2
He gathered Wasserman’s clothes and shoes, along with the T-shirt from the living room, and left them strewn in a casual heap on the bedroom floor, next to a hamper already crammed with dirty clothes.
Back in the bathroom, Lasher shut off the faucet and looked around slowly. Closing his eyes, he imagined the logical sequence of actions by a man taking a bath.
He fetched a fresh bath towel and wash cloth from the linen closet. He dampened the towel under the water from the faucet, spread a few touches of soap and shampoo on it, and dropped it on the floor next to the tub. He soaked the wash cloth under the faucet, too, grazed it across the bar of soap, and left it crumpled in a ball on the edge of the tub. He replaced the wet bar of soap and damp shampoo bottle on the rack.
Then Lasher removed a white terrycloth bathrobe from its hook on the door and stuffed it over the towel rack, draping it within arm’s reach of the tub.
The surface of the water was dead still now, except for the faint, sizzling pops of a few stray bubbles. The pale, naked, motionless corpse looked like an underwater statue. The head had turned slightly to the side, eyes open. He yanked the chain of the drain stopper, set the plug on the edge of the tub, then waited. The gurgling water receded slowly, inch by inch, gradually exposing the guy’s skinny, naked back, leaving traces of soap scum on his skin.
Ray Lasher studied his handiwork through the eyes of the cops and the M.E.
Okay, so the guy just finishes his bath. He stands and pulls the plug, then towels off right there, in the tub. Then he drops the towel on the floor, to step on when getting out, so the floor won’t get soaked with his wet feet. But before he gets out, he reaches over to grab his bathrobe—then slips, falls, and bashes the side of his head against the faucet and edge of the tub. Knocked unconscious, he drowns face down, before the tub drains.
Supporting that scenario, they’ll find mingled traces of soap, shampoo, and blood in the tub, inside his mouth and lungs, and dried on his skin. But the towel and wash cloth won’t bear any traces of the blood from the bathwater, of course, because he’d have finished using them before cracking his skull.
No signs of foul play. Just a tragic accident.
As he started to leave the bathroom, Lasher realized he had not turned on the bathroom’s light or ventilation blower. He swore at himself as he took care of that.
Just the kind of little mistakes that could blow everything.
3
Worried about time, Lasher walked hurriedly through the living room/dining room area, then the kitchenette, glancing at the walls and tabletops. No landline phone in evidence. He entered the guy’s office. Before touching anything, he used his phone to take photos of the precise layout of the office and positions of desktop items.
Wasserman’s mobile phone was on the desk. Lasher spent most of the next half hour going through all recent messages and texts. He deleted any history of calls pertaining to his employer’s interests, including references in the address book and calendar.
Next, he copied all files displayed on the screen, plus the past two month’s research and correspondence, onto the thumb drive he’d brought with him. Then he deleted the computer files and anything else related to areas of concern. When he discovered Wasserman’s cloud-based backup service, he went online and deleted those copies, too.
He rummaged through all scribbled notes and file folders for anything relevant. Retrieved four thumb drives he found in a drawer. Jammed everything of significance into the duffle bag he had brought with him.
Finally, guided by the photos he had taken, Lasher returned each item to its former position.
He hauled the bulging duffle and the pizza box to the front door. Before leaving, he returned to the bathroom for one last look.
He gazed down upon Arnold Wasserman’s still, damp corpse in the now-empty tub.
It looked pretty much like all the other corpses he had left behind.
Ray Lasher felt nothing.
Darkness had fallen by the time he pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot, three miles away. He retrieved his sat phone from the glove compartment and keyed the sequence of numbers.
4
It was nearly dark now, and Trammel shivered in the cold rooftop breeze. The low overcast above Washington reflected the city’s pale, dirty yellow glow. Not far away, the landing lights of aircraft burned holes through the cloud cover and descended toward Reagan National Airport.
He poured his third glass of Syrah from the nearly empty wine bottle.
His fingernails drummed the bowl of the glass. The faint staccato ringing of the crystal mingled with the hum of city traffic.
He did not like having to wait for this call.
Avery Trammel was not accustomed to waiting for anyone.
Abruptly, his satellite phone beeped and lit up.
“Yes?” he snapped.
“It’s done, sir,” Lasher said.
“Were there any complications?”
“None at all. Don’t worry. I know how to do this sort of thing. I was very careful.”
“And his records?”
“Exactly as you specified. I have every last scrap of his physical files, thumb drives—all his research. I left nothing relevant in his office or online. You’ll get it when we meet tomorrow.” The man paused, then added: “Relax, sir. You’re safe, now.”
Trammel set down his empty wine glass, then released his breath—a long, slow hiss.
“For both our sakes, I hope so, Mr. Lasher.”
THREE
“. . . And as we all know, it isn’t just the politicians we have to deal with. The news media also show a lot more sympathy for criminals than for their victims.”
Standing behind the lectern in the hotel’s banquet room, Jeri West paused and nodded to acknowledge the murmurs of agreement from the dinner guests. “Yes, we’ve certainly had our issues with the press, haven’t we? But happily, there are a few rare exceptions among reporters. And we are fortunate to have an exceptional journalist—and an exceptional man—with us tonight.”
The trim, middle-aged blonde peered over the top of her reading glasses . . . right at him.
“Dylan Hunter, would you please join me up here?”
He hadn’t known this was coming. As applause burst forth from the tables all around him, he turned to Annie, seated to his right. He saw amusement in her eyes. The others at their table—Morgan and Lila Jackson, and Jeri’s husband Bob—were smiling and clapping, too.
“You knew about this, didn’t you, Annie Woods?” he growled, feigning anger.
“Who—me?” She widened those eyes and batted them innocently. The table candles cast a warm golden glow on strands of her tousled chestnut hair. “Go on—get up there, mister.”
Sighing, Hunter slid from his chair, adjusted his tie, and headed to where Jeri motioned him to stand beside her. After the applause died down, she continued, glancing at prepared notes.
“Dylan Hunter is the one reporter we’ve always been able to count on to tell our side of the story. His investigative articles this past year in the Capitol Inquirer cast a spotlight on the horrible crimes caused by excessive leniency in our legal system. They’ve inspired tougher sentencing reforms in the Virginia legislature. They led to the defeat of H.R. 207 in Congress—a bill that would have opened prison cells nationwide, and sent thousands of violent inmates prematurely back into our communities. Mr. Hunter’s exposés even prompted the MacLean Foundation to abandon its pro-criminal agenda, and instead to start supporting victims’ rights organizations—including our own.”
Another wave of applause washed over him from the nearly two hundred members of Vigilance for Victims. He glanced at Annie; she was beaming.
“Dylan, you’ve become more than our champion in the press,” Jeri continued. “You’ve become our friend. And for two special people here, you’ve become much more than that: You literally were their life-saver. I see you’ve been enjoying dinner with one of them, Annie Woods. But n
ow, the other person wants to express her gratitude—along with our appreciation. I’d like to ask everyone to hold any further applause until she has finished speaking. Susanne Copeland . . . would you please come forward?”
From a table near the back of the room a young, red-haired woman rose, to respectful silence. It was the first time Hunter had seen Susie since the night she and Annie had been kidnapped by Adrian Wulfe. She wore a long, pale-green dress and matching jacket. As she approached, he was relieved to see that she had regained a bit of weight, that her eyes were bright, and that her smile at him was direct and warm. She continued past him to the lectern, paused to take a deep breath, and leaned forward into the microphone.
“Early last Christmas morning, I had to face my worst nightmare,” she said, her voice soft yet steady. “I was attacked, for the second time, by the same brutal, criminal monster—this time, in my own home. That monster also lured my dear friend Annie Woods, and then kidnapped us to Annie’s house. And we surely would have died there”—she looked at him—“except for the incredible courage of the man standing before you.”
She paused an instant before continuing.
“While the police were searching for us, Dylan Hunter somehow figured out where we had been taken. And with no thought for his own safety, he rushed to help us. I was unconscious at the time; but I learned later, from Annie and the police, that Dylan bravely fought and somehow managed to kill that monster—even though he himself was gravely injured and nearly died during their violent struggle.”
She paused again and turned to him; her next words barely broke a whisper.
“Annie and I owe you our lives, Dylan.”
Susie held up a thin hand to quell spontaneous applause. Clearing her throat, she went on.
“Yes, Dylan Hunter is more than a crusading reporter, and more than a loyal friend. He is a true hero. The kind of real-life hero I’d almost stopped believing in. So, I asked Jeri if I might thank him publicly tonight. But Jeri said I should also thank him on behalf of all of us.”
Susie bent behind the lectern, then straightened, holding a dark wooden plaque. Light from the chandeliers danced like sparks along its bronze face.
“It is now my honor to read the inscription on this plaque: ‘Vigilance for Victims Annual Media Award—To Dylan Hunter, The Capitol Inquirer—for sensitivity and unwavering commitment to justice in reporting crime victim issues.’ It is dated today and signed: ‘Jeri West and Morgan Jackson, Co-Chairs.’”
She extended the plaque to him. “Dylan, congratulations . . . and thank you!”
Hunter accepted the award—then, seeing what was in her eyes, held it aside and opened his arms to embrace her. He felt the bones of her shoulders and ribs as she hugged him tightly, trembling.
The guests rose to their feet for an even louder round of applause and cheers. Dylan chuckled as Annie gave a shrill whistle between two fingers. She was a vision of bare shoulders, deep cleavage, and long legs, gift-wrapped in a little black cocktail dress. She winked at him. A promise . . .
He and Susie held the plaque between them and posed as a photographer moved forward to snap a few pictures. Then it was his turn to speak.
“As a reporter, I’m supposed to be good with words. But tonight, words adequate to this occasion elude me. My friends . . . while I treasure this surprise recognition, I want to be clear about one thing. You are the real heroes. Your daily battle for justice is making a real difference in the lives of thousands. As I said last September, when I met many of you for the first time: My job is simply to chronicle your courage. I wish for each of you the triumph of serenity over pain, and the strength to continue your vital work. Thank you for this great honor, and for the greater honor of letting me bear witness to your inspiring example.”
Back at his table, the others insisted on passing around and admiring the plaque. While they were preoccupied, he felt Annie’s left hand, hidden by the white tablecloth, begin to roam his right thigh.
“That was eloquent, Dylan,” she said to him, her eyes mock-innocent. “I’m glad you find this so . . . touching.”
He held a steady grin. “Oh, yes, I’m certainly touched, Annie.” Imperceptible to the others, his right hand drifted across her own thigh, then roamed beneath her short hemline. “At moments like this, a man can’t always openly express what he feels. I’m glad I could rise to the occasion.”
She coughed, raising her napkin to her face.
“This is really nice,” Bob West said to his wife, holding the plaque aloft. “You outdid yourself arranging all this, Hon.”
“Oh, it wasn’t all my doing,” Jeri said. “Susie helped a lot, and she enlisted Annie to figure out how to get Dylan to show up, without ruining the surprise.”
“She was sneaky about it,” Hunter admitted. “She told me—on the phone—that this would be a special honor for Susie.”
“But it was,” Jeri pointed out.
“Well, it was the nicest lie I ever fell for. I’m grateful to all of you,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. They responded with answering smiles—except for Lila Jackson. Morgan’s wife had seemed preoccupied all evening. Now she stared at her untouched steak, unsmiling and unseeing.
A moment later, Hunter casually leaned close to her husband, a stocky, dignified black man seated to his left.
“Lila seems a bit distracted tonight,” he whispered. “Is everything all right?”
Morgan lost his smile.
“Let us chat afterward.”
2
At the end of the evening, Hunter finally extricated himself from the last of the departing well-wishers. Annie had given Susie a ride, so outside the hotel portico he walked them to Annie’s car, where he paused to hug and see them off. Then he returned to where the Jacksons waited on the sidewalk near the entrance.
A distinguished-looking administrator at Howard University, Morgan Jackson was a tall, stout contrast to his slim, diminutive wife. Both wore long dark coats; his arm draped around her shoulders, hugging her close. Hunter noticed the shadowed stress lines on their faces, deepened by a harsh exterior floodlight.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Dylan,” Morgan began.
“Of course. Is something wrong?”
“It’s him.” Lila’s voice was thin and harsh. “They’re letting him out!”
“She means Dixon—the man who killed our daughter,” Morgan explained. “He’s getting out this week.”
“This week? But you told me last fall he was serving a life-without-parole sentence.”
“He was. But he just won a reversal of his conviction on appeal. The court said the prosecution failed to notify the defense about a piece of relevant evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“A psychiatric exam he’d had years ago, when he was in juvenile detention. Some therapist back then thought he may—may—have a ‘borderline personality disorder.’ That means—”
“I know what it means, Morgan. The textbooks say it means he’s impulsive, reckless, engages in risky behavior, and is aggressive toward others. In other words, he’s just a typical criminal. But labeling common criminality as ‘borderline personality disorder’ is one more way the psychiatric industry turns cheap thugs into billable hours.”
“Even if it’s a real mental illness,” Jackson continued, “in Dixon’s case it was never confirmed by any other psychologist or therapist he’s seen since. But the prosecutors during his murder trial knew about it and didn’t share it with the defense. So the appeals court threw out the guilty verdict. And now he walks.”
“But he did it!” Lila shouted. “There’s never been any question it was him! And no question what he did to my little Loretta. He—” She stopped; swallowed hard. Despite the March chill, a slight sheen of perspiration gleamed on her dark forehead.
Morgan lowered his eyes. “There was . . . DNA evidence.”
“I see,” Hunter said softly.
“It’s like I said before,” Lila went on. “There’
s no justice anymore. I don’t even know if there’s a God anymore!”
“Lila! Don’t say that!”
“I don’t care. I don’t know how I can live with this. I meant it back then when I said I wish those vigilantes would go after him. I hope they’ll be waiting for him, right outside the prison gate!”
“I’m sorry, Dylan. Lila’s just very upset.”
Hunter rested his hand on her forearm. “She has every right to be.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to pity us. I want justice. We thought maybe you could write about this in your paper.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Reginald Marcus Dixon,” Morgan answered.
“Do you know when he’s scheduled to be released?”
“Friday afternoon. That’s what our attorney told us.”
He shook his head slowly. “It’s already Wednesday evening, so I can’t possibly make tomorrow morning’s edition. Even if I could, to be honest, a newspaper story at this point wouldn’t do any good in reversing an appeals court decision.”
Lila’s dark, angry eyes softened. Began to well with tears. Stared up into his.
“Isn’t there any way to stop this?”
Hunter drew a long, slow breath.
Then squeezed her arm.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
FOUR
He pulled into the driveway of Annie’s big brick Tudor in Falls Church, parking his Subaru Forester to the side to allow her access into the single-car garage. She’d just called from her cell to let him know she was only a couple of minutes away, after dropping off Susie.
He got out and stretched. The March night air was chilly and crisp, the sky clear. A few bright stars winked through the bare branches of oaks and maples surrounding the house. The yellow glow of the lantern-style light above the front door gleamed off the waxy ivy leaves that clung to the brick. In the near-silence of the upscale residential neighborhood he caught the faint sound of whimpering from inside the house. He was about to enter when headlights swept across the yard and the garage door began to rise. She pulled her red Camry inside. He followed, and the door began to descend behind him.
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