The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

Over by the desk, an ident technician in a navy-blue FBI cap was rummaging through a fingerprinting kit, making sure he had the necessary supplies. Next to him, a woman was busy calibrating a compact, laser-fingerprint scanning device. The fingerprinting was the last thing done at the crime scene. Whatever usables could be obtained would be captured digitally, transmitted electronically to the lab, and checked against the digital records in the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

  All of this activity was being supervised by the team leader, a rotund older man with a nimbus of silvery auburn hair. Everyone in the Denver field office knew Timothy “Red” Romer; he had logged forty-five plus years with the Bureau and had even met J. Edgar Hoover himself on several occasions.

  Sharp turned away from the window and pulled Red aside. “What can you tell us so far?” he asked as Patton and Taylor came walking up. Again, Patton couldn’t help but feel a whiff of tension in the air in the presence of the assistant special agent in charge.

  “I shouldn’t tell you a durn thing ’til we’re finished, Henry,” the old curmudgeon fired back at Sharp, drawing a barely concealed smile from both Patton and Taylor. “But seeing as you’re my boss, with the indisputable right to fire my ass, I suppose I can give you a little preview.”

  Grinning mischievously, the red-haired veteran led them to the corner of the room where three evidence kits lay on the floor, pulled out a small glass vial, and held it up for all to see.

  “Agent Patton found these hair samples on the floor near the window. Definitely human head hair—by the looks of ’em blond Caucasian.”

  “How do we know they don’t belong to the guy who works in this office?” asked Sharp.

  “Because we’ve already checked and Lee Brock’s hair is black,” responded Patton.

  “Okay so we can eliminate Brock.” The ASAC turned back toward Red. “I’ve got a press conference in twenty minutes. What else have you got?”

  “It’s not so much what we’ve got as what we’re gonna get. Once we complete a microscopic exam of the hair samples, the lab folks will be able to tell us the sex, what part of the body the hair is from, and race. Then hopefully after that we’ll complete the DNA fingerprinting.”

  “Why hopefully?”

  “To get reliable DNA results we need a complete hair bulb, the actual root of the hair, and the sample has to be fresh. If the hair’s too dried out or starting to decay, it’s useless.”

  “How do these samples look?” asked Taylor.

  “The hair strands found by Agent Patton look to be complete strands and also fairly fresh so I think we’re in luck.”

  That wasn’t good enough for Sharp. “We’ve got to have DNA. You’re going to have to find a way to work your magic, Red. What else you got?”

  “Let’s take a look at the glass.” He returned the vial to the box and pulled out a small, circular plate of glass with duct tape, enclosed in a labeled plastic bag. “This is the portion of the window that our shooter removed.” He pulled the glass out of the bag, holding it carefully by the duct tape. “Quarter-inch thick, reflective coating. Our guy used a special glass-cutting tool and some kind of acid bath to cut the hole. You can see the fluid here.”

  “Get any usables?”

  “We’re holding off the fingerprinting until we’ve swabbed the glass at the lab.”

  “Well, have you seen a cut like this before?”

  “Not like this. This guy’s a pro all the way.”

  “Why do you think he chose this room to shoot from?”

  “On account of the clear line of sight, I reckon.”

  “No, there’s got to be something else,” said Taylor. “The drop is crazy.”

  “That’s a fact,” agreed Red. “But that in itself tells us a lot.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Patton, intrigued by the wily old veteran and the way he stood up to Sharp instead of being scared shitless like every other supplicant in the Denver field office.

  “It tells us we’re dealing with a world-class shooter. Think about it. Whoever this guy is, he’s so goddamned good he can shoot through an eight-inch hole fifty stories up and a half mile out, in a stiff crosswind, and hit something no bigger than a watermelon. Our boy’s got talent—scary talent. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it before in all my life.”

  At this, Sharp’s mouth curled into something resembling a smile. Now that was unusual: Patton couldn’t remember seeing the ASAC actually smile before. “He may have talent,” allowed Sharp, “but we’re still going to nail this bastard. We’re going to take him down and put him away for the rest of his natural life.”

  “I’ll drink to that when it actually happens, cowboy,” pronounced Red. “Here, let’s take a look at this over here.”

  He set down the glass and led them to the window sill where four campaign buttons had apparently been placed. Off to the left, a green button for Mason Schumacher and the Green Party. To the right of this, two red, white, and blue campaign buttons: one for current Democratic President Gregory Osborne, the other for Senator Fowler, who was now the Republican president-elect. And six inches further to the right, clearly separate from the rest, a large red button with blue lettering that read AMERICAN PATRIOTS.

  “Agent Patton pointed these babies out to me when I first got here. I agree with him that they were planted. You can see the dust has been disturbed recently. My ident guy will go over this area carefully as soon as you’re done looking. Agent Patton here wanted me to wait until you’d seen it.”

  “Lee Brock told me the buttons weren’t there when he left work on Friday. He says he has no idea how they could have gotten there. So I’m thinking they were planted by the shooter, or an accomplice. Either to make some kind of political statement or to mislead us.”

  Sharp didn’t respond. He studied the buttons for several seconds, pulling at the tips of his cowboy mustache with his fingers in the way Patton always found irritating. “We need to find out which one it is, and I mean pronto, or the director’s going to have all of our asses.”

  “I’ll put Hamilton on it,” said Patton, referring to Dr. Thomas Hamilton, the field office’s criminal profiler.

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard from you yet, Special Agent,” snorted Sharp. “Apparently you’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “Coming from Henry, kid, you should take that as compliment,” said Red with a grin. “But you fellas don’t need a durned shrink to tell you what’s going on here.” He pointed to the button furthest to the right and looked Patton in the eye. “American Patriots. If I were you, young buck, that there’s the clue I would start with.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Must be a reason our shooter put that one six inches from the others. It’s like it’s supposed to stand out.”

  Sharp frowned. “Let me get this straight. Are you saying this is some sort of calling card?”

  “Might could be.”

  “But it doesn’t fit,” argued Taylor. “Why would a right-wing Christian group want to assassinate a fellow conservative? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Does this day make any durned sense?” asked Timothy “Red” Romer rhetorically.

  Not at all, agreed Patton, studying the American Patriots button closely. But you, Red, are right about one thing: AMP is definitely the place to start.

  CHAPTER 14

  WHEN SKYLER OPENED the door to her third-floor apartment, the alarm chirped softly until she input a string of numbers and disarmed the system. She flipped on the light switch, locked the door behind her, and conducted a thorough room-by-room search to verify that there had been no intrusion during her absence. Even after over a decade in the game, her vigilance never waned.

  Tastefully furnished but not luxurious, the apartment told an enigmatic story about its occupant. There were no personal documents, no bills or letters of any kind. There was no phone; the only one Skyler used was her secure coded mobile. There was not a single photograph of her or an
yone she knew in the apartment, including family members. To an investigator or nosy landlord, her past would appear as an empty canvas.

  The furniture was antique, dominated by classical styles no more feminine than masculine. Though she lived here alone, both male and female clothing hung in the closets, and the toiletry articles were for both sexes. In the built-in bookcases, modern male action-adventure novels vied for space with feminist manifestos, woman’s literary fiction, and poetry. All of the books were in English, though Skyler’s first language was Italian and she was as fluent in Spanish and French as English.

  The walls were covered with outstanding enlarged photographs of California’s diverse landscape: foamy waves crashing at Big Sur; the glacier-carved sculptures of Yosemite; the starkly splendid desert foliage of Joshua Tree; a street car topping a hill in San Francisco; a squadron of sea gulls streaking across the Pacific. The works showed a skilled artist, meticulous yet sensual; but they said nothing about whether the person behind the lens was male or female, white or colored, American or foreign. Skyler’s photographs fetched generous prices from discrete dealers in the U.S. and Europe, but she sold her work only rarely, under a pseudonym.

  After carrying her bags into the bedroom, she walked into her office and logged onto her computer using three different passwords in sequence. The computer was equipped with the latest antiviral, antitampering, and encryption technologies, courtesy of her control agent, Xavier. She went into her email and clicked on a message from the Frenchman, as always carefully encrypted. She pulled up a jumbled assortment of letters and symbols that looked like hieroglyphics. With a few clicks of her mouse and two additional passwords, the text was unscrambled in English.

  CONGRATULATIONS. MARK

  SUCCESSFULLY RETIRED AND CONTRACT FULFILLED.

  EXPECT TRANSFER OF BALANCE 11/11.

  WILL ADVANCE TO ACCT., LESS EXPENSES,

  BEFORE CLOSING.

  CIAO.

  Smiling, she deleted the file and logged off the computer. Her thoughts turned to the shower she had been dreaming about the past hour. Killing always made her feel unclean, and she wanted to wash away the filth. She walked into the bathroom and took off her clothes. Before boarding her flight in Colorado Springs, she had removed her blue contact lenses and exchanged her blonde wig, pink dress, and inflatable tummy pouch for the attire of a power businesswoman.

  Now standing before the mirror was an olive-skinned woman with dark amber eyes and hair of like color falling to gently sloping shoulders. A woman with a slender nose, high cheekbones, subtle cleft chin, flat stomach, and supple upturned breasts. A woman with muscular arms and legs, but without the cursed bulk and rigidity of the overzealous weightlifter. A woman who could pass for not just an Italian or ethnic American, but a South American, Mexican, Spaniard, Greek, or even someone of Arabic persuasion to the casual eye. Of all her features, only the nose had been surgically altered. The classical Roman profile had been reduced to conceal her Italian heritage and lend her a more generic look.

  Skyler turned on the shower, taking a moment to adjust the knobs before stepping in and closing the cloudy glass door behind her. Once wet, she took a bar of soap and lathered her body, feeling a tingling sensation as she rubbed her breasts. Her nipples grew hard and she began to feel the hot hand of desire take hold of her body. She probed her lower extremities, working her fingers inside, and felt a burning fire in her loins. Consumed with her assignment the past few weeks, she hadn’t had time to think about sex; but now it was very much on her mind, as she stroked herself, gently touching her clitoris and quietly moaning.

  How long has it been? Two months at least. Too damned long.

  She continued to fondle herself, letting the water shoot onto her hard breasts as she probed with her fingers. She was aroused, but masturbation was never totally satisfying. She wanted a man badly and, despite the inherent risks after having just fulfilled a contract, she simply had to have one tonight. She decided to handle the matter in the usual way.

  She would pick a dark, handsome man and bring him back to her apartment, handcuff him to the bed, and fuck his brains out until she was satisfied. Then she would toss him out into the night, like a piece of broken furniture, and see the wounded look on his face as he realized he’d been taken like a whore. At that point, she would feel triumph.

  Deep inside, she detested herself for her dependence on men; unfortunately, they were the only ones who could satisfy her. Her hatred of the opposite sex was so strong that she had several times had oral sex with women, but they could never fulfill her needs. She had to have hate in the equation, and she could never bring herself to hate any woman enough to achieve orgasm. The power and control was what got her off—the sexual conquest and retribution, relived again and again, for what Don Scarpello and Alberto had done to her.

  It was the same reason she was a contract assassin.

  CHAPTER 15

  SHE HIT THE STREET dressed to kill. A black Calvin Klein slip dress clung to every curve. Black fishnets climbed up her tall legs. Her feet brandished a pair of sleek black heels that would have perhaps looked a tad sleazy on most women, but not her. A double strand of exquisite Indonesian pearls dangled from her throat. Her silky black hair was slightly damp and smelled of avocado and lemon. All in all she looked ravishing—in a dangerous way.

  She walked down to Ocean Front Walk, hung a right, and was greeted by a soft, cool zephyr that caressed her face and tasted of salt. The crescent moon shone on the rippled Pacific. Sliding past Muscle Beach, she heard soft voices in the shadows and the familiar rumble of waves rolling onto the sand.

  Venice Beach, California. The perfect hiding place for an assassin. In Skyler’s line of work, one had to have reconstructive facial surgery on a regular basis, hide out well beyond the reach of the law, or find a way to be anonymous. Skyler chose the latter. In Venice Beach, she had no problem blending in. The place was like an open-air carnival, with so many different kinds of people that keeping track of anyone was a formidable task. There were artists, hustlers, anarchists, businesspeople, surfers, panhandlers, fitness freaks, street-theater performers, druggies, and others who defied definition. To many, Venice Beach was simply a giant, happy insane asylum along Southern California’s sandy coastline where life was resplendently askew. It reminded Skyler of Paris’s West Bank and the Ponte Vecchio of her native Florence.

  Two policemen in dark-blue shorts approached her as she neared Windward Avenue. Sensing danger, she shifted her purse containing her SIG-Sauer from her left shoulder to her right. But the cops were busy talking and, despite her revealing attire, showed little interest in her.

  She stopped on the beach pavilion in front of the old St. Marks Hotel and stared up at a large, illuminated, graffiti-disfigured mural facing the ocean. Entitled The Rebirth of Venus in tribute to Botticelli’s original in Florence, the painting showed an angelic-faced woman in skimpy shorts, a shoestring top, and roller skates racing out of a seashell. Skyler broke into a smile. She had gazed up at the mural hundreds of times before, but it still brought her joy. It reminded her of growing up in Firenze as a little girl—before her world had been turned upside down.

  She checked out a couple of bars before settling on The Pumphouse, a Prohibition-era speakeasy cluttered with 1920’s pictures and memorabilia. A four-piece band kicked out inspired jazz-blues fusion in the corner. There was a surprisingly large crowd for a Sunday, only a couple of open tables. She received wolfish stares from a pack of men at the bar, but fortunately she saw no familiar faces, except the bartender. Skyler ordered a Chardonnay from him and searched the room for the man who would satisfy her needs for the evening.

  It took her less than a minute to find him.

  He sat alone a few tables from the small stage, nursing a glass of white wine, which Skyler took as a good sign for it suggested sophistication. He looked to be in his late-thirties and was dark and winsome, like Alberto, except he appeared less aggressive, sensitive even, by the thoughtful way h
e studied the saxophone player and guitarist during their solos. By the way he carried himself, she could tell he was not law enforcement, which was critical for tonight’s enterprise. He had full crescent lips, jet-black hair combed back, and a bronze Mediterranean complexion. The nose was long and narrow, and his chestnut-brown eyes seemed somehow both penetrating and soft. He wore a white cotton shirt, tan chinos, and a light dinner jacket, which gave him the appearance of a handsome college professor, the kind that stirred the hearts of young coeds.

  She waited until the song was finished before approaching him. When she asked if she could sit down, he smiled politely but nervously, stood up and helped her to her seat. Skyler was both surprised and pleased by this gesture; most men were so self-absorbed these days that seldom did they remember basic social graces. She reminded herself that she wasn’t here for a relationship; she just wanted a man to fuck, someone with enough talent to satiate her desire.

  His name was Anthony Carmeli and he said he was a “not-very-good” Hollywood producer, though Skyler wasn’t sure she believed him. She offered no information about herself except her fake name, always managing to deftly change the subject when necessary as she had learned to do over the years. They listened to the music and talked for half an hour, Skyler feigning interest. When she invited him to her apartment, he looked surprised, embarrassed even, but he accepted. They left the bar quickly. Skyler scanned the faces on the way out and saw no special interest from the patrons.

  She led him down the boardwalk, well lit from the glow of the lights. Palm trees rustled in the sea breeze and wind chimes jingled from one of the verandas, mingling with the gentle roar of the waves. The sounds were peaceful and rhythmic; for a fleeting moment, Skyler felt something resembling romance in her sheltered heart, walking with this handsome man who seemed pleasant enough.

  But then she reminded herself, again, that what she was about to do was only for sexual gratification. There was no real romance—and never would be for her. Since Don Scarpello and Alberto she hated men—the whole damned lot of them. There was no room left in her heart for love.