Washington DC

by A. C. Fuller

  Cole slid forward on her chair. “But you have equipment here to zoom in, digitally enhance or whatever, right?”

  “Zoom-and-enhance, like this is a TV show? You know it doesn’t work like that.”

  “C’mon,” Warren said. “Help me out.”

  “You gotta be kidding me. No.” Smith stood and paced behind his desk, pausing to stare at the pictures. This drew Cole’s attention to the face-down photo. The office was spotless, neat and tidy. Why would one of the photos be face-down?

  An ex-girlfriend?

  Or maybe a current girlfriend?

  Warren tried another approach. “I get it, ballistics are your thing. Probably couldn’t ID it anyway.”

  Smith laughed. “Playing to my ego? Of course I could ID it, if I could zoom in on that video.” He held out his hands, palms up. “War Dog, I could lose my job.”

  The statement hung in the air. Warren’s eyes shifted from Smith to Cole, who broke the long silence. “Obviously it’s asking too much for you to help. We’ll go. But Bakari—quick thing—when was the last time you were in New York City?”

  “Couple years ago.” His eyes darted left. “A conference. All the best ballistics guys from around the country.”

  “That when the photo was taken?” She pointed at the shot of Smith at Yankee Stadium, the one with the two hot dogs.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Those half-smokes?” she asked, smiling.

  “Regular...regular…” he stuttered. She was trying to make him uncomfortable, and it was working. “Regular ballpark dogs,” he finished.

  “The Yankees signed Martinez, the third baseman standing off to your right, in March of this year.”

  Warren gave Cole a long, puzzled look. She met his eyes briefly. He wasn’t following her.

  She turned back to Smith. “How were you at Yankee Stadium after March of this year if you haven’t been there since the conference a couple years ago?”

  He looked at the floor. “I forgot. I went up there for opening day.” His face grew red, then redder.

  She pounced. “Who was the second hot dog for?”

  Like most people, he was much less in control of his responses than he believed. Flushing, like most body language tics, originated in the limbic system, the mammalian part of the brain not controlled by conscious decision-making. Being anxious causes some people to release adrenaline, which temporarily dilates blood vessels in the cheeks, causing the reddening.

  “You flew to New York City for a single ballgame?” She softened her tone to seem less like a shark, less like a reporter out for blood. “Must be a real fan.”

  “You can take a man away from the Bronx,” Smith offered, “but you can’t take the Yankees out of his heart.”

  “Who’s holding the camera?”

  Smith raised his hand defensively, looking at Warren for help. “What’s her deal? I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Who’s in the picture?” Cole asked, pointing at the face-down photo.

  “Get outta here, lady. War Dog, c’mon.”

  Warren stood and walked around the desk.

  Cole shot up from her seat. “Warren, don’t!”

  It was too late. Cole watched Warren pick up the photo. The back of his neck tensed. The vein on his temple popped. He set the photo down calmly, then pressed his hands into his cheeks, expelling a long breath.

  She took him by the arm and led him back to his chair. “Sit down before you do something you regret, Rob.”

  She picked up the photo and, as she’d suspected, it showed Smith with an attractive Latina woman. Warren’s wife. A selfie taken outside Yankee Stadium.

  “I was with Marina that day,” Warren said quietly. “That was the last time I got to spend a whole day with her. Sarah asked me to watch her. Now I know why.”

  “Everybody calm down,” Smith said.

  Warren looked anything but calm.

  Cole put a hand on his knee and pressed firmly. “Rob, don’t say anything. Look at me.” His face shook. Sweat rolled from his forehead down the side of his nose. “I need you, Rob. If you do something dumb, you’ll be arrested. Or worse. I shouldn’t need to remind you that we’re at the”—she clearly enunciated every letter—“F-B-I right now.”

  Warren closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Cole turned to Smith, who sat back down behind the desk. “I don’t know how long you’ve been seeing Rob’s wife, and I don’t care. What I do know is...you’re going to help us.”

  “Why would I do that? I want you out of here.”

  “How do you think your colleagues are going to enjoy the fact that you’re sleeping with your friend’s wife?”

  “They’ve been separated for—”

  Warren moved to stand, but she pressed him down.

  Cole leveled her gaze on Smith. “Trust me, you don’t want to finish that thought. And you don’t want me to move my hand. Rob was a good cop, but I think even he’d admit he has some anger issues. How about you help us for ten minutes, then we leave in peace.”

  Smith looked at Warren, then back to Cole. He gave a short nod. “Okay, but get him out of here first.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Cole was behind Smith’s desk, peering over his shoulder as he zoomed in on the helicopter video. He’d found the clip on his computer, downloaded it, and opened it in a program she’d never heard of. The situation was tenuous, so Cole had implored Warren to wait in the hallway, and he’d left, still fuming.

  “What can you see?” she asked.

  Smith ignored her. He tapped his keyboard and the video switched to a photographic negative, making the gun appear like a white stick on the roof, which had been silver but now took on a gray tone. “Not a fifty-cal.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Hold on.”

  He paused the video, zoomed again, and rotated the image. He pointed at the barrel. “This is a thirty-cal. Barrel length compared to stock.”

  “And a thirty-cal can’t shoot a mile, correct?”

  He paused and sighed. “It’s possible, but unlikely. No one would choose a thirty-cal for that shot. No one who knew what he was doing.”

  “How can you tell it’s a thirty-cal? Assume I don’t know anything when it comes to guns.”

  “A fifty-caliber round is about three times the size of a thirty, so the frame and barrel have to be larger. Much larger.” He pointed at the barrel of the gun on the screen. “This gun looks like a thirty-ought-six. Range of around a thousand yards, little over half a mile. A fine weapon—great deer rifle, which is what most people use it for—but no way a pro would attempt that shot with that gun.”

  Cole had no reason to doubt his expertise. Still, it was hard to believe he could distinguish different types of rifles from a blurry video taken from a helicopter hundreds of yards over a rooftop. More importantly, it didn’t seem as though the significance had struck him. If he was right, the dead man on the roof hadn’t killed the VP. The story the cops, the FBI, and the Secret Service were running with was false. The implications were massive, the proof right in front of their eyes, but he was acting like he’d spotted a minor typo.

  Cole sometimes noticed this with experts. As good as they were at their jobs, they often missed the larger implications of their work. Perhaps it was better that he didn’t grasp the implications. She changed the subject abruptly. “Is it serious with Warren’s wife? What’s her name again?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I…”

  His eyes dropped. He seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t know whether it was serious. She took the opening. “For whatever reason, Warren listens to me. And he just found out you’re sleeping with his wife. Can I offer a...trade?”

  His face showed confusion. “That was the trade.”

  “I think you know that if you’re serious about Sarah, Warren can make that unpleasant in more ways than you care to think about.”

  He nodded.
/>   “Here’s the deal. I’ll do everything I can to help him move on and—”

  “Everything?” he smirked.

  “Not like that. I meant…look, I’ll try to convince him to move on and not harass you, but I need something from you.”

  He raised both hands defensively. “Not promising anything, but what?”

  “The VisionKey system used in most hotels. I’ve read that hackers created a master key that gets them into any hotel. My bet is the good people of the FBI have it as well. I’d like one.”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’m a ballistics guy.”

  “We’re sitting, quite literally, in the most powerful law enforcement agency in the history of the world. You’re telling me hackers created a universal hotel key card reader and the FBI doesn’t have one?”

  “I’m telling you I don’t know. Not my department.”

  “Find out.”

  Smith let out a long sigh. “Keep Warren away from me.”

  * * *

  Cole found Warren in the lobby, sipping a paper cup of water that looked ridiculously small in his large hand. He stood when he saw her. “So?”

  “It’s not the gun. My theory was right.” Warren looked torn between wanting to ask follow-ups and wanting to ask whether she’d found out anything else about Smith’s relationship with his wife. “He’s finding out how we can get a universal key card reader.”

  “For what?” Warren asked.

  Cole smiled.

  “No. We’re not breaking into hotel rooms.”

  “I am. You can come if you want. Wanna know how I got him to help us?”

  Warren frowned.

  “Told him I’d try to convince you to move on from Sarah, free him up to date her.” She said it with a wry smile, but Warren didn’t pick up on it.

  “You said what? It won’t work. I—”

  “I know, and don’t worry, I’m not actually going to try to do that. Quite the opposite, I think you should try to win her back.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked him how serious they were and—”

  “What did he say?”

  “Didn’t say anything, but they’re not serious. I can tell.” She was lying. No man displays a framed photo of his girlfriend in his office if they’re not serious, but she needed to get Warren out of Quantico without a fight.

  Smith appeared from the far side of the lobby, flanked by two other men, both about Warren’s size.

  Warren stepped forward. “For real? You brought security?”

  Cole put a hand on his forearm. “Lemme handle this. Please.” She stepped in front of him. “You get what I need?”

  Smith handed her a notecard. “Address on there is a gray hat we’ve worked with. He’ll help you. Probably.”

  Cole took the card. The address was in Alexandria, just across the river from downtown D.C. “Probably?”

  “He doesn’t work for us. I mean, he does and he doesn’t. He’s not on our payroll. I can’t make him help you. Take it or leave it.”

  “You’ll call him?” Cole asked. “Put in a good word?”

  “Already did.” His eyes were on Warren as he spoke.

  Cole thought it best to get out of there before the situation deteriorated. “Thank you. Let’s go, Rob.”

  16

  The Uber driver took two hours to navigate the slippery roads thirty miles from the FBI headquarters in Quantico to Alexandria, a historic town where many of America’s founders had lived. They passed the modernized King Street shopping and restaurant scene and turned into an old neighborhood with original cobblestone streets and historic churches, stopping on a side street in front of an old apothecary that had been converted into a tiny museum.

  The snow crunched under her feet and the soft gray of twilight lit the flakes as they fluttered down past the restored stone townhouses painted in bright shades of red, blue, and green. Many bore black plaques designating them as “Historic Buildings,” some with dates indicating they’d been there nearly three hundred years.

  “I feel like I’m in an old movie,” she said as Warren tipped the driver.

  He gestured toward the large window of the apothecary. “Martha Washington used to buy her opium here.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

  “Seriously, I read it. Opium was legal and used for pain, the flu, damn near everything. Our founding fathers, and mothers, were straight-up high.”

  “I guess the opioid crisis was built into the country from the beginning.” Cole double-checked the address on the card, which belonged to a blue brick townhouse crammed between two larger red ones. It was no more than ten feet wide and appeared somehow added to the scene, like it didn’t belong. “Is it just me, or is that house ridiculously narrow?”

  “It’s called an Alley House.” Warren brushed snowflakes from his jacket. “The two larger houses were built on either side of an alley. As time went on, they filled in the alleys with smaller houses.”

  “How do you know so much about this town?”

  “Took a walking tour through D.C. before my deployment. U.S. history buff. Actually thought I might be a historian when I got back from overseas. When we had Marina, I figured eight more years of schooling wasn’t in the cards.”

  Cole realized they were stalling. The townhouse was dark and though she wasn’t claustrophobic, just looking at it made her feel cramped. Something felt wrong, and neither wanted to knock on the door. “Why aren’t we knocking?”

  Warren took the notecard from Cole and studied it. “It’s the right address, but...I don’t know.”

  “Think your old friend might be setting us up?”

  “Possibly.”

  The buzzing of Cole’s phone interrupted them. A text from Marty Goldberg.

  Goldilocks: Got some info for you. Meet for a drink?

  She held up the message for Warren, then nodded toward the door. “Let’s try this first.”

  Warren cast a skeptical look at the townhouse, as though assessing for danger, then banged on the red wooden door. His heavy knock carried through the deserted streets, a deep bass echo above the high-pitched whistle of the wind through leafless trees.

  They waited.

  Warren knocked again. Nothing. Without looking back, he said, “Tell Goldilocks you’ll meet him at Tivera on King Street. Three blocks from here. I’ll stake out the house.”

  Cole tapped out the message. “You sure you got this? You know what we need?”

  “I can handle it.”

  * * *

  By the time Cole found the Italian wine bar, Goldberg was halfway through his first glass of red. “What took you so long?” He stood and offered an awkward hug. He smelled of fresh cologne, something spicy and overdone.

  “Got lost. Never been to Alexandria.”

  “Where’s the cop?”

  Her face tightened. She’d told Goldberg Warren was an assistant, and though she’d known it would be easy to figure out he wasn’t, she hadn’t anticipated that he’d bother to check. Pondering this, she ordered a tequila and slid into the stool next to him. “You researched us?”

  “This is the most two-faced town in America, maybe the world.” He moved his wine glass in a small circle, following the pattern on the brushed-steel bar. “It’s my job to know the real reason people contact me.”

  “Okay, so what’s the real reason?”

  “You think there’s a connection between Ambani and Meyers.”

  “We’ve been over this,” she countered. “It’s my job to think there’s a connection between everything and everything else. Until I know there isn’t. Plus, I’m freelance now. I can follow my gut.”

  “You and Warren an item?” he asked, casually. Other than a single stray hair on his forehead, his appearance was perfect. Neat, powerful, in control. But it was all a facade, a con designed to hide the old Goldilocks. Under the dyed hair and the $3,000 suit, he was still the insecure Congressional staffer with an innocent crush on her.

  The bar
tender set down the tequila, which gave her the beat she needed to ignore the question. “You said you had some information regarding my husband?”

  “Nice dodge.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He let out a sigh. “Fine. I said I had information, but not about your husband.”

  “Meyers?”

  “That is what you came here to research, right?”

  A bell clanged and a shout came from the kitchen. “Order up, table six.”

  Cole’s shoulders tensed, rising toward her ears.

  “You gotta relax, Jane.”

  She reached for the tequila. “Tell me what you know.” She downed the drink and waved the empty glass at the bartender.

  “First, tell me what you know. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have suspicions, and my bet is those suspicions are based on something up in New York.”

  “You texted me,” she replied. “You go first.”

  “Fine. But really, you need to relax.” He eyed her over the top of his wine glass as he sipped. “I talked to a reporter at The Post, guy I leak stories to when I’m trying to get a deal through Congress or pressure an agency. I give big stuff to him exclusively, he gives me a heads up, not only on his big stories but anything the paper is going to run. Paper has a piece tonight questioning whether the dead guy on the roof was the shooter. I got it right before I texted you. It’ll post soon and run on the front page in the morning.”

  Cole’s head burned, like a flare had gone off, but she played it cool. “What’s the evidence?”

  “Source at the FBI. Ballistics expert, apparently. No idea why this hasn’t already come out, but the gun on top of the roof couldn’t possibly have made the shot across the Potomac. At least, that’s what The Post is writing. Don’t know if the dead guy on the roof was involved, or whether it was a random coincidence. But they’ve been looking at the wrong guy.”