Andre scanned the sky. It’ll be dark soon. He focused hard, and put his photographic memory to work.
Floodlights, mounted atop ten-foot poles, were equipped with diamond-prism motion detectors. Recently developed, the detectors emitted dense waves of infrared light in a net-like maze across a designated area. The slightest movement within the five to fifteen hundred square foot web, and the lights would spit out blinding white beams, like the sun on an August afternoon.
Two feet above double French doors, a white wood-grained metal box blended in perfectly with the rest of the exterior. Two small, barely perceptible antennas protruded from the top. A wireless transmitter for a silent alarm system. He smiled, and made note he’d need a high-grade Motorola handheld scrambler, and would need to cut the hard-line backup system.
Fifty yards from the house, a ten-foot stone wall surrounded the estate. Andre moved deeper into the yard, pretending to work an area alongside the white-brick stairway near the main garden. Two large Rottweilers sprawled out behind a metal fence, lay motionless. He lightly tapped his shovel on the stairs. The dogs sprang to attention.
Their black eyes locked in and followed his every move. Magnificent creatures. Obviously well kept and trained. He thought of poisoning them as they roamed about, however, in his experience, well-trained guard dogs didn’t take food from strangers. No problem. I’ll shoot them from the wall with a silencer fitted rifle.
He heard Judge Patrick laughing and playing with Jessica through an open window on the second floor. How would the seven-year-old sound crying at her mother’s funeral? No. He would definitely save her the trouble and end her life too. After all, what was life without a mother?
“Excuse me sir, no one is allowed to move outside our view,” the agent said, catching him off guard. “Please come to the front and let us know when you plan to work in another area.”
“Sorry mate” he said. “Had no idea. Just trying to do me job.” Counting the number and types of windows on the side and back of the house, he tried to determine which window led to what room. Idiots.
Fooling them is so easy. In the old Soviet Union, I’d be halfway to Siberia by now.
Andre needed more information. No matter. I’ll return with the crew tomorrow. Later during the week, I’ll break inside for a trial run and learn what I need.
An hour later, they were finished. Andre helped load the truck, thoughts of his brother, Vladimir, torturing his mind.
They pulled away from the estate and headed back to Salvador Landscaping’s company compound. The truck’s rhythmic movement lulled Andre into a twilight sleep. He dreamed of home. He saw his brother Vladimir walking past St. Basil’s Cathedral in the Kremlin, tall and proud in his military uniform. He called out, but Vladimir didn’t answer. He waved goodbye to Andre as American soldiers led him to a bullet-riddled wall. One of the soldiers, a General, blindfolded Vladimir, while the others lined up in front of him. The General stepped aside, raised one hand in the air, and slowly counted backwards from three.
Andre screamed for them to stop, to take his life instead. He was too late.
The General’s hand dropped and the rifle’s retort violently ripped through the air. Andre screamed again and ran to his brother, helpless.
Vladimir’s body slumped to the ground, leaving a bright crimson trail streaking down the wall. The General smiled, a taunting, teasing display.
The mirth sealed his next victim’s fate. The General wore the face of-
Judge Fiona Patrick.
8
After eight o’clock, the regular mix of tourists, political hacks and city veterans, went home for the night, and left traffic light. The city’s ceiling, dark but clear, lost its frosty bite, but remained crisp and cold.
Robert treated the streets like a personal NASCAR speedway, barely missed a taxi or two, with Thorne right on his tail.
George Clinton pounded out funky beats from his stereo. Robert’s pulse quickened, and his nose snorted air like an angry bull. He bit down on his lip, imagining Patrick Miller’s jovial reflection in the windshield.
A tight grip on the steering wheel, and his bloodless knuckles turned white.
I should’ve checked out that weasel who followed me to the mission.
Did he have anything to do with Miller’s death? He slapped a palm against his forehead.
The Mustang and Range Rover slowed at Constitution Avenue, where speeding cars attracted the attention of Secret Service and Army personnel, strategically hidden near each monument and major government building. Minutes later, they crept into the city’s parallel dimension, where murky, dilapidated streets spawned an eerie sub-culture.
Bodies crowded the sidewalks in heaps, like scattered islands of misery, magnifying the overwhelming squalor. Bright orange flames leapt up from bonfires. The homeless and hopeless crowded around large metal drums in vacant lots for warmth.
Robert turned off his CD player, concentrating on Miller. What did he know? Why would someone kill him? Then he remembered something Charlie said back at the office. “They know I’m here and they’ll come for you.” Thorne was right. Robert didn’t care.
Normally he didn’t indulge in hatred, considering it a waste of time and emotion. Nevertheless, he despised and hated those responsible for President Kennedy’s assassination. Robert considered politics a contact sport, where daughters disappeared, interns were seduced, and war a necessity if you wanted peace. Sometimes people died.
However, even for a realist like him, President Kennedy’s murder extended beyond the realm of political necessity. He wasn’t about to walk away from Charlie’s revelation, not with hard evidence and one of the shooters. The sensation behind his eyes warned- Patrick Miller won’t be the last to die.
Robert drove through his second roadblock of the day, passing several fire-trucks and an ambulance. Flashing lights bounced off the brick and asphalt, creating a surreal, psychedelic atmosphere. They parked across the street from the mission.
Robert spotted Popeye, sullen, slumped down in his wheelchair, taking slugs from a bottle in a brown paper sack, watching the police work a large crowd assembled in front of the shelter. He avoided Popeye’s gaze, but felt the weight of the old vet’s glare.
Inside, uniformed police and plain-clothes detectives nearly outnumbered the homeless, with every room and office being used for questioning. A mix of stress, confusion, and frustration obvious, detectives tried to get information from reticent staff members and shelter residents not inclined to talk with police.
In the cafeteria, several distraught volunteers pointed at him, including the Bahamian woman who directed him to Miller’s office earlier. The detectives took note, reluctantly sending them to the fourth floor, escorted by a young female officer, a rookie Robert guessed, for questioning.
They reached Miller’s tiny office and were greeted by another sizeable police contingent, edgier and more frustrated than their cohorts downstairs. Robert asked for the lead detective, and was met with silence and looks of aggravation.
“Mr. Veil?” a muffled voice called from somewhere inside.
In the back of the office near Miller’s desk, a man mountain, with a fiery red crew cut, rose up from the floor and towered over the room. He grunted and pulled off the largest pair of rubber gloves Robert ever saw, a proctology nightmare.
Making his way toward them, his considerable girth demanded several people step outside the room to accommodate his movement.
“Detective Ralph Durbin, homicide,” he said. “I’m the one who called you.”
Robert nodded, introduced himself and Thorne, then extended his hand, which disappeared in the giant’s tight grip.
He glanced around the detective to get a good look at Miller’s body.
The director sat in the chair behind his desk, eyes wide, chin on his chest, jellybeans strewn all over the floor, a bullet hole centered in his forehead.
Durbin moved his frame so they could get a clear look.
“We
were wondering what you could tell us about our little situation here,” said Durbin. “You were here earlier were you not, Mr. Veil?”
“I was here,” answered Robert. “What makes you think I know something about this?”
Thorne filmed the scene while they spoke.
“Sorry miss, we can’t allow that,” Durbin told her. “We know who you are, but this isn’t one of your cases, so no pictures, no video tape.”
“Then why’d you call us here, detective?” Robert asked, stepping inside the office.
“Well, when we got here we found your business card gripped tight in Mr. Miller’s fist, and several eyewitnesses place you as the last person seen with him. Can you offer something different?” Robert looked into Miller’s hollow blue eyes. His heart sank. “Like I said, I was here. Doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“Exactly what was your business with Mr. Miller?”
“A missing person’s case,” said Robert. “I questioned Mr. Miller as a possible lead.”
“Who were you looking for?” asked Durbin, pulling several sticks of Juicy Fruit from his inside jacket pocket. He wadded them together and tossed them into his cavernous mouth.
“I’m sorry, that’s confidential,” answered Robert, picking up a slight odor of feces from Miller’s body. It wasn’t uncommon for an individual to shit themselves in the face of immense fear or death. In the field, he’d seen it happen to the best. Hell, he’d almost done it himself once or twice.
“Listen detective,” Robert continued. “Do you think I’d leave my name and number in a man’s hand after I killed him?”
“I’ve seen stranger things over the last thirty years. Besides,” said Durbin, sarcastic and matter-of-fact. “Like I said, you were the last person seen with him. Now, you say you were following up a lead on a case?”
“A missing person’s case,” Robert repeated, irritated.
“But the only person who knows if that’s true has a bullet in his head.
So you see our little problem here?”
Durbin’s repetitive questions annoyed Robert, but he wasn’t going to bring up Charlie. What would I say anyway? Hey, I’m following up on a case connected to the Kennedy assassination, so back off. The only thing that would get me is a nice long stay in a straight jacket.
Thorne walked over to the detective. Tall, she still looked up at him.
“Listen Detective Durbin, or whatever the hell your name is. If you had anything real, Robert would be in handcuffs. You wouldn’t have called him down here; you would’ve picked him up. So either get on with it, or back the fuck off.”
Durbin looked down and smiled the smile of a man who knew his own strength, yet made a conscious decision to keep it under control.
“It’s just procedure Ms. Thorne,” he said, gently. “We’re required to follow up on every possible lead. You know that. I’m catching high-heat on this case. Mr. Miller was connected, respected, and well-liked.” Thorne returned Durbin’s smile, and took a step back.
“We understand,” said Robert. “But I wasn’t involved. If you’d like, I’ll take a gunshot residue test confirming I haven’t fired a weapon.
Better still, take my guns and test them. They haven’t been discharged in a couple of days, and then only at the range. What was used on Miller?”
“From the size of the entry and exit wound, and the powder burn on the forehead, I’m guessing a twenty-two, twenty-five caliber. Most likely a silencer fitted Colt. That’s probably why no one heard anything.
Sounds more like a mosquito whisper than a bullet.” Robert stroked his chin. “Then whoever did this is a pro.” Miller knew more than he revealed. Why did they kill him? Did he know where Charlie was and refused to talk? Wouldn’t that be more reason to keep him alive?
Durbin looked as though he were trying to read Robert’s mind. “It would be nice if you shared with us Mr. Veil. The man deserves to have his killer hung up by the toes.”
Robert agreed. Seeing Miller lifeless only increased his anger. “Like I said, it’s a missing person’s case,” Robert repeated. “I thought Miller might be able to help me find someone.”
“A homeless person?” Durbin asked.
“I can’t say.”
“You need to tell us something.”
“Why? I won’t say this again. It’s a confidential matter, and none of your fucking business!”
Durbin stepped toward Robert, Thorne slid in his way. “Is there anything else detective?”
Durbin’s eyes flashed from Robert, to Thorne, then back to Robert.
“There’s nothing at the moment,” he said, backing up. “But I’ll take you up on that gun residue test later, after we finish here. If anything comes up before then, I’ll call.”
Thorne moved a little closer to the detective, with a Grinch-like smile on her face. Gently, but firm, she grabbed his balls. Durbin looked around, embarrassed, grunting. Thorne smiled then slowly let go. “Just wanted to see if they were as big as the rest of you,” she said. “I’ll wait by the elevator,” she told Robert, then left the room.
Durbin thudded back against the wall. Robert remembered something Thorne once told him. “It’s hard not to be in control with a man’s balls in your hand. Without balls, a man’s just not a man.” Robert cleared his throat. “Please be in touch, and let me know when you’re ready for that test.”
Durbin mumbled something that sounded like, okay I will, and Robert caught up with Thorne at the elevator. Outside on the street he pulled her to the side. “A little heavy handed wouldn’t you say?” Thorne flashed a confident smile. “A girl’s gotta have her fun.” Robert shook his head in amazement. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Popeye. The old vet waved him over. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he told Thorne, and jogged across the street.
Popeye looked rattled, defeat in his eyes. “Wondered if you’d show up.”
“It wasn’t me Popeye,” said Robert. “I didn’t kill him. You must know that.”
Popeye took a swig from his brown paper bag and looked off into nowhere. “I know,” he said. “I saw you leave. I told everyone to say you were the last one seen with him. It was the only way to make sure you came back.”
Robert knelt. “What do you know? Did anyone see or hear anything the police don’t already know?”
Popeye sat back in his wheelchair, looked to see if anyone was listening, then leaned in close to Robert’s ear. “Charlie was here,” he whispered. “I saw him cut through the alley in back of the mission.
Next thing I know, the police are all over the place and Miller’s dead.” Robert watched Popeye fight back tears. “Did you get a chance to talk to Charlie?”
“Miller was the only one who really cared around here,” Popeye said to the night. “A lot of people gonna just fold up and die.” Robert put a hand on Popeye’s shoulder. He looked up, and spotted the weasel who tailed him earlier. Their eyes met, the man lowered his head, and quickened his pace in the opposite direction, vanishing down an alley.
“Thorne,” Robert called, signaling for her to follow him. “That guy trailed me to the mission earlier today.” Thorne caught up. They reached the alley. The weasel looked back, saw them following, and took off-ass on fire. They sprinted hard and fast but he moved like a cheetah, cutting out of the alley, sprinting down a deserted street, disappearing into another alley at the far end of the block.
Robert and Thorne drew their weapons, each falling to a different side of the alleyway, taking cover behind crates and dumpsters.
Robert agreed with Detective Durbin. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between a silencer and a mosquito whisper. He wasn’t most people.
With a silencer screwed on, the added volume in a gun barrel allowed the gas to expand, and it whooshed out behind the bullet quietly, like air carefully let out of a balloon-a mosquito whisper.
Angry mosquitoes whispered past their ears, ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. He heard the man reload several times,
but signaled Thorne not to fire back. He counted the shots, motioned for his partner to cover him, slid out on his belly and crawled toward the crates where the weasel hid.
Halfway there, Thorne bolted to the dumpster he’d just left, drawing fire. She let off a volley of gunfire, keeping the weasel pinned down.
He fired back, then focused his attention on Robert, sending streams of mosquitoes rocketing just above his skull.
Robert took a deep breath and pressed closer to the ground. Two clips later, he heard the weasel’s gun disengage. Empty.
He sprang to his feet, jumped over the crates and garbage cans, crashing down on top of the weasel. Wiry and strong, he wrapped over Robert like a full-grown boa constrictor.
Both men jumped to their feet, punching like cowboys in a western bar room brawl. The wiry little man surprised Robert, landing several fast blows to his face and neck, knocking him to the ground.
Thorne leapt like a panther, knocking the goon to the pavement with a roundhouse kick to the chest. Robert scrambled and rushed forward, like a crazed Chicago Bears linebacker.
Like shotgun blasts, two hard-soled shoes hit Robert hard in the gut, sending him backwards in the air, crashing to the concrete. He righted himself, head spinning.
The weasel sprang to his feet like an Olympic gymnast. Thorne rushed over and hit him with a combination to the body and face, like Sugar Ray Leonard in a Marvin Hagler fight. The man doubled over then snapped upright, back handed her in the head and kicked her hard between the legs, sending her crashing into a pile of boxes.
Robert recovered, rushed over, and drop kicked him to the ground.
Back to his feet, the weasel picked up his gun and sprinted out of the alley, Robert on his heels.
Congestion on the street didn’t slow the weasel. He knocked down unlucky pedestrians, stomping and kicking several rag-covered people asleep on the street. A couple of blocks down, he stopped and fired. His silencer gone, the gun erupted a familiar melody, and everyone dove for cover.
Robert dropped to the ground with them and felt for his guns, but both holsters were empty. The shooting stopped. He snapped to his feet.
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