by Brian Drake
“I’m Danny Clover,” he said, notebook and pen in hand. He wasn’t a grizzled old-timer she’d have preferred, somebody with experience. They sent her a college kid.
“Tell me what happened, Ms. Lewis.”
The words came out with little effort. It surprised her. You’d think describing the murder of your father would be tougher. Her throat felt raw and her voice sounded husky, but she didn’t stop talking.
Inspector Clover’s pen scratched on his notepad and he asked some questions, but made no promises about catching the killer.
When he left, she lay in bed and realized he also hadn’t asked why she was still alive.
She wasn’t sure either
Inspector Clover parked his unmarked police car near the start of the street closure and climbed out. A patrolman standing guard lifted the yellow tape for Clover to pass. He found his men near the entrance. Crime scene techs examined the pools of blood on the pavement.
“Well?”
An inspector named Fitzgerald turned to speak to Clover.
“The camera on the door was disabled, no witnesses, we found a patch of cloth that might belong to the killer’s pants, but it’s the only piece of physical evidence we have.”
Clover scanned the tired faces of the other inspectors, who added nothing. Nobody wanted to be out this late. Especially Clover, but not for the same reason as the others.
“The killer shot the father,” Clover said, “but left the woman alive. Anybody talking to the building manager?”
“Doesn’t live here,” Fitzgerald said. “He’s driving over from Alameda.”
“We need to know if this was a botched attempted break-in. If so, have there been others in the neighboring buildings.”
“I’m thinking it was a hit,” one of the other inspectors said. “Why let the woman live?”
“If that’s where this leads, fine. Otherwise just work the case and don’t speculate,” Clover said.
He gave his men more instructions and returned to his car. As he drove away he speed-dialed a number on his cell.
“You better have a reason for waking me, Clover.”
“I’ll say,” said the inspector. “Your man botched it. My guys already think it looks like a hit. The malfunctioning camera doesn’t help.”
“We may need a scapegoat,” the other man said.
“Something that sews this up would be nice,” Clover said.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Sweet dreams.”
The other man hung up. Clover put his phone away.
Three days later, Ali unlocked the door to a home she hadn’t entered since the murder of her father. The front room felt stuffy. She needed to open a window.
The door shut with a thud that seemed louder than before. Out of habit she tossed her purse on the chair to the left, but then froze.
She couldn’t stay here. How could she sleep in this place knowing she was the only one there?
Ali grabbed her purse but the phone rang before she could reach the door. She took her cell from the purse.
“Hello?” Her voice shook a little.
Male voice, curt, to the point. “Sell or something worse happens.”
The caller hung up.
Ali’s whole body shook as she dropped the phone back in the purse. She leaned against the door and took deep breaths, trying not to faint.
Chapter Three
Scott Stiletto sat at his desk staring at a stack of paperwork and an inbox full of email that he had no desire to deal with. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light when he’d arrived. His side of the building faced the sun; light streamed through half-closed blinds.
He took his sketch book from a faded tote bag under his desk, put up his feet, and started drawing from memory the fountain he’d seen in front of a hotel while in Bern. To hell with work.
Stiletto sat and sketched steadily for an hour. Growing up with few friends, and constantly on the move with his father’s army assignments, meant he needed a hobby he could do alone. Drawing had been the perfect solution. He didn’t entertain any thoughts of ever having a professional gallery showing. His pictures were for him alone.
The tip of his pen skipped across the paper, creating a vague outline of the fountain. It had been a tiered marble design with spouts of water flowing down the three levels to the pool at the base. Presently Scott tore the page from the sketchbook, crumpled the paper, and tossed it. The crumpled sheet bounced off the rim of his trash can and landed on the carpet.
His heart wasn’t in it and he was upset about the Blaser job, too. Some things couldn’t be helped, but Scott figured there had been two or three other options open to him during the Hamin chase that he failed to miss or didn’t take. Of course, it was all in his head. He couldn’t name what those options might have been. The failures always stuck with him. He could barely remember the successful missions most of the time.
Turning his chair to look out the office window, ignoring the blinds in the way, he sat with his lips a flat line and his jaw tight.
At least the Blaser family was safe.
When his office door opened and his department secretary entered, he turned. She stopped short.
“You don’t look happy,” Judy Kragen said. She was a middle-aged mother of three who trained at the Farm with Scott.
“I’m not.”
“This arrived for you.” She held out an envelope. “Fresh from the X-ray.”
“Doesn’t anybody use e-mail anymore?” He took the envelope but didn’t force a laugh. Judy departed and closed the door.
His frown turned to concern as he opened and read the letter.
Scott,
I don’t have an email for you and for all I know you’ve quit the Agency but I have nobody else to turn to. Jesus, did I just write that? My father has been murdered and I know who did it. I have no proof and the police think it was a random crime so they’re no help. I know I’m asking a lot but can you come to San Francisco and at least listen to my story?
Ali.
She signed her name with an enlarged, exaggerated A. Some things never change. His pulse raced. He was surprised that seeing her name gave him such a reaction. Then again, he had loved her once.
He put the letter down, picked up his phone and dialed an extension.
David McNeil, General Ike’s chief-of-staff, answered on the third ring.
“It’s me,” Scott said. “I need to see the boss.”
“He’s booked for the day.”
“Tell him Ali Lewis is in trouble. Her father’s been murdered.”
“Oh, no,” McNeil said. “I’ll tell him now, hold on.”
Stiletto waited two minutes.
“He’ll see you right now.”
Ali Lewis had preceded McNeil as Ike Fleming’s chief-of-staff, holding the position for four years before leaving to help run her family’s clothing design business in San Francisco. She and Scott had dated for part of that time, until she broke it off with him after a year and a half.
General Ike read the letter with glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He read with fatherly concern and put the letter down. “What a shame.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is she expecting?” General Ike said. “This is a police matter; we can’t possibly get involved.”
Stiletto shifted in his chair. “I can take some time off.”
“And do what?”
“See an old girlfriend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know what Ali wants other than to talk to somebody who might actually listen,” Stiletto said. “I still have a pal at the San Francisco F.B.I. office. Maybe I can be a go-between for her.”
“Maybe you should just call and refer her to him.”
Scott said nothing
“Her tale of intrigue is too much to resist,” the General added. “Let’s not kid ourselves on that. You may go as a close friend and concerned citizen, but I know I don’t have to remind you about the law, or t
aking risks that will expose you or this agency.”
“Of course.”
“Have a good trip.”
Stiletto nodded and started for the door.
“Scott?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give her my condolences.”
Scott nodded and let himself out of the office.
Stiletto took the long way home because he enjoyed driving his car more than any other activity. The car was a 1977 Trans Am, bright red, which he had rebuilt and restored with great care. The new paint job eradicated the original “screaming chicken” on the hood. He’d also updated the car with a heavy-duty suspension that provided exceptional cornering abilities that the factory set-up had lacked. As a final touch, he had rebuilt the 455-cubic inch engine so that the 310-horse power plant carried the car along at a rocketing pace.
His cell phone rang. He clicked the answer button, holding the wheel with his left hand. “Yes?”
“Agent Stiletto, this is Corporal Argo at the Security Desk. Sir, you home alarm has been triggered.”
“That’s not good.”
Agency employees with top secret and above clearance had an alarm installed at their homes that alerted Agency security personnel in case of a break-in. Local police were also informed. Agency men usually made it to the scene first to make sure occupants were okay and nothing sensitive had been stolen.
“I have a security officer on his way to assist you and have notified the police.”
“I’m just around the corner so I’ll be there in a second.”
“Sir, that’s not wise--”
Stiletto ended the call. He dropped the phone on the passenger seat.
Two minutes later he pulled up in the driveway and the car rocked forward as he stomped the brakes. His house sat on the corner of the cul-de-sac, adjacent to the street. A woman stood in the doorway. Her open-mouthed expression showed she wasn’t expecting Stiletto, either.
Before Scott even had his seat belt off, the woman whipped up a Heckler & Koch MP-7 and let fly with a long full-auto burst that ripped into the car.
Stiletto flung himself across the center console and passenger seat. The gear stick dug into his stomach and he bumped his head against the glove box; his legs remained twisted under the wheel. The windshield popped; glass rained down; Stiletto covered his neck. A shard of glass pierced his cheek. He’d seen enough of the MP-7 to note the long fat snout at the end, a silencer.
He’d seen the woman, too: long dark hair, tanned skin, wearing a trim white pantsuit, pink scarf. Assassin chic.
Stiletto stretched across the passenger seat, yanked open the door. He shimmied over the center console using his elbows, bashing an ankle on the steering column. Another stream of MP-7 fire cut into the car. Stiletto cursed as his hands and knees met the rough driveway pavement. He tore the Colt Combat Commander .45 ACP from shoulder leather and fired twice over the hood. His gun wasn’t silenced and the loud blasts filled the air. The woman ducked back behind the doorway. He crawled for the rear bumper, keeping low; she fired some more but the string cut short. Out of ammo.
Stiletto fired over the trunk. The woman yelped. Stiletto fired again and again and half rose to rush the porch when his opponent dropped a canister which hissed out a cloud of white smoke. Soon the smoke concealed the open door and the woman as well.
Stiletto sprinted around the side of the house. He grasped the top of the rickety back gate, vaulted it, and raced down the short passage to the back yard, evading pieces of stray yard equipment, cursing his lack of organization. He reached the corner, stopped, and took aim. The woman, at the fence facing the street, tossed over the MP-7 and began hauling herself up. Stiletto’s first short splintered the fence near her right hand, but she didn’t stop, and swung one long leg over the top. Stiletto fired again, another miss, and the slide of his autoloader locked back over the now-empty magazine.
The dark-haired woman rolled over the top of the fence. A string of slugs splintered the wood she fired from the other side.
Stiletto ran back down the passage to the driveway while slapping a fresh mag into the .45. He pulled the gate release, leaving it open. Mad sprint across the front yard. An engine revved and tires screeched. Stiletto reached the other side of the house to see the woman half in a blue sedan parked on the curb. The car sped away.
Stiletto aimed at the departing sedan but held his fire. Despite the .45’s high-visibility sights and national match barrel, he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure of a hit at this distance would do any good.
Sirens in the distance. Neighborhood dogs barked. Stiletto had to stand his ground. One look at his car told him he wasn’t going anywhere.
He jammed the .45 back under his arm and went to the porch, coughing, but the smoke screen had begun to dissipate. He entered. Not heavily furnished, the house looked like a plain bachelor pad, because it was. His. He had just moved in, so there were a lot of boxes stacked along the walls. He’d finally given up his Manassas apartment, mostly so he could have a garage for the now shot-to-hell Trans Am.
The sirens grew louder. Stiletto scanned each room. No sign of other killers. Who else had been in the blue sedan and how long till he saw them again? Had the Iranians sent them?
Stiletto returned to the front of the house. He had only a moment to give his Trans Am a heartbroken glance, but then his thoughts turned to the arriving police. The squad cars halted. The first cop out leveled a shotgun and told Stiletto to freeze.
He put up his hands.
The oldest of the four officers, a white-haired sergeant, kept Stiletto covered while his younger partner did the frisking. The two back-up cops stood with shotguns and looked mean. The frisker, a young man with black hair cut above his ears, tugged out Stiletto’s .45 and his wallet. He stepped back as if Stiletto were a hot stove. The cops with the guns tensed their shoulders. They didn’t blink.
“In my wallet, you’ll find my identification. I am a federal officer.”
The white-haired sergeant lowered his weapon and looked at the Homeland Security ID the younger officer held up. He ordered his men to lower their weapons.
“What happened here?”
“This is my house and somebody just tried to kill me,” Scott said. “A representative of my department will be here to answer questions.”
“You can’t--”
“I can.”
Presently the Agency security officer, a clean-cut young man, arrived and told Stiletto to report back to the General. Stiletto left in the Agency car, a four-door Chevy without air conditioning or stereo. A cleaning crew would arrive soon to take care of the wrecked Trans Am and the rest of the damage. He’d think of rebuilding the car later. Stiletto sped away from the neighborhood with his hands tight on the wheel.
He arrived at General Ike’s office. The General rose to his feet, concern flooding his eyes.
“You’re hurt.”
“Huh?”
“Your face, Scott.”
Stiletto touched his face, saw blood on his fingertips.
“Glass, sir.”
“Tell me.” The General motioned to the seat in front of the desk. Stiletto related the story.
When Scott finished, the General said nothing for several moments. He made a tent with his hands.
“Hamin?”
“More than likely,” Stiletto said. “He got a good look at me in Bern.”
“What about your car?”
“I’ll rebuild it.”
“I know how much you enjoy that vehicle.”
“I could use a ride to the airport.”
“Take an Agency car. I’ll send somebody to collect it later.” The General opened his desk drawer and took out a bottle of Tylenol. That meant one of his migraines was hammering at his skull. He swallowed the pills with the ever-present glass of water on the left side of the desk blotter. The headaches always showed up when the pizza hit the fan.
“I’ll be in touch, sir.”
Fleming nodded. Stiletto exited
the office.
As soon as Scott hit traffic, the blue sedan fell in behind him. Stiletto pulled his pistol from shoulder leather and jammed it under his leg. He drove straight for a while, keeping an eye on the sedan. He had a score to settle; might as well settle it with Hamin’s goons. The blue sedan remained behind and one lane over.
Stiletto called General Ike.
“The shooters are following me.”
“We shouldn’t waste an opportunity for interrogation,” the General said. “I’m sending back-up. Is your tracking device on?”
Stiletto said, “Yes,” and reached under the dash, ripped out a set of wires. “It’s on.” He tossed the wires on the passenger side carpet. Stiletto put away his phone. Traffic was too thick for him to outrun the assassins. Off to his left, across opposing lanes, sat a shopping center, and he cut over and stepped on the gas. He entered the parking lot. The car jolted over a speed bump.
Stiletto kept up speed as he rolled behind the grocery store. He identified a few parked cars, scattered pieces of garbage, and a pair of Dumpsters. No people to get in the crossfire. He jammed the brakes, threw the car into park, and jumped out with gun in hand.
The assassins in their blue sedan turned the corner. The tires screeched as the car stopped. The driver twisted the wheel for a getaway U-turn. Stiletto fired. Two slugs punctured the glass and two more turned the driver’s face into a pulpy red crater. He slumped over the wheel. The car moved forward at idle speed, executing a slow turn. The woman in the passenger seat opened her door and rolled out before Stiletto finished his fourth shot, but Stiletto tracked her, and fired again and again. The bullets pinned the woman to the ground, where she stayed, legs stretched out, MP-7 in her left hand. Her pantsuit was stained red front-and-back. The rolling car clunked into a Dumpster and stopped.
Stiletto jumped back into his car and took off. His cell phone rang. Stiletto turned it off. He kept driving.