Second photo.
Nondescript gray cement-block building with dirty windows, no signage. Parking lot in foreground, no cars.
“Anybody?” the detective asked.
Rogers said, “Just an anonymous building.”
Reeder, still studying the image, said, “So far, seems like random pictures.”
Third photo.
Well-dressed African American man in his thirties, formal-looking pose.
Reeder asked, “Could his name be ‘Sink’?”
“No,” Rogers said, sitting up. “That’s Michael Balsin, congressional aide. My team is investigating his murder.”
Woods perked. “Murder? When?”
“September. Two in the back of the head. No robbery, no clues, no apparent motive.”
Reeder met Rogers’s eyes with urgency. “What the hell is a vic of yours doing on Chris Bryson’s SIM card?”
“No idea . . . but it’s not like it’s a surveillance photo, which you might expect from an investigator like Bryson.” She nodded at the screen. “That’s the photo that ran with Balsin’s obit.”
Photo four.
Blond guy, blue eyes, double chin, dark-framed glasses.
“Pattern’s forming,” Rogers said, frowning. “That’s the obit picture for Harvey Carroll—an accountant. Our victim number two, double-tapped just like Balsin—in his home, no witnesses, no robbery.”
Reeder felt that familiar combination of excitement and unease—the former because a pattern was indeed forming, unease because a brutal killer or killers had been revealed.
Photo five.
Latina, black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones.
“Carolina Uribe,” Rogers said, “a librarian, also double-tapped—our third victim. Died early November.”
“Jesus,” Reeder whispered.
Photo six.
Middle-aged white man with a receding hairline and an ugly cardigan.
“William Robertson,” Rogers said. “Supervisor in the shop at Dunnelin Machine. Victim number four.”
“A series of serial-killing victims,” Woods said, quietly astonished, “on a SIM card Bryson hid away?”
“Maybe,” Rogers said, “maybe not. The similarity of method got these killings onto our radar. We’ve been looking at them as a possible serial, yes. But the MO is execution style.”
“Contract killer style,” Reeder said. “And somehow, Chris got on a similar track. What do we think the building and the black cube might have to do with it?”
“No idea,” Rogers said, shaking her head, shrugging.
They now all knew more, yet felt like they knew less.
Photo seven.
Blond man in his thirties, walking down a street. Shot from some distance.
Reeder and Woods turned to Rogers, but she said, “Not one of ours. Not yet anyway.”
“Maybe this is Sink,” Reeder said.
Woods frowned and almost snapped, “You said that before—who the hell is Sink?”
Reeder arched an eyebrow at him. “When you talked to Beth Bryson, she never mentioned Sink?”
Woods shrugged. “I don’t remember that coming up . . .” Then the young detective’s eyes tensed. “Wait. Damn. I do remember. She said her husband told her he shouldn’t have looked into ‘sink.’ You think it’s a name, Mr. Reeder?” He nodded to the tablet. “You think that’s him?”
“You got me,” Reeder admitted. “Could be anybody. Might be the guy I wrestled with tonight, back at Bryson’s office. In the dark.”
“Or,” Rogers said, “could be the next victim.”
A waitress came over with coffee. “Refills anyone? Anybody work up an appetite yet?”
“We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living.”
General of the Army Omar N. Bradley, commander of 1.3 million soldiers in World War II, former head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, last to hold rank of five-star general.
Section 30, Lot 428-1, Grid AA-39, Arlington National Cemetery.
NINE
The morning was cold and dreary and overcast, which seemed about right to Evan Carpenter, the way his week was going.
In parka, jeans, and work boots, his close-clipped blond hair under a shaggy black wig, blue eyes concealed by sunglasses, Carpenter walked along at an easy pace. He passed a few other strip mall shoppers pausing for a momentary gawk at the crime-scene-taped-off Bryson Security storefront. Cops and CSIs long gone now.
Finally, a break. Otherwise, you could have this goddamn born-under-a-bad-sign week, as far as he was concerned. From the moment Carpenter and his boys figured Bryson was onto them, the son of a bitch seemed to know he was blown, and blew. At least the bastard had been easy enough to track down, easier still to deal with. Tough guy in his time, but his time was up.
Carpenter alone had been dispatched to deal with the wife—first, to see what she knew and if she had anything of her late husband’s that might lead back to his employers. Then the grieving widow would become a second tragic suicide.
Only the wife had company. Her son was with her, though that might be expected; wait for sonny to head home, and then Carpenter would call on mom. But the son wasn’t the visitor that concerned him—it was the guy he’d seen being let into the house, who belonged to the candy-ass Prius in the drive.
The mercenary made a call, ran the plate, and goddamnit! The guy paying a visit wasn’t just anybody, but Joe fucking Reeder himself.
Reeder, the ex–Secret Service guy who was a national hero these days. Just one man, yes, but a guy who could handle himself, despite the years he had on him, and whose death would ring bells all the way to the White House.
So his visit to the mourning family would have to be postponed.
In the meantime, he’d gone on to Bryson Security, figuring to come back later, after Reeder had gone, and tie up the loose ends that were the dead man’s family.
At the security office, his key would work in either front or rear door; but with the strip mall so after-hours dead—his rental Nissan the only car in the small lot—he said what the hell, and went in the front.
If picking the lock had been necessary, he’d have gone in the back way; dressed all in black as he was, people driving or walking by just might get suspicious, seeing some ninja-wannabe asshole hunkered over a lock—even if only for the thirty seconds or so picking the thing would take.
He knew of no other key to the office, other than the one on Bryson’s key ring, which would likely be in police custody. The key Carpenter used was courtesy of laser etchings one of his guys had made while their target dangled and died from that industrial-strength shower rod.
They’d taken the dead prick’s laptop but the crew’s computer guy hadn’t come up with a goddamn thing. So last night, the mercenary meant to check that office and see if Bryson had left behind anything that could incriminate their employers.
But just a couple of minutes after Carpenter got inside, barely starting his search, some asshole came in on him. Either he had a key or Carpenter had screwed up and not shut the door tight.
And not just any asshole, but Reeder, who for an old fart put up one hell of a fight, rough enough that Carpenter had cut out soon as he got the chance.
From a vantage point half a block away, the merc had watched the cops show up for a search, and then Reeder and some woman joined in. He’d kept watch a long time, even after the CSIs showed up, after which a plainclothes cop, Reeder, and the female had gone off together. He’d used binoculars and was pretty sure he didn’t see any evidence bags troop out of there into the crime lab van.
But he couldn’t be sure.
And if something, anything, had been taken out of there, he had no way to know it. A thorough search would likely be pointless now. That left only one alternative—cleanse the place. If something was still in there, make it be gone.
He would come back and do that when the joint wasn’t crawling with cops and CSIs.
At that
point, he’d driven back to the Bryson residence, and shit! They were in the wind, Mommy and Baby Boy both, apparently having driven off in the dead dad’s BMW. Now the Brysons were more than loose ends: they were a likely threat. The wife and/or son must know something.
Otherwise, why run?
Now, as sunshine peeked past dreary clouds, Carpenter strolled around the far corner of the strip mall sidewalk, on Bryson’s end of the building, and circled around behind, in that not fast, not slow manner that said he belonged here.
He ambled into the alley, lighting up a cigarette, since an alley was one place in this damn restriction-happy country where a man could still catch a smoke. But catching a smoke wasn’t what he was doing: he wanted to have a reason for being back here, should somebody ask. Plan was to lean against the wall and puff away till he had the alley to himself.
But he already did.
So he went directly to the Bryson Security back door stenciled PRIVATE—NO ENTRY. He used the key and went in. Last night, he’d been lazy and sloppy, leaving that front door unlocked. This time he threw the deadbolt.
The door opened directly onto Bryson’s inner office. Carpenter briefly reconsidered searching the place, but then stuck to the plan. He removed the batteries from the smoke alarms in both inner and outer offices—the latter required caution and care, as the big window, tinted though it was, remained a hazard—then he disabled the sprinkler system.
He hadn’t bothered acquiring an accelerant, because he’d seen one in the office last night, when he started his search by looking in the file cabinet. Bryson must have been a lush because the guy kept a bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer.
That would do fine.
And with all the flammable stuff in here anyway, sprinkler system and smoke alarms down, it’d be tinderbox time.
Back in Bryson’s inner office, he filled the wastebasket with paper, which he then doused with bourbon. He went to the desk and opened drawers and sprinkled bourbon on everything. Same for the desktop. He noticed something a little out of place—an insulated coffee mug with the Metro DC police badge logo. Probably left behind by that cop on guard last night.
In the outer office, keeping down low—that big window again—he filled that wastebasket, too. He splashed that with bourbon, as well as a stack of magazines on a little end table by the waiting-area chairs.
Returning to Bryson’s inner office, he splashed what was left of the bourbon onto a wall. Then he pulled out his Air America lighter and went around lighting little fires, wastebasket, desktop, top drawer. He was heading toward the door to the outer office when the uniformed cop came through.
Not fucking again!
No weapon in his hands. He was bundled up for the cold and his eyes had gone immediately to the desk, and Carpenter knew. Last night’s cop on the door—he’d left his coffee cup here, all right. Probably in his thirties, kind of heavy, cheeks rosy from the cold but maybe rosy anyway. His hand went toward his holstered weapon and Carpenter hurled the coffee cup at him, hitting him in the forehead. The cop winced and by then Carpenter had his .45 out of his parka pocket.
“Hands where I can see them,” Carpenter said.
Around them the little fires crackled and smoked and popped.
The cop held up his hands, swallowed. “What is this, anyway?”
“This is where you turn around and face that wall. Do it.”
Like a big blundering beast, the heavily winterized cop turned to the wall. Smoke was getting thick now, each little fire sending its fumes to meet other fumes. The desktop was entirely consumed by dancing orange and blue.
“I don’t care about you,” the cop said. “All I want is to get the fire department out here, protect the people in these stores. There’s a back door. Use it. Go!”
Carpenter was holding his breath, smoke thickening.
But he let some breath out as he said, “I don’t care about you, either.”
And put two holes in the back of the cop’s head.
“Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die.”
Joe Louis, Heavyweight Champion of the World, 1937–1949.
Section 7A, Grave 177, Arlington National Cemetery.
TEN
Patti Rogers, in a gray suit with a white blouse, stood before her assembled team in a small conference room, with a sixty-inch wall monitor looming behind her.
Joe Reeder, in a camel-hair sport coat with a light-blue shirt and navy-and-black striped tie, was the closest thing to casual in a room of FBI agents in suits. Immediately to Rogers’s right, Reeder sat next to Miguel Altuve (blue suit, darker blue tie) with the rest spread around the oblong table—attractive African American Anne Nichols, dark-haired handsome Jerry Bohannon, former college hoop star Reggie Wade, skeletal Trevor Ivanek, and of course resident cue ball Lucas Hardesy, who was more up to speed than the rest, having been the one who’d called Rogers to the Karma Sabich crime scene the day before.
Arrayed on the big flat screen were all seven of Chris Bryson’s SIM card photos, as well as a glamorous head shot of Karma Sabich, pulled from the website of the club where the transvestite had worked.
“I trust you all know Joe Reeder,” she said, “or at least know of him.”
Nods and murmured hellos from the team, a nod and murmured hello from the new face at the table.
Rogers made a slow scan of the faces looking up at her. “Did any of you ever meet Chris Bryson? Or even just hear of him?”
Head shakes and a few “No” responses.
She paced a few steps. “Does anybody know how a one-man strip mall security outfit could get ahead of us in our serial investigation?”
Silence.
Which finally was broken by Reeder.
“Agent Rogers,” he said, in that flat manner he used in public, “if I might respond?”
She nodded to him. “Certainly. For the record, Mr. Reeder has signed on with us as a consultant.”
“Pro bono,” he said with a slight smile. “I know Agent Rogers has provided you with the basics. But let me reiterate: Chris Bryson was a friend. And I need to make a point about him. He was ex–Secret Service, so he wasn’t just some storefront PI. He was also a Medal of Honor winner. He was as good as anybody in this room. So we don’t need to beat ourselves up about him getting out ahead of us.”
If anyone else had said that, Rogers would have felt undermined. But Reeder was right, both in what he said and in gently guiding her onto the right track with her people.
Reeder continued: “That someone took Chris out of the game, before he could do anything about it, is worth our careful consideration. My guess is that those photos don’t represent an investigation for a client. Working on something else, Chris tumbled onto a situation that got his Spidey senses tingling. So he took a few pictures.”
Roger gave Reeder a tiny gesture that told him to join her. He rose, came up and stood beside her. Without a word, they were now sharing leadership of the team.
The four field agents traded looks, understanding very well what had just happened. Everyone seemed focused, even calm, except maybe Miggie, a chronic fidgeter due to his jones for imported coffee.
Ivanek was looking past Rogers and Reeder. “Have we identified that building?” the behaviorist asked, nodding toward the screen.
“No,” Rogers said.
Bohannon, in a well-cut gray suit probably picked out by partner Wade, said, “Small factory of some sort. Job shop, maybe.”
“Whatever it is,” Miggie said, “it’s not in DC. I’ve got software searching for it in concentric circles. Bryson may have downloaded it from the web—he took screenshots of the obits to get the victim photos. I’m searching, but with so little to work with, it may be a while.”
Wade, typically stylish in a tailored dark-green suit, looming even when he was sitting down, asked, “And the black cube?”
“No idea,” Miggie said with a shrug. “Nothing around it to provide context or perspective. No clue how big it is, wh
ere it is, what it is.”
Lovely Nichols—in a dark-taupe suit with black V-neck blouse (an ensemble Rogers would never have risked)—asked the computer guru, “What about our blond boy there?”
“Photo’s from the side,” Miggie said, “at a distance—a shot Bryson grabbed on the street. Facial rec no help so far.”
Ivanek asked, “What’s the story on the transvestite?”
Rogers nodded at Hardesy, saying, “Luke, take that, would you? You made the connection.”
“You got it, boss,” he said.
The other team members goggled at each other—though the behaviorist only allowed himself an arched eyebrow—as they tried to process this unlikely exchange between a pair of coworkers who to date had been adversarial.
Hardesy said, “DeShawn Davis, twenty-four. Worked as a dancer at Les Girls under the stage name Karma Sabich. Lived in Arlington. Night before last, found dead by a friend. Double-tapped. Sound familiar?”
“Familiar,” Ivanek said, “but not familiar enough. However scant the profile we’ve developed, it doesn’t leave room for a transvestite victim.”
“Why not?” Reeder asked offhandedly. “Agent Rogers says the other victims were all professionals.”
Now both of the behaviorist’s eyebrows went up. “You’re calling this person a professional?”
Reeder shrugged. “Did they pay her for what she did? And the comments at the Les Girls website are very favorable. She was a pro.”
“In the broadest definition.”
Reeder allowed himself a smile. “I hope that wasn’t a pun, Agent Ivanek.”
“No pun intended, or disrespect either. But also no apparent connection to previous victims, other than mode of death.”
“Mode of death,” Reeder said, “or mode of execution? The other person who’s a pro here—besides Karma Sabich and the other victims—would seem to be the killer. You can call this a serial killing if you like . . . and it’s useful labeling in that it allows the FBI to look into these crimes . . . but these are almost certainly contract killings.”
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