Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

Fitzgerald's mask of professional decorum cracked at the mention of the secretary. His lips went into a thin hard line and he stared at Nick and then at Canfield.

"But he called you his spotter. Which dovetails into the list, our list, of those convicts you've personally written about that are now dead," Hargrave jumped in. "So if he's working off a list he made up from your bylines, who else is there? Who else have you done a piece on who was a blatant asshole like these other guys who he figures deserves to die?"

Nick had been running the same question through his head. He couldn't remember every one of the victims he wrote about. He used to be able to recall their faces, before his own family took their places.

"I've done dozens of stories like that," he said. "I'd have to go through them all."

"So go through them all," Fitzgerald said.

"Hey, it's not like you just put my byline and the word asshole in the search field," Nick said, getting irritated by someone telling him what to do again.

"OK, Nick," Hargrave said. "Just do a search with your byline and the word killed or raped or abused, something you know would be in the real bad ones. We could start there."

"Start with the ones that have ranked politicians or their cabinet members in them," Fitzgerald said and all eyes turned to him and Nick let the order go this time. "The Secret Service is here for a reason, which you all now appear to know," he said, again cutting his eyes toward Canfield. "Intelligence has indicated a sniper on the wing in this country, gentlemen, and it's not a threat that we think is idle. We have credible reason to believe the gunman we're looking for is somewhere in Florida and with the political climate as it is, we're not turning away from any leads, no matter how thin. The fact that you have possibly identified a suspect who has a military background and was recently in Iraq raises that profile."

The room went quiet, with each man running the possibilities through his own head.

"I'm doing my job, gentlemen," Fitzgerald said before anyone else could speak. "We have been tracking this for over a year now. Does that not coincide with your Mr. Redman's return to this country from a position in Iraq where he could have easily come in contact with people who are a danger to the command decision makers within our government?"

Nick was weighing the possibilities: Redman targeting the Secretary of State? Redman killing someone for Nick that might be considered a favor? The two possibilities had no tie-ins. But Fitzgerald had the floor. Don't fuck with him now, Nick thought.

"Our information is that this man, this threat, is a trained sniper. Does that not coincide with the skills of this Redman? The Secretary of State is scheduled to speak at a conference being held not eight miles away from where we are and within a ten-mile radius of the three killings you are now investigating yourselves. You might think I'm paranoid, but it is my job to be paranoid, gentlemen. And if your Mr. Redman is a threat, then he is on my screen and I expect any information you turn up to be immediately forwarded to me as a matter of national security. Clear? Gentlemen."

Fitzgerald's little speech was directed at everyone in the room, but the last part was specifically aimed at Canfield, who was the ranking officer. Nick was just a civilian. He didn't have to respond, so he stayed quiet.

"Yeah. Clear, Mr. Fitzgerald. Whatever we've got, you'll have," Canfield finally said.

Fitzgerald came this close to saluting before he left the room, Nick thought, and when the door closed, Canfield looked at his shoe tops for a beat and then took control.

"OK, Detective," he said to Hargrave. "If you will work with Mr. Mullins here and see if you can come up with a viable 'final target' for our sniper based on their conversation, I'll get in touch with all the SWAT team guys who were around when Redman was here, see if they've heard from him. We can also pull his file and try to make contact with a family member. I know the guy wasn't married, he was all about the job, but his parents or a sibling might still be around.

"And like the man said, everything comes through me first," the lieutenant said, winking at Hargrave. "Then I decide what gets passed on for national security reasons."

Hargrave got up and Nick followed him. Cameron slipped out the door first, not even waiting to ask if anything that had been said in the room was to be distributed to any other member of the media.

Out in the hallway he said, "I'll just assume that all of that was off the record."

Nick just looked at him, and Hargrave said, "Jesus, I would hope so."

Nick followed Hargrave down to the detective bureau and as they were about to pass through a door, the receptionist stopped them.

"Detective, you're going to have to sign this visitor in," she said.

Hargrave stopped just as he was about to put his badge holder against the electronic lock scanner.

"Yeah, sorry, Mary. It's Mike Lowell, he's a CI."

The woman didn't move.

"A confidential informant," Hargrave said, raising his eyebrows.

"He's still going to have to sign in on his own," she said, pushing the clipboard across the shelf that separated them.

Nick caught Hargrave's eye and then stepped over and signed the name Mike Lowell as his own. The woman thanked him and buzzed them both through.

Hargrave again led on, forcing Nick to catch up.

"The Marlins' third baseman? That's the best you could do in a pinch?" Nick said.

Hargrave did not turn around, but Nick again saw that twitch appear in the corner of his mouth that must pass as the thin man's only smile in life. They walked past three rows of office pods that looked way too much like those in Nick's newsroom and then through a door against the wall that led into Hargrave's office.

The room was half the size of Canfield's and it held two desks. Hargrave took his black suit coat off and hung it on a coat tree. The guy's white shirt was crisp. Not a sign of sweat stain, like he'd just gone down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. He sat down in the desk chair to the left, so Nick took the one on the right.

"Make yourself comfortable. Meyers is on vacation until the eighteenth," Hargrave said over his shoulder.

While he tapped into the computer in front of him, Nick took out his cell phone. He'd turned it off before going into Canfield's office and when he powered it back up the screen showed that there were four new messages. He looked at his watch. The daily budget meeting was coming up, when all the assistant editors met with Deirdre to pitch the day's stories. It had to be driving them crazy not to have heard from him. Never mind the fact that he had blown her off earlier in the day. He dialed into the research library instead and asked for Lori.

"Lori Simons," she said after Nick was transferred.

"Hey, Lori, it's Nick. You know that search I asked you to do that matched up my bylines with that list?"

"Jesus, Nick," she said and her voice went low and conspiratorial. "Where are you? I mean, the rumors are flying over here that you're big-time in the shit."

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose I am."

"No, really. Hirschman was over here and said Deirdre was bouncing off the walls."

"Yeah, that wouldn't surprise me, Lori," he said. "But she hasn't fired me yet and I need another search if you can, please?"

"Sure, Nick. I was just worried about you."

Her voice sounded sincere. It always had. Nick just hadn't been paying attention to his allies, especially Lori.

"Thanks, Lori. Really, I'm OK. But this story is really starting to roll up on me and I think I've stuck myself into it so deep now, I'm going to have to finish it."

"And finish it your way. Even if you get fired."