Dylan Hunter smiled in the darkness.
Downstairs in the second row, Avery Trammel smiled, too. He was hearing much the same in the angry and astonished whispers around him.
But Carl Spencer had done his job. He had stuck to the script he had been given.
Their eyes met again, and Trammel rewarded the senator with another smile and a nod.
Spencer reached for the water glass on the coffee table before them and drained half of it.
If only he did not look so nervous.
But in another week, Trammel knew, how he had looked tonight would be forgotten. He would be remembered only for his prophetic warning.
3
Trammel and Julia greeted Spencer and his family offstage afterward and reassured him that he had performed just fine. Then he led Julia through the crowd filtering out of the theater into the lobby. As always, people recognized the movie star, gaped in awe, and parted to let them pass.
Julia asked to stop at the ladies’ restroom before they went out to his waiting limo. As they neared, he felt an unexpected shock at recognizing a familiar face. His steps slowed.
“I’ll be just a minute,” Julia said, walking on. When she reached the restroom door, she had to pause as a young woman emerged. The pair exchanged brief smiles.
The young woman was extraordinarily beautiful. And she walked right over to where Dylan Hunter stood waiting with her coat.
He saw that Hunter was looking at him, too.
There was no point in pretending. And maybe he could learn something of value. Trammel walked over while Hunter helped her into her coat.
“Mr. Hunter,” he said with a slight nod. “Though we have not been formally introduced, I believe we encountered each other a few months ago, outside of the EPA headquarters. I am Avery Trammel.”
“Of course I know you, Mr. Trammel,” the reporter said, his voice equally devoid of emotion. “And yes, I remember seeing you there with your lovely wife. Although I fear my presence may have disrupted an otherwise celebratory occasion.”
Trammel noticed that the young woman’s smile vanished at the mention of his name. He turned to her.
“And if I may ask, who is this charming lady?”
“Just a friend,” the woman replied, her voice and expression as cool as the man’s.
“I am so glad for you, Mr. Hunter. We all need friends in troubled times like these.”
“Perhaps the times would not be so troubled, except for the trouble-makers.”
“And who might those trouble-makers be, Mr. Hunter?”
The question elicited an insolent grin.
“You’ll just have to keep reading the Inquirer, Mr. Trammel.”
Trammel felt anger rising. “I limit my local reading to the Post.”
“A pity. They offer a completely different narrative of good guys versus bad guys. Perhaps you’d find my narrative more persuasive.”
“I doubt it. I took grave exception to the fairy tale you invented about CarboNot Industries.”
“Oh, that’s right. You were an investor, weren’t you?”
Trammel felt a hand on his arm.
“Darling, I’m ready to go,” Julia said. “But please, don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”
“Not at all. I was just about—”
“Miss Haight,” Hunter interrupted with a smile and a nod.
She extended her hand. “Please, it’s Julia. And you are . . . ?”
“Dylan Hunter,” he answered, taking her hand and bowing courteously.
Trammel noticed her puzzled look, as if she had heard his name and was trying to remember.
“The Inquirer reporter, dear,” he prompted.
“Oh!” She withdrew her hand.
“My mother’s name is Julia, too,” the young woman interjected, with an empty smile.
“We should be going,” Julia said, tugging at his arm.
“Yes. We should,” Trammel replied. “I am sure our paths will cross again, Mr. Hunter.” He nodded at them both, then turned away.
“I can’t wait,” the cocky bastard called out after him.
Locked inside his study around midnight, Trammel called Lasher and told him about the encounter.
“So he has a girlfriend, then.”
“So it would seem.”
“Tell me about her.”
Trammel described the woman. “See if you can find out who she is.”
“What do you want me to do with her when I find her?”
“Just report back to me. It eventually may be necessary to use her as leverage against him.”
“You sure you don’t want me to take any direct action now, sir?”
“I do not.”
He paused. Remembered the insolent grin. Then added:
“Not yet.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson.”
“You are most welcome, Detective Cronin,” Lila Jackson said to him, as he took a seat in an armchair facing them on their sofa. “You sure I can’t get you anything—coffee, tea, water?”
He waved if off with a smile. “No, I’m fine, really. I won’t be taking up more than a few minutes of your time.”
They sat in the living room of the Jacksons’ two-story, well-maintained home on the northern part of 17th Street, just a few blocks from Rock Creek Park. Before arriving, Cronin had done a quick internet search that reminded him Morgan Jackson was a high-ranking administrator at Howard University, while his wife taught in their music program. Family photos, including a pretty young African-American girl—who had to be their murdered daughter, Loretta—filled the mantel over the stone fireplace. Above that hung a large Impressionist seascape. Against the facing wall stood a well-polished Steinway upright piano, with music books stacked on its bench.
“When you called us, you mentioned you’re with the Alexandria Police Department,” Morgan Jackson said. “So we’re sort of puzzled about what investigation could involve us.” He paused; his eyes narrowing. “Unless of course it somehow involves Dixon.”
“As a matter of fact, it does. It’s about how he was killed.”
They exchanged a quick glance. “What do you mean, ‘how’?” Morgan said. “We heard he died in a turf battle with some rival drug gang.”
He watched them carefully for any reactions to his next words.
“Well, there are some inconsistencies about that theory. It doesn’t seem that it was gang-related after all.”
Lila shifted in her seat. Morgan spread his hands on his knees and said, “But wasn’t he running a drug gang?”
“Oh, sure. But the more the Baltimore Police look into it, the less it seems to have been about drugs. That’s why we got involved. I forgot to mention: I’m not here representing the Alexandria P.D. I’m investigating this in my role as a member of the Vigilante Task Force.”
Sudden, simultaneous nervous looks. Another quick exchange of glances.
“I . . . don’t understand,” Morgan said.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the recent wave of vigilante shootings,” Cronin continued, watching closely. “How murderers freed by the legal system have been targeted for assassination by someone. It’s been all over the news for months.”
Lila Jackson averted her eyes and plucked at her skirt, while his hands balled into fists on his thighs.
“Certainly,” he said. “Who hasn’t heard about that? So . . . are you saying you think that group of vigilantes might have killed Dixon?”
“A vigilante group, perhaps,” he said casually. “Or maybe just a single individual.”
She licked her lips. He cleared his throat and said, “Only one vigilante?”
“I know it’s hard to believe,” he went on. “But the attack on Dixon and his gang was done by a single man. And that’s caused us on the task force to rethink things. We’ve gone back and checked the prior vigilante cases, and we can’t find a single one where we know for sure that more than one guy was involved.�
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“That is unbelievable,” Jackson said. “How could that be possible?”
Cronin shrugged. “Obviously, it’s someone of considerable combat skill and experience. But because this case with Dixon affects you so personally, I felt I should stop by and tell you about this new focus in our investigation, just so you wouldn’t have to hear rumors in the media.”
She continued to look away and fidget with her skirt, remaining silent, while his smile looked forced.
“That’s awfully nice of you, Detective, to be concerned with our feelings like that.”
“Well, I just know how the press can be. You’ve had experience with the newspapers, I know. Like those stories the Inquirer reporter has been doing?” He looked upward, as if trying to remember. “What’s that guy’s name?”
Another quick glance passed between them.
“Oh, you mean Dylan Hunter,” Jackson said.
Cronin smiled. “Yeah. That’s the guy. You’ve been following his articles, then. I recall he wrote about a victims rights group you belong to.”
Morgan Jackson’s eyes narrowed. He suddenly seemed wary, as if guessing Cronin’s real purpose.
“Yes, Detective. In fact, our group, Vigilance for Victims, honored him last month with an award at our annual banquet, for his work exposing the leniency in the legal system, and for publicizing our concerns.”
Cronin knew that, but didn’t let on.
“Oh, really? Then I gather you approve of what he’s been writing.”
Lila turned back to him. “We do. We all do. Dylan kept his promise to us about publicizing victim cases and issues.”
“You’ve known him for a while, then?”
“Just since our monthly meeting last September,” Morgan said. “He was invited by one of our members, Susie Copeland.”
The name shocked him.
“So Susanne Copeland is a member of your group?” he said casually, masking his surprise.
“She is. We often hold our meetings in her home.”
Cronin’s head was spinning with the implications.
“I’m glad he’s been loyal to you,” he said, forcing another smile. “Most reporters aren’t like that.”
“No, they’re not,” Lila said, a trace of bitterness in her tone. “But Dylan’s one in a million.”
He noticed the familiarity of the first name.
“I understand how grateful you must be.” He sighed. “But, I have to tell you that, for us cops, his articles have been a mixed blessing.”
“What do you mean?” A defiant edge in her voice.
“For all the positive attention he’s given to you folks, the publicity he’s given to the criminals in his Inquirer articles seems to have made them targets of the vigilantes.” He spread his hands. “Or vigilante, as the case may be.”
“So it seems,” Morgan Jackson said, looking at him steadily.
“I recall that he wrote about the case involving Mrs. Copeland and her late husband. Has he ever written about your case?”
They both shook their heads. “We asked him to, at the awards banquet,” Lila offered. “And he wanted to. But he said there wasn’t any time to do that before Dixon was released from prison.”
So Hunter lied. He did know when Dixon was set to be released . . .
Lila Jackson seemed less guarded than her husband, so he turned to her.
“I see. Has he written about cases involving other members of your group, Mrs. Jackson?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but her husband interjected.
“Detective, we appreciate your stopping by to let us know about these new developments in Dixon’s death,” he said, rising from the sofa to his feet. “But Lila has a doctor’s appointment”—he glanced at his watch—“at two, and I’m afraid we have to get ready for that, now.”
He noticed Lila’s puzzled frown as she looked up at her husband.
“Oh, I’m sorry if I am holding you up.” Cronin stood, too. “Thanks so much for your time.”
Morgan led him to the front door. Then turned and offered his hand, but no smile.
“I do thank you for keeping us in the loop about your investigation, Detective Cronin.”
Cronin shook his hand. “Of course. We’re after the same goal, Mr. Jackson.”
“Which is?”
“Making sure that justice is done.”
Jackson’s grip tightened. He locked eyes with Cronin.
“We’ll never get our daughter back, Detective. But we’ve got our justice, now—at least, the only justice we can hope for in this life.”
The man’s next words came slowly, deliberately.
“Far as we’re concerned, everybody should forget about Dixon, now. And just move on. So that Lila and I can move on, too. This has been very hard on her. On both of us.” He released Cronin’s hand.
Cronin’s eyes moved to Lila Jackson in the living room, staring at him, hands clasped in her lap. Behind her, the photos on the mantelpiece looked at him, too.
“I’m a father, too, Mr. Jackson. I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve gone through. And I truly wish I could forget about Dixon. But I have a job to do. I still have to find out who killed him. And who’s killing all those other criminals. And why. That’s what the law and justice requires. I hope you understand that.”
Jackson nodded solemnly. “I do. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But maybe we have a different idea about what constitutes justice.”
2
Back in his office, Cronin went online to the Vigilance for Victims website. He found a chronological archive of summaries and photos from the group’s monthly meetings and events. He scrolled back to the September entry.
The monthly meeting had taken place September 10th. In addition to a brief write-up, a group photo of the participants was posted, with their names listed beneath.
Dylan Hunter stood right in their midst.
And Annie Woods was standing to one side.
Well, well, well . . .
Other names beneath the photo rang all sorts of bells.
Cronin opened a desk drawer where he kept bulging files about the vigilante murders. It took a few minutes of rummaging before he dug out Hunter’s newspaper articles from last year. He spent more minutes scanning them, searching for and jotting down names from the stories that matched those listed on the group’s website.
And he glanced repeatedly at the wall of his cubicle, where he’d pinned photos of the criminals killed by the vigilante. When he saw links between them and victims in the stories and on the website, he jotted down their names, too.
Each match felt like a lock’s tumblers clicking into place.
After about ten minutes of this, he picked up and stared at his scribbled list.
One guy in the meeting photo was George Banacek. He was the father of Tommy Banacek—who had been murdered by Orlando Navarro and Tomas Cardenas.
Over the next two months, both of them were shot dead by the vigilante, along with a gang pal, Manuel Maldonado.
A frail-looking elderly woman stood next to Hunter in the photo: Kate Higgins, mother of a kid named Michael Higgins. Michael had been killed by Conrad Williams.
Also shot dead by the vigilante.
Then there were the Jacksons—at that meeting and in the photo. Their daughter Loretta—raped and murdered by Reginald Dixon.
Dixon, too, had been taken out by the vigilante.
Finally, of course, Susanne Copeland, widow of Arthur Copeland. Victims of the brutal attack by Adrian Wulfe, “Jay-Jay” Valenti, and William Bracey.
Valenti and Bracey had been gunned down by the vigilante.
And Adrian Wulfe had been stabbed to death . . . by none other than Dylan Hunter.
Cronin tossed his pen and paper on his desk. Began to rock slowly in his chair.
So there it is.
He stared at the photo. At the image of Dylan Hunter. Surrounded by the victims he had avenged.
He n
o longer had the slightest doubt.
All he needed now was iron-clad proof.
3
Hunter thanked Morgan Jackson again, then ended his phone call.
Then sat in the stillness of the living room in his Bethesda apartment, stroking Luna.
The cat lounged beside him on the sofa, purring contentedly. Whenever his hand stopped moving, she nudged it with her head or paw to remind him of his proper priorities.
Hunter petted the cat absently, staring out the sliding glass door, past the balcony, into the roiling mass of dark clouds on the western horizon that had grown to obscure the afternoon sun.
It was time to face the uncomfortable truth.
His Dylan Hunter cover was blown.
Wonk knew his cover identity was fake, too. And suspected him of having some sort of spy agency connection.
So did the Jacksons. And George Banacek. And Kate Higgins. And Susie Copeland.
Lasher—and whoever he was working for—knew it was an alias. And knew, also, that he was some kind of operator with combat and sniping skills.
Meanwhile, Avery Trammel had spotted him with Annie. That adversary knew they were linked.
And Cronin had known all along that the Dylan Hunter name was an alias. What Morgan just reported confirmed that Cronin was now certain he was the vigilante, and was out to nail him.
The status quo had become untenable.
Cronin would get the task force to focus on him. They’d obtain court orders to allow electronic surveillance, and subpoenas to compel his friends to testify against him—or to face criminal penalties. Which, of course, he’d never allow them to do.
Meanwhile, Lasher and his unknown employer, or employers, would be hunting him relentlessly—either to kill him or to expose him to the media.
Even if, by some miracle, he managed to get past Cronin and Lasher, it was only a matter of time before one of the angry targets of his newspaper investigations, like Trammel, would hire a detective to dig into Dylan Hunter’s background. Or some competing newspaper or reporter would do so. It was amazing that had not already happened. But when it did, they’d reach the same biographical dead ends that Annie, Wonk, Bronowski, and Cronin had hit. They’d find a ghost. A man with no parents, home town, or childhood. No educational or work history. No known address.
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