Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Latina, black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones.

“Carolina Uribe,” Rogers said, “a librarian, also double-tapped — our third victim. Died early November.”

“Jesus,” Reeder whispered.

Photo six.

Middle-aged white man with a receding hairline and an ugly cardigan.

“William Robertson,” Rogers said. “Supervisor in the shop at Dunnelin Machine. Victim number four.”

“A series of serial-killing victims,” Woods said, quietly astonished, “on a SIM card Bryson hid away?”

“Maybe,” Rogers said, “maybe not. The similarity of method got these killings onto our radar. We’ve been looking at them as a possible serial, yes. But the MO is execution style.”

“ Contract killer style,” Reeder said. “And somehow, Chris got on a similar track. What do we think the building and the black cube might have to do with it?”

“No idea,” Rogers said, shaking her head, shrugging.

They now all knew more, yet felt like they knew less.

Photo seven.

Blond man in his thirties, walking down a street. Shot from some distance.

Reeder and Woods turned to Rogers, but she said, “Not one of ours. Not yet anyway.”

“Maybe this is Sink,” Reeder said.

Woods frowned and almost snapped, “You said that before — who the hell is Sink?”

Reeder arched an eyebrow at him. “When you talked to Beth Bryson, she never mentioned Sink?”

Woods shrugged. “I don’t remember that coming up...” Then the young detective’s eyes tensed. “Wait. Damn. I do remember. She said her husband told her he shouldn’t have looked into ‘sink.’ You think it’s a name, Mr. Reeder?” He nodded to the tablet. “You think that’s him?”

“You got me,” Reeder admitted. “Could be anybody. Might be the guy I wrestled with tonight, back at Bryson’s office. In the dark.”

“Or,” Rogers said, “could be the next victim.”

A waitress came over with coffee. “Refills anyone? Anybody work up an appetite yet?”

The morning was cold and dreary and overcast, which seemed about right to Evan Carpenter, the way his week was going.

In parka, jeans, and work boots, his close-clipped blond hair under a shaggy black wig, blue eyes concealed by sunglasses, Carpenter walked along at an easy pace. He passed a few other strip mall shoppers pausing for a momentary gawk at the crime-scene-taped-off Bryson Security storefront. Cops and CSIs long gone now.

Finally, a break. Otherwise, you could have this goddamn born-under-a-bad-sign week, as far as he was concerned. From the moment Carpenter and his boys figured Bryson was onto them, the son of a bitch seemed to know he was blown, and blew. At least the bastard had been easy enough to track down, easier still to deal with. Tough guy in his time, but his time was up.

Carpenter alone had been dispatched to deal with the wife — first, to see what she knew and if she had anything of her late husband’s that might lead back to his employers. Then the grieving widow would become a second tragic suicide.

Only the wife had company. Her son was with her, though that might be expected; wait for sonny to head home, and then Carpenter would call on mom. But the son wasn’t the visitor that concerned him — it was the guy he’d seen being let into the house, who belonged to the candy-ass Prius in the drive.

The mercenary made a call, ran the plate, and goddamnit! The guy paying a visit wasn’t just anybody, but Joe fucking Reeder himself.

Reeder, the ex — Secret Service guy who was a national hero these days. Just one man, yes, but a guy who could handle himself, despite the years he had on him, and whose death would ring bells all the way to the White House.

So his visit to the mourning family would have to be postponed.

In the meantime, he’d gone on to Bryson Security, figuring to come back later, after Reeder had gone, and tie up the loose ends that were the dead man’s family.

At the security office, his key would work in either front or rear door; but with the strip mall so after-hours dead — his rental Nissan the only car in the small lot — he said what the hell, and went in the front.

If picking the lock had been necessary, he’d have gone in the back way; dressed all in black as he was, people driving or walking by just might get suspicious, seeing some ninja-wannabe asshole hunkered over a lock — even if only for the thirty seconds or so picking the thing would take.

He knew of no other key to the office, other than the one on Bryson’s key ring, which would likely be in police custody. The key Carpenter used was courtesy of laser etchings one of his guys had made while their target dangled and died from that industrial-strength shower rod.

They’d taken the dead prick’s laptop but the crew’s computer guy hadn’t come up with a goddamn thing. So last night, the mercenary meant to check that office and see if Bryson had left behind anything that could incriminate their employers.

But just a couple of minutes after Carpenter got inside, barely starting his search, some asshole came in on him. Either he had a key or Carpenter had screwed up and not shut the door tight.

And not just any asshole, but Reeder , who for an old fart put up one hell of a fight, rough enough that Carpenter had cut out soon as he got the chance.

From a vantage point half a block away, the merc had watched the cops show up for a search, and then Reeder and some woman joined in. He’d kept watch a long time, even after the CSIs showed up, after which a plainclothes cop, Reeder, and the female had gone off together. He’d used binoculars and was pretty sure he didn’t see any evidence bags troop out of there into the crime lab van.

But he couldn’t be sure.

And if something, anything, had been taken out of there, he had no way to know it. A thorough search would likely be pointless now. That left only one alternative — cleanse the place. If something was still in there, make it be gone.

He would come back and do that when the joint wasn’t crawling with cops and CSIs.

At that point, he’d driven back to the Bryson residence, and shit! They were in the wind, Mommy and Baby Boy both, apparently having driven off in the dead dad’s BMW. Now the Brysons were more than loose ends: they were a likely threat. The wife and/or son must know something.

Otherwise, why run?

Now, as sunshine peeked past dreary clouds, Carpenter strolled around the far corner of the strip mall sidewalk, on Bryson’s end of the building, and circled around behind, in that not fast, not slow manner that said he belonged here.

He ambled into the alley, lighting up a cigarette, since an alley was one place in this damn restriction-happy country where a man could still catch a smoke. But catching a smoke wasn’t what he was doing: he wanted to have a reason for being back here, should somebody ask. Plan was to lean against the wall and puff away till he had the alley to himself.

But he already did.

So he went directly to the Bryson Security back door stenciled PRIVATE — NO ENTRY. He used the key and went in. Last night, he’d been lazy and sloppy, leaving that front door unlocked. This time he threw the deadbolt.

The door opened directly onto Bryson’s inner office. Carpenter briefly reconsidered searching the place, but then stuck to the plan. He removed the batteries from the smoke alarms in both inner and outer offices — the latter required caution and care, as the big window, tinted though it was, remained a hazard — then he disabled the sprinkler system.