Fate of the Union

by Max Allan Collins

  “I agree,” Christopher said. “Mom? What do you say?”

  Beth just sat there looking from her son to Reeder and back, a woman still dealing with her husband’s death only to have this unexpected contingency sprung on her.

  “But . . . where would we go?”

  Christopher somehow summoned a small smile. “How about Key West? I’ve never been there, and neither have you.”

  “Why Key West?” Beth asked, clearly reeling.

  He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Because we’ve never been there . . . and if we’re going into hiding, why not at least be warm? Plenty of tourists to blend in with, too.”

  Reeder was nodding. “Look for a mom-and-pop motel—there still are some of those down there. Somewhere that still takes cash and won’t demand a credit card. Someplace off the grid and away from security cameras. This is a strictly cash trip—no credit cards, no cell phones either.”

  “Understood,” Christopher said.

  Still reeling, Beth asked, “But how will we know when it’s safe to come back?”

  Reeder thought for a moment. “Get adjoining rooms and check in as Joan and Broderick Crawford.”

  Christopher frowned. “Who?”

  “Two actors from a century ago or so, whose names won’t mean anything to whoever might be looking for you—except me. Those names and Key West will be enough for me to track you.”

  Beth asked, “What if we need to talk to you?”

  Should he take time to buy them burner phones from his guy, DeMarcus? No reputable prepaid cell could be used without leaving a trail. He reached into the evidence box, withdrew the bagged burner, and handed it to Christopher.

  “If you need me, call the last number your dad dialed—it’s mine. Don’t use it from where you’re staying. You can only use it once, then you have to get as far away from it as you can.”

  “Got it.”

  Beth asked, “Can’t that phone be traced?”

  Reeder said, “Assuming Chris was murdered, the ones who did this left that cell behind. It means nothing to them now—they have no reason to trace it. A one-time use should be safe.”

  “All . . . all right,” she said.

  Reeder went over and sat next to her and took her hand. “You need to pack a few things, nothing fancy, everyday stuff that goes with a warm climate. Now scoot.”

  She rose and went upstairs without argument, leaving her Scotch behind.

  With Beth gone, Reeder turned to her son. “If we’re right, and your father was murdered, these people are obviously dangerous, and almost certainly professionals. Professional enough to fool DC Homicide. You’ve got to stay on top of things.”

  “I will, Joe.”

  “Now one more thing—do you own a gun?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “Do you know how to use one? A handgun, I mean.”

  “Yes. Dad used to take me to the firing range. It was a hobby when I was a kid that I lost interest in.”

  “Well, you know what they say about riding a bike. I’m going to assume your dad has a handgun somewhere in the house, and that you know where it is.”

  “I do. It’s in a locked desk drawer in the den . . . but I know where the key is.”

  “Good. Let’s have a look at the thing.”

  Reeder followed the younger man into the den, where a key hidden in the middle drawer opened a left-hand lower one. The gun, like Chris and for that matter Reeder, was not new to this world—a vintage Smith & Wesson Model 52, a .38 with a box of shells to go with it.

  “Don’t tell your mother,” Reeder said.

  “Don’t worry.”

  After Beth came down with a single suitcase and a cosmetics case, she presented Reeder with her late husband’s key ring, singling out the office one; the electronic flip-key to Chris’s BMW was hooked on as well.

  “Beth,” Reeder asked, “where is Chris’s car?”

  “In the garage. The police turned it over to us with the box of evidence.”

  “Anything missing that you noticed?”

  Christopher chimed in: “No—all the usual stuff was there, glove compartment, trunk. And, no—no laptop.”

  Reeder got out his small notebook and wrote down a phone number, tore out the page.

  “Call this,” he said. “A friend of mine will open up his used car lot after hours, just for you. I’ll call ahead and tell him you’re special clients of mine.”

  Christopher blinked. “Is that what we are?”

  “That’s what you are. Tell him you want something solid, old, and with papers. Leave your own car with him.”

  “How much will all that cost?”

  “Nothing. My treat.”

  “Mr. Reeder . . .”

  “It’s Joe, remember? And I’ll tell my pal to disconnect the GPS. You can find Florida, can’t you? Now you and your mom go have a fun vacation. Just don’t go out much—too much sun can be bad for you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, mother and son were pulling out of the driveway in the BMW, Christopher behind the wheel—they would stop by his apartment to gather some clothes and other things of his. After that, Joan Crawford and her son Broderick would leave the apartment and begin a long road trip.

  Soon the box of Bryson’s effects was tucked safely in Reeder’s trunk, and so was their home computer, though he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the stuff now. Surely, hitting up Patti Rogers to run everything through the FBI lab was iffy, since the chain of custody had been broken. Even if Reeder demonstrated Chris had been murdered, nothing found on his late friend’s clothes would be admissible now. Maybe Miggie could pry a clue or two from that home computer.

  This time of night, the drive to Chris Bryson’s office took less than fifteen minutes. Fairfax Corner South was a warren of stores, offices, and restaurants on Monument Corner Drive—evergreens lining the sidewalks, storefronts dark, streetlights providing the only illumination. Bryson Security occupied a corner space of a complex with an old-time downtown motif and limited parking.

  A pale blue Nissan Altima—the only car here besides his own, showing no signs of the afternoon snow—was parked three storefronts past Bryson. As a routine precaution, Reeder memorized its plate—Kentucky, 440 RHW.

  Parking one door down from the security office, the hum of light traffic on Interstate 66 riding the chill wind, he made a threat assessment of the silent block. Just like Christmas—not a creature was stirring.

  As if he belonged there, Reeder—in Burberry and gloves, his breath smoking—walked briskly to the security firm’s door, whose handle he held as he prepared to work the key in the lock. That was when the door eased itself open an inch.

  Apprehension coiled in his belly like a woken rattler.

  His extending baton—which he preferred carrying over a gun—was at home. He hadn’t needed it for the meeting with Benjamin and certainly not on his visit to the Bryson residence. He’d prefer having the weapon in his coat pocket before entering, but running home for it seemed out of the question . . .

  Anyway, the unlocked door did not have to mean trouble.

  Maybe Chris had fled in such fear-driven haste that he hadn’t made sure his office door was locked behind him. Possibly cleaning staff had screwed up, or even the police, if they’d actually bothered checking the place out.

  Or Reeder might be walking in on an intruder, possibly an armed one. His brain said, Go back to the car, call 911, and just wait for the cavalry.

  His gut said, If there’s a back door, the bastard could get away and you wouldn’t even know it!

  Gut trumped brains and he pushed the door open as slowly, as quietly, as he could, leaving just room enough to slip inside. The front window was tinted dark, filtering and lessening illumination from outside, the outer office empty but for the part-time receptionist’s desk and a few wall-lining chairs, one of which he used to pile his topcoat and gloves. His eyes were on the inner-office door, no light seeping around the edges. He moved cautiously c
loser to the door, which like the front one was not closed tight. Not quite ajar, but not really shut.

  Carefully he nudged the door open a ways and peered into the dark, apparently empty room. He opened the door halfway, stepping inside, pausing to let his left hand search the wall for the light switch, not finding it before the door shoved into him, squeezing him, wedging him there, half in, half out.

  The pressure released but before he could either advance or retreat, a hand grabbed him by the upper right arm and hurled him into the darkness, as if he were a toy flung by a bored child. The door slammed shut and what little light there had been was gone—was the intruder gone as well? The only advantage Reeder had, as he slid to the floor, having hit the edge of Chris’s desk hard, was his knowledge of the office layout.

  Then a shape he could more sense than see—the intruder, in black, still very much in the small office—was coming over to grab him and do God knew what, but Reeder kicked up and out, catching the ongoing shape between the legs with the hard toe of his right shod foot. Judging by the unmistakable yowl of kicked-in-the-balls pain, and the strength displayed by flinging Reeder across the room, the intruder was male.

  Still sensing more than seeing, guided by his adversary’s labored breathing, Reeder lurched to his feet and, figuring the man would be bent over, swung a right hand into where his head should be. Somehow his adversary sensed this and, in pain or not, threw up an arm and blocked the blow, throwing a short but powerful jab into Reeder’s belly. Air whooshed from him, but Reeder struck out anyway, with a left that had less power than he’d have liked, but luckily caught the guy on his chin—the feel of flesh and bone on flesh and bone said the intruder wore no mask.

  The attacker, upright now apparently, was wildly throwing lefts and rights in the darkness, swishing in front of Reeder, who had stepped back out of reach. Then the windmilling stopped and the guy growled and threw himself at Reeder in a mad tackle, sending him onto his back, hitting the floor hard.

  Reeder lay there dazed for a moment, then the door opened and limited light came in to reveal the attacker already in the outer office. By the time Reeder got to his feet and staggered out there, it was too late—the black-clad man was gone.

  So was the Nissan down the block.

  Well, Reeder had the plate number, at least.

  Something else was gone—any sliver of doubt that Chris Bryson had been murdered.

  “The nation is only as strong as the collective strength of its individuals.”

  Jeremiah A. Denton, Retired Admiral, US Navy, POW in North Vietnam for nearly eight years, one-term United States Senator from Alabama, 1981–1987, first Republican elected in his state post-Reconstruction.

  Section 7, Grave 8011-B, Arlington National Cemetery.

  SEVEN

  On her nightstand, Patti Rogers’s cell did the vibration dance.

  On call 24/7, like all FBI agents, she despised being wakened by a ring or ringtone, and the vibrate setting always roused her sufficiently. Her eyelids rose like reluctant curtains on a terrible play and she saw the clock face: 5:04 a.m.

  Was it just four minutes ago that she’d hit snooze?

  The alarm would go off again at five fifteen. The vibrating stopped. She would check the call first thing and return it, if it proved worthy. For now, she settled in for another eleven glorious minutes of that blissful state before the second alarm.

  Then the phone began its dance again, and she sat up, wide awake, grabbed it, checked the caller ID.

  LUCAS HARDESY.

  What the hell did he want? Couldn’t he wait till she came in to the office before being a pain in her ass?

  “Yes?” she said to the phone.

  “You may have been right,” he said, biting off each word.

  “How so?” Did he need to sound so surprised?

  “Your serial killer theory. A cop buddy texted me about a DB he caught about an hour ago.”

  “Does the victim fit our profile?”

  “We don’t really have a profile,” Hardesy reminded her. “But . . . yeah, the method at least. Two bullets to the head.”

  “Double-tap again.”

  “Yeah. Vic doesn’t fit, though. Drag queen name of Karma Sabich.”

  “That’s a new wrinkle.”

  “Yes it is. Somebody really wanted this motherfucker dead. Put him/her in the tub, popped her. Or him. Whatever.”

  “Hate crime?”

  “Maybe.” He took another beat. “Look, I know we sometimes, uh . . . grate on each other. But do you think you could trust my gut on this?”

  “That all you have, your gut?”

  “No. This kill has that professional touch we keep running into. Even though the vic doesn’t match the others, you know, not a middle-class professional? It’s just too . . . precise. Think you could come over and have a looky-loo?”

  “Where?”

  He gave her the address.

  “Not far from me,” she said, mostly to herself. Her apartment building was on Joyce Street in Arlington. “Give me half an hour to rejoin the human race.”

  “Appreciate this, boss.”

  First time he’d called her that.

  She showered, dried her hair, did her makeup, dressed, and stopped at the lobby Starbucks for a to-go coffee—all in seventeen minutes. Then it was a quick two-mile drive to the corner of Columbia Pike and Oakland.

  The once swanky enclave was a rectangle of buildings set up to look like row houses with a parking lot in the middle. Slowly getting gentrified after years of neglect, the complex was, by neighborhood standards, a perfect example of what locals termed “shithouse chic,” where drug houses and hookers shared unlikely space with young executives and new families.

  This morning, though, that center parking lot was alive with the blinking lights of an ambulance and police cars. Rogers parked to one side and got out into an ice cube of a morning, glad to be bundled in a gray Ann Taylor peacoat.

  Despite the early hour, the neighbors were out to gawk. What primitive part of the human brain, she wondered, attracted the species to a scene of tragedy? If there was a one-car fatal accident in the Mojave Desert, hundreds of miles from supposed civilization, rubberneckers would still find their way to the side of the road.

  The victim’s house was immediately recognizable by the police tape cordoning it off. A uniformed officer, who looked like he’d driven here from his academy graduation ceremony, stood just inside the yellow-and-black border keeping people back. But the crowd was growing and he would soon need a hand.

  Rogers displayed her credentials and the young cop leaned in for a look, then gave her an impressed little smile as he raised the tape for her. He really was new—hadn’t learned to hate the dreaded “Fibbies” yet.

  She rewarded his attitude, saying, “I’ll try to get you some help, officer.”

  The rookie flashed a grateful smile. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  He was so young and helpless looking, she could even forgive him the “ma’am.”

  Up the sidewalk she found Hardesy waiting on the butcher-block front porch.

  “In case you’re wondering,” he said, hands in the pockets of his dark-gray overcoat, breath pluming, rocking on his heels, “all these neighbors? Nobody saw shit. Nobody heard shit.”

  “Sounds unanimous. You talk to them yourself?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t want to risk my amateur standing. Because I got a friend on the team, they’ve filled me in some.”

  “And what do they have?”

  “Bupkus.”

  “How did your police pal happen to clue you in?”

  “I’d told him, and a few other PD contacts, to be on the lookout for double-taps. You know, just in case.”

  She nodded. “Nice work, Luke.”

  He said nothing. Glanced away from her, uncomfortable with the compliment.

  “So why are you changing your tune,” she asked him, “where the serial theory is concerned?”

  “I’m not, exac
tly. To me, this is one guy doing hits, and I don’t consider that a serial. That’s more like taking care of business.”

  “So you see a professional killing here. A drag queen among the young white collars.”

  Oddly, that thought fit the neighborhood.

  With a shudder of cold, Hardesy said, “Like I told you on the phone—too precise, and not just this one. All these damn killings are just too damn perfect. No muss, no fuss, no mess. Something is going on here.”

  “But not a psychotic serial killer.”

  He shrugged, nodded. “Your behaviorist guy, Ivanek, is right—serial, you would expect more ritual or something. But these are so mechanical, so businesslike—and now five victims? Something’s definitely goin’ on, boss.”

  Boss again? Was she finally winning him over?

  Her own breath pluming, gloved hands in her pockets, she asked, “Who’s the detective in charge?”

  “My in. Keith Ferguson—know him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good guy. He’ll play ball. If this is a serial, by any definition, he knows it’s our deal.”

  “All right,” she said. “He inside?”

  “Yeah—finishing up with the friend. She/he is the one who found the victim.”

  “Both dressed as women?”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s stick with ‘she’ then, okay?”

  Hardesy gave her a what-the-hell nod.

  Rogers was about to send her fellow FBI agent in to see when Ferguson would be available, when a heavyset, blunt-featured guy in an off-the-rack gray pinstripe came out on the porch and announced himself as that very person. No topcoat for him—he’d been inside working for a good while.

  Like Hardesy, the detective in charge had a shaved head, which was about all the two had in common, other than likely shared second thoughts about going around hatless in this cold. Despite his boxer-battered features, Ferguson had easy eyes and an easier smile.

  Hardesy made the introductions and the DC detective stuck out his hand.