by Ellen Butler
“Keep doing what you’re doing. We don’t want him to get any closer, but we don’t want to lose him either.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Just . . . wait.” The phone rang. Caller ID read UNAVAILABLE. “Hello?”
“Josh said you had a lead on Rivkin,” Rick drawled.
“You could say that. He’s currently three, no, four cars back. We’re heading north on 95. Just passed the Lorton exit.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?”
“Just the sideview mirror. My copilot is doing a surprisingly good job. You want to collect the bounty on his head? Or should I call the cops?”
“Hold on a minute.”
I stared at the gridlock on the opposite side of the highway, while absentmindedly humming a tune.
“Are you singing Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap?” Rodrigo asked.
“I guess I am.”
“Huh.” His eyes stared straight ahead, and his fingers wrapped so tightly around the wheel that his knuckles had turned white.
“You’re doing great, pal. It’ll all be over soon,” I assured him.
“Cardinal?” Rick growled.
“I’m here. I’m putting you on speaker.” I held the phone out between the two of us. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Jin is near Edsall Road.”
“We haven’t hit Springfield yet,” Rodrigo said.
“That’s fine. What kind of car are you driving?”
I gave him a description of Rodrigo’s and Karen’s cars. “I don’t know Karen’s license number, but it’s a D.C. plate.”
“BA-3261,” my colleague rattled off. “I wrote it down in my surveillance notebook.”
“Good. Jin will find you.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“You’re going to lead him into a trap.”
“Great . . . I’ve always wanted to be bait,” Rodrigo drawled.
“We can always send the police if you’re not comfortable with this,” Rick said.
I eyed my pilot. Sweat stains spread beneath his armpits. The stress was starting to wear on him. “Hold on a sec.” I pressed the mute button. “Rodrigo, Rick can send in the police and end this immediately. Rivkin may or may not get away, but it won’t be up to us. But, he’s got a million-dollar price on his head. If you want a piece of that . . .”
He didn’t speak for a minute. “Bait it is.”
I unmuted the phone. “It’s on. Tell us what you want us to do. We’re a few miles from Springfield.”
“Take the I-395 lanes. Jin will be with you in a minute.”
Our little Subaru entered what is known as the Springfield Mixing Bowl, where I-95, I-395, and I-495 (a.k.a. the Capital Beltway) all combined, along with a couple of local lanes. We passed beneath a handful of highflying exit and entrance ramps, keeping an eye on the multitude of overhead signs to make sure we were in the correct lane for I-395 and didn’t end up heading toward Maryland. While Rodrigo navigated the mess, I watched our tail to make sure Rivkin still followed. Finally, we came out underneath the last flyover.
“We’re through the Mixing Bowl,” I told Rick. “The Edsall Road signs are just ahead, and Rivkin has moved into the center lane, three cars back.”
Rick smoothly directed, “Move into the center lane. You want to make sure he’s behind you and doesn’t pull up next to you.”
Rodrigo cut off a guy in a yellow Volkswagen Beetle in the center lane and received the blast of a horn for his efforts. “Oops.” He hunched his shoulders in embarrassment.
The car zipped into the left lane. Rodrigo didn’t glance over as the driver passed us with his middle finger up. Incidents of road rage were common in the D.C. area. It was best not to engage—especially when being followed by a homicidal maniac.
“Okay, Jin’s got you. He’s behind Rivkin.”
“Where do we go from here?” I craned my neck to see if I could figure out which car was Jin’s. “I can’t see him.”
“Don’t worry, he’s there. Stay on until the Glebe Road exit.”
A couple more miles and the Glebe Road signs came into view. “We’re almost there.”
“Jin’s moved in front of Rivkin and will make the exit with you.”
Sure enough, a black sedan wheeled up behind us. Large aviator sunglasses and a black ballcap hid his features, but knowing he was right behind us gave me a small sense of relief. We were the first car stopped at the red light at the bottom of the exit ramp.
“Be ready to go. When the light turns green, I want you to move ahead quickly. Jin’s going to stall Rivkin. Stay in the right lane and turn right at the next light.”
The honking started as we took our right. Rick continued to guide us until we turned into a warehouse district. Rivkin was still behind us but we lost sight of him on and off as we made each turn following the directions Rick rattled off.
“You’re doing great. You’re almost there,” Rick assured us. “Take the next right and at the end of the row of warehouses come to a stop.”
“Uh, Rick? You just backed us into a dead end.” A concrete wall rose ahead of us.
“Forget this,” Rodrigo mumbled, shifting into reverse.
“Don’t panic! And no matter what, stay in the car,” Rick barked.
“Wait.” I placed a hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder.
The BMW nosed around the corner and moved in for the kill. Garage doors on our left and right flew open and two large, black SUVs shot out, effectively trapping Rivkin in front and back. They also blocked our view. Shots rang out.
“Get down! Get down!” someone shouted.
Rodrigo and I slunk down in our seats, popping our heads up like prairie dogs to check on the show. Men in black tactical gear, carrying assault weapons, piled out of the SUV on the side closest to us. One of them tossed something over the roof of the SUV toward the BMW. Pow! They moved single file around the back of the car. There was scuffling, two quick shots, a shout, then not much of anything.
Rodrigo and I waited.
And waited.
His eyes wide like saucers, he asked, “Do you think they got him?”
“I don’t know. Stay here. I’ll go find out.” I rolled out of the car, and in a crouched position, ran up to the big SUV. The windows were darkened, so I couldn’t see a thing, but I heard the quiet murmur of male voices. Inching my way to the rear end of the vehicle, I peeked around the side. Rivkin lay face down on the ground, trussed up with zip ties like a calf at a roping contest. Half a dozen men stood about, relaxed, while Rick rifled through a wallet.
“Check the trunk,” he directed.
A guy I didn’t know ducked into the car and popped the trunk latch. Jin opened the rear lid.
“Is he dead?” I asked. All heads, except Rick’s, turned to me.
“Nope. Hit him with the stun gun. He’ll be coming around in a minute,” Josh answered. “You and your friend okay?”
I nodded. “What do we do now? To whom do we turn him over to collect the bounty?”
“Uh-oh, boss, you better see this,” Jin said from behind the car.
“What is it?” Rick finally looked up from the wallet.
“Dead lady,” Jin replied.
A hand flew to my mouth.
“I bet it’s Karen,” said a voice in my ear.
“Aiyee!” I yelped, nearly jumping out of my skin. Rodrigo hadn’t followed my direction to stay in the car and snuck up behind me on cat feet. It also didn’t help that my emotions were amped up from the thrill ride. Irritated eyeballs were on me again. “Sorry, sorry. Just startled.”
Rick and Josh trotted to the back of the BMW; Jin stepped aside. Neither said anything, but I could tell by the frowns that they didn’t like what they saw. Rodrigo headed their way and I followed, only to be barred by Jin’s whip-fast arm.
“You don’t want to see that,” he assured me.
“I don’t?”
He shook his head but allowed Rodrigo to pass. It must have been a man thing and I was about to get pissy, when Rodrigo, getting a gander at the woman in the trunk, blanched, turned away, and promptly vomited on the front wheel of the SUV.
My gaze met Jin’s. “Bullet to the head?”
“Garrote. Sliced her windpipe.”
My face turned into the one Lucille Ball used to give on I Love Lucy when she finds out her harebrained scheme has gone bad. No wonder poor Rodrigo lost his stakeout snacks.
A Hispanic guy I didn’t recognize took pity on my coworker and handed him an olive-green bandana.
“Is it Karen?” I asked.
Rodrigo nodded, wiping his face.
“Where do you think he was planning on dumping her?”
Jin shrugged. “Who knows. You two probably changed his plans.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. Rodrigo and I could have been stuffed in with her. What was eminently clear, now that we had a dead body, was we couldn’t just hand Rivkin over to the Israelis to collect the bounty on his head.
I let out a deep sigh. “Hey, guys, I hate to say this, but I’ve got to call in the feds. We can’t just hand him over.”
“Not with a dead body on our hands,” Rick agreed.
“Does that mean we won’t get the reward?” Rodrigo asked with the teensiest bit of whine in his voice.
I understood where he was coming from. Who couldn’t use a piece of that million-dollar reward? “Probably.” I pulled the phone out of my suit pants pocket and mumbled, “Mike is going to be so pissed at me.”
He still hadn’t returned my panicked call from earlier, and I decided I wasn’t in the mood to get yelled at again. So I dialed my lawyer instead.
“Jessica? It’s Karina Cardinal, can you give me the number for Director McGill?” Foolishly, I’d failed to add him to my contacts.
“What are you into now?” she asked on high alert.
“Wellll . . . I’m here with a couple of security specialists and we’ve captured the guy who we believe broke into my apartment. Oh . . . and . . . thereisadeadwomaninhistrunk,” I mumbled quickly.
Jessica took a beat. “Did you just say, ‘there is a dead woman in the trunk?’”
I stared at the ground, rubbing my temples. “Uh-huh.”
“Give me your location. I’ll contact Leon.”
“Thanks.” I turned to Jin. “Address?”
Rick rattled it off before anyone else could speak, and I repeated it to Jessica.
“Are you safe?” she asked.
“Well, I’ve got one, two, three . . . lots of burly men with assault rifles, my coworker, and Rivkin is cuffed and drooling on the ground. I think I’m good.”
“Who the hell is Rivkin? You know what . . . never mind. You can explain when I get there.”
“Oh, there’s no need for you . . .” She hung up before I could finish. I pocketed the phone. “Well, boys, seems like the FBI is on its way. If there’s anyone who doesn’t want to be here when they show up, you better leave now.”
Rick pointed to three of his men, and they piled into the SUV behind the BMW. Then he closed the trunk.
“Do you need to leave too?” I asked Rick.
He made a swirling motion with his finger and pointed at the Hispanic guy in the SUV driver’s seat. The big black truck rolled out. “I’ll stick around for this one.”
Rivkin showed signs of life. Josh took pity on him and, grabbing his collar, moved him into a sitting position against the car. There was a burn mark on his neck and wet patch around his crotch. The stun gun must have made him pee his pants.
I snapped my fingers in front of his closed eyes. “Hey, remember me?”
The lids opened.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
Nothing.
“We know you were part of the plot to assassinate Harper. Finley too. What did you do? Mess with his car? Drug his driver?”
That ghostly, pale gaze stared at me. Josh kicked his foot. “The lady asked you a question.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Rick said. “He’s trained Mossad. You could torture him for a week and he wouldn’t crack. The FBI will get nothing out of him.”
“Not unless they make you a deal? Right?” I crouched down to his level. “You know the FBI had a surveillance van watching the house. They’ve got photos of you. Rodrigo and I are also witnesses. They’ll be sending in a team. Right now, I bet you’re wondering if you cleaned it properly. What about your clothes? Is there DNA evidence on them? Were you planning on burying your kit with Karen?”
He didn’t bat a lash.
“Who paid you?”
“You have no idea what you’ve gotten into,” he said with a distinct accent. The few words I’d heard him say after Harper’s death had been said with a nasal midwestern accent and held no resemblance to this deep, rugged voice. “These people have long arms.”
I knew I should leave him alone and let the feds deal with him. But Harper was personal to me, and I wanted answers. “You killed a senator and a congressman. I think I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. What I’m trying to figure out, are you willing to deal, or will you go down for your bosses?”
He said something in a language I didn’t understand, and he said it with such venom, I had a feeling he cursed me.
Fearful he might spit, I hopped back. “Anyone get that?”
“He doesn’t have a boss. He’s an independent contractor,” Rick explained.
“Let me guess, Hebrew?” I glanced up.
“Yes,” Rick said.
“Rick, what happens if we tell the Israeli intelligence where he is? Can they get to him?”
He rubbed his chin in consideration. “I give him forty-eight hours once the feds put him in prison.”
“Do we still get the reward?”
“Hm,” he mused, pursing his lips, “I imagine I can work something out with my contacts.”
Rivkin took the news rather well. Or maybe he didn’t. I couldn’t tell through his stone-faced expression.
“Hey, Rivkin or Jablonski, what’s your real name? Is it even Naftali Rivkin?”
No reaction.
“Forget it, I’m going to call you Creepy Eyes. Listen up, I’m sure there will be a deal with the feds.” I kicked his foot. “But what you’ve got to realize, there’s a different deal right now. And I would guess it’ll only be on the table for a few more minutes before our FBI friends show up.”
Rick must have seen where I was going, because he put his hands on his knees and looked Rivkin in the eye. “What the lady is saying, none of us work for law enforcement.” He indicated the men standing around. “Like you, we’re independent contractors, and we work for whoever pays the most. Right now, your head is worth a cool mil. That’s a nice bit of change. Like you, I have connections.”
“What do you want?” Rivkin’s gaze turned to icicles.
Rick rotated his head to me, and, crouching back down to Rivkin’s level, I picked up where he left off. “Answers. You were part of the hit squad on Harper?”
He nodded.
“And you broke into my house for the phone?”
He nodded.
“Why? What’s on it?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t know why you broke in my house to retrieve the phone?”
“The clients wanted the phone. I didn’t ask why. It’s called compartmentalization.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Destroyed.”
I’d been afraid of that. “And your clients are . . .”
“Troika Star.”
“Teason is Troika Star?”
“Teason is the tip of the iceberg.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Tip. Of. The. Iceberg,” he repeated with deliberation.
“What did Karen have to do with it? Is she part of Troika Star?”
He tilted his head toward the trunk. “She was.”
I couldn’t
help the recoil. “You murdered your employer?”
“She became a liability.”
“She got cold feet?”
“Something like that.”
“Why Harper? Why Finley?”
He gave a disinterested shrug. “Ask them.”
“Them, who?”
“My clients.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get to. Who are your clients? Who hired you?”
A lazy grin spread across his face. “Follow the money.”
Clearly Rivkin was speaking in circles. I tried a different tactic. “Who’s the hacker?”
Another shrug. “I didn’t hire him.”
“But you know him? You know who he is?”
“Never seen him in my life.”
Another dead end. “Why did you kill Harper in the tunnels? Was it to set me up? Make me a suspect?”
“You flatter yourself. Up until a few days ago, I had no idea who you were.”
“Wrong place, wrong time?”
“I’d say so.”
“I see, it wasn’t personal. Just business?”
He didn’t respond.
“And what did you plan to do with Rodrigo and me today? More business?”
“No.” He threw off his nonchalance like a blanket and delivered an evil grin that sought to enhance the uncanniness of those eyes.
I sucked in a breath.
“You have become a nuisance. Believe me, it is personal, and it will be very painful.”
Before I could react to the hatred and evil, Joshua punched him. There was a crunching noise, the back of his head slammed against the car and blood poured from his nose. He didn’t make a peep.
“Enough questions.” Rick pulled me to my feet as a black sedan rolled into the alley.
Chapter Twenty-five
Director McGill arrived first, but it didn’t take long for our tight alleyway to fill up with law enforcement. As soon as we explained to McGill that Rivkin had followed us from the Troika Star house, he called in a team to sweep the place. Apparently, the guy in the van was only providing exterior surveillance, he’d been ordered to follow the Cadillac and is why he left in a hurry to catch up to it. They hadn’t gotten any warrants for listening devices inside, so Karen’s murder had not been caught on tape.
When someone asked how Rivkin got the bloody nose, Rick replied, “He tripped and fell.”