The Hitman's Mistake

by Sally Brandle

  “Miranda makes the determination.”

  “Don’t want to talk to a stranger,” she whispered.

  “Understood. Let me know if you do.” Sam turned. “Here’s the hotel manager. I bet your new room’s ready.”

  “She’ll be okay,” Grant stated. “We’re discussing what happened, and I already offered a counselor.”

  “Okay.” Sam stepped into his parents’ room. “We can change suites now.”

  Grant carried Miranda into the hall, cradling her like a frightened child.

  Three agents followed them into the two bedroom suite, mere steps away from a shattered window and a mattress riddled with bullets.

  “I promise, tomorrow we’ll stay in a beautiful and impenetrable spot.” Grant looked down at her still body. “Think Roy Werner’s, except sitting in peaceful woods.”

  Grant shifted her weight and pulled back the covers on the new bed. “No one knows our lodging during the rest of the trial. We’ll be safe.”

  No response.

  “Please trust me.”

  She scrambled under the covers and rolled onto her side, facing the wall. “I have to. Can you give me a couple of minutes alone?”

  A stiletto knife couldn’t have carved into him more precisely. “Sure. I’d give anything to make this go away. Maneski deserves to rot like garbage.” He cracked the bedroom door and caught the agent’s eye who stood at the outer door. “I’m grabbing a shower.”

  The man nodded.

  Grant lumbered into the bathroom. Blistering hot water didn’t wash away his lengthy list of regrets. He shut the spigot off, toweled dry, and pulled his sweats back on.

  Light from the entry illuminated a view of her back and shoulders. She’d curled in fetal position, holding Kenny’s ball cap under her chin.

  He shut their door and slid into bed next to her, adjusting his weight inch by inch on the mattress.

  Anxiety hung in the room like a noose.

  “I need to hold you,” she implored. “May I?”

  “Always.”

  Her fingers found his wrist, and she drew his hand to her waist, then nestled her back against him. The dense fabric pushed against his bruises.

  “Do they make Kevlar body suits?”

  “I’ll check tomorrow. Let me help relax you tonight.” He eased her onto her belly, slipping his hand under her sweatshirt. Bumps of tension disappeared from her tight back muscles after his thumbs kneaded the taut areas.

  He finished at her waist and pulled the sweatshirt down. Next, he lifted her hair to one side at the base of her neck, revealing pale skin.

  While his fingers stroked away knots, he listened to his heart. They had to figure out a life together. They had to.

  She rolled her head to the side, a pink cheek exposed against a stark white pillow. “Mmm, no more kinks. Don’t tell me you learned those skills massaging Brasso.”

  Even now, after he’d failed to keep her safe tonight, she made him smile. “Okay, I won’t, though it’s the truth. I watched an equine therapist at work after Poppy’s old mare injured her shoulder.”

  “Bless the horses,” she murmured.

  His fingers combed through her glossy hair. Little by little, nudging tangled strands, he worked his way to her scalp.

  The more he tried to put his feelings for her aside, the more he wanted her. Every strand of hair, every resilient attitude, every panicked nightmare.

  Her lashes fluttered closed in time for her to catch three or four hours sleep. He left his arm draped across her back until smooth, rhythmic breathing came from her relaxed body.

  His thoughts returned to Karpenito. All fingers pointed to Kevin Fortuna being point man. If he remembered correctly, Fortuna’s police career began as a Seattle patrol officer. He’d joined the FBI and quickly climbed the ranks.

  Every instinct told Grant it wasn’t Sam. His boss drove a Chevy and took his family camping. He didn’t own a black Porsche, and he didn’t belong to a prestigious country club. Fortuna had to be the traitor.

  An idea of how to trap Fortuna formed in his mind. He’d talk to Sam tomorrow.

  His face went slack, imagining a spring Montana breeze stirring the blooming lilac bush outside his kitchen window and Miranda pulling a branch to her smiling face.

  If they lived.

  Chapter 18

  Miranda inhaled the scent of strong and acidic Seattle coffee. She stretched the full length of a warm bed, raising her arms over her head.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. You may want to get changed,” Grant said from the foot of the bed. “Sam and the guys will be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Another wardrobe malfunction. If I don’t hit my apartment, its old jeans or cargo pants.”

  “You’re stunning in either, but Mom packed extra business type clothes she speculated might fit you.” Grant set a tall drink container on the nightstand next to her. “You’re welcome to chug it in the shower.”

  “I need a drip line.” Her duffle bag sat on the end of the bed. “Thanks for the java. Very kind of your mom to bring me dressier clothing.”

  “She knows how fast things happen in law enforcement. I piled the gear from her in the bathroom.” Grant zipped his case and wheeled it to the entry area. “Please leave the bedroom door open while you shower.”

  Miranda shrugged, headed to the bathroom, and stepped under the shower head. Warm droplets sprayed away memories of the horrible night, at least for a few minutes.

  Pat’s skirt only reached the top of her cowboy boots, but the sweater set fit perfectly. What a thoughtful gesture. Her own mom would’ve done the same. A tear came to her eye.

  Her damp hair was the same reddish-brown as her mother’s, her skin, too. She dabbed blush on, then took another swipe of Dewey Rose powder. Funeral lily would be more appropriate.

  Her make-up case snapped closed. She tossed it into her suitcase, ready for their next lodging.

  Hopefully one they’d leave without a bloodstained carpet.

  ~ ~ ~

  Grant stood by the window, watching traffic.

  Behind him, his dad sipped coffee and intermittently patted the bulge of his 1980’s chest holster.

  “Sam, can we chat for a minute?” Grant asked.

  “We’ll get java refills,” Sam said. “Miranda should be out by the time we get back. Same order for everyone?”

  “Sounds great,” said Pat. “Make Tom’s decaf.”

  Sam held the door.

  “Thanks.” Grant nodded to four agents in the hallway.

  Grant and Sam stepped into the dark-paneled elevator.

  “I have an idea to ferret out whether or not our SAC betrayed us,” Grant said. “Call Fortuna and schedule a briefing about last night in your office at two o’clock. Tell him you want his opinion on your plans to move us to a new and more secure location.”

  “If I can restrain myself from choking the son of a bitch.” Sam punched the lobby button four times with his middle finger.

  “My thoughts involve firearms,” Grant muttered. “Anyway, at two-fifteen sharp, I’ll phone you. Drop a pen on the floor when you hear the call come in and hit speaker phone. I’ll identify myself as your contact at the Belvedere Hotel and rattle off a confirmation of tonight’s suite. The bastard will think he’s located our hotel.”

  “Hmm. Might work,” Sam said.

  The elevator opened on the lower level.

  He and Sam strode through the lobby and into the coffee shop next door.

  Sam pulled out his wallet and grinned. “My treat. I like your plan. I bet he’ll take the bait.”

  Grant nodded and scrutinized the surrounding buildings before reentering the hotel.

  “I wracked my brain all night.” Sam stood at the door. “I’
m pleased you figured out a trap. I can’t wait to cut the balls off the traitor.”

  A phone beeped, and Sam read a text. “Got a confirmation of what I suspected.” He ushered Grant into the elevator. “When they were SPD cops twenty years ago, Karpenito and Fortuna came close to jailing Maneski’s father. Records showed that after Fortuna reached ASAC, no charges stuck on either Maneski until last month.” They exited at their floor.

  “So they’ve been paid informants all this time, and no one questioned it.” Grant stopped in the alcove next to the elevator, his voice low.

  “They arrested minor players.” Sam said. “Appeared legit upfront.”

  Grant let out a disgusted snort. “Black marks on two departments.”

  “No one tied Karpenito and Fortuna together. Their relationship may’ve been dormant. I’m going higher up, to our Deputy Director, Neil Markson. I trust him.”

  “Me, too. We’re stepping into a dangerous dance, but I think we can do it with you leading, Sam.” Grant checked the hallway. “Have they found Karpenito?”

  “No.” Sam stopped. “I’ve been impressed by your fortitude. I can’t imagine the difficulty of your family being involved.”

  “Thanks. One challenge I never anticipated.”

  “Hold on a minute. There’s another issue, and I’m going to be blunt.” He locked eyes with Grant. “Is there anything personal I need to know happening between you and Miranda?”

  He held eye contact while his pulse pounded. “I’ve guarded her 24/7, but we haven’t had sexual relations.”

  “Your word’s good. Subject closed,” Sam said, and walked ahead.

  Cold facts, all he’d offer. Facts side-stepping his attraction to Miranda and betraying his own moral code. He let his shoulders drop for a moment and followed Sam. The mental tightrope now stretched over a deep gorge of improper conduct.

  They travelled the hall in silence.

  “Java’s here.” Grant rapped on the hotel room door.

  Miranda sat perched on the edge of a chair, her toe tapping the carpet. She dangled an untouched pastry in one hand. “I know Ike’s being guarded. Are Shirley and Corrin safe?”

  They weren’t the ones who’d put Maneski and Venom away for life. “Yes.” Grant sat in the chair across from her. “Here’s a fresh mocha brew. I’ll munch on a pastry if you’ll do the same.”

  She broke off a chunk of hers. “I have a recipe for my mom’s blueberry scones. I’ll make them someday.”

  No one would harm a hair on her head. Not if he still took a breath. “Deal.”

  Sam pulled out a notepad. “I need each of you to stand for measurements. We’re going to switch in FBI agents after you wrap up this morning’s Grand Jury.” He handed Pat a tape measure and began to record sizes.

  “If you need to match my height, put one of the guys in platform shoes, kind of a Karpenito ruse.” Grant winked at Miranda.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll stick with lifts.” Sam shoved the tape measure into his coat pocket. “Thanks for your help, Pat. I’ll head to my office to bait the rattrap.”

  Four agents surrounded them while they left the hotel room. The group passed through the glass doors and onto the sidewalk, with two agents from the lobby trailing behind.

  Grant scanned the crowd before they all piled into a dark van and sped through Seattle traffic.

  Sleepless nights took their toll. He’d never felt raw fear.

  Until now.

  ~ ~ ~

  Miranda read ‘Assistant U. S. Attorney’ etched in the glass door. Her heart pounded. They’d reached the beginning of the end.

  The receptionist led them to a conference room where tall windows overlooked one of the busiest streets in downtown Seattle.

  Half a block away, sunshine bounced off the glass atrium of the Justice Building. Inside, her plants would be happy. She owed them a good dose of fertilizer. They’d saved her—Ike, too.

  A woman in her mid-forties stood at the doorway. “I’m the prosecutor in charge of this district. Thank you all for coming. A staff member will be recording your statements, a critical component in this proceeding.” She turned and moved into the office across the hallway.

  Grant sat next to Miranda. “I’ve seen her in action. Maneski and Venom don’t stand a chance.”

  A slim man wearing tipped up half-specs rushed into the room. He held a laptop and a cumbersome stack of files. “I’ll be recording brief depositions today, we don’t have much time. Considering the amount of evidence, our office wants an expedited trial date.”

  A satisfied and genuine smile lit Grant’s face. “Important cases move to the fast track.”

  Miranda dropped her gaze to her lap. Threads of multiple colors crisscrossed into the skirt Pat had loaned her. Maneski’s actions bound them together for now. Soon enough, it’d be over and the connection would unravel. They’d go separate ways, forming new patterns with other people and events, such as Grant’s precious promotion.

  Bullet holes riddled her tapestry of life.

  “Let’s get started.” The man pulled on his glasses before extracting three disposable phones from an envelope. “The cells you requested are ready, Agent Morley.”

  Grant handed them out. “I need your phones. Not likely, but by now Maneski could be running tracers through your service providers. Just in case, we’re going to give yours to the decoys. You’ll get them returned later.”

  A cool detachment shaded Grant’s eyes.

  Miranda fished her outdated cell phone from her purse. On her fateful twentieth birthday, her dad had gifted it to her, announcing he’d found a phone with a decent camera. She rubbed her thumb across the screen before sliding it toward Grant.

  The man opened his laptop and began to type. “I’ll record your statements one at a time. Ms. Whitley, please begin.”

  Grant ushered his parents out and closed the door.

  “Chronologically please, from your first sight of the shooter,” he said.

  Her chair pressed into her backbone, intensifying the notion of being caught between an anvil and a hammer, waiting for the fatal blow to strike.

  ~ ~ ~

  Adrenalin rippled through Grant’s body. They’d all completed their statements. He pulled Miranda and his parents aside. “The suspected traitor’s at a weekly meeting. For the plan to work, he needs to see us before we change into our disguises.”

  “So,” Miranda whispered, “if a group of bees is a swarm, and a group of geese is a gaggle, what’s a group of snakes, a slither?”

  If humor eased her nerves, he’d learn stand-up comedy. Grant reached for her, then pushed his hands into his pockets. “Good question. I hope their tongues aren’t too forked to hiss out confessions. Let’s go.”

  They walked single file past a larger glass-doored meeting room. On a normal week, he’d be scribbling notes, sitting next to Sam.

  Their SAC faced out, seated in the position of authority at the head of the table. The psychopathic bastard glanced up.

  Grant waved and passed by, but not before he’d seen Fortuna pull out a phone. “We need to move on. One more flight of stairs.”

  They entered a room where one of the accompanying agents pulled four coats from a bag. “You’ll need to button up, the sky’s dumping,” he said.

  “Mom gets the hooded cape.” Grant zipped his leather jacket and pulled a ball cap out of the pocket. “Miranda, you’ll wear the wool coat and knit hat.”

  The agent collected the coats they’d been wearing. “Off to outfit our decoys. Thanks, folks.”

  Another agent stepped forward. He’d changed to a dark windbreaker. “We’ll loosely surround you while you get into a blue mini van parked out front. Keep your faces low until we’re under way.”

  They sto
od in the stairwell long enough to let the group wearing their original coats shuffle through the lobby’s double doors.

  Cold air shot in after their replacements left. Rain and wind slapped against his face while they dashed down wide cement steps. The other foursome loaded into an SUV.

  A dark car slowed at the corner, then tailed the bait car.

  After the car turned, Grant leapt into action. Sliding open the side door of the van, he said, “You three in back. Miranda in the middle.” He checked the perimeter, slammed their door shut, and hopped in the passenger seat.

  If they were in a 007 movie, the fast-pitched music would start. But they weren’t. They were smack in the center of a real shitstorm. Grant nodded to the driver. “Let the shell game begin.”

  Had the disguises worked? He jammed his seatbelt clasp, put one hand on the console and one on the molded door grip. “Everyone get buckled in and braced. The evasive maneuvers trainer is at the wheel.”

  The red-haired driver grinned and rolled into traffic. “Affirmative.” He wedged their vehicle between two cars and turned a corner. In the next block, he moved over a lane and turned again.

  “Whee! This could be a tilt-a-whirl ride at the county fair.” His mom swayed in her seat while holding the ceiling handle.

  “Glad you’re enjoying it,” Grant said. “Wait until you see what’s next. Remember how John’s invited us to visit him at his hideaway on the island?”

  Pat grinned. “A room with a view. Can’t wait.”

  Grant braced his palm against the dash while they careened to a stop at a light. “You okay, Miranda?”

  The van bolted forward, then turned sharply into an alley, dodging black garbage bags.

  “I guess so.” Her high-pitched voice indicated fear.

  The vehicle shot out between a Fed Ex truck and a taxi. Their driver tapped his ear bud and smiled. “No one tailed us. Let’s hope the decoys kept their caboose. Where to?”

  “Bell Harbor Marina.” Grant checked his phone screen. “Our agents arrived at the hotel, followed by the dark sedan.”