The Crime Beat Boxed Set

by A. C. Fuller

  Returning to the car, she found Warren at the trunk, mixing a white powder into a large bottle of water.

  “I got you a protein bar,” she said. “And nuts.”

  He held up the milky-looking drink. “Got protein. Those bars are just candy anyway.”

  “Is there anything that isn’t candy to you?”

  He answered by downing the quart of protein drink in four impressive chugs.

  He slid into the driver’s seat. Cole got in and they pulled to the side of the station, where a single light flickered between dented bathroom doors. She pulled up the photo of the map and adjusted the contrast on her phone to make it more readable. She handed it to him as he killed the engine.

  He gave it a glance and handed it back. “Wondered when you were gonna tell me what you saw in there.”

  “I almost didn’t.” He stared, expressionless, inviting her to explain. “You gotta understand about reporters. We scramble for scraps of info. It’s our business. I just walked into the lair of a man who may be the orchestrator of a major serial killing, or a terrorist attack. It’s not in my nature to share. Especially since, you know, technically, I was breaking and entering.”

  Warren grabbed the food bag and pulled out a pack of almonds. “Talk me through what you saw. We’ll get to the map later.” He popped a few almonds in his mouth and smiled. “Thanks for these. Only thing I’d eat from that joint.”

  “There were books, military artifacts, papers. No computer. Probably planned, or maybe helped plan, the Ambani killing from there, then got lazy and began working from home. Or maybe he worked on a laptop from the storage unit that he took with him. Look again.”

  She held up the map. Warren squinted at the screen. “What am I looking at?”

  “World map, zoomed all the way out.”

  The map had been large, maybe five feet wide by three feet high. The individual states in the U.S. portion were colored in pale shades of yellow, orange, and light brown, as were the Canadian provinces and other countries. Cole zoomed in on the east coast of the United States, then pointed at a tiny silver pin in the map, stuck into the little black dot that marked “New York City.” Next, she scrolled down the east coast slowly, reaching another pin on the black dot for “Washington, D.C.”

  “See what I’m getting at?” she asked.

  Warren took the phone. His cop instincts had taken over. He worked through the map methodically, zooming out to get a wide view until he found a pin, then zooming in until he could read the name of the city. From Washington D.C. he scrolled further south to a pin in Miami. From Miami, he scrolled far west to a pin in Los Angeles, then north to San Francisco and back east to Las Vegas.

  “Five U.S. cities.” He didn’t look up.

  He continued scrolling, first all the way down through South America, where there were no pins, then east to the bottom of the African continent. Methodically, he zig-zagged north through Africa, hunched over the small screen.

  The locations of the pins had stuck in Cole’s mind in the unit, but she followed along with him.

  Finding no pins in Africa, he scrolled north into Europe to pins in Paris and London. Next, he moved slowly east through Asia. Cole stopped him when he landed on the only pin on that continent: Tokyo.

  He regarded her, his face lit in flashes by a flickering light on the side of the gas station. His eyes were wide, his mouth half open.

  “Nine pins,” Cole said. “Nine cities.” She put her phone in her hip purse. “New York, D.C., Miami, LA, San Francisco, Vegas, Paris, London, Tokyo. Nine cities. Nine rifles.” Recognition registered on his face. “What?”

  “Remember when I said that the buyer of the rifles was likely connected to political extremists from the moment I saw the sale?”

  “Yeah, and it looks like you were right.”

  “But Wragg is American. A white nationalist. He mentioned Jews, and that whole slogan thing. What was it?”

  Cole read it from her notes app: “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki for a singular mission: to end the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.”

  “International,” Warren repeated. “Nations. With an S.”

  “I looked up ‘General Ki,’ by the way. Top hit was an aikido school in Cedar Rapids. Not a mention of anything resembling a real guy anywhere online.”

  “Probably a code name known only to a handful of these assholes. I had this as a gang of old, white, ex-military guys. American separatists, something like that. Not the kind of guys with access to Paris and London, and definitely not Tokyo.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. Could be bigger than we thought.”

  Cole watched Warren think. The look on his face betrayed a mind racing with the implications. She’d already decided what they had to do next, but it went against her instinct, which was to guard information until she could write about it.

  Cole tensed when a man appeared under the flickering light by the bathrooms, fumbling with a key attached to a long wooden stick. Warren watched him carefully until he disappeared into the bathroom.

  Cole broke the long silence. “We need to get this map out there. If it means what we think it means…”

  Warren shook his head. “Mazzalano. You met with him tonight. My guess is he had you tailed. It’s the only way that guy could have shown up right after us. Followed us from Little Italy into Jersey, then hung back to see what we were doing at the storage unit. If Mazzalano had you tailed, it means he now knows about the stuff in storage. If that’s the case, he’ll be on TV by tomorrow morning taking credit for finding Wragg’s dungeon.”

  “But if he’s corrupt—”

  “He is corrupt, but he’s also power hungry. Corrupt cops do all sorts of regular police work, too. You said yourself he likes to be in the know. If Mazzalano has the map, he’ll use it to his own advantage, sure, but that will mean taking credit for it within the department.”

  Cole popped the cap off an iced coffee drink. “So you’re saying we don’t release it?”

  “Not yet.”

  By two in the morning, they’d paid cash for a room with two double beds in a motel ten miles from D.C. Cole stuffed her duffel bag into a drawer, then flopped onto one of the beds, which was so springy it nearly bounced her onto the floor. Warren unpacked clothes and arranged his water and protein powder by the sink. “Be careful,” she said. “The beds are crazy. Like all springs and no actual mattress materials. Why are you unpacking?”

  “It’s just what I do. I like to keep things in order.”

  He sat on his bed, detached the prosthetic lower portion of his right leg, and stashed it under a pillow.

  “You sleep with it?” Cole asked.

  “In case we need to get out of here in a hurry.”

  “You snore?”

  “Not sure. Been sleeping alone a long time.”

  “Matt snored sometimes.”

  Warren grunted something inaudible.

  When Cole closed her eyes, the videos of the Meyers shooting appeared immediately, as though they’d been playing in the back of her mind the whole night. If it was true that the shooter hadn’t been on the roof of the Watergate, he must have been on one of the surrounding buildings. This matched the M.O. of the Ambani killing. Plus, the picture of Wragg’s computer screen indicated that Meyers—“The Silver Squirrel”—had been the next target. She felt certain the murders were connected. But she’d been wrong about things she’d been certain of before. “Rob, how confident are you these two murders are connected? I mean, what if we’re wrong?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Rob?”

  She listened closely. His breathing had changed. Longer, slower, more audible breaths. He was already asleep. At least he wasn’t snoring. She tried to relax into sleep, but Warren’s breath and her swirl of thoughts made drifting off even more difficult than usual.

  12

  Thursday

  Warren sat up in bed
and looked around the room. Cole was already wide awake, leaning against the headboard, eyes on her phone. She had a look on her face he was coming to recognize. Her eyes wider, her lips pursed. The look implied laser focus. “Cole, what is it?”

  “Twitter is saying the murder of Alvin Meyers has been solved.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Read me what you’re seeing.”

  “It’s a thread of about six tweets. Hold on.”

  Warren sat up in bed as she scrolled, then said, “Here, I’ll read them. ‘According to multiple sources within the Metropolitan Police Department, a gunman believed to have killed former Vice President Alvin Meyers was found dead on the roof of the Virginia Suites Hotel in Roslyn, Virginia. The shooter, yet to be identified, was spotted when a news helicopter passed over the hotel on its way to the Watergate, which sits across the Potomac River from the hotel where the body was found.”

  Warren wanted to hear the rest, but couldn’t get past a key detail. “Wait, it said the shooter was on the roof of a hotel across the river? How far is that?”

  “The story addresses that. Lemme keep reading. ‘The body of the alleged gunman was found next to a sniper rifle, and multiple sources say the shot—approximately one mile as the crow flies—would have been difficult but not impossible. According to one source with knowledge of the situation, “A good sniper can make that shot. Wind was low, and he had a favorable angle. It’s not easy, but it’s a long way from impossible.” Police sources believe the shooter may have rented a room in the hotel and found a way to access the roof. Though details are not yet known, multiple sources believe the suspected shooter may have been killed by a self-inflicted gunshot.’” Cole let out a long sigh. “The reporter goes on to say that details are emerging, she’ll update the original Twitter thread, blah, blah, blah.”

  Warren watched her scroll. Something about the report didn’t sound right and, judging by Cole’s concerned frown, she agreed. “Looking for more information?”

  “Always.”

  “Here’s the thing: I don’t buy it.”

  She set down her phone. “Me neither. But it sounds like good reporting.”

  “Why take out a guy from a mile away if you’re just gonna kill yourself?”

  Cole frowned, but said nothing.

  “If you’re going to kill yourself right afterwards,” Warren continued, “why not walk right up to him on his way into the Watergate? Make it easier on yourself.”

  “Maybe he hadn’t planned to kill himself but someone came to the roof and he thought he’d been caught.”

  “Possibly.” He wasn’t convinced, and something else didn’t sit right, but he couldn’t articulate it.

  She stopped scrolling and locked eyes with him. “People are debating whether the shot was possible.”

  Warren reached under the pillow for his prosthetic, attached it, then paced the room, stopping every few seconds to shake out his right leg. It always took a few minutes to get comfortable. “That was my first thought. But if the reporter is right and it was a mile, it’s possible. I’d want to look at the angle and check the exact wind conditions, but with a good weapon—a custom fifty-cal, for example—and a great shooter, a mile is doable.”

  “They’re also debating motive, they’re even arguing about whether the reporter’s Twitter account was hacked.”

  “Like whether the report is fake?”

  “Right. I don’t know her, but it’s a verified account. I’m guessing it’s real and…wait…another news organization just confirmed it.”

  “Who?”

  “CNN, and now Fox News. Plus…yeah everyone is saying it now.”

  “Secret Service? FBI? They’ll be all over this case and I’d trust them more than some unnamed source.”

  She scrolled for a minute, then said, “They’re not even ‘no-commenting.’ Metro police, too. Radio silence from all official sources. But everyone else is confirming.”

  “Probably the same two damn sources in every one of those reports. Just because everyone is saying it doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  She gave him a look.

  “I’m not saying they’re making it up, but haven’t we seen enough Twitter stories go viral that turned out to be bullshit? Isn’t that enough to chill a minute before believing?”

  “If this many sources are saying it, though…”

  “I’m not saying the journalists are lying, I’m saying maybe the sources are wrong.”

  “Wrong about a dead guy on the roof?” Cole asked.

  “I’m sure there was a dead guy on the roof, it’s just…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. His gut was wrong about a third of the time. Maybe this was one of those times, but he doubted it. “Your guy email you back?”

  “K Street lobbying firm at eight.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Martin Goldberg. Used to call him Goldilocks because he had long blond hair, like eighties-metal-band hair, except he was no rock star. We were interns together twenty years ago. Kinda dorky and the last guy I’d have picked to become one of the most powerful lobbyists in the city. They say D.C. runs on information. Figured he’d have some.”

  Warren checked his watch. 7 a.m. “Then let’s go.”

  13

  They waited in a sleek lobby with large windows that looked down on Farragut Square, a small park bustling with activity despite the bitter cold. Watching people hurry to work, Cole pressed a palm against the cold glass, as if reaching for the White House, which was framed against a light gray sky four blocks to the north. She remembered this weather from her one year in D.C.—“pre-snow” they’d called it. In the center of the park, a statue sat atop a stone pillar. She assumed the bronze man was the “Farragut” for whom the square was named, though she didn’t know who he’d been.

  “Damn the torpedoes!” Warren said. “Full speed ahead.”

  His voice startled her. “Huh?”

  He took a sip from a mug engraved with the logo of Goldberg & Plotts Government Relations. “The Battle of Mobile Bay during the Civil War.” He pointed at the statue. “That’s David Farragut, first admiral of the U.S. Navy. That was his famous line at the Battle of Mobile Bay.”

  Cole searched her memory, but came up empty. “Interesting. Didn’t know that.”

  “No one knows whether he said exactly that. You newspaper folks got stuff wrong even back then. Historians now think he may have said something like, ‘Damn the torpedoes. Four bells.’ Not as catchy because no one knows what ‘four bells’ means.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Before Warren could answer, Cole heard a familiar voice. “It means ‘full speed ahead.’”

  Marty Goldberg—Goldilocks as she and her cohort of interns had called him—had appeared from the back. He looked nothing like the awkward twenty-something she remembered. His hair had been dyed dark brown and cut short, and instead of a wrinkled, off-the-rack suit hanging loosely from a lanky body, a slim-fitting navy suit displayed a muscular physique. He was surprisingly handsome.

  “They rang four bells,” he continued as he approached, “to signal the engine room to give the boat full power as they navigated through a field of mines, which back then they called ‘torpedos.’ Crucial battle of the Civil War.” He held out a hand to Warren.

  Shaking it, Warren said, “You a war historian?”

  Goldberg chuckled. “Nah. Memorized that to impress clients.” He waved an arm in a sweeping gesture toward Farragut Square. “It comes up a lot.”

  Turning his attention from Warren, he took in Cole—face, then a full body scan, then back to her face. “Good to see you, Jane. You look amazing.”

  She accepted a brief hug. “You too, Goldilocks.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about Matt.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  They followed Goldberg to his corner office and sat across from him at a large desk. His back was to the window and, from her seat, Cole had a direct line of sight to the White House.
>
  Goldberg crossed his right leg over his left. “They don’t call me that anymore, by the way. Goldilocks, I mean.” He said it with a forced casualness, like he wanted her to think it was no big deal.

  “I guess not, now that you’re a brunet. It works for you.”

  “Phoniest town in America. Gotta look the part. You get a pass, though. You can call me whatever you want.” He took her in again. “What can I do for you? I’ve got a busy morning ahead.”

  “Right.” Cole cleared her throat. “We’re looking into the murder of the VP. Did you know Meyers?”

  “I didn’t. Had drinks at the Watergate last week, though. Got an invite to the fundraiser he was at when...well...I could have been there.” He looked down and shook his head. “I spoke with him on the phone a couple times for various projects. But no, I didn’t know him.”

  “What kind of projects?” Cole asked, trying to sound disinterested.

  Goldberg smiled. “Seriously, Cole, that’s how you’re going to come at me? Hoping I’ll casually drop something to The New York Sun because I don’t pay attention to what I’m saying? I’m sure you think I’ve sold out, but at least respect the fact that I’m good at it.”

  Cole returned his grin. It was nice to talk with someone who knew the game. “Too big time for me, huh? Got your name on the coffee mugs and everything. Anyway, I’m freelance now. I quit The Sun.”

  Goldberg turned to Warren. “You a reporter, too?”

  “Research assistant,” Cole said quickly.

  Goldberg studied Warren’s powerful physique, and Cole wished she’d picked a different lie. “A research assistant, huh?” He didn’t even do her the courtesy of pretending to believe it.

  She scooched to the edge of the chair, placing her hands on the desk. “Look, Marty, I’m here on the Meyers murder. You got anything on that? Anywhere you can point me?”