Chase nodded and slipped on her glove again.
"FBI Special Agent Chase Adams," she said, extending her hand.
The man nodded.
"Yeah, I know you are," he said.
Chase tried to read the man’s tone but gave up after just a few seconds.
No, you don’t, she thought, a grin forming on her lips. How could you know who I am, when I don’t even have a clue anymore?
"And who the hell are you?"
The response caught the man off-guard and he nervously adjusted his spectacles before holding shaking her hand.
"Peter Horrowitz, ATF."
Chapter 21
"All right, Peter Horrowitz, ATF, where did the shots come from? Hmm?” Chase asked, looking around dramatically. The street looked like any other American metropolis, complete with shops, high-rises, and office buildings. The only thing substantially different was the White House looming in the distance.
Peter surprised her by not even hesitating before replying.
"Although I need to wait on confirmation of the specific round type, based on what I think they are and what gun I think was used, it’s possible that the shots were fired from over a mile away. But, judging by how crowded the street was, and all of the buildings in the area affecting the air currents, I’m thinking that without a spotter, the max distance was about five-hundred meters.” Peter glanced around quickly, and then pointed at a trio of identical high-rise buildings, a couple of blocks to the East. “There. I’m betting the shots came from one of those buildings.”
Chase’s eyes bounced from Peter to the senator, to the high-rises.
"Not enough information to take that bet," she muttered under her breath. When she was playing poker, Chase usually compiled hours of data on the other players before trusting her reads on them.
"I guess. Good thing I don't gamble."
"Tell me something, Peter," Chase continued. "What was he holding? What are all these papers all about?”
Peter adjusted his glasses, then shrugged.
"I dunno. All I know is that outside of the military, the M24 rifle with Lapua Rounds is not easy to acquire. Not possible, of course, but—"
Stitts and SO Pratt suddenly appeared behind the man. Both dwarfed his small stature.
"That's classified," SO Pratt said.
Chase made a face.
"What? Was it the secret recipe to the president's favorite blueberry pie? Or maybe the nuclear launch codes?"
When not even Stitts smiled at the comment, Chase shook her head.
"Wait. You're serious? We’re all on the same side here, fellas."
"Classified,” SO Pratt repeated.
Chase glanced to Stitts who looked like he’d either just had an aneurysm or he’d crapped his pants.
Maybe both.
And this is why he hates these interdisciplinary cases, she thought.
"Blueberry pie it is then. Well, I assume that you've taken dozens of pictures of the area and collected all the footage from local establishments. Far be it for me, a wee woman, to release the scene, but I’ve seen all I need to. You said you have a mobile command center set up? Is it one of those boys only clubs or can I cover my hair and enter? Take a look at the footage?"
SO Pratt’s eyes bulged, but he somehow managed to keep a straight face.
Peter Horrowitz, on the other hand, was practically in stitches.
Pratt cleared his throat.
"We set up a temporary trailer, just over there. Should have everything you need.
Chase nodded.
"Gee, thanks. Now, if you need to work out some extra testosterone, why don’t you get Captain ATF to jerk you off over there, just out of sight for the cameras. I’ve got work to do.”
This time SO Pratt did a much poorer job of keeping a straight face.
***
"Jesus," Stitts muttered under his breath. Then he offered Pratt and Horrowitz a tired smile. “Don’t mind her. It was a long drive.”
Before they could reply, he turned and hurried after Chase, who moved through the crowd with ease. She managed to sidestep all the officers, and then pass through a crowd of people holding cell phones, all trying to capture their own morbid souvenir, without being harassed.
Although he rarely agreed with Chase’s methods, he could see why she felt the way to act the way she did. No one gave her any respect. Stitts, on the other hand, didn’t make it more than ten feet before a state trooper asked for ID. Annoyed, he flashed his badge and continued onward. He was stopped again after just a few steps, and this time, while he was explaining to the rookie cop that he was FBI, Chase’s brown head of hair disappeared in the crowd.
"Chase!" he shouted. The office was still scrutinizing his badge when Stitts wrenched it out of his hands. “Special Agent Jeremy Stitts, FBI."
His frustration had come to a head, and he’d said the words loud enough for onlookers to hear. Almost immediately, he became the focus of their Instagram Stories or Facebook Live videos.
He scowled.
"Thanks a lot,” he grumbled, stepping by the officer. He pressed himself onto his toes, trying to spot Chase in the crowd.
It was only then that he realized she’d been heading the opposite direction that SO Pratt had said they’d set up the mobile command center.
Chapter 22
She was just three blocks away from the crime scene, but it felt as if Chase Adams had traversed the country. Senator Tom DeBrusk had been murdered not a mile away, and yet nobody seemed to care. And it wasn’t as if they hadn’t heard about it; she had literally passed a half-dozen people who were watching news updates about the crime on her phone.
The ants were so busy bringing sustenance to the Queen that they couldn't even be bothered to take a moment to consider what had happened. A US Senator was about to get his caffeine fix when two sniper rounds had ended his life. She wondered if Tom DeBrusk realized that he had been shot, or if he’d just died thinking about his one cream, two sugars.
Chase forced her way through the throngs of people heading to—or home from—work, and then took up residence at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the three towers that Peter Horrowitz had indicated.
She searched for obvious signs first—open or broken windows, casings on the ground—but there were none. It was an office building, not a frat house in the heart of New Orleans during Mardi Gras.
Her eyes drifted to the rooftops above, but they were so high up, and the reflection off the glass was so bright, that she had a hard time seeing anything.
She suspected that the shooter would have had the same problem.
Blinking the tears away, she turned her attention to those around her. As before, they seemed oblivious to anything around them, weaving at the last moment to avoid Chase, who was the only person standing still.
Forget seeing through the eyes of the dead; that is an advanced subconscious if I’ve ever seen one.
There was no indication that anyone had heard anything, but Chase wasn’t entirely sure how loud the sniper rifle would be down at street level.
If I were a betting man, I’d say that the likelihood of them hearing anything would be minimal, she thought in Peter Horrowitz’s voice.
With a frustrated sigh, Chase walked over to a bench by the side of the road. A man in rags occupied one corner. His chin was tucked into his chest and he was breathing heavily. Clutched between fingers that jutted from holes in a pair of worn gloves was a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup. TIPS was written on the side of it, but the cup was empty.
Either people weren’t feeling particularly generous today, or some asshole stole his money.
As Chase pulled off her glove and reached into her pocket for loose change, she was struck by how similar the homeless man looked to the dead senator just a handful of blocks over.
The great equalizer, she thought again. It took her a moment to realize that these words weren’t her own.
They were her father’s.
"I miss you, dad,"
she said suddenly.
It was a colloquial and clichéd thing to say and it wasn’t true. If her dad hadn’t died, would she be thinking about him? Planning a visit? Calling to see how his day went?
And yet, even though the rational part of her brain registered this fact, it did nothing to take the sting away.
She might not be thinking about him, but there was comfort in the fact that if she had, however unlikely the case, Chase could have called him up.
But not anymore.
A shudder coursed through her, and Chase immediately enacted some of the techniques that Dr. Matteo had taught her to deal with her emotions when things were getting out of control.
In the moment; remain in the moment, Chase.
To distract herself, Chase reached out and dropped a few coins in the man's cup. The cup immediately started to lean and, without, thinking she reached for the man’s hand in order to right it.
The second her fingers brushed against the man’s filthy fingers, her vision started to go dark.
Chapter 23
"We've got the body going back to CSU and as soon as they release it, ATF will get a chance to take a look. Shouldn’t be long before we know for certain what type of rounds were fired,” SO Pratt said as he held the door to the mobile command center open.
Stitts nodded and stepped inside. Then he stopped.
“These guys don’t fuck around,” he said under his breath.
The trailer looked like it was torn from a scene of Minority Report. There were nearly a dozen men inside, most of whom were huddled over some sort of computer or another electronic device. In the center was a small table, which was littered with photographs. The command center had the dimensions of an oversized RV, but Stitts figured that it drained as much power as a small city.
"Everybody," Pratt said in his booming voice. Eyes turned to face them, and headphones were pulled off in a strangely synchronized manner. "This is FBI agent…"
It took Stitts a moment to realize that the man had forgotten his name and was waiting for them to introduce himself.
"Jeremy Stitts," he said. Everyone in the room nodded but offered nothing in terms of an introduction, which suited Stitts just fine. The less he knew about these people, the less he had to be in conflict with.
"Agent Stitts’s partner will also be working closely with use but has gone… gone to look for evidence.” Pratt turned to Peter next. “And you all know Peter from ATF. He’ll let us know as soon as any more information about the bullets or gun used in the assassination."
“Yep,” Peter said. It took him a moment to realize that Pratt and his colleagues were actually waiting for him to leave. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, making his way back out onto the street.
When the door shut behind him, Pratt indicated a burly black man with small eyes who sat at the nearest computer terminal.
"This is agent McKay. He's running the search of the Senator’s home. He’ll also be coordinating the interviews with the family, unless of course…”
“No, that’s fine,” Stitts said quickly. He hated breaking the bad news to family members. Pratt must have seen this expression before because he quickly chimed in.
“News outlets are already all over this. Haven’t even gotten a chance to inform the man’s wife, yet.”
Stitts’s frown deepened.
At least we have that in common, he thought. A dislike for the press.
As if to prove his point, Pratt gestured to one of the larger monitors affixed to the wall.
“Turn that up, would you?”
On-screen, was what Stitts would consider that typical talking head: a man with steely eyes and over-tanned skin, his bald head showing nary a reflection from the harsh studio lighting.
"It is with great sadness that we have confirmed that Senator Tom DeBrusk was assassinated this morning," the man said in a flat tone. "The Senator was gunned down in broad daylight not far from Capitol Hill. If the name sounds familiar to you, it’s because he was the one who was pushing Bill S-89, the controversial bill, which, in layman’s terms, basically eliminated the opportunity for business to run efficiently. Senator DeBrusk wanted to put tariffs on—"
The man onscreen paused and put a finger to his ear.
“This guy is the worst,” Pratt mumbled. “Will Woodley is a parasite.”
Stitts was looking over at the SO when the talking head started up again.
"I just received word that the President will be speaking about this terrible incident sometime in the next ten minutes. We will be there, live, as soon as that happens. In the meantime…"
“What?” Stitts asked, eyes going wide. The command center was fully abuzz with activity now, as all of the men were looking at each for information.
"Anybody here about this?” Pratt barked. “Jesus Christ, who’s on comms? Why the hell weren’t we informed that the President is about to speak?"
All he got in response were shrugs and open palms.
"Fuck," Pratt grumbled, a hateful glare aimed at the talking head. "How this ass clown gets his information before we do, the goddamn Secret Service is—"
A phone started to ring from somewhere within the command center, and Pratt swept a bunch of computer equipment aside until he found it.
Stitts watched the man say a half-dozen uh-huhs and yes sirs before hanging up the phone.
"That’s it; that was the call. We need to mobilize; the President is set to speak within the hour."
Everything was happening so fast that Stitts was having a hard time keeping up.
"You think that's a good idea? According to ATF, the President was shot from five-hundred meters away or more."
Pratt pressed his lips together.
"Do I think it’s a good idea? Hell no. But you try and tell the man what to do.” And then, to the group, he said, "Well? What are you guys waiting for? Let’s make sure the President doesn’t get his ass shot and start a goddamn civil war."
Chapter 24
A bottle. When her field of vision finally started to clear, that was the first thing that Chase saw. A bottle of bourbon resting on a worn wooden table.
A young hand reached for this bottle and gripped the sides tightly. It was nearly full and when the hand raised it, she saw a reflection in the glass.
The face that stared back was young, but the dark circles beneath his eyes suggested that already this man had fallen on hard times. There was a slight hesitation and then he brought the bottle to his lips.
When then hand placed the bottle back on the table, a third of the golden liquid was gone.
The hand that reached for the bottle this time was slightly older, slightly more wrinkled. It was still undeniably a young man’s hand, but there were noticeable nicotine stains between the first and second fingers this time. As before, he picked up the bottle and held it in front of his face for a moment before drinking.
His hair had started to pull back from a forehead that had deep lines running its length. It was the same blue eyes buried in those dark circles, only now they seemed to darker, more intractable.
The bottle was only half full, now, and the man was older still. His once flawless skin was covered in pockmarks, most of which were scattered across his nose, which had become bulbous. The hand that gripped the glass trembled slightly, causing the liquid inside to slosh back and forth.
When the bottle was nearly empty, the hand that held it was shaking so violently that it was a wonder it didn’t fall to the floor. And then it did fall, it slipped between filthy fingers and crashed to the table.
Only it was no longer a bottle, but a worn Styrofoam cup with the word ‘TIPS’ written on the side.
***
Chase gasped and pulled her hand away from the man on the bench. She stumbled backwards, bumping into a man in a suit who promptly told her to watch where she was going.
She ignored him.
The man on the bench stirred when someone righted his cup and dropped a quarter in it. When someone nearly tri
pped over his foot, he opened her eyes.
And then, as if drawn by some sort of strange magnetism, the homeless man locked Chase in his gaze.
It was the man whose reflection she’d seen in the bottle, but Chase had known this already.
Dirty Money (A Chase Adams FBI Thriller Book 5) Page 7