by Davis Bunn
“Do I gotta hurt you to make you leave?”
Matt fought down the tremors enough to ask, “Show you what?”
Vic had a panther’s moves when he wanted. Fast and silent and scary. He whipped the air about Matt’s face, racing through a series of death strikes so fast Matt had no idea what he had just seen. “No. You tell me. What do you think I’m talking about?”
When Matt arrived at the dojo, Vic was leaning in the doorway, drinking coffee and squinting into the warming day. He held out his mug in greeting. “You want any?”
“I’m good, thanks. Appreciate you meeting me.”
“Man’s got to be somewhere. You want to work out?”
“More than I can say. But I’m not sure my leg is ready.”
“We’ll do a few katas, hold it to style and balance.” Vic tossed out the dregs of his mug. “Maybe you can show me what you’ve learned, watching the older guys. Like the old days.”
The parking lot was empty save for three dusty pickups parked by the Mexican grocery. A group of construction workers breakfasted on burritos Matt could smell across the lot. “That’s not why I needed to see you.” “Figured it wasn’t.” Vic pushed off the doorway. “Let’s work up a sweat, then you can hit me with serious.”
They went at it for over an hour. The attacker’s kick caused his thigh to throb, but not at what felt like a dangerous level. Finally Vic noticed him easing off and called time. Matt followed his old teacher through a series of stretches so ingrained he did not need to watch himself, much less think.
Afterward Vic took up his position against the wall. “Got a call last week from an old buddy.”
“From your police days?”
“Before. He was with me in Nam. He’s something else now, some government job, got himself a nice suit, cleaned up his talk, can’t tell me what he does.”
“CIA?”
Vic fanned the air. “I never had time for that federal alphabet soup. Tells me about a pal of his. A Brit who wants to stop by, ask some questions about a friend of mine.”
“Allen Pecard.”
“Man walks in while I’ve still got my buddy on the phone. Didn’t ask so much as tell. Just bounces ideas off me. Matt Kelly is this, he’s that. All the while he’s talking, he watches my response. Watches hard.”
Matt toweled off, holding to an offhand manner. Or trying. “What did you think of him?”
“That he knows you pretty well.”
“Other than that.”
Vic pulled a towel off the rail and slowly wiped his face. “You see some guys, they go into serious action and only partway come back. They got the civilian moves now; they hold down steady work; they talk the talk. But inside . . .”
“Something’s missing.” Thinking not about Pecard, but himself and the last time he had been here. A woman waiting to tell him exactly the same thing. AWOL, but without the warrior’s excuse.
“Is Pecard a friend?”
Matt remained silent. Locked inside two problems laid atop each other.
“That’s what you need to know. If he’s not, you got to watch out, you hear what I’m saying? Stone-cold was made to describe these guys. They do what they do, and they walk away. There’s nothing inside to even think the word regret.”
His phone chimed as he was pulling from the parking lot. “This is Kelly.”
“Lucas D’Amico. I was wondering when you planned to arrive at the station.”
The man’s formal tone was an evident warning. About what, Matt had no idea. “I’ve just worked out. I was going to stop by the house, shower and change, and come in.”
The detective cupped the phone, then asked, “Can you give me a time?”
“Is something wrong?”
“I really can’t say.”
Matt sped out of the lot. “Forty-five minutes. Less if traffic is with me.”
“We’ll be waiting.” He cut the connection before Matt could ask who made the statement plural.
The phone rang again so swiftly he answered with, “Forget something?” “Excuse me?”
Matt recognized the newspaper reporter’s voice. “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”
Judy Leigh sounded almost as edgy as the detective did. “I wanted to thank you for last night.”
“The cops taking care of you?”
“They followed me to work, promised to be there when I get home. Look, Matt, I did some checking into your dad’s business setup. Did you know he’s put all his companies into a blind trust?”
“I told you. We don’t talk.”
“Last year. And very privately. Not secret, just way in the background. Interesting he would go to all this trouble and not mention it in his press.”
Matt pulled up beside the house, carried his phone with him as he grabbed his bag and juggled for his apartment key. “Is it?”
“Absolutely. This sort of action doesn’t come cheap. It’s almost like he’s anticipating trouble and keeping this as ammo.”
“Can you find out who are the trustees?”
“Now you’re thinking like a reporter. I’m on it.”
He let himself into the apartment, dropped his gym bag and his keys. The air to his home congealed, making every word a struggle. “I need to ask you what you’ve found out about my mother.”
“Are you sure you want to go there?”
“This is a murder investigation, remember?”
She sighed. “I’ve checked. Believe me. So far I’ve come up with nothing.”
“There had to be a reason she was targeted.”
Judy Leigh took her time coming back, and when she did, it was to say, “So far I haven’t found anything. And that’s the honest truth, Matt. I’m still hunting, but very quietly. We’re still ordered off the chase. My editor fired off a memo to the publisher and our chairman first thing. Described the attack at the game, your role, and said we had to report it. Not asked. Told. The publisher took all of thirty seconds to respond. He invited her to review her options or offer her resignation. One or the other.” She was growing hotter by the moment. “So now I’m on easy assignments, puff pieces, enough to fill the time sheet and leave me space to dig. Which I will. Until we get enough to go front page.”
“You and the baby and the job stay safe, Judy.”
“Now you sound like my husband.” She hung up.
Matt shared the elevator with four clerical staff caught up in the transition from home to cop. Matt got off on seven and made it halfway across the bull pen when a voice called, “Agent Kelly?”
“Sir?”
A very dark man in a pale blue dress shirt, checked tie, and a narrow, frowning face walked up. “Lieutenant Crowder. The chief wants to see you.”
“Can you tell me where I’d find Detective D’Amico?”
“Kelly, the chief wants to see you now.”
Crowder led him through the busy outer office and knocked on the major’s door. He opened when there was a pause in the conversation going on inside. “Kelly’s here, Chief.”
“Show him in. No, you stay too.”
D’Amico was seated in the same position as the first time Matt had entered the chief’s office. His chair was against the side wall, from where he could observe the entire room. Major Bernstein wore a twopiece outfit of fawn suede, with a bracelet of Indian silver and a turquoise pendant. Her hair was neat and full and her looks very striking. “Take a seat, Kelly. Mind running through what happened last night?”
The office was tight with the four of them inside and the door shut. The others did not seem to notice, however. “I received a call from Times reporter Judy Leigh.”
“How do you know her?”
“I read her work in the hospital. She was the only reporter who didn’t harp constantly about right-wing extremists. When I got out, I looked her up.”
“So she called last night.”
“She asked me about the attack after the football game. I told her.” He glanced at D’Amico. The detective had pushed
his chair over as far as it would go, giving him a better view of everyone in the room. “Was that wrong?”
“Our department passes all journalist inquiries through Public Affairs. But you’re not a police officer, Mr. Kelly. So you can’t be ordered to follow proper police protocol. Go on.”
“Ms. Leigh had noticed someone following her. She’s seven months pregnant and I guess she got spooked. I called Officer Morales. She checked with Detective D’Amico. We confronted the stalker, or tried to. He got away.”
“I spoke with Morales. She said you showed some remarkable skills yesterday.”
Matt was listening hard, yet heard none of the hostility he had experienced in his previous meetings with Bernstein. Instead, she sounded oddly formal. All three officers watched him with the same detached, professional gaze. “Is there a problem?”
Bernstein asked, “Mr. Kelly, have you spoken with your office this morning?”
It took Matt a moment to realize she was talking about State. “No.”
“Well, I have. With a certain . . .” She adjusted her reading glasses. “Jack Van Sant. You know him?”
“He is State Department Intel.”
“Mr. Van Sant has been busy. The case involving your mother has been reassigned. It is now federal in jurisdiction. You have been designated officer in charge.”
They all gave him the official mask. Matt said, “I don’t want it.”
“You don’t . . .” The chief was halted by a ringing phone. She answered, “Bernstein. Yes. He just arrived. Hold on.”
She handed Matt the phone. “Now I’m expected to play receptionist?”
Matt took the receiver. “This is Kelly.”
“Van Sant here. I assume the chief has informed you of the change in status.”
“With respect, sir, this is Detective Lucas D’Amico’s case. I’m the greenie in from nowhere. I don’t know enough to go point on anything. I’m just a ride-along, learning as I go.”
“You solve this, the publicity could reach as far as Washington.”
“I repeat what I said, sir. This is BPD’s case. They deserve the glory. Not me.”
All the eyes in the room bore down hard as Matt waited for the incoming barrage. Instead, Jack held to an easy tone. “This Bernstein, is she as tough as she sounds?”
“Roger that.”
“Bet you caught her flat-footed with that last remark.”
Matt glanced quickly across the desk. “Affirmative.”
“This is an officially sanctioned investigation now, Kelly. Which means you can handle it however you like. Leave this D’Amico in control or not; that’s your call. Whichever way you run the hunt, you can bring in whatever federal help you want. We clear?”
“Yes sir. Thank you.”
“I told you. Lose the ‘sir.’ I should be back to you sometime today with the data you requested earlier.”
Matt asked, “Can I request your help with one more item?”
“Go.”
“In the original attack, a thumbprint was found in every room. Just one. The same each time. They’ve run it through the national system and come up with nothing. It’s been suggested that it might belong to someone listed as KIA.”
Bernstein’s eyebrows lifted. For the first time, D’Amico showed surprise as well. Van Sant asked, “You want me to request a search of inactive military files?”
“It’s a long shot at best.”
“No, no. This can be arranged. Send through the print and I’ll see what we can turn up.”
“Thank you.”
“Standing up for the locals, that’s rare in this game, Kelly. I have to tell you, I like it. I like it a lot.”
“I meant it.”
“My guess is, the ambassador will be pleased as well.” Van Sant hung up.
Matt set down the phone. And waited.
Bernstein needed a moment to unfasten her gaze and ask D’Amico, “What have you turned up?”
D’Amico lifted the top sheet from the file in his lap. “The SUV used by last night’s stalker was stolen a week ago in Philly. Our people went over it very carefully. Nothing. Not a hair, not a print. Zip.”
Bernstein asked Matt, “Neither of you got a good look at the guy you danced with?”
“Tall, stocking cap, dark clothes, gloves, strong. Seriously good with his hands.” Matt hesitated, then added, “I think he knew about my leg.”
D’Amico said, “He could have seen you favor that side and gotten off a lucky shot.”
Bernstein asked, “What about yesterday’s attack at the stadium?”
D’Amico resumed his study of the case file. “The perp used a Cheyenne Tactical 408.”
Bernstein asked, “Why do I know that name?”
“Our TAC team has been pressing for us to shift over. Things cost a bomb. Called a Chey-Tech among our serious gun nuts. Professional sniper’s rifle. Had a matching computerized scope that our guys claim would make it almost foolproof at a thousand yards.”
He passed Matt a plastic baggie holding a round. “This is what he was shooting at you.”
The bullet was eight inches long, thicker than his thumb, and weighed five ounces empty. Matt handed it to Bernstein. She hummed a note, handed it to Crowder. Just four pros out fighting the bad guys.
D’Amico read, “Cartridge is from Blaser of Germany, projectiles by Lost River High Energy Technologies. Four-hundred-twenty-grain supersonic projectile. Solid nickel-copper alloy, sized through pressure dies to variations less than one-hundred-millionth of a centimeter.”
Crowder said, “The old-style fifty calibers would take your shoulder off. Took a special sort of animal to lug all that weight through the jungle, forty pounds for the BAR, double that for the belts. Slam it into position, start plowing furrows.”
D’Amico added, “This new version has a gas port on the end of the barrel that represses recoil. Problem with these models is noise. The research students who called in the incident were three city blocks away, call it a quarter mile. They said it sounded like a cannon going off in the next room. Broke windows in all the surrounding buildings.”
Matt recalled, “He basically shattered a solid concrete wall.”
“So I hear. Our gun guys say the gas port kicks up some serious blow-back. Debris and dust and whatever is around the tripod base. And the muzzle still tracks up. You say he kept shooting at a steady line, though.”
“Right across the rear wall,” Matt confirmed. “At head height.”
“Suggesting he knew how to handle his armament. And came prepared.” D’Amico was giving him that careful look now. “Strange how he didn’t hit anybody.”
“Unless he didn’t intend to.”
D’Amico squinted in pleased agreement. “I never did like this as a hit gone bad.”
“He wanted to shake somebody up. Either that or he’s playing with us.”
“Not for long,” Bernstein declared. “So what’s next.”
“I want to talk with the armory chief. But I’m getting stonewalled. I was hoping Kelly might have an in.”
Another glance his way, then, “And Morales?”
“She’s out trying to find us a lever we can use to unhinge one of the guys behind the robbery.”
“Those Aryans?” Crowder huffed a laugh. “Lotsa luck.”
“She might have something. We’ll know by tomorrow.”
Bernstein motioned a dismissal. But as Matt rose from his chair, she asked, “You have any idea why the mayor’s office would try to pull you off this case?”
He thought of his conversation that morning with the journalist, decided to check it out first. “Nothing concrete.”
She said to D’Amico, “Add that to your list.”
D’Amico headed for the door. “Top of the pile.”
D’Amico followed Matt out of the chief’s office. He pointed Matt down the bull pen’s central aisle and pulled a second chair into his cubicle. “How are you doing?”
“Sore. But I worked out this
morning, so it’s to be expected.”
He nodded once. Then asked again, “How are you doing, kid?”
“Okay. Why?”
“Investigating your mother’s killer. Taking incoming fire and doing a heavy tango all in one day. It’s a valid question.”
Matt thought of his earlier conversation with Ian. “I’m fine.”
“You need to talk, I’m here. You copy?”
“Thanks, Lucas.”
D’Amico nodded again. “Back to what I was telling the chief. I tried to set up an appointment with the head honcho over at the National Guard Armory. The general over there is one Robards. His aide kept me on hold for fifteen minutes. Came back and gave me a number in New York.” He shuffled through the paper on his desk. “Told me I had to run my request through a Major Patches Smith, National Guard Public Relations Office. You believe that name?”
Matt looked down at the bullet in his hands. “If I go through official channels, there’s a risk we’d be stonewalled.”
D’Amico unbent a paper clip. “Okay. I’m asking. But I don’t have to like it.”
Matt took out his phone, dialed Pecard’s number from memory. D’Amico asked, “You calling that retired spook?”
“Pecard. Yes.”
D’Amico sighed and worked the paper clip harder.
Pecard answered with his usual terseness. “I was expecting to hear from you yesterday, Agent Kelly.”
“We got caught up in something else.”
“If one of the team goes into hostile territory, it is proper conduct to report his safe return.”
Matt watched D’Amico snap the paper clip into tense little bits. “We’ve got a problem. We need access to the senior officer at the National Guard Armory without jumping through a month of bureaucratic hoops.”
“Is General Robards still OIC?”
“Yes.”
“I want something in return. Is the detective with you?”
“Right here.”
“Ask him when he plans to confront Sol Greene.”
D’Amico liked the question less than he had Matt’s phone call. “That’s none of his business.”
Matt replied, “It is if we want his help.”