by Joseph Badal
From three vehicles back, Toney watched the Lincoln as it wound its way through city streets. He had no idea where Hood was headed, but he was a patient man and knew his opportunity would present itself sooner or later. The Lincoln pulled onto the I-95 on-ramp. Toney liked that. Drivers on the freeway were more likely to concentrate on traffic in general than on any specific vehicle. Besides, his target was a businessman, not a killer. The guy didn’t have a chance. He chuckled when it began to rain. The rain offered cover of a sort. Things are workin’ out, he thought.
“What will you do now?” Peter asked.
David shot a glance at his father. “I’ll find the bastard who killed my family. And then I’ll kill him.”
Peter sighed. “That’s a slippery slope, son. It always is when someone takes the law into their own hands.”
“You might be right, Dad. But that changes nothing.”
David saw his father slide down in his seat and stretch his legs. He knew the old man was right. But it made no difference. Tommy’s killer had never been brought to justice. That would not happen with the man who had murdered Carmela, Heather, and Kyle.
The droning hum of the car tires filled the Lincoln. David drove as he always did—on the alert. Because he assumed he had been the target of the attack that killed his family, he was now especially alert. Because of the rain, the sparse traffic moved more slowly than usual. Spray flew from the vehicles in front of the Lincoln and splattered against its windshield. David cranked up the windshield wiper speed. He looked in the rear view mirror and tapped his brakes a couple times to signal the asshole in the Camaro directly behind him to back off.
“Sonofabitch!” David said.
“What’s wrong?” Peter said.
“There’s a red Camaro on my ass.”
David flipped on his turn signal and moved to the lane on the right. The Camaro mirrored his maneuver. The lane opened up in front of the Lincoln.
“Why don’t we check it out, Dad?” He accelerated from fifty-five to seventy-five miles per hour and looked in his mirror. The red Camaro was now about three car lengths back.
David felt a surge of adrenaline. He rapped his knuckles on the weapons locker and told his father, “Take out a pistol. I need to find an exit.”
Based on a sign on the side of the highway, the nearest exit was seven miles north. He abruptly increased his speed to ninety miles an hour, shifted back to the middle lane, and aimed the Lincoln straight ahead. The Camaro followed.
The two cars hurtled down the road. They jockeyed from one lane to the next. David couldn’t put any distance between them and the Chevy. Soon their pursuer moved to the far left lane, abreast of the Lincoln. Both vehicles blasted down the freeway and sprayed torrents of water from the rain-drenched roadway in their slipstreams. David laid heavily on the Lincoln’s horn to sweep slower-moving vehicles out of the way.
Peter shouted, “Brake now! Now!”
David hit the brakes. The Lincoln skidded on the rain-slick pavement and fishtailed right, then left, and right again. The Camaro rocketed past. Car horns blared and tires screeched all around them. David hit the gas, straightened the car, and accelerated after the Camaro.
Toney, now two hundred yards farther down the highway, frantically looked for Hood in his rear view mirror. He saw the Lincoln skid and fishtail in the middle of the wet road. Then it picked up speed and closed the distance between them.
Peter lowered his window and switched the 9mm pistol off safe. David kept the Lincoln just feet off the Camaro’s bumper. “I’ve got a clear shot,” Peter shouted.
Suddenly, the Camaro switched lanes, sideswiped another vehicle, and raced ahead again until it vanished in the heavy rain.
David took the next exit and drove east to US 1, and then north. In Dorsey, Maryland, he stopped outside a diner and took a minute to calm down. His head hurt and his hands shook as he came off the adrenaline high. His stomach ached as though an acid tap had been turned on there.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” Peter said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought maybe the explosion was a mistake. I mean, maybe someone got the wrong house. But that sonofabitch in the Camaro was after you. You must have done something bad to someone.”
“It’s always my fault. Right, Dad? Tommy’s death. Mom losing it. All my fault.”
“Ancient history, David. Just because you feel guilty, don’t blame me.”
“You made me feel like I was nothing from the time I was twelve years old. If it hadn’t been for Gino Bartolucci, I wouldn’t have had anyone to talk to.”
Peter’s mouth dropped open and his eyes misted. “I didn’t blame you for Tommy’s death. I blamed myself. A father’s supposed to be able to protect his children.”
David glared at his father. “How the hell do you think I feel?”
“I know exactly how you feel. I didn’t know how to get past Tommy’s murder. I never blamed you; you’ve got to believe me. I know I didn’t give you the support you needed. And I resented Gino for being there for you.” He paused a couple seconds. “I’ve always been proud of you, son. And I’ve always loved you. Perhaps I can’t make up for the past, but I’ll do my best to try.”
“Let’s go inside,” David said.
David didn’t think he could eat, but he followed his father into the diner. He watched Peter eat a hamburger while he sipped at a cup of bad coffee, which only aggravated his already-sour stomach. When the waitress cleared their plates, David looked at his father. “What you said in the car, about doing something awful to someone that would make him want to kill me. I can’t think of a damn thing I’ve ever done that would drive someone to want to commit murder. Even guys my company caught breaking cyber laws, and who went to prison, wouldn’t retaliate by committing murder. I’ve thought a lot about it. The whole thing makes no sense.”
Peter appeared to think about that for a while. “Maybe the explosion and that maniac in the Camaro were payback for something Gino did.”
David shook his head. “Then why not go after Gino? He’s not that well protected.”
Peter rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“My body can’t do most of the things it could do years ago, but my mind’s intact, and I can still shoot a pistol or rifle. The Army taught me well.”
“That was a long time ago,” David said.
“It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget.” Peter sighed. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, I’m here for you. I’ll watch your back. Don’t treat me like some decrepit old codger. And don’t ever question my love.”
David’s voice broke when he said, “Dad, I won’t rest until I find out who killed my family.” He then coughed to clear his throat. “I can come up with all sorts of reasons why you should stay out of this, but I know you won’t listen. So, I accept your help. And your love. But on one condition. I have final say on all decisions.”
By the time Toney arrived at his D.C. apartment, his headache had become intense. He placed a call to Rolf Bishop as soon as he had the chance to grab a beer and sit down. He hoped Bishop wouldn’t answer, but after the third ring Bishop’s distinctive, commanding voice came over the line.
“What?”
Toney wasn’t about to tell Bishop he’d blown another chance to eliminate Hood. “I followed him from the cemetery to I-95. He and an older man seemed to be headed toward Pennsylvania. I lost them near the Pennsylvania border. Maybe you can get me information on whether Hood has family there.” Toney heard Bishop exhale.
“I’ll call you back,” Bishop said, and hung up.
APRIL 16
CHAPTER 11
Out of the blue, Chicago Detective Dennis Aloysius O’Neil succumbed to the nostalgia bug. One day, nine years after he left the Marine Corps, he wondered
about the members of the Marine unit he’d served with in Afghanistan. He’d periodically thought about his old comrades, about getting together with them, but this time he was motivated to do something about it. He’d heard and read about Marine Corps reunions. He decided to try to organize one.
O’Neil called the Marine Personnel Office in the Naval Department at the Pentagon and was connected to a Gunnery Sergeant Sam Collins.
“Gunney, my name is Dennis O’Neil. I’m a Chicago detective and served in the Marines. I’d like to organize a reunion of my old unit from Afghanistan. The unit was there from 2003 to 2005. But I don’t have names and addresses.”
“I get a lot of that,” Collins said. “Lot of guys want to get back together. I’d be happy to help. Give me your Marine ID number, your old unit designation number, and contact information. I’ll pull up a list of all the men who served in your unit.”
“How long will it take?”
“About a minute. Computers are amazing. I’m going to put you on hold.”
Collins came back on the line a little over a minute later.
“There were a total of three hundred fifty-seven names on the list. Of that number, forty-six left Afghanistan in coffins and another twenty-five died in Veterans Hospitals from wounds suffered in combat, or from illnesses. Another twelve died from other causes—car wrecks, suicides, one drowning, etc. The addresses I have for most of the men were those recorded in their files as of their dates of separation from the Marine Corps.”
“Thanks, Gunney.”
O’Neil sent invitations to the members of his unit and within five days received a few responses. He heard from men thrilled about the reunion. Some invitations came back “No Longer at This Address,” “Address Unknown,” or “No Forwarding Address.” Three letters arrived from widows in Anaheim, California; Belen, New Mexico; and Wildwood, New Jersey. Each expressed sorrow that her husband would be unable to join his old friends because he had been killed within the past month.
Thirty-four-year-old Dennis O’Neil had become a cop, then a detective with the Chicago Police Department after he left the Marines. He was a good cop for a variety of reasons. He was honest, had a tremendous work ethic, and cared about what he did. He had excellent instincts. And he didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Damn, that makes three.”
“What makes three?” Detective Joji Kimura asked.
“Sorry, Joji. I didn’t realize I said it out loud. You know I’ve been working on this reunion for my old Marine unit. Well, three of the guys who were in the unit were all murdered in the last few weeks.”
“Sounds like a coincidence to me. And I know how much you believe in coincidences.”
O’Neil laid the three widows’ letters side-by-side on the table in front of him and re-read them. The women had said their husbands were killed. Not that they had died. They’d been killed. Three murders of former Marines from the same unit in a 30-day period seemed too much coincidence for a career cop with a sixth sense.
CHAPTER 12
Bethesda Detective Jennifer Ramsey had heeded her father’s advice since she’d joined the Bethesda Police Department. She’d kept her mouth shut, even when confronted with the worst sort of misogyny and outright malice. But she couldn’t anymore. She knew Roger Cromwell was an experienced homicide detective, but there was no question in her mind he was way off base about David Hood. There was no way Hood would murder his own family. And there was no evidence he had. She fidgeted in her chair as Cromwell laid out his theory on the Hood case for Mickey Croken, the Chief of Detectives.
“. . . and it’s too much of a coincidence. Hood’s down in the bomb shelter when the explosion happens. Give me a break!”
Croken glanced at Ramsey and knitted his brows. “What the hell’s your problem, detective. You got ants in your pants?”
“No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I mean—”
“What are you trying to say?” Cromwell interrupted.
Croken gave Cromwell a stern look and turned back to Ramsey.
Ramsey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She glanced at Cromwell. “With all due respect to my partner,” she said, “I don’t think there’s any way in hell Hood would murder his wife and kids. The more we focus on him, the less attention we put on finding the real killer.”
Cromwell laughed. “What do you base that on, female intuition?”
Jennifer had had enough of Cromwell’s bullshit. “That’s a better basis for Hood’s innocence than the trumped up nonsense you’re spewing.”
Cromwell’s eyes looked as though they’d pop out of their sockets. His already florid face reddened to the shade of a ripe tomato.
“There was no insurance on the wife or the kids,” Jennifer continued. “Hood’s business is so successful he can’t spend what he makes, and every person we talked to told us the guy was the best father and husband they’d ever seen. Straight arrow all the way. Two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star earned in Afghanistan. We got nothing that points at Hood as the killer. He’s a victim, not a criminal.”
Jennifer felt as though she’d just finished a marathon. She was exhausted from tension. But she felt good at the same time. She looked at Cromwell, who glared back at her. When she shifted her gaze to Croken, she was rewarded with a smile.
“Roger, I tend to agree with Jennifer,” Croken said. “I want you to focus on other angles, other suspects.”
Cromwell looked stunned. His face was still crimson and his mouth hung open as though he’d been poleaxed. “Hood is another one of those maniacs being manufactured by the military. The Army trains these guys to be stone-cold killers and then turns them loose on America’s streets. Mark my words, that sonofabitch murdered his wife and kids.”
Croken looked from Cromwell to Ramsey and said, “I’ve made my decision. You’re excused. I expect some progress on this case, or I’ll have to assign other detectives to it.”
Cromwell shot to his feet and stormed from the office. Ramsey stood and turned to leave the office.
“Detective,” Croken said.
Ramsey turned back to her boss. “Yes, sir?”
“I know Cromwell’s a Neanderthal and a royal pain in the ass. But you might want to slip him a little slack. His teenage daughter was murdered by a vet with PTSD who went on a shooting rampage. He’s got a blind spot when it comes to military vets.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Chief.”
Ramsey felt even more uncomfortable about Cromwell after what Croken had just told her. The guy could be a loose cannon out on the streets. But she decided to try to mend things with her partner, anyway. She walked over to where he stood a few yards away from Croken’s office.
Cromwell growled, “I want to talk to you.” He walked past his and Ramsey’s desks and entered an empty interrogation room. He kicked a metal folding chair against a wall, slammed the door behind Ramsey, and drilled her with the most hateful look she’d ever seen. He stepped to within inches of her and jabbed the center of her chest with one of his sausage-sized fingers.
“You made me look bad in there, Ramsey,” Cromwell hissed. “You’ll pay for that. I promise you.”
Ramsey slapped the man’s hand away and, her voice laden with venom, said, “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
“Or what?” Cromwell laughed. “The only thing you women are good for is sex.” He then shot out one of his enormous hands and jabbed one of her breasts.
Mickey Croken breathed an enormous sigh. For the first time all day no one knocked on his door and his telephone didn’t ring. He reached over toward his inbox to work on the files accumulated there, when the sound of breaking glass propelled him from his chair and out of his office. Detectives had already assembled outside the door to one of the interrogation rooms. Shards of mirrored glass littered the floor outside the room. Croken pushed his way through the crowd and stopped at the open doorway.
His first instinct was to laugh, but quickly suppressed it.
Jennifer Ramsey stood over a prone Roger Cromwell, flat on his belly on the floor. Ramsey had his left arm twisted behind his back in a hold Croken guessed was quite painful.
“What’s going on?” Croken demanded.
“Uh,” Ramsey said, “Roger asked me to show him a judo hold. I guess I just got carried away.”
“Is that right, Cromwell?” Croken asked.
By this time, Ramsey had released Cromwell. He turned over and slowly got up, rubbed his shoulder. Cromwell glared at the half-dozen faces around him.
“Yeah,” Cromwell said. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
One of the cops standing around said, “Yeah, right!”
“What the hell happened to the window?” Croken demanded.
Ramsey shrugged. Cromwell just stood there and looked stupid.
“All right, everybody,” Croken ordered. “Let’s get back to work.”
While the crowd dispersed, Ramsey whispered to Cromwell, “I’ve put up with your crap long enough. You don’t want me as your partner. Fine. Request reassignment. But you step out of line with me just once and I’ll have you up on sexual harassment charges so fast you won’t be able to get a job as a rent-a-cop.”
Cromwell babbled something unintelligible, then spat, “Fuck you!” and left the room.
CHAPTER 13
When his cellphone rang, Toney was parked on an unlighted dirt lane a half-mile from an exit off I-95. Already a little spooked by the lack of visibility due to the darkness and rain, his ringing telephone made him jump. When he answered, his voice was higher than normal.