Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Vail put her mug down and thought a moment. “White male, forty-five to fifty, probably living on his own, but he has some support system, a person or persons he can confide in. Contrary to what I said a moment ago about loners, I think your guy’s part of a group, an organized militia. He’s neat, clean, very disciplined. Good attention to detail.

  “Like I said, bombers tend to shy away from face-to-face confrontation, which is why they use a bomb instead of a knife or gun. But I don’t think that’s the case here. Just the opposite. I don’t think it’s about avoiding a confrontation; he thought—right or wrong—that this was simply the best way for him to accomplish his goal. He’s above-average intelligence. Drives an older SUV or a pickup. Dark or muted color so he doesn’t attract attention.” She took another sip. “I feel like I’m so far out on the limb that the tree is about to tip over. Satisfied?”

  Uzi took a swig from his cup, lost in thought. Finally, he looked up. “Yeah, yeah. Great. I appreciate it.” His smartphone vibrated. He rummaged through his jacket pocket, pulled out the Nokia, and answered it. He listened a second, then said, “I’m on it. Text me the address. Be there ASAP.” He stood up and planted a kiss on Vail’s forehead. “Gotta run. I may call you again on this.”

  “Frank Del Monaco. Call him. It’s his case, remember?”

  “Yeah, whatever. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and ran out of the café.

  4:29 PM

  165 hours 31 minutes remaining

  Uzi arrived at the Capitol Athletic Club twenty-five minutes later. Five of his task force members were there, along with DeSantos, who Uzi had called from his car while en route.

  “Santa,” Uzi said, bumping his colleague’s fist with his own. “What’s the deal?”

  “Dead lobbyist. Russell Fargo. Midlevel partner with McKutcheon Winchester. That’s all I know.”

  Uzi turned and caught the attention of Agent Hoshi Koh, who was leaning over the dead man’s body in the ten-by-ten steam room. In a brief email he had dashed off to her earlier in the day, Uzi put Hoshi in charge of the group investigating the Ellison murder.

  He squeezed his way into the room. A scent he had never before experienced—the coppery bitterness of blood mixed with eucalyptus oil—made his nostrils flare.

  “You want to know what I think?” Hoshi asked.

  “First I want to know why we were called. How is this guy related to our investigation?’

  “He may not be. But Metro PD’s reporting all murders to Shepard. JTTF is now the big deal. Suspicious stuff comes to us, just in case. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Guess he left that part out. I’m only in charge. No reason for me to know the details.” Uzi glanced around the room, noticed the blood-smeared tile. “So this guy was seated over there,” he said, nodding at the far wall. “Gets clipped in the chest, then in the head, or vice versa, falls face first and lands here.”

  “Seems reasonable to me,” Hoshi said.

  DeSantos walked into the room and glanced around. Uzi introduced him to Hoshi and played out the murder in his mind while DeSantos and Hoshi exchanged pleasantries.

  “Okay,” Uzi said. “Now I’d like to know what you think.”

  Hoshi turned toward the reclining corpse, then tilted her head to the side as if she were appraising a sculpture. “I think this guy pissed somebody off.”

  Uzi stood there, waiting for more. He looked at DeSantos, who shrugged. “That’s all you think?” Uzi asked.

  “I think about my ex-husband when I’m horny, but I don’t think you need that detail.”

  “You’re right.”

  A thirty-something man in a grey Sears suit walked into the locker room, scribbling a note on his pad.

  DeSantos indicated the guy with a slight nod. “Metro dick who caught the case. Name’s Zambrano.”

  Uzi followed his partner out of the steam room and extended a hand. “Aaron Uzi.” Uzi’s credentials case, folded outward and protruding from his pocket, screamed FBI in bold letters.

  Zambrano looked up and shook his hand. “Yeah. Good to meet you.”

  “We’ll make sure you get copied on all our reports,” Uzi said. “You’ll do the same?”

  “Hey, turf wars have their place. This isn’t one of ’em.”

  Uzi squinted, sizing this guy up. Turf wars have their place? He handed the detective a blue, gold-embossed FBI business card. “We’ll touch base with you before we take off.”

  “Yeah. Good,” Zambrano said, then buried his face in his notepad as he moved off toward the steam room.

  Uzi shared a look of bewilderment with DeSantos, then took his partner aside. “You get the lowdown on this Fargo dude?”

  “As soon as I get back to my office, I’ll know what flavor ice cream he liked.”

  “I’d be more interested in whether he’s got any links to ARM, Ellison, Harmon, Rusch, or anyone else on that copter. And Rusch’s wife. We need to look into Macy Rusch. Maybe she was getting some action on the side.”

  “Jilted lover blows up the VP and a bunch of Marines? Not even the Enquirer would run something like that.”

  Uzi shrugged. “It’s another ‘i’ to dot.” Then the sight of Leila Harel entering the locker room snagged his attention.

  Uzi slapped DeSantos on the chest, then headed toward Leila. He covered the distance between them in three long strides.

  “Hello again.”

  “Agent Uzi,” she said offhandedly, glancing around his body at the grouping of Metro PD cops, FBI agents and crime-scene techs. “What a surprise.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” he said, leaning slightly to his left to block her gaze.

  Her lips twisted. “Excuse me,” she said, then grabbed his arm and attempted to move him aside.

  Whoa. Her touch shuddered through him. Just like the first time he’d met Dena—she brushed against his shoulder as she squeezed by him. And it changed his life forever.

  “I can tell you everything you want to know,” Uzi said. “How about a late dinner?” He glanced at the wall clock. “Eight-thirty, Founding Farmers. I’ve got a couple people working the case you should coordinate with.”

  Leila’s gaze shifted to Uzi’s face.

  Is that the first time she actually looked into my eyes?

  “What?” she asked.

  “Dinner. Eight-thirty. Founding Farmers.”

  She stared at his face for a long moment, then nodded and pushed past him.

  Uzi stood there and watched Leila walk away. He wished they’d be meeting alone, but perhaps it was better this way: less guilt.

  1924 PENNSYLVANIA AVE NW

  8:26 PM

  161 hours 34 minutes remaining

  Located a few blocks from the White House and adjacent to the International Monetary Fund in the heart of DC, Founding Farmers sat at the heart of the nation’s circulatory system.

  But the restaurant didn’t merely specialize in power lunches and dinners; it featured fresh foods from the country’s family farms, ranches, and fisheries.

  Uzi passed through the polished stainless steel storefront and into the wood-inspired environs: raw butcher-block style tables and paneled walls and floors, with billowy, cloud-shaped light fixtures hanging from the second-story ceiling.

  He sat at the bar, leather overcoat neatly folded and draped over his left forearm, watching Paul, the mâitre d, handle the guests as they entered. It was clear who’d been there before and who hadn’t by their facial expressions upon glimpsing the interior’s striking décor.

  Leila entered and her head swiveled in all directions, taking in the colorful surroundings. Uzi slid off the barstool and greeted her.

  “Our table’s upstairs. Follow me.” He led her by the elbow up the staircase, where small ceramic birds hung from the high ceiling.

  He thought of telling Leila that she looked lovely—hot is the word he would’ve used, because it was true—but he knew that would be the wrong way to fr
ame the evening. Correct or not, he believed it. Wearing a form-fitting red dress and a simple yet elegant pearl necklace topped off by a black cashmere cape loosely draped about her bare shoulders, she looked as good as that first time he had seen her at the crash site. Two-inch heels and long, slender thighs made it appear as if her legs went on forever, and brought her closer to Uzi’s six-foot-two.

  Uzi led her to their table in front of a large window that overlooked 20th Avenue NW. Karen Vail was seated with her back to them. When she felt Uzi’s tap on her back, she rose and gave Leila a quick once-over. She squinted confusion, glanced at Uzi, and asked Leila, “You always wear your finest dress to a business meeting? Or did I miss the memo?”

  Leila unfurled her cape and said, “This isn’t my finest dress. But thank you for the compliment.”

  Vail crumpled her brow again. “Right.”

  Uzi cleared his throat, unsure what to make of their verbal sparring. Where the hell’s Santa? “Leila Harel, meet Karen Vail. Karen’s with the BAU.”

  Leila nodded acknowledgment. “Are you on the task force?”

  “Hell yeah,” Uzi said. “Karen’s the best profiler we’ve got.”

  Vail stifled a laugh. “I am very good—but not the best. And I’m not on the task force. I’m just filling in for a colleague. As a favor.”

  “And what can you offer us as a profiler? This seems a bit out of your league.”

  Before Vail could fire off a barb in reply, a waiter greeted them.

  “Clarence,” Uzi said. “Good to see you.” And just in the nick of time.

  “Been a while,” the middle-aged man said. They made small talk for a moment, then Clarence conveyed their specials, which featured roasted chicken salad with Trixie’s mayonnaise, dried blueberries, Bibb lettuce, and golden beets. “I’ll be back to take your order in a bit. No rush.”

  “We’re waiting for one more, actually,” Uzi said.

  By the time Clarence walked off, Vail had clearly decided to let Leila’s comment pass, and instead provided her with a professional, though concise, overview of the information she had discussed with Uzi.

  “You people are known for serial killers,” Leila said. “Just how is this going to help us find the bomber?”

  “We people,” Vail said between clenched teeth, “handle a variety of cases, from threat assessment to serial killers, rapists, arsonists, child abductors, and, yes, even those pillars of society, bombers.”

  Uzi inched forward uncomfortably in his chair. “Having an accurate profile will help us narrow down our suspect pool and tell us where to focus our investigation.”

  Leila hiked her brow. “No offense, but I don’t see it. We don’t even have the devices. They’re in a million pieces scattered across how may square miles?”

  “That definitely makes it more difficult,” Vail said, “but not impossible. It just means we need to be more creative.”

  “Creative?” Leila turned to Uzi. “We need facts, not guesswork. Because if our guesses are wrong—”

  “That’s not what Karen meant.”

  “Uzi,” Vail said, “I’m capable of speaking for myself. And yes, I meant creative. We don’t always have the necessary forensics to identify our offender. So we have to use our heads to find the information other ways.” Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She pulled it from her belt, glanced at the screen, and then rose from her chair. “Gotta run. But thanks—it’s been lovely. I’m sure dinner would’ve been better than the company.” She forced a smile and gathered up her black sweater.

  Uzi rose awkwardly from his chair. “Wait— You really have to go?”

  “A case I was tricked into taking, for lack of a better term. Some football player. He was bludgeoned and his dick was cut off. We’ve got another vic.”

  Uzi winced. “Couldn’t you have left out the part about the severed penis?”

  “I can brief Hector on my own,” Vail said, then turned to Leila. “Nice meeting you. Let’s not do it again real soon.”

  Vail walked off toward the staircase.

  Uzi sat down hard in his seat. “She’s working this case as a favor to me, Leila. You didn’t have to antagonize her.”

  Leila pursed her moist, glossed lips. “Sorry if I wasn’t more accepting of her...theories. I just think it’s going to be of limited value. I hope she didn’t take it personally.”

  Uzi snorted. “Don’t worry about it. Karen doesn’t get mad. She gets even.”

  Clarence returned with a wine list in hand. “May I suggest something, or would you like to take a look for yourself?”

  “Just a glass for me,” Uzi said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do after dinner.”

  Clarence raised a brow and glanced at Leila. “Indeed.”

  “No,” Uzi said with a grin. “Real work, Clarence.”

  “I’m sure it will be, Mr. Uzi. But we have your favorite Cabernet—Galil Mountain, from the Golan.”

  Uzi twisted his mouth into a mock frown. “You’re like the serpent, Clarence. Tempting me.” He gestured toward Leila. “Okay by you?”

  “I’ll give it a shot.”

  As Clarence headed off, Uzi’s Nokia buzzed. He checked the screen and groaned. “Gotta be kidding.”

  “Problem?” Leila asked.

  “Hector cancelled. Has to put out a fire.”

  “Hector?”

  Uzi placed his phone on the table. “The other task force member who was joining us.”

  “So, Agent Uzi,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows and tilting her head. “It’s down to you and me.”

  “Please, just call me ‘Uzi.’”

  “Do you always pick up women at crash sites...Uzi?”

  Uzi glanced from side to side. “Did I miss something?”

  “I’m with the CIA. I’m trained to smell a setup better than most dogs sniff bombs.”

  “No setup, Leila. This was supposed to be a working dinner. I’d no idea Karen would catch a case and that Hector would cancel. But to answer your question about picking up women at crash sites, it’s been at least a couple of years since I’ve done that.” He smiled, then moved back to allow the busboy to place a plate of bread on the table. “Homemade cornbread with honey butter. Try some. It’s to die for.”

  “Look at the facts,” Leila said, ignoring Uzi’s comment. “Here we are, just you and me, having dinner at a trendy restaurant. A romantic atmosphere. With wine on the way.”

  “Actually, the wine is served,” Clarence said, turning the bottle to display the label for Uzi’s inspection. Uzi indicated that Clarence should show it instead to Leila, and the server complied.

  Leila, whose gaze was still locked on Uzi, diverted her eyes to the wine and nodded.

  Clarence produced a polished chrome corkscrew, and with three twists and a pull, the Cabernet was breathing. He poured a small amount into Leila’s glass and waited while she swirled it, then watched as she took a satisfying sniff before swishing a mouthful across her palate.

  She glanced up at Clarence and said, “Very earthy. And a hint of dark chocolate. Excellent.”

  Uzi raised an eyebrow.

  “I have an affinity for Cabs.”

  Clarence poured the two glasses, set the bottle down, and melted into the background.

  Uzi reached for his glass and took a sip. He knew the vintage well and Leila was right about the flavors. Like Leila, Dena’s palate could differentiate between coveted and lesser desirable vintages. The parallels between the women hijacked his thoughts for a brief moment and he saw Dena sitting across from him, the neckline of her red dress plunging a bit lower than Leila’s, displaying a tantalizing hint of cleavage.

  Uzi set down his glass. “Where did you acquire your taste for wine?” he asked.

  Leila took another sip and let her eyes roam the room.

  After a prolonged silence, Uzi said, “You don’t like personal questions.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Then we’ll keep it to business for now. CIA. Counterintellige
nce?”

  She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “I’m looking into the crash. Like you.”

  “But you can’t discuss it.”

  “I’m limited in what I can say. I’m sure you understand.”

  “The idea’s to pool information, Leila. If there was a takeaway lesson from 9/11, that’s it right there.” She had no response, so he continued. “Guess that means we’re back to personal stuff. Are you married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Uzi grabbed a piece of cornbread and placed it on his plate. He pulled off a corner and asked, “But you were. Divorced or widowed?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Children?”

  “No.”

  Uzi nodded, wishing the one-word responses would morph into more thoughtful answers. It was beginning to feel like an interrogation. “Siblings?”

  “One brother.” She pointed to the small plate by Uzi’s elbow. “How’s the bread?”

  “Good,” he said. “It’s always good.”

  They spent the next hour sparring and discussing elements of the crash, Uzi supplying some of the facts they had amassed and hoping for an in-kind exchange from Leila. But she did not offer up the detailed intel he felt the CIA should have developed by now. To be fair, however, neither had those members of his task force who were with the Agency.

  They eventually settled onto the more neutral ground of complaining about bureaucracy and sharing stories of the battle scars each had endured during the rise to their current positions. Underlying the evening, however, was the sense that the attraction Uzi felt was mutual—at one point he caught her reflection in a mirror watching his butt when he got up to use the restroom.

  After arguing over who should pay the bill—they ended up splitting it—Uzi rose from his chair. “Can we do this again?” he asked as he helped place the cape onto her shapely shoulders.

  “The work part or the part where your friends cancel and it’s just you and me?”

  “The part where my friends cancel.”

  She pursed her lips, a slight smile tickling the corners of her mouth. Looking out at the lights on 20th Avenue beyond the window, she said, “I think so.”

  Less than an enthusiastic response, but for now he would accept it. “Great. I’ll call you.”