by Otho Eskin
Standing in the middle of the room is a short, compact man, not much over thirty. His hair is a dirty blond, cut in a pageboy style, with a fringe bang reaching almost to his eyebrows. He wears a Tattersall waistcoat, a bow tie, and no jacket. I’d seen Myron Clark on TV and realize once again how misleading TV can be. His face is pasty; not like he looks on TV. Does he use makeup? I wonder.
He’s on the phone as I enter and he turns sharply and fixes me with a glare, raising his left hand, palm toward me, a gesture indicating I’m to stop where I am, well away, so I can’t hear his phone conversation. I stand in the middle of the room while the man talks urgently to someone, his back toward me, then he slams the phone down and turns to face me.
“You’re Zorn.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. “No need to sit down. You won’t be here long enough to sit.”
He strides across the room until he’s only a few paces from me. I have to look down at him. “Knock it off,” he says, loudly.
“Knock off what?”
“Don’t play dumb with me! The Sandra Wilcox investigation.”
“You want me to stop my investigation of the murder of Sandra Wilcox?”
“I don’t want you to! I’m telling you to.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Leave the investigation to the Secret Service.”
“No.”
“Are you not hearing me? This is not a request. This is an order!”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No. Who are you?”
Clark’s pasty face reddens. “Are you trying to be a jackass, Detective?”
“I can’t help it. It just comes naturally.”
“Are you actually trying to make me mad?”
“Why do you care whether the DC police investigates a murder?”
“I ask the questions here. Not you.”
“Then you’re wasting my time.”
“You’ve been snooping around where you shouldn’t. Talking to the wrong people. Even harassing Sandra Wilcox’s sister-in-law. Stop it!”
“I’ll talk to anybody I like. Can I go now?”
“You’ll go when I tell you to go! Your investigation is over. Drop it! You’ve irritated a lot of people—important, powerful people.”
“And a lot of people have irritated me.”
“Do you understand in what serious shit you are?” Clark demands.
“I’m beginning to get a sense of that.”
“Do you realize I can have you broken so you spend the rest of your pathetic career running the police impoundment lot?”
“I’m not dropping the Wilcox case. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a murder to investigate.”
I walk briskly to the door.
“I didn’t tell you to go.”
“I don’t need your permission. I don’t give a rat’s ass who you think you are. Don’t waste my time again.”
I open the door and step out of the office, closing the door behind me. Loudly. I feel pleased with the effect of my exit.
Miss Shaw is waiting to escort me to the gate. “How did it go?”
Behind us I hear the man swearing and screaming obscenities. There is a loud crash. I think Myron Clark broke something.
“Memorable.”
“This is one of Myron’s better days. You should have seen him yesterday when he was in a bad mood.”
We go to the security checkpoint where I retrieve my phone.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Detective Zorn.” She smiles an enigmatic smile. “Until next time.”
Watching us from twenty feet away is a heavyset man standing among the trees. Arms crossed over his chest, he leans against a black Secret Service SUV. He looks vaguely familiar but his face is in shadow. All I can really make out is a glittery gold watchband on his left wrist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I FEEL MY heart race when I see the messages waiting for me that came in to my cell phone while I was with Myron Clark: six calls from Kenneth that went immediately to voice mail. I have a bad feeling about this. There is also one text message from someone who does not wish to identify himself.
“I’ve got something, sir.” Kenneth’s voice is full of excitement, almost breathless, but low, as if he’s making an effort not to be overheard. “Please call.” “I think I’ve found him, sir. Call me.” “I need to talk to you. It’s kind of urgent.” “Call me as soon as you get this message.” And finally: “I’m at a shooting range near Springfield, Virginia. Geoff’s Shooting Range and Gun Club. The man we’re looking for—he’s here right now. Please call me.”
I call Kenneth’s number, but there is no answer. There could be many reasons he doesn’t answer my call, I tell myself. Perfectly reasonable reasons. I do not convince myself.
The text message reads: “Meet me in McPherson Square at the NE corner bench at eleven sharp.” It’s ten to eleven. Ten minutes to go five blocks. There are no cabs in sight so I go on foot—hard to do through Washington traffic without being hit by a bus or bicyclist. I dodge and weave through traffic, annoying several drivers, and arrive at McPherson Square, out of breath, with about a minute and a half to spare. I limp through the park until I spot my target sitting on a bench studying his cell phone.
Howard Walsh, my senior contact at the Department of Homeland Security, looks up. He’s African American, in his sixties, tall, good-looking, wearing a tailored suit. His hair is short and gray at the temples, his trim mustache is white. There is no smile. No “glad to see you” expression on his face. Why should there be?
“Let’s walk together,” Walsh says. “I don’t want to be seen sitting next to you.”
I’m still breathing hard from my run and my leg hurts. We walk side by side along one of the park paths.
“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into this time,” Walsh says, “but I want no part of it. I strongly recommend you stop whatever it is you’re doing.”
I breathe deeply to catch my breath. “Have you found out why I’m being shut down?”
“I’ve made some discreet calls and talked to some people. Some very important people. They were not happy to talk to me when I told them it was in connection with Sandra Wilcox. They wouldn’t tell me why you’re being closed down.”
“Okay, if not why, then who is trying to shut me down?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve been warned to stay out of it. And I’m giving you the same advice.”
“Thank you for the advice. Now tell me, where is this coming from?”
Howard Walsh turns toward me. “This makes us even. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t want you to ask for any more favors. We’re even.”
“Okay. Deal. Who’s behind this?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Zorn. It’s coming from the White House.”
“Who in the White House?”
“I don’t know. And I’m not asking. I’m washing my hands of this whole business. I want nothing more to do with it. This goes way over my pay level. Or yours. Understand?”
Howard Walsh walks off briskly, leaving me in the middle of the park, alone.
I call Kenneth again. No answer.
When I return to police headquarters someone must have told Frank I’d returned because he’s suddenly standing at my desk, looming over me. “Marko! What the fuck’s going on?”
“I’m investigating a murder.”
“I know that! What are you doing to piss off the entire federal government?”
“Just asking questions …”
“The Department of the Interior. The National Park Service. I can live with that. But the Secret Service? What did the Secret Service ever do to you? And now I’m getting calls from some yo-yo in the White House. And the mayor’s getting calls. We can’t have that! We can’t have that. What the fuck am I supposed to tell the mayor?”
“Tell him the mystery of the
Sandra Wilcox murder will be revealed soon.”
Without a further word Frank Townsend walks quickly away. I decide not to tell Frank about Kenneth just yet. No need to get Frank worked up until I have more information.
I call Kenneth again. Again, no answer. I send him three increasingly urgent text messages. A low-level sense of dread is gripping me. I call the Virginia State Police to find out if there have been any car accidents reported in the Springfield area. There are none.
I entertain myself for a while by fantasizing how I’ll wring Kenneth’s neck when he waltzes in at the end of the day. But my euphoria doesn’t last long.
I call Malcolm Wu and ask him to come as soon as possible. He shows up in three minutes. “What is it now, Marko? What felony do you want me to commit?”
“I’ve lost my partner.”
“Your police partner?”
“That’s the only partner I have. I’ve been trying to reach him on his cell phone, but he’s not answering.”
“Probably just turned it off. Or the battery is run down.”
“Maybe. Can you find out where his phone is?”
“Sure. Do you have the access code for his phone?”
“Access code?”
“Guess not. I’ll have to hack it. Give me his cell number.”
Malcolm sits at Kenneth’s desk and I watch him for a while, hunched over the keyboard of the desktop computer, then decide I could better use my time trying to track Kenneth down by more conventional methods. It’s then I realize I know nothing about Kenneth’s private life because I’ve never bothered to ask him. I don’t know who his friends are. Who he talks to. I’m beginning to feel guilty about neglecting him.
He has parents in New Jersey somewhere and their names and numbers are in his personnel file. I consider for a moment calling them but reject that idea. A call from the DC police department asking where their son is would unleash a frenzy of anxiety. That call might have to be made but only as a last resort.
Malcolm sits at my desk. “Any luck?” I ask.
“I’ve located your partner’s cell phone. And luck had nothing to do with it. It’s on the side of a road in Northern Virginia—looks like about thirty feet from the main highway. I can show you on the screen.”
Malcolm types something on my keyboard and a map appears on my computer screen.
“How did you do that?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re probably right.” I study the screen and examine a map showing roads in the Northern Virginia area and a blinking cursor off to one side. “It looks like he threw the phone away. Or someone did.” I’m feeling sick.
“I hope you find your partner,” Malcolm Wu says as he hurries back to his den.
Kenneth’s official photograph is in his personnel file. He looks at me, standing straight, shoulders back. Trying to look serious. Looking very young. I slip the photo into my pocket.
I call Arora Lovelace on her private cell phone number. “I’ve lost Kenneth,” I say when she gets on the line.
“You lost who?”
“Kenneth Blake. My partner. I asked him to check out some local shooting clubs and firing ranges to see if maybe our shooter, Tony, might show up to get in some rifle practice.”
There was silence on the phone. “You sent this kid to do that?”
“I didn’t think there was a real chance he’d actually find anything.”
“And now you think what?”
“Kenneth left a voice mail saying he saw the shooter at a range somewhere near Springfield.”
“My God! You think he might have been made?”
“I don’t know what to think. I told Kenneth on no account to approach or speak to anyone who fits Tony’s description. I told him to stay away and let me make contact. He tried to call me but my phone had been temporarily impounded by the Secret Service so I missed his calls.”
“And now?”
“Kenneth is enthusiastic. When he couldn’t reach me, he may have tried to make an approach, despite what I told him.”
“Why would he do that? When you instructed him specifically not to.”
“It’s complicated.”
“You better tell me.”
“When he and I were interviewing Sandra Wilcox’s roommate, I criticized him for messing up the interrogation. I may have been a bit harsh. He may have been trying to prove himself to me.”
“Can the Bureau help?”
“No, but you can. I’m going to go to the shooting range but I need a second pair of eyes. I can’t ask one of my fellow officers. The word would get back to my boss, and he’d go ape shit. Can you go with me and help me look around?”
“Of course.”
“You can pretend to be a gun nut. You’ll be there to try out a new weapon. Are you familiar with a Dragunov?”
“What’s that?”
“Then I suggest you unbutton the top button of your blouse.”
“It’s going to be that kind of operation?”
“I want you to gain the confidence of the shooters at the club. Whatever you have to do to make friends. Get them to trust you. To talk to you.”
“I’ll unbutton two buttons.”
“Good girl. Go out Route 66. There’s a parking area just west of the 495 intersection. Meet me there in one hour.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ARORA IS WAITING for me in a beat-up Datsun when I pull my Jag into the pullover in the shade of some trees.
“What’s the drill?” Arora asks when we meet between our two cars.
“We’re going to a place called Geoff’s Shooting Range and Gun Club. It’s up the highway about a mile. You go ahead and register. Pay your fee and establish yourself as an avid shooter. I’ll follow in a few minutes. I don’t want us to be seen together.”
“I got it.”
“Maybe you could be a helpless girl who needs advice about her new gun.”
“I don’t do helpless.”
“Okay. Meet some local enthusiasts. Tell them you want to get in some practice. See if anybody’s seen a left-handed sniper. Then shoot the shit out of some targets. Have you fired sniper rifles?”
“I qualified on an M 21 and SR 25.”
I open the trunk of the Jag and remove a leather rifle carrying case. We stand in the shade of the trees where we can’t be easily seen by passing motorists and I open the case and hand her the weapon.
“I don’t think I’ve seen a gun like this.”
“It’s a Dragunov SVD.”
“A Russian sniper rifle? It’s a little exotic for a Virginia shooting club. Isn’t this going to draw a lot of attention?”
“That’s the point. The gun guys will be curious. Most of them have probably never seen one. Certainly, never fired one. They’ll swarm around you to get a look.”
“You talking about my tits or your rifle?”
“Whichever works.”
“How come you happen to have a Russian sniper rifle?”
“Never mind.”
We return the Dragunov to its case and put it and three boxes of 7.62 ammunition into the back seat of Arora’s car.
“I have something for you.” She retrieves a manila envelope from the passenger seat of her Datsun and removes a glossy photograph. “This is a picture of Tony Wilcox,” she says, passes me the photo. “Courtesy of the Department of the Army.”
“You just got this? Just this one picture?” I ask.
“The Army is not being very cooperative.”
The young man is maybe twenty, in military fatigues. Hair cut close to the scalp. He wears no unit insignia.
“This is an old photo,” Arora tells me. “The Army claims they have nothing more recent.”
“The Army is lying.”
“Of course, they’re lying. They’re shutting me down.”
I head for my Jag. “Let’s go find my partner.”
The parking lot of Geoff’s Shooting Range and Gun Club is almost full when I arrive a few minutes l
ater, Arora having gone ahead. I expected to find pickup trucks and RVs but mostly there are late-model luxury cars, including Mercedes and BMWs.
The reception area is clean and well maintained. Near the door is a bulletin board covered with scraps of paper and business cards offering a variety of services and activities in the area. To one side there is a long counter above which hangs a sign listing prices and hours: outdoor pistol, outdoor rifle, trap, skeet, etc. I hear the pop, pop, pop from the firing range beyond.
On the range a dozen men and a couple of women are shooting rifles and shotguns. Several are using small arms. In the center of the range I see Arora, lying prone, sighting the Dragunov through a scope. Three heavyset men kneel next to her, apparently giving her friendly advice on how to handle the weapon. A fourth man stands to one side, spotting Arora’s targets through field glasses.
“Can I help you?” a baritone voice with a trace of a pleasant southern drawl asks.
“I’m looking for Geoff.”
“Geoff retired a few years back. I’m the manager here. The name’s Vernon.”
“Hello, Vernon.” I show him my DC police shield. “My name’s Marko Zorn.”
Vernon’s lips tighten when he sees my police ID and his eyes narrow with suspicion. “My papers are in order,” he announces.
“No sweat, Vernon. I’m not interested in you. Or your place of business.”
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, allowing himself to relax a bit.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine.”
“You’re free to look around.”
“Young guy. Maybe around five foot eleven. Sandy hair.” I show the man Kenneth’s photograph. “Name of Kenneth Blake.”
“You say he’s a friend of yours?” Vernon studies the picture. I can tell he recognizes the face.
“That’s right. He’s my partner.”
“You ATF?”
“DC Metropolitan Police.”
Vernon nods. “You hurt your leg, friend?” he asks. He glances at my left leg. I must have been limping when I came into the office.
“It’s nothing. Got busted up while I was playing touch football with some buddies.”
“You gotta watch that kind of thing. Get to our age and the body don’t heal up like it did when we were young. You say you’re looking for your friend?”