Smalls tipped his head back, laughed, leaned close, muttered, “Get your hands off me, you murderous cunt.”
Grant was laughing with him, and they broke apart, both satisfied. Smalls got to call her a cunt to her face, and Grant had him as a witness to her being present at the tail end of the party, in a conversation neither one of them would forget.
Smalls was exactly what she’d wanted: the most credible witness imaginable.
29
Lucas and the others ran down the driveway and along the dark street and saw a man come out of a house across the street from what must’ve been Douglas’s house. The man saw them coming, shouted, “FBI,” and Lucas shouted back, “FBI, Moy team,” and the man turned away and ran up Douglas’s driveway, stopped, and shouted back, “I think I heard gunshots.”
“You did,” Lucas shouted, as he ran up the drive to the front door, with Rae now right behind him, with her M4, and Bob a few steps behind her. How long had they been running? Less than a hundred yards, but in the night and rain? Fifteen seconds? Longer?
Lucas snapped at Rae, “Cover me.”
She already had the rifle up, and Lucas went straight to the front door and began pounding on it. Nothing inside moved that they could hear, and the door, a heavy slab of walnut, didn’t even tremble in its frame. Lucas stepped back and kicked it as hard as he could. It shuddered but didn’t give.
Bob said, “Get out of the way. Get out of the way,” and the big man kicked the door, the door buckling with the impact. He kicked it again, and something splintered. A third kick knocked the door open enough that Lucas could follow the muzzle of his gun through. As he did it, the surveillance team’s SUVs began roaring into the driveway, their headlights flashing across the front of the house.
The first body was on the floor right in front of Lucas, and he shouted, “Man down.”
He kept his pistol up, felt Bob moving to his left, covering the hallway that led to the right wing of the house. Rae was moving to cover the hall to the left wing, and Lucas squatted by the body. “Parrish,” he said. Parrish was clearly dead, one eye open, one closed, two bullet wounds right in the middle of his forehead, another hand-sized blotch of blood on his back. In a half crouch, Lucas went on, glanced back, saw an FBI agent with a helmet and night vision goggles coming up behind him, a pistol in his hand.
“Don’t shoot me,” Lucas said, and the fed grunted once.
Up ahead, two more bodies were sprawled on the floor. Lucas called, “Two more down.” He quickly checked them: Claxson and an older man, who must be Charles Douglas, both shot at least three times, both dead.
Lucas said, “Goddamnit.”
Rae stepped beside him, and said, “Suzie? Carol? Wendy?”
“I dunno. Probably.”
Chase came up, staring, openmouthed, at the bodies. “My God . . .”
Lucas said to Rae, “Listen, let’s clear the house. You and Bob take the wings, I’ll go that way.” He gestured toward the back of the house. “But I think she’s running.”
And to Chase Lucas said, “Jane, I think she’s running, I think she’s in the woods. We need a lot of cops out here.”
“Got it,” she said.
Moy had just come through the door, and she turned to him, and said, “Andy . . .”
* * *
—
THE WINDOW at the side of the house blew out, and Lucas batted Chase to the floor, as he went down himself, Chase screaming, “I’m hurt! I’m hurt!”
Lucas crawled over to her, and asked, “Where?”
She said, “Leg,” and grabbed her left leg below her butt. And when she took her hand away, it was red with blood.
Moy was still standing, staring, and Lucas shouted, “She’s in the woods. Get some guys out there—the night vision guy. And we need an ambulance—right now.”
Chase was staring up at him, eyes full of pain, and she groaned, and Bob dropped to his knees beside her and dug into a pocket and came out with his Leatherman tool, and he flicked out a blade. He said to Lucas, “Roll her over, I’ll cut her jeans.”
They rolled her over, and Chase groaned again louder. Bob cut a slit up the back of her jeans, and two more at right angles, until he could peel the denim back and they could see the wound. The shot had gone in through the back of the leg and come out the front, just missing the bone. The wound was bleeding heavily.
Bob, as calm as he might have been addressing the Kiwanis Club, said to Lucas, “Through and through. Not pulsing.”
Chase asked through clenched teeth, “Am I gonna be okay?”
Bob said, “Yes. But it’s gonna hurt, both now and later. Believe me, I know.”
A fed came running through the door with a first-aid kit the size of a suitcase, knelt beside Chase, and popped open the lid. “I’m gonna plug the holes, put pressure on the wound.”
Lucas patted Chase once on the shoulder, and said to Bob, “Clear the house. Let these guys take care of her.”
Rae took the left wing, Bob took the right, Lucas went straight ahead into the kitchen. He stopped halfway in. What? What was it? Out the kitchen window, he could see high-powered LED flashlights playing through the woods and hear the plaintive wail of sirens. The sirens were too clear, this far back in the house, and he moved through the kitchen and found the back door standing open. She’d run through there into the dark, he thought.
Maybe.
He spent five minutes working through the back of the house, joined by one of the feds. When it was cleared out, Moy came up, and said, “We’ve got the streets covered, but it’s harder than hell to see anything in the dark and the rain. It’s been twelve minutes. If she made it out to a road, she could be a mile away.”
“Gotta keep looking,” Lucas said. “We don’t know if these were executions or a gunfight. She could be wounded.”
Moy was doubtful. “Haven’t seen any blood except from the dead guys.”
“Gotta look anyway . . . think about the after-action report. If you don’t do everything, they’ll be on you like a hot sweat.”
“Ah, shit. I’ll push the search,” Moy said. “I’ll do everything. Get the crime scene team down here.”
* * *
—
LUCAS WALKED through the kitchen again, stood by the back door, looking out into the trees and at the flashlights searching through them.
Rae came up to him. “House is cleared.”
“Where’s Bob?”
Bob called, “Right here,” and he came through the arched doorway from the front room. “What are we doing? I could go out to the roads . . .”
Lucas shook his head. “I missed something. I saw something when I came into the kitchen, and it was important, but I don’t see it anymore. Look around . . . What do you see?”
The two of them looked carefully but saw nothing relevant. Lucas went back out of the kitchen and then walked back in, looking for whatever he’d seen the first time, but, again, he didn’t see it.
A minute later, an ambulance pulled into the driveway, and two EMTs hustled through the door. They looked at the FBI man’s first-aid work, pronounced it good, and lifted Chase onto a gurney.
Pale as a piece of computer paper, she saw Lucas, licked her lips, said, “They told me I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe better than that,” Lucas said. “A guy told me once that an FBI agent shot in a firefight gets extra career points.”
She revealed the tiniest of smiles, said, her voice rasping and near a whisper, “It’s absolutely ridiculous to be thinking about that . . . but I already did.”
Lucas gave her arm a squeeze, and the EMTs took her out.
* * *
—
WITHIN A HALF HOUR of the shooting, thirty local cops were combing the woods and stopping cars within five miles of the Douglas house.
Lucas told the local chief of
police: “She came in a car that’s still out in the driveway, and she ran out through the trees. She’s either holed up in the woods, getting hypothermia; or she cracked a house, killed the owners, and has taken their car; or she hijacked a car on the street, killed the driver. If she got a car, she’s god-knows-where by now.”
“We’re looking with everything we’ve got,” the chief said.
Rae had gone out in the woods with the searchers, came back soaking wet. “Nothing. You figured out what you missed yet?”
“No. I keep going back to look but don’t see it anymore, whatever it was.”
“Maybe a brain fart,” Bob suggested.
“Don’t think so. It felt too real.”
* * *
—
AT TWO O’CLOCK in the morning, the police chief told Lucas, “We might have a problem. There’s an old guy here who said his wife went out to a grocery store sometime after nine-thirty and she hasn’t come back. He can’t get her on her phone.”
“Ah, Jesus. She’s gone, she’s dead,” Lucas said.
“Don’t tell me that,” the cop said. “Please don’t tell me that.”
* * *
—
THE THREE MARSHALS were on the scene until four in the morning, until there was nothing more to see or say, and the FBI crime scene crew told them to go. There were still cops in the woods, and they’d be there through the next day, the chief said. There was no sign of the old woman or her car.
Lucas got Russell Forte out of bed to tell him what had happened.
“Oh my God,” Forte said, and a woman’s voice in the background demanded, “What happened? What happened? Is Sara okay?”
They agreed to talk the next morning.
* * *
—
LUCAS, BOB, AND RAE were halfway back to Washington, and the after-shooting was setting in. Bob was nearly asleep in the back, Rae was glassy-eyed in the passenger seat, when Lucas braked and pulled the Evoque to the side of the road.
He shifted into park, put his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock, and leaned his forehead against the wheel. Rae asked, “What? What? You okay?” echoed by Bob in the back, “What’s going on?”
“I figured out what I didn’t see in the kitchen. I didn’t see a fuckin’ thing,” Lucas said.
“What?”
“I smelled it,” he said.
Rae: “What?”
“When I was investigating Taryn Grant back in the Twin Cities, I interviewed her several times, and one time got in her bedroom after she was robbed . . . Well, never mind about that. Anyway, she uses a heavy scent, a perfume called Black Orchid. Kind of funky. I got a whiff of it when I ran into the kitchen, Just a whiff, but I know I’m right.”
“You’re saying . . .”
“That wasn’t Wendy in there. That was Taryn Grant. She killed them all. Everybody who could take her down.”
* * *
—
BOB AND RAE DIDN’T QUITE BUY IT.
“There was the smell of the gunpowder—that’s what I noticed—and the smell of blood. And the odors from the forest outside. And then Chase got shot . . . It’d be impossible to pick out a dab of perfume,” Rae said. “I mean, I’m wearing perfume and I can’t even smell myself.”
“I smelled it,” Lucas said.
“Even if you did, a jury would never convict,” Bob said. “It’s useless as evidence.”
“Ah, you’re right, you’re right,” Lucas said.
“We need some sleep,” Rae said. “Let’s get some sleep and think about it in the morning.”
“You are correct about one thing, Lucas,” Bob said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That old lady is dead.”
30
Forte called early, eight o’clock, and the first thing he said was, “They found the old lady about thirty feet from the end of her driveway, under a bush. Your shooter, Suzie—whatever her name is—apparently flagged her down as she was coming out. Shot her in the face.”
“It wasn’t Suzie,” Lucas said. “It was Taryn Grant.”
Long silence. “Lucas . . .”
“Yeah, I may be full of shit.” The memory of the scent was beginning to fade. “Last night, I was sure of it.”
He explained, and Forte reacted the same way Bob and Rae had: “You might be right, but it’s useless.”
“Yeah, I know. So what do I do next? Everyone we had tagged on the Smalls thing is dead. All dead except Grant.”
“And you don’t have a thing on her,” Forte said. “Might be time to wrap it up. I’m sure Smalls will be happy enough.”
* * *
—
SMALLS WAS. Lucas called him on the burner, woke him up in a West Coast hotel. Lucas told him what had happened, including Taryn Grant’s Black Orchid scent trail, and Smalls said, “I almost hate to tell you this, Lucas, but Grant wasn’t there. She was in the same ballroom I was in—I actually had a spat with her.”
“She was there the whole time?”
“Well, the party started at eight. We avoided each other, but I saw her several times. Toward the end—sometime before midnight, I guess—I actually spoke to her. Called her a cunt.”
“Nice,” Lucas said. “I expect we’ll be hearing about that, if I ever get her on a witness stand.”
“Hadn’t thought about that,” Smalls said. “But, anyway, you’re not going to get her on a witness stand. I’ll tell you, though, I’m a happy man. You got the killers. They’re all dead.”
“One disappeared, might still be on the loose. Either that or he’s dead, too.”
“If he’s alive, would he be a threat?”
“No. If he was one of the killers, which we couldn’t prove, he was being paid by Claxson or Parrish. I’m sure he wouldn’t have been directly involved with Grant. I think Grant’s happy to be out of it. She wouldn’t send him after you again.”
“Then let’s call it a day. This has been quite satisfactory, Lucas. Go home, kiss your wife and children, spend some time at the lake.”
“No, wait, wait, Senator. Think for a minute. When did you see Grant last night?”
Smalls thought, and said, “Well, I definitely saw her right at the beginning. She looked good, I admit. Green dress . . . I saw her a couple of more times right after that. And I saw her at the end . . . You know, I can’t remember seeing her halfway through the reception, and she was highly visible. Let me ask around. Huh . . .”
His voice trailed off, and Lucas said, “Yes, ask around.”
* * *
—
LUCAS CALLED Jane Chase in her hospital bed and she picked up instantly.
“I didn’t think you’d be answering,” Lucas said. “You should be all doped up.”
“Nope. It’s a workday. I’m sitting here at Reston Hospital with a major pain in the ass, if you’ll excuse the vulgar language.”
“I can handle it,” Lucas said.
“I’m sure you can. Anyway, I’m working. I’ll probably be here for another two days, they tell me. You heard about Mrs. Woods?”
“The old lady? Yeah. I knew she was dead. Knew before we left last night.”
“Andy told me.”
“I’ve got something to tell you that nobody believes but me,” Lucas said, “not even Bob and Rae. And Senator Smalls told me to forget it and go home.”
He told her about smelling the Black Orchid. She asked a couple of questions, then said, “Well, if it hit you like that, I think you’re probably right. I have a small stock of perfumes, mostly lighter, like Chanel No. 5, because of the office environment. Some people are allergic to scents. Anyway, I tried Black Orchid when it first came out, and it was too strong and lingering, maybe too masculine. It stays in the air.”
“But it would be useless in a prosecution.”
“Unless there was a lot of other evidence.”
“All right,” Lucas said. He rubbed the side of his face. “I’ve gotta go shave. Listen, Jane, I hope your ass stops hurting and you get back on your feet. You’re a good cop. You’ll do well.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell Deputy Director Mallard that you said hello.”
“Don’t really have to do that,” Lucas said.
“I know, but it gives me another chance to chat with the deputy director. Make him aware of the bandage on my ass.”
Lucas laughed. “You will do well.”
* * *
—
TOM RITTER CALLED. “There are rumors of a massacre.”
Lucas said, “Guy named Charles Douglas, Claxson, Parrish, all shot to death, probably by a woman. There are some people at the FBI who would be interested in talking with Wendy . . . Suzie . . . whatever her name is.”
“It wasn’t her,” Ritter said. “My folks and I went out to dinner last night, and she came with us. She got over to my folks’ motel about, mmm, six-thirty or so, and we were out until after ten. They had an emergency board meeting over at Heracles this morning, and word from there is, the shooting took place around nine-thirty.”
“That’s right. Anybody besides you and your folks talk to Wendy?”
“Sure. Let me see, there were at least three servers, counting the bread guy and the drinks lady. And Wendy bumped into somebody she knew . . . I could get his name, if you need it.”
Lucas sighed. “No, I don’t need it. I’ll call my FBI contact and tell her that I checked around, and Wendy’s whereabouts last night is accounted for.”
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