Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

Erskine was studying the exposed wiring around the elevator buttons. “I’m with Ed on this. We’ve already established they have a pile of money, multiple vehicles, a bunch of guns, plus people experienced in planning, logistics, surveillance, and conducting hits. Who else except cops would know all that stuff?”

Abrams shrugged. “People in government. Military, ex-military. Former SWAT or Navy SEALs or something.”

“So what’s their motive?” Cronin asked.

They looked at each other blankly.

Abrams turned to stare at the corpse. He sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. We still got jack shit.”

Bethesda, Maryland

Sunday, November 16, 9:35 a.m.

She drifted awake, wondering if she had been dreaming or if something had touched her bare shoulder. She kept her eyes closed and pulled the comforter higher around her.

Seconds later, a light tap on her cheek.

She opened an eye. Luna was a foot away from her face, paw extended.

“No,” she groaned.

She felt Dylan stir somewhere behind her.

“We don’t use that word here. Remember?”

“Not you. Your cat.”

“Luna, let the lady sleep.”

“Mrrrroww.”

“Get your paw away from my face!”

“She’s probably out of food. I’ll take care of it.”

She felt the bed quiver as he got up. Heard the thump of the departing cat hitting the floor. Felt herself drift off again…

*

She awoke some vague time later to the smell of coffee. After stopping in the bathroom, she padded out in her bathrobe and bare feet.

Dylan was also in his bathrobe, reading the Sunday paper at the dining table. He looked up at her and smiled.

“Hi, you.”

“Hi, you,” she answered. “Thanks for letting me sleep. At least this morning. ”

He chuckled, raised his mug. “Made another pot. You have first dibs.”

“Great.” She went into the kitchen, poured a cup, fetched a container of yogurt from the fridge, then joined him at the table.

“So where’s Luna?”

“Curled up on my office chair.”

“Ah. What’s in the news today?”

He gave her that crooked grin she loved. “Only the greatest piece of writing in the history of investigative journalism.”

“Oh Dylan! You didn’t tell me! Another big crime expose?”

“See for yourself.” He slid the editorial section over to her, then got up with his empty mug and headed for the kitchen.

She spun it around, saw the headline spread across the front page of the section.

Felt her smile fade and blood drain from her face.

MACLEAN FAMILY FOUNDATION: THE CRIMINAL’S BEST FRIEND

News and Commentary by Dylan Lee Hunter

It is a tax-exempt charity, controlling over a billion dollars in assets. Every day, without fanfare, it serves and defends a clientele that it characterizes as “society’s stigmatized victims.” But its furtive, publicity-shy ways are completely understandable. After all, it is responsible for some of the most heinous crimes of the past decade. Let me introduce you to the MacLean Family Foundation: the nation’s most influential champion of murderers, rapists, and assorted predators. It’s the source of endless studies that excuse criminal behavior, and of countless policies that turn loose convicted criminals to prey on others. It’s the pillar that supports what I’ll call “the Excuse-Making Industry.”

She stopped reading. Her eyes drifted to the middle of the page.

To the large photo of her father.

She felt disembodied, unreal.

She was staring at the handsome, smiling face-her father.

Steps away, whistling in the kitchen, was his enemy-her lover.

Well, what did you expect? You knew it had to come to this.

“Wonk? You up?” He was on his cell with somebody. “Good, you already saw it, then… Well, thanks. But you outdid yourself, too. Can’t thank you enough for all the research.” He paused, then laughed. “For sure. We’ve turned over a rock, my friend. Now all the roaches will be scurrying around, looking for cover… Oh yes. The fireworks this time will be incredible…”

She closed her eyes.

“…No, not today. I expect they’ll issue some response tomorrow, though. They’ll have to. And thanks to you, I’m ready for it. You’ll get a bonus for this one, Wonk. I’m doubling your usual rate…Absolutely, I’m serious. The check will go out tomorrow… No, you deserve it… You, too. Now go enjoy your afternoon.”

She felt as if the walls in the apartment were shrinking, threatening to crush her.

You’ve been living a lie.

How could you do this to him?

And how could you do this to your own father?

“What’s wrong?”

She realized she was shaking. With a great effort, she forced herself to raise her head, meet his eyes. He stood near, staring at her, his eyes wide with alarm.

She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. She needed time to think.

“I don’t feel very well.”

“I can see that. You’re all white! I should call a doctor.”

“No, no! It’s not that bad. I just… It must be all the Mexican we ate last night. My stomach isn’t right and I just had a dizzy spell… Maybe I should lie down a bit.”

He took her arm as she got up and he led her back into the bedroom. He helped her under the covers, pulled them up around her.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Really, Dylan. Just let me be for a bit.”

“All right.” He bent and kissed her cheek. Then went to the window and drew the heavy curtains closed.

Each act of tenderness made her feel more guilty. She blinked back tears as he turned to leave.

“Dylan.”

“Yes?”

She had to say it. Now. Whatever happened later, he had to hear it.

“I love you… I want you to know that. I really do love you.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Then he approached the bed. Leaned down, took her face in his big, strong hands. His eyes, usually so intense, were soft now.

“And I love you, Annie Woods. I really do love you.”

It was the first time they had said it.

He kissed her, gently.

Then he straightened, smiled down at her, and left, closing the door softly.

She turned into the pillow to muffle her sobs.

*

After about an hour, she left the bed and went into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror.

You fraud.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. It would be obvious she’d been crying.

First, a shower.

Then she had to make an excuse and get out of here. Get away for awhile. Think.

She had deceived him. And he would hate her for it.

She ran the water as cold as she could stand. Stepped in and stood there, taking it.

You fraud.

Alexandria, Virginia

Monday, November 17, 9:45 a.m.

“You look like you just ate a crap sandwich,” Erskine said.

From behind his desk, Erskine stared up at him over his half-moon glasses.

“Just did,” Cronin said. He tilted his head toward the chief’s glassed-in office.

“Let’s have it.”

Cronin flopped into Erskine’s visitor chair. Around them, the other desks were half-occupied by uniforms and investigators working leads and catching up on weekend paperwork. As usual, they had to talk over a steady din of chatter, chirping phones, and questions shouted and answered across the room.

“Read the latest Hunter article in the Inquirer yesterday?”

“Naw, I’m illiterate, Ed. Of course I did. He really laid it out, didn’t he?”

“Too well. He’s been pissing people off for weeks. People with clout. Judges, prosecutors, attorneys, prison officials. Now this MacLean guy, who’s politically connected and has boatloads of money. Going after him seems to have been the last straw. Chief got a call last night, he wouldn’t say who. He told me the Powers That Be want us to lean on Hunter and get him to shut up.”