Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“That’s great, Mr. MacLean,” Hunter said. “Because if Congress passes your early-release bill, there will be thousands more crime victims. And they will need every penny of that aid.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Monday, November 17, 2:35 p.m.

“And they will need every penny of that aid.”

She felt the impact of his words like an electric shock, transmitted to her right through the TV screen by the stunned look on her father’s face. She watched in helpless, unblinking anguish, witnessing his dreams, his ideals, his soul being crushed.

Crushed ruthlessly by the man she loved.

Dylan-stop! Please stop!

She had slipped away from her office to this small conference room to watch the live broadcast of the news conference, which was being carried by a national cable news channel. She had hoped that her father could somehow reclaim the personal reputation that Dylan’s article had so badly damaged. And for a while the whole event went smoothly-until she was startled by the familiar voice, strong and deep:

“…because individual crime victims are expendable.”

She gasped at the words, disbelieving. Then stared at the screen as the camera swung to him.

She saw the familiar tangle of thick, dark curls, the hollow cheeks, the proud thrust of his chin. Saw the fearless flash in those eyes, the mocking twist of those lips. Then the camera pulled back to reveal his body, lean and relaxed, the body she knew so well, now moving forward slowly, deliberately toward her father, like a prowling panther stalking its prey.

She had jumped to her feet and approached the screen. She hung onto every word of their exchanges, terrified to see what would happen, unable to tear her eyes away as the horror unfolded.

Now there was a commotion. Reporters stood and shouted over each other, directing questions at the three of them. Frankfurt was yelling something at Dylan; her father, his face blank, stood mute and unmoving behind the podium.

Then Dylan turned toward the reporters approaching him and made a dismissive motion, brushing off their questions. “I’ve given you plenty to chew on.”

He walked swiftly back in the direction of the camera, his image growing larger until his face nearly filled the screen before swerving past. The camera swung back toward the front of the room, zooming in on her father, who was now gathering his notes and refusing further questions. Then it spun toward Frankfurt, who had stopped halfway down the aisle, where he was surrounded by reporters. He was gesturing wildly and saying things that she couldn’t make out in the din.

The TV network’s reporter moved into the frame, holding a microphone. “A stunning turn of events here at the National Press Club as Dylan Hunter-the Inquirer reporter at the center of the firestorm of controversy about the criminal justice system and the D.C. vigilantes-crashes the MacLean news conference and confronts him face to face. Let’s take a moment just to recap what we’ve just witnessed…”

She pressed the remote button, extinguishing the program.

She knew what she had just witnessed.

Washington, D.C.

Monday, November 17, 4:02 p.m.

The phone chirped, and Danika glanced down at the console. Saw that the incoming call was for Dylan Hunter’s line.

“Mr. Hunter’s answering service. May I help you?”

“Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Cronin of the Alexandria Police.”

She recalled the sexy cop with the bright blue eyes and smiled to herself. “I remember you, Detective. How may I help you?”

“It’s Danika, right?”

She felt a little twinge of pleasure. “Why, yes, sir.”

“Well, Danika, I was hoping to catch Mr. Hunter, if he’s in.”

“No sir, I’m afraid he’s not. He’s rarely here, as you probably know. He usually calls in for his messages once a day, and he did that just a few minutes ago. I’m afraid I don’t have a way to reach him, probably until tomorrow.”

“I see. That’s too bad. This is pretty time-sensitive.”

“I’m really sorry. I can take your message and-” The thought struck her. “Oh! I just remembered. He gave me a number. His girlfriend’s, actually. He said he might be reachable through her.”

“He has a girlfriend then?”

“Oh yes,” she said, chuckling. “They just met, not too long ago. She’s a real beauty, too.”

He was silent a moment. “Tell you what, Danika. I’d really appreciate it if you would share the number with me. It’s pretty urgent.”

She hesitated, feeling torn. The procedure was for her to reach him herself, not to let out his contact information. Still…he was a police officer, after all, and they seemed to get along really well when she’d seen them together. And Dylan was wo rking on crime stories…

“Danika?”

“I’m sorry, Detective Cronin. I was just thinking how I should handle this. You’re both working on some of the same crime cases, I guess?”

“Why yes. You could say that.”

“Well…I guess it would be all right, then.” She looked up and read off Annie’s number to him.

“Thanks so much, Danika. I really appreciate this.”

“Well, you’re welcome. I hope you can reach him through her, maybe after she gets off work this evening… He’s really gotten into this crime stuff lately, hasn’t he?”

“Up to his ears, Danika.”

Tysons Corner, Virginia

Monday, November 17, 4:55 p.m.

The Galleria at Tysons Corner was a familiar haunt for CIA employees. Because the mall was so close to headquarters, many people who worked for the Agency and lived nearby shopped here. Occasionally, young CSTs-Clandestine Service Trainees-were turned loose on the premises to practice surveillance detection and dead drops with concealment devices, or to arrange “clandestine” meetings at one of the restaurants with trainers posing as “foreign assets.”

Now, here she was, having a clandestine meeting with a cop to discuss her lover.

Ironic.

She sat at a small dining table near the Starbuck’s kiosk on the ground floor of the upscale mall, sipping a hot latte as she waited. She’d received the detective’s call on her private cell at work, while she was still reeling from the televised debacle. The guy, Cronin, explained how he’d gotten her number, then was cryptic but insistent about needing to talk to her about Dylan. Which worried her. She suggested this place because of its proximity to the “insurance company” where she worked.

She checked her watch, then pulled out her cell and tried her father’s number again. It still routed her to his voice mail.

“Dad, me again. Sorry to keep calling, but I’m worried about you. I know how hard it was for you today. I just want you to know I love you and I’m here for you. I’d like to come by and see you tonight, if you’re home. So please call me back when you hear this.”

She closed her phone. Then waited.

The cop showed up just a minute after five, dressed as he had described: gray coat over gray sports jacket and slacks. She stood as he approached.

“Ms. Woods? Ed Cronin, Alexandria P.D.” Lean-faced. Intense blue eyes. Definitely good-looking.

“How do you do, Detective,” she said, extending her hand.

He took it and smiled. “Please, sit. I realize you have things to do, so I won’t be long.”

“Thank you. I’ve had a difficult day. I hope what you’re going to discuss with me isn’t about to make it more so.”

“I hope not, either. It’s in connection with a case I’m working on. Today I stumbled across something puzzling concerning your”-he paused-“concerning Dylan Hunter. I understand that you two are close, so perhaps you might help clear it up for me.”