Mac nodded, kicking at some tar with his left shoe, “Man, do you think he really pedaled his way out of here?”
“It’s the only conveyance missing.”
“Conveyance?”
“I’m trying to use one word to describe all modes of transportation with which he could have escaped.”
“Well, now you used more words than if you’d have just said cars, trucks, motorcycles, taxis, buses and apparently, mountain bikes.”
The kid’s bike had not been found and nobody fitting the description had been seen by a witness or appeared on surveillance video riding away. It was as if the guy disappeared into the ether.
“We just needed another thirty seconds on that phone, maybe a minute and we’d have had him. We just couldn’t tighten the circle quickly enough.”
“I can’t believe you kept him on as long as you did. You had him on over four minutes. You played him as well as you possibly could have.”
“Maybe,” Mac answered but then looked up at one of the helicopters, drifting to the west. “One of the by-products of having played him like that is he’s pissed, really pissed. So pissed, in fact, that he …”
Dara shook her head, “If he has another target, Mac, he’s not going to hit tonight. He’s going to run and hide.”
“We don’t know that, Dara.”
“The heat is too much tonight. Self-preservation says he runs and hides.”
“Fine, even if he does hide tonight, he’s not going to hide long. He’s going to hit soon. He has to.”
“Because we’re closing in.”
“Right. He can’t hold on but a few more days, if that, at least around here,” Mac answered, waving to the area. “His picture is everywhere, so unless he goes to hide in a cave, someone eventually is going to see him. So if he’s going to hit one more time, if he has one last target, he won’t wait long.” Then his look brightened just a bit, “Although, one thing does occur to me.”
“What’s that?”
“His target must be in the DC area. Otherwise …”
“Why still be around here?” Wire finished his thought. “Who, though?”
“We gotta figure out where that picture came from. We should head back.”
“Assuming your theory is correct that the picture taker is the last one left.”
“It’s all we have to go on.”
As Mac and Wire were getting into the Suburban, the Langley Park police chief approached. “Agent McRyan, we’ve got a house break-in and car missing over in Takoma Park, the next city over to the west. There is a mountain bike sitting where the car used to be. It’s the kind missing from here.”
It took five minutes for the police convoy to make it over to Takoma Park and a two-story white house with a two-car garage. The Takoma Park police chief, a barrel-chested mid-fifties man chewing a toothpick, named Bird, greeted them at the end of the driveway. Quick introductions were made and Chief Bird led them up the driveway.
“As best we can tell, he got into the house around back,” Bird suggested, walking them to the back door. “You see the scraping around the latch bolt and door plate, he used something to jimmie it open. We have some metal shavings.”
Mac kneeled down and looked at the doorplate. “Like he broke it open with a knife perhaps?”
“Like our knife,” Dara suggested. “So what happened next, Chief?”
“Homeowner says there are car keys that hang on the wall, just underneath the cabinet here in the kitchen,” Bird reported, pointing to five small plastic hooks mounted on a rust-stained board. “One set was for an older black Toyota Camry, that as you look out to the left stall of the garage, you’ll see is no longer there.”
“And in its place is a shiny brand-new black mountain bike,” Dara said.
“Any idea how long the car has been gone?” Mac asked.
“Homeowner was gone all day working so there is no way of knowing. The car could have been gone an hour or four hours. We’ve done a quick canvas and nobody remembers seeing the car leave or any activity around the house.”
“The owners didn’t miss the car?” Dara asked.
Chief Bird shook his head, “The Camry belongs to their college-age daughter who is on a summer trip to Europe. It hasn’t been started or driven in weeks.”
“It would take what, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to bike to here from Langley Park?” Mac asked Bird.
“Bout that if he’s moving at a good clip. Maybe a little quicker if he comes direct. My guess is that your boy went riding around a bit to find a place. This house has good cover, lots of mature trees, tall shrubs and a garage hidden around the back of the house. He could break in, even in broad daylight, and slink away if he knew what he was doing.”
“When it comes to slinking around, he knows,” Wire retorted bitterly.
“Let’s go, Dara,” Mac decided. “He’s gone.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Keep the faith.”
At 9:48 P.M., Sally opened the back door, turned off the security system and let the Secret Service agents into the townhouse. While two agents searched the house, a third agent waited with Sally while she dropped her purse and briefcase on the center island and started looking at her options in the wine fridge. She was in the mood for a red tonight, maybe a Merlot or a Cabernet. A bottle of Markham was drawing her particular attention.
“All clear, Ms. Kennedy,” the tall and lanky lead agent reported. “Please set your alarm. We’ll be in our cars watching in the front and back and we’ll take you into the White House tomorrow.”
“Is this really all necessary?” Sally asked for what must have been the sixth time. After his chat with the Reaper, Mac’s first call was to Judge Dixon, and ten minutes later, two Secret Service agents were at her office door and they’d been with her since. Two more were added to the detail once she left the White House. Mac later explained why but she still thought it overkill.
“We’re here by orders of the president and Judge Dixon, ma’am, so until they tell us otherwise, we’ll be on the job. There’s a dangerous man out there killing women. We are not going to let one of them be you.”
If nothing else, Sally felt very safe as she locked the door, poured herself a glass of the Markham and went upstairs to the bedroom. As she hung up her suit in the spacious walk-in closet Mac built for her, she heard her phone beep the sound of a slap shot, which meant she had a text from Mac. She picked up the phone and the text said: Home in one.
Mac had a long and eventful day and had slept perhaps two hours in the last forty-eight hours, and he was still hurting from the confrontation with the Reaper. She checked the Ibuprofen bottle in the kitchen in the morning and it was nearly empty. While popping Ibuprofen was far better than getting hooked on painkillers, that much anti-inflammatory medication in that short a period of time wasn’t good for you. Mac didn’t know she was texting back and forth with Dara, who was keeping watch. Wire said he was holding up throughout the day but that the wall couldn’t be far away.
Sally shook her head.
She knew how fruitless it would be to ask him to dial it back. He wouldn’t listen; stubborn might has well have been his middle name. Easing up was something the man simply wouldn’t, and in many ways couldn’t, do. His wiring wouldn’t allow it, especially at this point in the case. She was surprised he was actually coming home.
Well, if he was, she didn’t want the night to go to waste. He needed a little therapy and she had the perfect thing in mind.
She opened one of her built-in drawers and starting pulling out the candles.
• • • •
Mac nodded to the two Secret Service agents parked in the alley behind the townhouse, appreciating their presence along with the two in front. While he was home, Sally would be plenty safe. However, after the call with the Reaper and the less than veiled threat about people he loved, he told the Judge he didn’t want her going anywhere without protection. “Judge, you got me into this case. If something happens to
Sally …”
“She’ll have protection in five minutes,” the Judge answered and the man was as good as his word.
Mac pushed inside the back door into the kitchen, locked it and reset the alarm system. He turned to see a single red candle burning on the center island, a glass of wine and a note sitting next to it. While sipping the wine, he read the note and smiled. It was a handwritten spa pass.
He walked up to the second floor and pushed open the door to the bedroom to find Sally lying facing him in a little red teddy that covered barely anything, a glass of wine in her hand, candles lit all over the bedroom. As he walked in, she slipped off the bed, walked over and kissed him, at first lightly, then softly and deeply.
“Hi,” he said, wrapping his right arm around her, feeling the silk of the teddy in his hands.
“Hi back,” she answered, pecking his lips one more time, breathing in the smell of the wine on his breath. “I have it on good authority you’ve had a very long day.”
Mac exhaled, a tired exhale, “I have.”
“Then let me take care of you. For three years, when I’ve had a long or bad day, you’ve pampered me, rubbed my back, my feet, my temples, whatever I’ve needed. For once, it’s your turn. Get undressed, lay down on the bed and let me give you a massage,” she said in a whisper, kissing him lightly again. “You can tell me about your day.”
Mac did as ordered and for the next half hour, Sally worked his shoulders, arms, back and legs with her hands, working out the knots and the tenseness in his muscles.
They talked about the case and how they just missed Johnson. “I swear, Sally, we missed him by a minute at most, probably less. We were literally that close.” Mac described how Johnson eluded them on a mountain bike while she rubbed his legs.
“So what’s your next move?”
Mac sighed, “Figuring out who took that picture.”
“You know, that could have just as easily been someone at the party who has nothing to do with this.”
“Yeah, that’s possible, but I just don’t think so. He’d be gone otherwise, not cruising around the Washington, DC, area, calling me because I got under his skin. If he was done, I think he’d be long gone. He’s not. Drake Johnson is still hanging around for a reason. We have to find that reason.”
“I assume until you do, I’m going to have the Secret Service tailing my every move.”
“Yes. And babe, that is nonnegotiable.”
“Okay,” Sally answered quietly. She knew the tone and there would be no point arguing with him about it. She changed back to the photo, “Any luck on that picture?”
“Not yet. Galloway has people all over that problem, going through the computers, cameras, pictures, everything back at Randall’s and at Danica Brunner’s. If it’s there, we’ll find it eventually.”
“If you find her? Then what?”
“We will sit and wait for him to come.”
“You think he’s coming for whoever took the photo?”
“I don’t know if I think so or I hope so, or both. He’s come this far. If there is one person left to punish, he’s going to do it, he’s going to go for it. For once, I’m hoping I get the call in the middle of the night.”
“Perish the thought,” Sally replied, working the area around his shoulder blades.
“I’m serious, though. He can’t hold out long. He’ll be looking to move quick, any minute. In some ways, I feel guilty lying here in your hands. I should be up doing something.”
“No,” Sally stopped rubbing and rolled him over. “You can’t keep going nonstop, day after day, without rest. You’re less than a week from a concussion, you have a broken wrist and you barely sleep as it is. You’re exhausted, beat-up and …” she caught herself, her eyes welling up.
“What? I’m what?”
“Vulnerable. Weak.”
“I’m not weak and I’m not vulnerable.”
“You are …”
“No I’m not. I’m maybe not at my best,” he answered with a smile, holding up his casted left arm, “but I’m good enough to do what I’m doing, babe. Keep the faith. I’m fine.”
Sally laughed, but was still worried, “You better be.”
“Now you sound like my mom.”
“Ew, don’t kill the mood.”
“Sorry,” Mac answered laughing, back to relaxing, a light laugh.
“Roll back over,” Sally instructed. “I’ll keep rubbing your back.”
After another ten minutes, Sally eased up, and started scratching his back lightly, “My hands are starting to wear out.”
Mac rolled onto his back and smiled up at Sally, “Best I’ve felt in a long time,” he said, looking up at Sally’s worried face. “Keep the faith, babe. This will be over soon.” He drew her down to him and kissed her, a long day about to come to a good end.
He even got nearly six hours of sleep, the phone ringing at 6:06 A.M. It was Galloway. “We think we know who took the picture.”
“And?”
“Well, things could be a little tricky.”
Mac sighed, “Well why wouldn’t they.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Chrysler Town and Country minivan, Virginia plates.”
Washington, DC, 7:00 A.M.
“Today could be interesting,” Wire suggested as Mac maneuvered his way through early Wednesday morning rush hour in DC, making his way to the Hoover Building. The news radio station was reporting nonstop on the approaching hurricane. “Tonight as well.”
“Do you mean the storm or Richardson?”
Wire cackled, “In the end, what’s the difference. Either one has the potential to create a huge mess.”
To the southeast, the heavy clouds of Hurricane Francesca were rolling in. By noon the heavy rain would start, with the full thrust of the storm to arrive in the evening. While the eye of the storm would make landfall two hundred miles to the south in southern Virginia, it would nevertheless be a rough night in DC, the category two storm sure to pack a good wallop.
“Have you ever been through one?” Wire asked.
“A hurricane?”
“Yeah.”
“No,” Mac answered. “In Minnesota, we have severe thunderstorms and, on occasion, tornados, although those rarely hit in the inner city. The damage can be pretty severe, although usually in much smaller areas and the storms only last for a few hours.”
“Is your townhouse ready for the storm?”
“As ready as can be, I guess,” Mac answered. “If I’m not around tonight, Sally’s going to ride it out at the White House, which I don’t mind with Johnson still floating around out there.”
Five minutes later, Mac pulled the X5 in under the Hoover Building and in another five they were admitted to Director Mitchell’s office to find the director along with Galloway, Agents Keller, Reilly and Grace Delmonico. Mac and Wire had been on the phone with Grace when Johnson triggered the explosion. She’d taken the whole thing in.
“Grace,” Mac said quietly, going right to Delmonico, putting his hands on her shoulders, “I’m so sorry about Aubry.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you up for getting back in the game?” he asked, looking her in the eyes, getting a quick assessment. The eyes were sad but determined.
“I need to do something. Otherwise I just sit around thinking about it and Gesch would be pissed at me for that, so I’m in.”
“Good. We need you,” Mac answered, pulling away and letting Wire go in for a quick hug of her own.
Mac looked to Keller who was holding up the photo. “So tell me, how did you connect the photo to Richardson?”
“Our picture of death is a cell phone picture.”
Mac never gave it much thought, but when they’d found the photo on Randall’s computer, it struck him that the picture was just a bit grainy, more so than the other photos on the computer. Not enough that he said anything about it, but enough that he’d briefly noticed it. Since they’d been able to immediately identify all of the victim
s, Mac never gave it another thought, never said a word about it to anyone. The thought simply drifted from his mind.
However, the grainy nature of the picture registered with Keller.
“It’s been about seven or eight years that we’ve had the ability to take pictures with cell phones,” Special Agent Keller stated. “And as Galloway stated when he called, the taker of the picture was Mychal Richardson.”
When the hunt for the taker of the photo started, it was thought the picture was most likely from a woman, so when the name Mychal Richardson showed up in a couple of e-mails and correspondence for Rebecca Randall, it was initially ignored, as it was assumed Mychal was a unique way to spell the name Michael. It was only later in the night when a member of Keller’s crew, noticing another unrelated picture in Randall’s e-mail from Mychal Richardson, said: “I know we think it’s a woman. I knew a woman named Mychal in college.”
“We still didn’t find the picture or reference to it anywhere in Randall’s e-mail, so we took a look at her cell phone records. This picture was sent from Richardson’s cell phone to Randall’s on that August 17th, almost immediately after the photo was taken. We found it going through Randall’s old cell phone records. Again, we didn’t necessarily give those a deep look because …”
“We found the picture and had the connection,” Mac answered nodding, looking at the cell phone records, shaking his head. It was always the little things that tripped you up. “We didn’t need to go back further.”
“Right,” Keller answered. “In any event, Richardson sent Rebecca Randall this picture, it’s right there in the cell phone record. Later, Randall uploaded the picture onto her computer.”
“And we’re sure it’s Mychal Richardson, this Mychal Richardson?” Wire asked, looking at a picture of an attractive blond, an attractive blond that was on television frequently.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Director Mitchell replied.
Mychal Richardson was the daughter of United States Senator Jesse Richardson. Senator Richardson was the Senate minority leader. Now, Mac and Wire, involved in the investigation at the behest of the White House, were about to implicate the daughter of the minority leader in a seven-year-old vehicular homicide.
Fatally Bound Page 34