“I don’t really want to say a prayer. There’s something I need to tell you.”
I slightly glanced behind me to see where the other two men were.
“I’m listening.”
“Something’s not right. I don’t trust your lieutenant. In case anything happens to me, I have a safety deposit box at the Bank of America on I Street.” Stephen paused a second before continuing. “The firm is a front. Look at the firm. In the safety deposit box, there’s a disk with every illegal transaction that it has been involved in over the past six years.”
“What do you mean a front? A front for what?”
Father Jefferson cleared his throat. “We really should get moving.”
Just then, to the left of the sanctuary, a side door opened and two men in black suits slowly pushed in a casket.
“Gentlemen, our time is up. The dead deserve our respect,” Father Jefferson said.
I looked over at Stephen and he silently mouthed the name, “Judge Peters.”
My eyes widened with surprise. I was about to say something else, but then heard what I thought sounded like a gun cocking.
Fifty-one
I WASN’T PREPARED FOR what happened next. No one could have been. The blast was instant and deafening. Blood sprayed onto my face, and before I realized what had happened, Stephen Carter slumped forward. He didn’t make a sound. The bullet pierced his skull before he had a chance to react.
Stephen’s body fell onto my lap. A large hole cratered the back of his head. I couldn’t move. I was dazed. It felt like a fog had covered my brain and paralyzed my limbs. My eyes widened and my heart was beating quickly. The only inkling of a movement I mustered was a simple gasp. “Stephen.”
“I can’t go through with this,” a nervous and distraught voice said behind me.
I recognized the voice as Father Jefferson’s.
“Get down!” Lieutenant Polenski yelled.
A simple thought zipped through my head in the split second before my body was able to move again: is he talking to the priest or to me?
“Shoot!” Lieutenant Polenski screamed.
I finally shook off the shock and reached for my Glock. I quickly slid off of the bench, and as I did, Stephen’s limp body fell to the floor, making a thud sound. My sidearm was in my hand within seconds and I immediately looked for Lieutenant Polenski. I saw the top of his head three rows behind.
“Shoot now!” Lieutenant Polenski yelled again.
By now, I had the strong suspicion that Polenski wasn’t talking to me, but to whoever had killed Stephen.
I quickly scanned the room and wasn’t able to find the shooter. Sweat dripped into my eyes, but I didn’t wipe it away for fear of losing my aim. Suddenly, just as a tear of sweat crossed in front of my left eye, I saw a blurry vision of a rifle aimed at me from the upper balcony.
I knew that I didn’t have enough time to aim and shoot before the shooter took his shot, but I tried anyway. I moved my weapon towards the rifle, but then heard the riveting blast of a gun go off. I expected to feel the fiery burn of the bullet pierce my head, but instead realized that the shot hadn’t come from in front of me, but from behind.
I quickly spun around and saw one of the men who pushed in the casket holding a gun in his hand, aiming at the balcony. The man looked at me and I instantly recognized him as the man who had been following us a few minutes earlier in the rain. But there was something else. As I stared longer, I realized that this was also the same man wanted in the death of Faraji Owusu. The man who told me that his name was Harvey Lindenberg.
Fifty-two
THE SNIPER WASN’T TRYING to save anyone’s life today, rather he wanted to end one. He was just as surprised as everyone else in the room when he heard the gun go off and then saw blood spray from the back of Stephen Carter’s head. His first reaction was to duck, and then he pulled out the Beretta 9 millimeter he had used to knock out one of the two men that he had helped with the casket just minutes earlier. He had told the second man that as long as he followed along, his life would be spared. The man had obviously believed him.
The sniper just happened to be facing the balcony and saw the spark from the rifle as the bullet left the chamber. His eyes widened with disbelief when he saw Stephen’s body slump forward, and then after the initial shock ended, his blood began to boil. The previous two years of his life had been consumed with thinking about this day; the way Stephen and Faraji would look when one of his bullets pierced their skulls. He wanted to consume the gratification of what it felt like to bask in revenge’s glory, but now that feeling would never come. His moment was stolen forever.
When he saw the shooter, he instantly recognized him as Nathan Hunt. He saw his rifle aimed at the detective and quickly realized that both men had been set up to die. When the sniper took the shot, he wasn’t trying to save the detective’s life, rather, in that split second, revenge took on a new face.
Unfortunately, the shot missed and the sniper became the next target. Multiple bullets sprayed across the room, which caused the sniper to leap to his left and take cover behind the pulpit. As he laid on the ground, bullets crashed around him, causing bits of stone and wood from the podium to break off. To his left, he saw Detective Hayden taking cover between the pews. The two made eye contact and the way the detective looked at him, with shock and disbelief, the sniper knew that the detective had recognized him from the Dupont Circle shooting.
He carefully held the Beretta in his hand and, for the shortest of seconds, questioned who he should aim it at when the bullets stopped flying. He sensed that the detective was feeling the same way. Then, suddenly, the clapping of the gun stopped and the sanctuary became quiet, with the exception of the shooter shuffling through the balcony in an apparent escape attempt.
The sniper’s eyes darted from the detective to the door from which he had entered, and then back to the detective. He knew that it would only be a matter of minutes before cops from all over the city swarmed into the church. He took a quick peek around the podium, glanced to where the shooter had been and saw that he wasn’t there. With one movement, he hopped to his feet and made a dash towards the door.
Fifty-three
I WATCHED AS HARVEY Lindenberg made a break for the rear door. The bullets had stopped flying, so I assumed that the first shooter wasn’t at his position any longer, given that Harvey was able to run without being shot at. I needed to make a decision and make one fast: should I go after Harvey or the first shooter? I heard Lieutenant Polenski saying something, but it wasn’t coherent, possibly because my mind was focused on something else. Then I made the decision I thought was best: go after Lindenberg. He’s the one who started all of this. I jumped to my feet and rushed after him, yelling to Polenski that I was going after Lindenberg.
I glanced around the door and then ran through a long, narrow hallway that led to another door with a red and white exit sign over top of it. Lying on the ground was an unconscious man wearing a black suit. I quickly knelt down and placed two fingers against the man’s neck to feel for a pulse. There was one. Good. The police would be here in a minute, so I decided to continue my pursuit.
I cautiously pushed through the side door and pointed my gun in every direction before stepping outside. Now standing in the pouring rain on the G Street side of the church, Harvey Lindenberg was nowhere to be found. I jogged to the corner of G & 10th Street and looked to my left and saw the tail end of someone dashing into a parking garage next to the church.
I sprinted along the sidewalk; my feet splashed against the soaked pavement with each long stride until I reached the opening of the parking garage where I cautiously came to a complete stop. At the entrance of the garage was a street-level sign that read “Early Bird Special - $13 all day.” Past the sign, the garage darkened and descended into the lower depths of the city. Heavy wet footprints led straight past the cashier’s booth, and the deeper they descended, the lighter the prints became until they faded altogether.
I pulled out my badge
and stopped at the cashier’s booth where an Ethiopian-looking woman with short hair and full lips was reading a magazine.
“Did you see a man just run through here?”
The woman nodded and pointed down into the garage. “He ran right past me.”
“Call the police,” I quickly responded, “and tell them that Detective Hayden is in pursuit of a shooter, and then leave the garage.”
I cautiously descended down the throat of the garage with my firearm aimed. I came to the first turn, which was a left, leaned against the wall and took the turn without a sound. I was on the first lower level where parked cars were scattered in various parking spaces. As quiet as I was, the thumping sound of my heart seemed to echo throughout the large space. I took deep breaths to try and calm my nerves, but I was finding it nearly impossible to do. The man who had killed Faraji Owusu in cold blood a few days earlier was somewhere close by, and I knew that if I weren’t careful I could be the next casualty.
I walked along the wall, making myself as little as possible so as not to be an open target. With each car I passed, I waved my gun towards it, almost expecting Harvey Lindenberg to jump out at me. But nothing happened.
I came to the next left where the garage led to the second lower level. I took the left and made sure that each step was a whisper of itself. The second level had fewer cars than the first. I continued walking along the wall until I reached a car where the ceiling light above it was busted and shattered glass was on its roof. I steadied my aim towards the busted light and carefully approached it. Could Harvey be hiding behind the car?
The sound of a click behind my head quickly answered that question. I stopped and felt the heaviness of my legs as they struggled to hold me up. It wasn’t every day that a killer held a gun to one’s head and one lived to tell about it.
“Slowly open your hands and drop your gun,” a familiar voice firmly whispered from behind.
I didn’t hesitate. I slowly opened my hands and allowed the gun to fall next to my feet.
“Now kick it behind you.”
I kicked the gun behind me.
Harvey Lindenberg didn’t immediately speak again, but I heard him bend down for the gun and pick it up.
“You won’t get away with this,” I finally summoned the courage to say.
“Raise your hands above your head.”
As I raised my hands, I felt Harvey reach for the handcuffs that were strapped to the back of my belt.
“Put these on.”
Harvey raised the handcuffs to my hands.
“You need to just turn yourself in,” I said. He placed the cuffs around my wrists and snapped them together.
“You were a target, too, you know,” Harvey said.
“How do you know that?”
“I bet you weren’t supposed to leave there alive.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw the shooter. He was about to put a bullet right between your eyes.”
I didn’t respond.
“I have one more job to do and then I’ll be out of your city forever.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“You have no choice. This is my revenge.”
Police sirens began to scream in the background.
“The garage will soon be surrounded,” I said, hoping that he would understand the gravity of the situation. “Give up now and—”
Without warning, I was hit on the back of my head. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground. Before I passed out, Harvey bent down and looked me in the face. My vision was blurry, but I remembered Harvey’s deep blue eyes piercing into mine.
“Stay away from this one.”
Then I saw Harvey start to run away, and everything around me soon faded into a sea of blackness.
Fifty-four
JUDGE FRANK PETERS ENJOYED getting his head massaged, especially after an invigorating sexual escapade with Carmen once again. Their weekly meeting went without a hiccup, and Carmen continued to prove why she was worth the three hundred fifty dollars he paid for the hour.
With their bodies totally nude and a light film of sweat along their skin, Frank laid with his back against her belly and was partially propped up as Carmen gently massaged his temples, and then moved her fingers around his skull. Occasionally, she’d inhale deeply through her nose and let her breath escape past her lips. When her breath touched Frank’s skin momentarily, it got him excited. However, unlike last week’s multiple orgasm, this week he decided that one was enough.
He was content for now, enjoying the trance-like feeling that the massage had put him in. If he didn’t know any better he’d think that she was purposely trying to put him to sleep with the magic that her fingers were making. His eyelids became heavier with each passing second, and his body felt like it was floating on a cloud.
“You’re the best,” he managed to say.
Carmen chuckled, “No, Your Honor, you’re the best.”
He slightly smirked, “You know, I’ve never heard you call me by my name.”
“I thought that we’d keep it professional.”
Frank exhaled and opened his eyes. Professional, he thought. This indeed was a business arrangement, but being with Carmen the past few months had changed something inside of him.
“What would you say if I wanted it to be more than just professional?”
Carmen stopped rubbing his head. “What are you saying?”
The tough guy with near-limitless power in Washington, D.C., turned around with puppy dog eyes and lovingly gazed at Carmen.
“You know what I mean. We’ve been going at this for quite a while and…maybe it’s time you put this business to a halt and let me take care of you.”
“You want to take care of me?”
Frank leaned forward and gently kissed her.
“Of course I do. You don’t need to live this kind of life anymore.”
Carmen didn’t immediately respond. Her eyes gazed back into Frank’s with the same emotion and intent that his did hers.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Before he was able to respond, his cell phone rang from inside his pants, which were spread across the floor. He rolled across the bed and reached for his phone. It was Nathan calling.
“Yeah.”
Within a matter of seconds, the skin on his face reddened, his jaws clenched together and his free hand balled into a fist. The anger that he constantly struggled with nearly unleashed itself in a way that wouldn’t have been good for anyone. He couldn’t help it. When things failed that were outside of his control, the devil, as he calls it, that lives deep within him, wanted to be freed. If Carmen wasn’t in his presence, he would have exploded through the phone, but instead, he kept his tone peaceful, yet threatening.
“The two of you, at my house in one hour!”
He clicked off the phone and managed his temper before turning around.
“I’ve got to go,” he calmly said. “But think about what I’ve said.
“I will.”
Fifty-five
LIEUTENANT POLENSKI WAS THE highest-ranking officer with the Metropolitan Police Department who knew of Judge Frank Peters’ business. He knew everything about his business: who the important contacts were and how much money it made. For his part, Polenski got a generous monthly stipend to make sure the police department turned a blind eye if something fishy ever popped up. For the most part, he’d done his job; steered investigations in the opposite direction they should be going, sometimes caused evidence to disappear, and the list went on and on. Everything was going the way it should until Jacob decided to poke his nose where it shouldn’t be.
Jacob should be dead right now, Polenski thought. His corpse should be lying next to Stephen Carter’s. One bullet and that’s all it should have taken. The quickly-devised plan between Nathan Hunt and him shortly after Jacob had contacted him about Stephen should have been foolproof, and yet it wasn’t; assumedly spoiled by Faraji Owusu’s killer. Which brought Po
lenski’s mind to another question: what was the killer doing here in the first place? Who was he after? The only conclusion was that he was after Stephen Carter. He’d killed Faraji and was now after his partner. Did they do something to him? Was it related to the business? It took either a crazed lunatic, someone extremely desperate or highly skilled, to try and kill someone in the custody of two police officers. Perhaps he was all three. If this was tied to the business, then there was a whole bigger problem on the lieutenant’s hands than what he had originally thought.
He had heard Jacob and Stephen Carter talking shortly before Stephen was killed, and although he hadn’t heard what was said, he had the hunch that Stephen had told him some important information. Possibly about Judge Peters.
His pocket radio came to life and he heard the dispatcher call for officer assistance at the parking garage next to the church. Standing outside at the back of the church, Lieutenant Polenski saw Nathan Hunt duck into the driver’s seat of a late-model black vehicle a block away and drive off. He turned around and headed back inside the church, where he quickly made his way through the halls until he was met by Father Jefferson near the church’s lobby.
“When the police get here, tell them exactly what I told you. That Detective Hayden and I brought a witness here and then we were ambushed by a shooter in the balcony. I’ll lead them to believe that it was the shooter from a few weeks ago. Understood?”
Father Jefferson nodded, but the way he shifted his eyes away from Lieutenant Polenski and slouched his shoulders led Polenski to believe that Father Jefferson might not fully cooperate.
He leaned in closer to Father Jefferson and patted him on the shoulder.
“You okay? You’re not getting cold feet on me, are you?”
Father Jefferson looked up and shook his head, “No.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to remind you of why you’re helping me in the first place.”
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