at the scene, this time it was an Alabama Ammo Special K.”

“So what have we had so far? Bracey’s round was a Remington Golden Saber. Valenti’s was a Fiocchi, right?”

Erskine nodded. “They’ve all got things in common, though. All 9 x 19’s, all subsonic. But Ballistics says that from the rifling, they all came out of different barrels.”

“So three different guns, then. Which tends to confirm our theory of multiple shooters. Subsonic ammo and nobody hears any shots-so figure they’re using silencers, too. What else?”

“The tire prints are common Goodyears. Length and depth of the tracks, and the mark where the rear ramp came down to unload the golf cart, all consistent with a small box truck-like the ten-or-twelve-foot Ryders and U-Hauls. The federales ran down all the rental places within a hundred miles for the days before and after. So far, zip. If it’s privately owned, we got problems, because they’re not really sure about the make or year.”

“Terrific. Tell me more.”

“From the tracks on the lawn, they ID’d the brands of the golf cart tires and the man’s golf shoes.”

“Golf shoes?” He chuckled. “Clever. They dressed the part. They probably figured- Wait. Did you say ‘man’s’? Singular?”

“What I said. Just one set of footprints, in and out. Also, one set, the same ones, where the truck was parked. Looks like only one guy unloads Conrad and the cart from the truck. Then shoots Conrad right at the scene. Then drives him on the cart over to the house. Then lugs the stiff all the way across the yard to the flagpole. Carries him, ’cause there’s no drag marks. Then climbs the pole, rigs the pulley, and hoists the body. All by his lonesome.”

Cronin frowned and sat back in his swivel chair. “Jesus. He has to be hellaciously strong. What do we have here, a weightlifter?”

Erskine looked at him over the top of his half-moon reading glasses and shrugged. “You’d think, but he can’t be too big. Yeah, we have deep prints tracking in-short steps, because he’s carrying the body. The prints going out, though, they’re much shallower and wider spaced. From that, the feebs say the depth works out to somebody no more than two hundred, max, probably lighter. And the stride suggests medium-tall height, maybe just over six feet.”

“I’ll be damned. Okay, what about the pole? Prints, blood, fibers?”

“Dream on.”

“The pulley?”

“Homemade gadget. The tube part of it tracks back to the type of pipe used at probably half the construction sites around here. They could’ve bought or just swiped a chunk of it almost anywhere. The pulley itself, and the weld rod they used to make the tube, they’re the most common brands out there, too. You can get them at any hardware store.”

Cronin thought about it. “They had to know all about that flagpole in advance to fabricate that pulley gizmo to fit it. And the golf cart: They knew where they were going and what they needed once they got there. That means they had to be inside that community snooping around on at least one previous occasion. Just like the other hits, these guys planned this one down to the tiny details.”

“Did they ever.”

“They aren’t making it easy for us. They’re real pros.” Cronin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Then looked at his partner. “Paul, you know what worries me?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m starting to think that maybe they’re law enforcement. Current or ex.”

“Jesus. You think?”

He sighed. “Right now I don’t know what to think.”

“Don’t worry, Ed. Whoever they are, they’re taking way too many chances. Sooner or later, they’re gonna screw up.”

“Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

Falls Church, Virginia

Friday, September 26, 6:45 p.m.

“Who the hell is this?” Bronowski answered his cell with his patented charm.

“The last great hope of Western civilization.”

“Oh. Hunter. Your name didn’t come up on the Caller ID.”

“I would hope not.”

“So, what’s the occasion? Feeling lonely? Where are you? Want to come to my house and introduce yourself, at long last? Meet the wife and mooch some supper?”

“Nothing, no, none of your business, no, and no. I’m in my car, heading off on a few weeks’ vacation.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed, Bill. Haven’t I caused you enough grief for the time being?”

“You have, and then some. But I was hoping you might do a follow-up on the Lamont story next week. I’ve gotten mail from a few people, crime victims, who want us to poke into the history of his rulings in criminal trials.”

He pulled into the driveway, shut off the car. “Lamont is hiding out, for the time being. He can’t do any immediate harm, so a follow-up piece will wait. Meanwhile, something else has my attention.”

“Good to hear. I trust it’s got a lot of potential.”

He was looking at Annie’s house. “Definitely.”

*

Hours later, illuminated only by soft candlelight, they lay in each other’s arms in her big four-poster.

He nuzzled her fragrant hair. His limbs felt heavy and relaxed. His body seemed to be floating, drifting along in a slow, languorous current.

It dawned on him that he was happy. Happy, for the first time in many years. The realization astonished him.

What did you do to yourself?

“Dylan?”

He closed his eyes and squeezed her. “Yes?”

“I know we’re both private people. But the thought occurred to me again today-I don’t even know where you live.”

He opened his eyes. Saw shadows moving on the walls, cast by the sputtering candles.

“I mean, isn’t that little strange?”

You knew it would come to this.

“I have an apartment in Bethesda. In a high-rise, right off Wisconsin Avenue. Just a couple of blocks from the Metro.”

She remained quiet.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I think you’ll like it. Why don’t we go there next weekend?”

She snuggled against him, the satin sheets whispering with her movements. “That sounds nice.” He heard the smile in her voice.

Trust.

Hers and mine.

He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes again.

Cannon House Office Building Washington, D.C.

Friday, October 3, 11:08 a.m.

Kenneth MacLean did not often have a case of nerves. But he did now as he waited in the marble rotunda of the Cannon Office Building, watching the House Majority Whip conclude a live television interview.

For his part, Congressman Morrie Horowitz seemed relaxed and comfortable under the camera lights, standing against the impressive, familiar backdrop of soaring white Corinthian columns. He toyed playfully with a well-known Capitol Hill correspondent for CNN, like a genial, horse-faced grandfather handling a naughty child. But MacLean knew that the affable appearance was an illusion. You don’t get to be a party Whip if you don’t enjoy hardball politics.

Echoing noise from a small group of visitors made the interview unintelligible at this distance. MacLean took the opportunity to lean over the second-floor balustrade and admire the vaulted dome, where natural light poured through the central glazed oculus. It reminded him of the one in the Pantheon in Rome, which he had toured during a vacation visit to the Vatican a few years before.

He noticed that the reporter had turned to the camera and was making what looked like concluding remarks. When he finished, a scruffy young man standing beside the camera made a knife motion across his throat. Horowitz’s young aide, George, who had been leaning against a column, approached his boss and pointed in his direction. Before MacLean could even move, the politician was headed his way, led by a toothy grin that beamed as bright as the television lights.