by Diane Capri
Muffled footsteps approached along the hallway carpet. Gaspar turned to block the visitor’s view, but Kim knew she was out of time.
“Report concluded 11:02 a.m.” She switched off the video and slipped her smartphone into her pocket just as a uniformed officer arrived at the doorway.
Gaspar engaged her to allow Kim a few more moments. Standing amid the bloody chaos for a final look, Kim noticed the high-tech speakerphone on O’Donnell’s desk.
Fingerprint residue blackened the buttons.
Had crime scene techs found evidence to identify the killer there? Could the victim have been conducting a telephone call at the time he was killed? If so, who was the caller and when, exactly, had he disconnected? More unanswered questions she filed away for later.
“Agent Otto, this is Officer Pat Schofield,” Gaspar said when she joined Gaspar at the threshold.
“Sorry, but I need to see some ID.” Schofield said it pleasantly, though. If she’d been wary upon arrival, Gaspar had somehow put her at ease already.
They showed their badges. Local law enforcement worked well with the FBI in DC and paths crossed often, although neither Gaspar nor Otto had met Schofield before. Satisfied by whatever Gaspar had said, Schofield didn’t seem overly concerned to find two agents in O’Donnell’s office.
“Why are you interested in the victim?” Schofield asked.
“We came to interview David O’Donnell about another case,” Gaspar explained. “Was he the victim?”
Schofield nodded. “So I’m told. This is my patrol area, but I wasn’t on duty Friday night.”
“You didn’t know O’Donnell, then?”
Schofield wagged her head. “No. You?”
“No,” Gaspar said. “What happened here?”
Schofield said, “Wish I could tell you. They just asked me to come up this morning while the secretary collected files.”
“Any reason we can’t talk to her about it?”
“She left when I came in. She wasn’t here when it happened, anyway. You’ll need to ask the detective in charge.”
“Do you know who that is?” Gaspar asked.
Schofield wagged her head again. “Just call the station. They’ll want to talk with you anyway.”
“Right,” Gaspar said. “Why hasn’t this place been cleaned up?”
“Sometimes it takes a while to get a crew out here,” Schofield said. “Or maybe the techs aren’t done. Like I said, I wasn’t on duty Friday night.”
Kim followed Gaspar out of the office and back through the door they’d entered forty-eight minutes earlier, heading downstream, away from the crime scene.
Could she have saved O’Donnell? Maybe. Not that it mattered now. O’Donnell could no longer be saved except, perhaps, by God. Which, under the circumstances, seemed unlikely.
Gaspar kept up a strong pace as they crossed the building’s main lobby, controlling his ever-present limp fairly well. He said, “Want me to call?”
Kim stopped at the glass exit doors. She knew what Schofield meant. The detective on the case would call them in after he heard from Officer Schofield. Expect them to explain themselves. That could not be allowed to happen. They needed high-level preemptive action to make sure they were never officially connected to O’Donnell or his murder.
“We’ve got a narrow window here, Sunshine,” Gaspar said.
She sighed. Nodded. He opened the untraceable cell. She heard him say, “Requesting interference.”
Kim tuned out the rest, pushed through the doors.
The more distance they put between O’Donnell and themselves, the better.
Once again, they were mired in death. Hardly surprising, though. They had come to expect violence in Reacher’s wake.
Had Reacher been here? Made sense.
Had he killed O’Donnell? No evidence to suggest otherwise.
“Still think Reacher’s old unit is just a bunch of unlucky ex-grunts, Cheech?” Kim asked when he’d finished his call, head bent against the icy rain pelting her face and slickening the sidewalk.
Gaspar ignored her question, hunched deeper into his overcoat against the biting November wind and speed-limped as swiftly as possible to catch up. Slightly breathless, he asked, “Where’s the fire?”
She kept her stride. She wanted to get away from O’Donnell’s office, and she felt an illogical urgency to reach Dixon. Whoever had killed O’Donnell had a six-day head start. If he’d left O’Donnell intending to kill Dixon, they were already too late.
After three more blocks at a near jogging pace, Gaspar grabbed her arm.
“Look,” he said, chest heaving, staring directly into her eyes. “Yes, it pisses me off that everyone we want to interview is dead before we get there and the Boss hides facts we need to know. Yes, it’s dangerous to ignore the implications.”
His breathing had slowed a bit. He lowered his head closer and softened his tone, too. “That said, you’ve got to know there’s probably no point in getting to Dixon at all, and there’s certainly no rush to get there.”
“You could be right. But what if you’re not?”
They might have argued further, but the icy cold made sparring on the sidewalk bone chilling.
He flagged a taxi. “Come on. There’s an earlier flight to Kennedy. We can catch it if we hurry. We don’t have time to go back to the hotel for our bags. We’ll do without them until we get back tonight.”
Kim said nothing, but she entered the cab and tried to focus on Dixon instead of the many ways a commercial pilot could screw up when flying an airliner through an ice storm.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thursday, November 11
11:22 a.m.
Washington, DC
Gaspar said, “Reagan National, please.”
They settled into the back seat for the short drive along ice-slicked streets. Kim glanced at Gaspar and allowed her anger to surface. “He knew about O’Donnell when he called this morning. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have lit such a fire under us to get there. But no warning at all. Not a word. Why not?”
Gaspar nodded toward the taxi driver, reminding her of the dashboard camera before he replied, “Because he wanted us to stay on course.”
“Why? We didn’t learn a damn thing. Nothing but a waste of time.”
“Ours is not to reason why . . . .” She glared at him. He shrugged. “You’re losing your perspective, Sunshine. This is just business as usual.”
Kim said nothing. She was no mind reader, and Gaspar wasn’t either. The Boss had his own agenda. Whatever that agenda was, it didn’t include sharing information vital to their assignment. She’d already learned that lesson the hard way. Still, she wasn’t used to working for a man she didn’t trust with a partner she didn’t know on a mystifyingly dangerous assignment where people attempted to thwart her at every opportunity. The assignment was more than a challenge. So far it had been a constant ten-day nightmare.
When the taxi dropped them off at the terminal, Gaspar paid the driver before joining her on the sidewalk, where they stood a moment in silence before he asked, “Now what, Suzy Wong?”
Their assignment was to be completed in as close to total secrecy as possible, revealing their identities when required but never the true nature of their mission. Which was okay because neither Kim nor Gaspar knew the truth anyway. Their cover story was difficult enough and they disclosed it only when unavoidable. Staying off the grid was a constant struggle, but it was the only piece of the job that made Kim feel safer.
Surveillance at Reagan National was perhaps the most comprehensive in the country. There was no way to stay off camera but they could slow the hunters down by refusing to provide audio instructions to go with the video. A weak grin lifted the right corner of her mouth. Whoever wanted to know where she was going next would have to do a bit of digging to figure things out. Keep ’em guessing as much as possible was not much of a plan, but it was the only one she’d come up with so far that occasionally worked.
Gaspar could f
igure things out. They entered the terminal building. He approached the ticket counter and returned saying, “We’re departing in twenty-minutes.”
They hustled through security, passing their guns and badges to the TSA officer, and were the last two passengers aboard the plane. As usual, Gaspar relaxed into seat 1A while Kim chose a seat a bit further back in the first class cabin where she couldn’t see and hear too much of what was going on with the flight crew. She popped two antacids, gripped the seat’s arms, and closed her eyes as if she might save herself from disaster only if she didn’t see it coming.
After they reached the appropriate altitude, the flight attendant announced electronic devices could be used. Kim loosened her death grip on the armrests and reached for her laptop. A bolt of panic stole her breath before she remembered she’d left everything she owned back at the DC hotel. She didn’t even have a charger for her phone, meaning she couldn’t afford to drain its remaining energy by working on the inadequate keyboard.
Which left her no choice but to do the one thing she avoided whenever possible while flying: think without the benefit of distraction.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, Gaspar was still sleeping when she tapped him on the shoulder to disembark. He yawned, stretching long arms and long legs across the entire bulkhead before he stood, slouched into his overcoat, and limped out behind her onto the jetway ramp.
New York’s JFK airport was no better place for a private conversation than Reagan National, so Kim saved the benefit of her flight wisdom for a safer location. The Boss, his enemies, and Reacher himself could all be listening or watching or both. They’d done it before.
The ice storm they’d left in DC was worse here. After another, much longer ride into the city in silence, the taxi driver deposited them a block away from Karla Dixon’s apartment. Again, Gaspar paid the fare in cash and was not offered a receipt. By tomorrow, there was an excellent chance the driver would have forgotten them completely.
Hours of pelting sleet coated New York in clear ice that glistened like cellophane gift wrap. They slipped and slid along the sidewalk toward Dixon’s apartment building, as alert as possible to their surroundings. Half a block away, Kim spied as good a briefing location as they were likely to find.
“Let’s stop in here for a couple of minutes,” Kim said, tilting her head toward the door of the café. She was chilled and wet and she wanted a chance to talk.
They entered a surprisingly busy eatery of indeterminate ethnicity. People packed the front, waiting out diners reluctant to leave the fragrant warmth inside for the inhospitable November storm.
Kim wiggled to the side of the crowded holding pen and leaned against the wall, allowing her to see toward Dixon’s apartment outside the plate glass window. Gaspar followed, leaned next to her with a view of the café’s entrance while he bent his head closer to hear her.
Quietly, beneath the chatter buzz, Kim offered the results of her mental heavy lifting while he’d napped on the plane.
“Given O’Donnell’s execution, I think we proceed under the assumption that both Dixon and Neagley are either dead or about to be, too. We could barge in and confirm that’s the case with Dixon, but that would only light us up on the radar.”
“Agreed,” Gaspar said.
She didn’t know who was watching Dixon and Neagley other than the Boss. But she knew it was safer to assume others were engaged in the same surveillance. Reacher could be watching, too. She’d seen him three times in the DC area recently, including the night O’Donnell was murdered. The last time, Reacher was headed north. It wasn’t foolish to consider that he’d come to New York for Dixon. It would be foolish to assume otherwise.
“Maybe Reacher killed them all,” she said. “Maybe not.”
“Agreed,” Gaspar said again.
“If he didn’t kill Dixon, he’ll want to see the crime scene for himself before he makes any decisions.”
Gaspar’s right eyebrow popped up. “You think so?”
“He was a homicide investigator. That’s what you and I would do.”
A group of four finally departed. They opened the door wide just as Kim inhaled, filling her lungs with cold New York fuel exhaust. She controlled her cough while she exhaled long and slow.
Gaspar shrugged. “And if Reacher shows up, knowing she’s dead or not, he could get pissed off.”
“Reacher gets pissed off?” she cracked. “What makes you say that?”
“Besides the dead bodies, not to mention the maimed and mangled? Ignoring fires, explosions, and various other forms of destruction we’ve found in his jet-stream over the past ten days alone?” Gaspar grinned, wagged his head. “Nah. No anger issues with this guy.”
Kim chuckled. “Maybe he is a little angry. Now and then. When provoked.”
Gaspar guffawed, which made Kim feel better. But his laughter also drew stares from the immediate crowd, which didn’t. They didn’t need to be remembered at a place so close to Dixon’s apartment. Maybe they weren’t that hungry. She stood quietly for a moment, allowing patrons to return to their private conversations, before she said, “Let’s go, okay?”
Outside, they faced the blustery ice showers once again as they slid along carefully toward their destination.
Karla Dixon’s business address was also her apartment, located in a tony area of midtown Manhattan. Normal Midtown traffic around the entrance; no official vehicles or other obvious indicia of criminal activity within the building. They stood shivering outside the entrance, simply processing this lack of abnormal activity. Which might be okay. Or not.
Gaspar stamped his feet in what she recognized as an effort to generate body heat. “We’re not going to learn anything standing out here, Sunshine. What’s your pleasure?”
Kim took a last look around the immediate area to confirm the surveillance camera locations she’d spotted and the absence of discernible human surveillance. If Reacher or anyone else was watching from between buildings or behind vehicles, she didn’t see any sign of it. She led the way through the heavy glass door into Dixon’s building.
A private security guard talked on the phone behind a desk twenty feet inside the entrance. He was about 5’9”, early 60s maybe. Gray hair, brown eyes, rimless glasses, and a growing paunch still comfortably covered by his uniform shirt without gaping spaces between buttons. He was unarmed, which might have rendered another man useless against threats more serious than tenants irate over delayed deliveries from Bloomies. But Kim’s quick appraisal revealed this guard wasn’t just another rent-a-cop.
She’d seen men like him all over New York, DC, Chicago, even Detroit and smaller cities, since the events of 9/11 and the wars that followed. A plastic nameplate pinned above his blue shirt’s left breast pocket said simply “H. Silver,” but his bearing and general appearance all but flashed the neon warning: “Col. US Army, Ret.”
Dixon would feel comfortable with an Army veteran manning the security desk for her building. Not that some regular Army retiree would represent a challenge for Reacher, should he decide to get past.
Retired Army or no, Mr. Silver didn’t seem at all concerned when a uniformed bike messenger slipped by Kim and Gaspar, waved and continued past his station toward the residence elevators without stopping. Dixon’s killer could easily have done the same.
Silver finished his call and asked Gaspar, “How can I help you today?”
Silver’s assumption that Gaspar was in charge because he was the male half of the duo might have rankled at another place and time. As it was, Kim recognized the value of the man-to-man approach and stood aside, giving Gaspar room to talk them past Dixon’s gatekeeper. It was a short, fruitful conversation. Silver waved them by as breezily as he had the messenger, which made Kim feel uneasy.
The elevator ride was express to the top floor, a distance they covered in forty-five seconds. Kim worried about airplanes, but never about elevators. Elevators were tethered by cables. They went straight up and straight down, and they were inspected
regularly and maintained properly. If they fell, which rarely happened, well, they only dropped as far as the basement. She wasn’t claustrophobic or even particularly fearful. But she was aware of life’s risks. Riding elevators in city skyscrapers wasn’t risky enough to worry about. No elevator had ever crashed into an office tower and killed 3,000 civilians.
“What did Colonel Silver have to say?” Kim asked.
“Dixon isn’t home, but she left him a standing order to allow visitors up to her floor once he’d screened them.”
“That’s curious, isn’t it?”
“He said she’s running a business and her clients expect constant access. Sometimes, they meet here when she’s away.” Gaspar shrugged. “Maybe she’s expecting someone in particular. Anyway, she hasn’t been here for the past three weeks. He doesn’t know where she is. She travels on business.” Gaspar hesitated, glanced at her and finished his report. “We’re not the first ones to ask the question.”
“Who else was asking?”
Before Gaspar could respond, the elevator doors opened silently on the penthouse floor and the messenger Kim had seen pass through the lobby downstairs was waiting to enter for his return trip. He was lanky, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair. Maybe a little old to be riding a bike around the city in an ice storm, but fit enough. He wore a navy and white polo shirt with a Reliable logo across the front and back. He carried a bright yellow helmet, wore black bike pants, fitted bike gloves, and shoes with rubber soles. Kim wondered why he wasn’t dressed in heavier clothes, given the winter wonderland he was pedaling through. He nodded at them as they disembarked, but said nothing. They waited for the doors to close behind him and the elevator to begin its descent.
Kim counted six apartments on this floor; the messenger could have delivered to any of them.
Dixon’s apartment was to the right of the elevator. Like O’Donnell’s lobby, this hallway presented nothing to indicate a crime scene, fresh or otherwise, waited on the other side of the door.
Given how chummy Gaspar had become with Colonel Silver, she figured he’d probably have mentioned a murder in Dixon’s apartment.