He parked the Forester in a reserved spot in the apartment’s underground garage. Then he went around to help her out and carried her suitcase to one of the elevators, where they ascended to the ninth floor of the tower.
“Welcome to my secret lair,” he said, pushing open the door to his apartment.
She stepped inside and wandered into the living room. “Nice digs, Mr. Hunter. Nice furniture.” She looked at the walls, ran her hand over a piece of classical sculpture on a bookcase. “Fine taste in art.” She went to stand at the sliding window to the balcony, her back to him. “Beautiful view.”
“Beautiful view from here, too.”
She turned and made a face. “You’re bad.”
“This is news?”
She looked at the floor. “Oh, my! What have we here?”
“The other woman in my life. Annie, meet Luna.”
The cat approached her one cautious step at a time, sniffing the air.
“Well, hello, Luna.” She bent over and extended a hand. The cat leaned forward, took a whiff of her fingertips, then proceeded confidently beneath her palm. Annie stroked her and the cat responded by rubbing against her legs.
“Dylan, I figured you as more of a dog guy than a cat guy.”
“I like dogs, but they’re too damned much work. Especially in an apartment.”
“I suppose you also identify with cats because they like their independence.”
He stifled the urge to smile. “There’s that.”
“Okay, I consider myself warned. So, who takes care of your baby when you aren’t here?”
“I pay a neighbor kid to stop by and do that, and to water the plants.”
She picked up the cat and scratched her head. Luna closed her eyes appreciatively.
“Now that was quick bonding. You’ve passed the pet test.”
“And if I didn’t, are you saying that you’d dump me for this cat?”
“In a heartbeat. She doesn’t cost as much to feed.”
TWENTY-ONE
HYATTSVILLE, MARYLAND
Wednesday, October 22, 8:40 p.m.
Too easy.
That was the thing. Car break-ins here were just too damned easy. That’s why Tomas Cardenas and Manuel Maldonado liked working the parking lot at the Mall at Prince Georges.
That’s what he concluded after watching the pair for the past two evenings. He’d remained hidden in his car, studying them through the SuperVision scope to get a sense of their methods and physical capabilities. Cardenas, a tall, rail-thin ex-con, covered the lot methodically with his squat, beefy partner. Maldonado was a cholo in the same Mexican gang and, like Cardenas, a stone-cold killer.
They showed up each night about eight-twenty, arriving from the Prince Georges Metro station across the highway. They carried empty duffle bags over their shoulders. They wandered into the parking lot, well beyond the useful range of the security cameras, and hid among the vehicles until the patrolling guards cruised past. Then they systematically checked the parked cars until they found ones with shopping bags or nice electronics. One guy would stand watch while the other broke in. Along with store purchases, they pulled out stereos, GPS devices, and any other valuables, dumping the loot into the duffle bags. When the bags were loaded, they left on foot. The whole process took just over half an hour.
The first night, he trailed them from the lot back to the pedestrian bridge that crossed over the East-West Highway and into the Metro station. At that hour, with few people around, he hung back, so they wouldn’t spot him. He knew where they were headed—back to their apartments in the projects, just one Metro stop away. He’d scoped out that location previously; no good. Too many residents up all night.
The takedown would be easier here. Not easy. But easier.
Tonight, his vantage point was the second floor of the stairwell-and-elevator structure that brought shoppers up onto the pedestrian bridge—the same one the two gangsters had crossed to get here from the Metro. From this perch, he used the scope to keep an eye on them as they worked the lot.
This was where he’d intercept them when they returned.
Standing isolated at the edge of the parking lot, the drab concrete structure was like a small military blockhouse. Its walls were covered with grimy beige ceramic tiles, meant to resist graffiti; its floors were pimpled with dried wads of chewing gum and streaked with urine stains that ran from the corners. The passenger elevator was out of service, forcing anyone brave enough to enter at this hour to climb the narrow stairwell. The stairs were enclosed on both sides with thick wire mesh, which also extended out across the footbridge.
Like being trapped in a cage. A perfect spot for a predator to stalk his prey.
Somebody had trashed the stairwell security camera. Bad for public safety, but one less thing for him to worry about. He’d also taken care of the lights, so that he could remain in shadows. And he’d changed his appearance, too. The cops were looking for the bearded, red-haired guy from the Alexandria courthouse. But the rare person walking past him now saw a clean-shaven blond guy in a gray raincoat and black gloves, leaning against the wall and blathering into his cell phone about some meeting in New York.
Like the previous missions, this one had its own challenges. His chief target was Cardenas, not Maldonado, but he’d have to subdue both. He’d left his vehicle not far away, as close as he could park to this structure. Plan A was to incapacitate Maldonado and leave him here, then force Cardenas to the car at gunpoint. Plan B was to kill Maldonado on the spot, if necessary, then proceed with Plan A. Plan C was a contingency if everything went south; it had some basic elements worked out, then required a lot of improvising.
But absolutely no hesitation. That’s why, before every mission, he liked to recall the criminal history of the perp. To put himself in the proper frame of mind.
Since his early teens, Tomas Ernesto Cardenas had belonged to a Mexican crime gang. At seventeen, he was charged with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder in the shooting death of a sixteen-year-old during a drug dispute. The charges were dropped a month later. The next year, Cardenas pled guilty to a firearms charge and was sentenced to a five-year prison term. But the judge suspended four years and nine months, giving him just five years of probation. Over the next two years, he was charged three times with probation violations. Yet despite the insistence of his probation officer, he was never sent back to prison.
He raised the SuperVision scope and studied the guy again. Six-three, skinny, baggy low-slung jeans, hooded sports jersey. Furtive eyes, darting around like a rat’s. If the bastard had gone to prison, he wouldn’t have been free to participate with an accomplice in that drive-by gang shooting five years ago.
The night when one of his stray bullets took the life of George Banacek’s boy, Tommy.
Now, the legal system’s revolving door had spun again, dumping Cardenas and Orlando Ramirez Navarro—his partner that fatal night—back onto the streets. An advocacy group appealed the manslaughter convictions of Cardenas and Navarro on grounds that the lead detective was “prejudiced,” based on a record of past ethnic slurs against Mexican-Americans. The detective’s testimony had been critical in getting the convictions. Now, the pair was free once more, pending a new trial.
He took a last long look at Cardenas. Then tucked the scope into a deep inner pocket of the raincoat.
He was more than ready.
*
Just before nine, he checked his watch again. This is when they’d quit the past two nights. He glanced outside and, sure enough, they were headed his way.
He crouched in the corner shadows and drew the Glock 17—the one he’d used to kill Valenti—then put on the same suppressor, the SVR.
They were babbling excitedly in Spanish when they entered the stairwell below him. He heard their scuffing footsteps as they started up the stairs. One of them made an obscene comment about some puta; the other hooted, his laughter echoing sharply off the concrete walls.
Deep breath. Out slow.
&nb
sp; The street lights outside cast a bobbing shadow across the floor before him as one of the men reached the top of the stairs. It was Maldonado. Cardenas, still out of sight on the stairs, was complaining about the weight of his haul. Maldenado laughed and hoisted his duffle bag repeatedly overhead, making like a weightlifter.
He rose smoothly from his crouch. Then, just as he brought the Glock around to sight on where Cardenas would appear, Maldonado spun to face his companion.
And saw him.
“Ese!” the man yelled.
He moved the gun back toward Maldonado at the same time that the guy heaved the duffle bag at him. He fired blindly and tried to jump aside, but the heavy bag caught his legs, knocking him to his knees.
Maldonado was yanking his own pistol from under his jersey. In response, he launched himself from his knees into a side roll against the wall and came up with the Glock while Maldonado fired. The blast was deafening and stinging chips of concrete from the wall above him sprayed his back and legs. He squeezed his trigger three times, fast. He couldn’t even hear his own suppressed shots through the ringing in his ears, but saw them hit—thigh-chest-face. The Mexican bucked with each impact. He collapsed, and his gun hand, in spasms, unleashed another thunderous shot that sparked off the floor and ricocheted off into the night.
Plan B.
He heard Cardenas screaming in the stairwell. He pushed himself to his feet and flattened against the wall, watching the floor at the top of the stairs for the murderer’s shadow to appear.
Instead, he heard a fading rush of footsteps.
He’s running.
He spun around the wall and ran to the top of the stairs. The guy was almost to the ground floor entrance, struggling awkwardly to get free of the cross-body strap of the duffle bag. He snapped off a shot at him, but it careened off the wire-mesh screens. Cardenas dumped the bag and ran outside. He hurtled down the stairs after him.
When he emerged it took a moment to spot his target. Cardenas had rounded the structure and tried to cross the highway. Blocked by the metal fence barrier running down the median strip, he turned and ran back into the parking lot.
He raced after the guy. Cardenas glanced back over his shoulder at him in terror, trying to zig-zag among the remaining parked cars and small islands of decorative trees scattered throughout the lot.
Ahead in the distance he saw a flashing yellow light at the far end of the mall. The security car. Cardenas was headed toward it.
This had to end fast, or end badly.
His panicked quarry was winded and slowing. He wasn’t. He cut a direct route toward the security car, gaining rapidly. As he closed, Cardenas reached another patch of trees and half-turned to look behind him. Then his low-slung jeans caught his heel. He stumbled.
Fatal fashion faux pas.
He dropped to one knee and from a distance of about thirty yards fired once, center-mass. The suppressed shot wasn’t loud at all. But the Fiocchi 9mm round knocked Cardenas right off his feet.
He trotted up to him. The guy lay on his back across a patch of grass under a small tree. His eyes were wide with shock and his lips sucked for air, like a fish in a bowl of dirty water. He didn’t have enough breath even to moan. Blood poured from the hole in the belly of his Baltimore Orioles jersey. Cardenas would be gone in another couple of minutes.
But he didn’t have a couple of minutes to wait around.
He leaned over him. Looked into his rat’s eyes.
“For Tommy Banacek,” he said quietly.
He pointed the end of the silencer at the middle “o” in “Orioles” and pulled the trigger.
Tomas Ernesto Cardenas stopped sucking air.
*
Unscrewing the silencer, he looked around. Incredibly, he could spot nobody looking his way.
Plan C. Leave the body here with the slug in it. They’ll do a ballistics match with the one from Valenti and figure out who did it. And why.
Good. But not good enough.
Maybe you can still pull it off. All of it.
Back to Plan A.
He stowed the gun and suppressor in the raincoat as he walked, not ran, back to his car. It was a late-model Crown Vic with a whip antenna, rigged to look like an unmarked police car.
He got in and drove it over to the body, backing it in. He popped the trunk and went back there. Pulling up the carpeting, he clicked the hidden latch. The lid of the false bottom flipped up alongside the spare tire.
He glanced up again. The security car was drifting his way along the storefronts, getting closer.
He pulled out a body bag from the hidden compartment. Crouching under the tree, he spread it open beside the body. Flipped it inside. Zipped it up fast.
Remaining in a crouch, he waited until the security car moved behind a couple of vehicles that blocked a direct line of sight. He seized the body bag, then in one fluid motion powered by his thighs, hoisted it, spun, and dumped it into the deep well inside. He worked it into position so that the lid would close. Then noticed bloodstains on his gloves and raincoat. He ripped them off and stuffed them down there, too, along with the Glock, holster, and silencer.
He closed the hidden inner lid and smoothed the carpet over it.
He reached up to close the trunk and the high beams hit him.
*
He glanced casually toward the security car, squinting against the headlights as it rolled up. Two silhouettes inside. One held the shape of a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
He waited. Kept his hands out at his sides, where they could see them.
Both guys got out at the same time and approached, staying apart. They were young, as most security guards tend to be, still in their twenties. Also armed. Looked like Glocks on their hips. The kid to his right had a hand resting on the butt of his.
He smiled at them. “You fellas are a little late. Sure coulda used your help a few minutes ago.” He motioned his thumb toward the car. “Had a flat.”
The two shot glances at each other. The one on the left, a fit-looking blond kid, said, “We saw you putting something in your trunk.”
He nodded. “Yep. Just finished up.”
They looked uncertain. “You mind if we asked for some identification?”
He forced himself to grin. “Hell no, ’course not. Left my wallet in the glove compartment. Mind if I fetch it for you?”
They were edgy. The kid on the right, dark hair, played it well. “I’d actually prefer if you let me get it, sir. If you don’t mind, that is.”
Keep the grin. “Hey, sure. Be my guest. It’s unlocked.”
He watched the dark-haired guard circle the long way, behind the car, so that he could take a glance inside the open trunk as he passed. He hoped that the kid wouldn’t look the other way, at the ground behind the car, and spot all that blood.
After a moment, the guard emerged from the passenger side with the wallet in hand. Hustled back to them, this time around the front of the car.
“I’m really sorry to have troubled you, sir,” the kid said, looking anxious. He handed over the wallet, opened to reveal the gold badge so that his partner could see it, too. “You should have said something, Detective Talionis.”
He laughed. “Nah, no trouble at all, fellas. Just wanted to play along and see how you performed. And you know what? You guys are really on your game. We don’t see enough of this kind of professionalism with private security. I’ll have to write a letter to your boss, tell him how impressed I am.”
“Well, thank you, sir. We try to keep an eye on things, but it’s tough covering all these lots. We get more than our share of trouble around here. As you know.”
Right then, they heard the first siren.
He laughed. “As I know too well. Well, I better find out what the hell that is all about.”
“Yes sir,” said the blond guard. “Stay safe.”
“You too,” he replied. He walked back and slammed the trunk lid. “As for me, I’ve had all the action I need tonight, right here.”
They laughed with him again as he got into the car and drove away.
COLLEGE PARK, MARYLAND
Thursday, October 23, 8:25 a.m.
Maurice Juliette pulled off Route 1 and into the parking lot of the run-down office building. Normally he didn’t arrive at work until nine, but he needed to get a jump on the day. The grant proposal would take hours, and he had a lot of other stuff to do, besides.
Juliette grabbed his worn leather briefcase and brown tweed jacket from the back seat of his old Volvo. The door squeaked loudly when he closed it. He had to bang it twice before it stayed shut. Piece of junk. He wished he could afford better. But you don’t get rich working in a nonprofit. Not even if you’re an attorney. Not even if you’re the executive director.
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