Cross Fire (14 page)

Patel sat back, twiddling a pen between her fingers. “So should I keep going? Because there’s more bad news.”

I ran my hand over my mouth and jaw, an old tic of mine. “You’re just full of sunshine today, aren’t you?”

“Technically, this is Siegel’s piece, so you can’t hold it against me,” she said. I liked working with Patel. She seemed to keep her sense of humor no matter what, and the humor was dark and deep.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I can take whatever you’re dishing out here.”

“It’s about this ‘Patriot’ moniker they used in one of the e-mails. Ever since
True Press
ran the story, the name seems to have stuck, in a really scary way. We’ve got people at both ends of the spectrum foaming at the mouth, from the radical antiglobalization types all the way over to the hard-right survivalists. The Bureau’s already working up contingencies around the possibility of tribute killings.”

She ran a simple open-source search on her laptop. Less than a minute later, I was looking through pages of results — websites, blogs, vlogs, chat rooms, mainstream commentary, fringe press — all of it giving credence to the supposed “patriotism” behind these sniper murders.

I’d certainly seen this kind of thing before. Kyle Craig alone had legions of fans, or disciples, as he liked to call them. But Patel was right. This had the potential to be something
else again — a whole grassroots movement of people who saw nothing less than America at stake, and nothing short of wholesale violence as the only solution with a chance of working.

“Best way to stir the crazy pot?” she said over my shoulder. “Wrap your dogma in an American flag and wait to see who bites. Like I said —
scary.
”

AROUND SEVEN THIRTY, Patel and I finally got up to go. As we did, though, she turned away from the door and toward me. The sudden look in her eyes was all but unmistakable — and it was scary in a whole other way.

“Have you ever had homemade chana masala?” she asked.

Still, I didn’t want to be too presumptuous. “Homemade? Never.”

“Because I’m a pretty good cook, despite appearances.” She gestured at her nondescript gray slacks and white blouse. “I think everyone here assumes I’m just some wonk who goes home to her seven cats and a Lean Cuisine every night.”

“I doubt that,” I said. Patel had always struck me as a classic diamond in the rough. She was the kind of woman who arrived at the office Christmas party all done up and dropped every jaw in the room.

“So, my car’s in the shop,” she went on. “I was thinking if
you could save me the cab fare home, I’d pay you back with dinner.” Then she
really
threw me. Patel reached over and put her hand on top of mine. “Maybe even dessert,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re full of surprises,” I said, and we both laughed, a little nervously. “Listen, Anjali —”

“Oh God.” Her hand fell away. “It’s never good when they start with your name.”

“I’m in a relationship. We’re getting married.”

She nodded and started gathering up her stuff. “You know what they say about all the good men, right?
Taken or gay.
In fact, that’s going to be the title of my memoir. Think it will sell?”

This time we laughed for real. It cut right through the tension, which I think was nice for both of us.

“I appreciate the invitation,” I said, and meant it. If this were some other time in my life, I definitely would have been eating chana masala that night. Maybe dessert, too. “And I can still give you that ride if you want.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She tucked her laptop under her arm and held the conference room door for me. “If I’m not cooking, I’m going to stick around here and get some more work done. Meanwhile, if you wouldn’t mind forgetting we ever had this conversation —”

“What conversation?” I gave her my best wide-eyed innocent face on the way out. “I can’t remember a thing.”

AFTER SOME REHEATED supper that night, and long after the kids had gone to bed, I got a call from Christine.

The second her name came up on the caller ID, I felt torn in a big way. I couldn’t just ignore her, but the last thing I wanted right now was more talk. The only reason I picked up in the end was to keep her from possibly coming over to the house again.

“What is it, Christine?”

Right away, I could hear she was crying. “It was wrong, what you did today, Alex. You didn’t have to push me away like that.”

I was already walking from the bedroom up to my office, and waited until I’d closed the door behind me to go on.

“I kind of did,” I said. “You showed up out of the blue and, even worse, you lied. More than once.”

“I only lied because I thought our son deserved to see his family together!”

It was as if we’d started fighting in record time, which was saying something for us. The whole thing made me feel exhausted. It brought back the terribleness I’d felt during the court case over Ali.

“Ali sees his family together every day,” I said. “Just not his mother.”

She sobbed again. “How can you say a thing like that?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Christine. I’m just telling it like it is.” My patience, meanwhile, was hanging at the other end of a very thin thread. Christine had brought this on herself with her terrible inconsistency as a mother.

“Well, don’t worry, because you got your wish. I’m at the airport.”

“My
wish
is that we could all be happy with the choices we’ve made,” I said.

“Just as long as you’re happy first, isn’t that right, Alex? Isn’t that how it’s always been?”

And then my thread snapped.

“Do you remember leaving me?”
I said. “Do you remember how I begged you to stay in Washington? Do you remember leaving Ali? Damn it, does any of that even register with you anymore?”

“Don’t you curse at me!” she shouted back, but I wasn’t finished.

“So now what? You think just by showing up here, you can change everything that’s happened since then? It doesn’t work that way, Christine, and I wouldn’t change it if I could!”

“No.” Her voice was constricted now. Tight as a drum. “Apparently not.”

Then she hung up on me. I was stunned but also a little
relieved. Maybe this was some kind of test, to see if I’d call back, but I wasn’t even remotely tempted. I sat on the office couch, staring at the ceiling and trying to collect myself again.

It was almost shocking, to think how much I’d loved Christine, once. Back then, there was nothing I wanted more than for all of us to be a family forever. Now, it felt like someone else’s history.

And I just wanted Christine out of my life.

IT WAS JUST short of midnight when Agent Anjali Patel stepped out to the curb on E Street in front of the Hoover Building, craning her neck, searching for a cab. As soon as he saw her, Max Siegel pulled around the corner and lowered the passenger-side window.

“Someone call for a taxi?”

She gave him a nice view of cleavage as she bent down to see who it was. “Max? What are you doing here? It’s late.”

“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “Had to run out unexpectedly. I just came back for my car, but maybe I could give you a ride and you can fill me in.”

Her glance up the street said everything. Not a cab in sight, not much traffic at all.

Max Siegel’s coworkers seemed to prefer him at a distance, which was exactly according to plan. Distance afforded him
the privacy he needed and could always be broached if and when he wanted it to be. Like right now.

“Come on,” he said. “I won’t bite. I won’t even talk about Cross behind his back. Promise.”

“Um… sure,” she said with a practiced smile, and got in.

Her perfume was lemony, he noticed. Or maybe it was her shampoo. Nice anyway. Feminine. She gave him an address in Shaw.

Then she proceeded to chatter on about the case, making sure to fill up any spaces that might have otherwise been left open to the awkwardness of small talk between them.

Siegel drove fast, goosing the yellow lights where he could. He hadn’t been with a woman since the real estate agent, and damned if he wasn’t getting a little hard just thinking about her.

When he turned onto her block, he mashed the gas pedal once more and then coasted to a stop in front of a dark storefront just past her yellow-brick townhome.

“Hey, that was it,” she said, looking back. “You missed my place.”

KYLE LOOKED BACK, too. The block was still clear of any traffic or pedestrians.

“Oops. Sorry. My fault.”

“All right, well…” Her fingers were already on the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

“That’s it?” he said.

“Pardon? I don’t think I follow.”

“See, this is supposed to be the part where you offer to cook dinner for me,” he said.

Her face fell. She squinted at him in the dark, probably not ready to believe this was anything more than a weird coincidence. “I’m not much of a cook, Max.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Ever seen one of these before?” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a small black box, no bigger than a lighter. “It’s one of those
GSM ultraminiature transmitters. You can stick them practically anywhere.”

Patel gave the thing a cursory glance. “Yeah?” she said. Her discomfort, and her attempt to hide it, were absolutely delicious.

“Let’s just say I made the meeting between you and Cross after all.”

Again, her energy shifted. Now she was pissed off and a little embarrassed — too much to be scared anymore.

“You bugged our meeting? Jesus, Max, why the hell would you do something like that?”

“That’s your first good question,” he said. “How much time do you have for an answer?” But before she could say a word, he put a hand to her lips. “Wait, I’ll tell you myself. You have no time at all.”

The ice pick, his old favorite, was up and through her larynx before Patel could even scream. Still, her jaw dropped silently open with the effort.

He was on her now, his mouth covering hers, his hand over her nose — a literal kiss of death, but just an ordinary kiss between two lovers in a car to anyone who might have glanced out his window. Her strength, her desire to live, were nothing compared to his. Even the blood loss was minimal — Patel had been too polite to ask about the plastic seat covers in the car.

Or the raincoat Max Siegel was wearing on this dry night.

Once she’d stopped moving altogether, his excitement only grew. He would have loved to climb into the backseat with her while her lips were still warm and her belly still so
soft to the touch. He wanted to be inside her right now. Hell, he owned her.

But it would have been a foolish risk, and an unnecessary one at that. He had decided hours ago that tonight was going to be an exception to the usual rules. He’d earned it after all, and this game was his to change. In fact, there were a lot of changes just around the corner.

But first, Anjali Patel was coming home with him — for a sleepover.

SAMPSON KNEW I was usually awake by five, or even earlier, but it wouldn’t have made a difference today. I could tell he was already at work from the street sounds in the background and the tension in his voice.

“I need a favor, Alex. Maybe a big one.”

Instinctively, I started eating my eggs a little faster while Nana gave me the hairy eyeball. Very early and very late calls in our house are never a good thing.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening. Nana is watching me listen. I can’t tell if her evil eye is for you, me, or both of us.”

“Oh, it’s for both of you,” Nana said in a low voice that could have been mistaken for a growl.

“We’ve got a homicide in Franklin Square. A John Doe. It looks a lot like that freaky one I had before, over in Washington Circle?”

My fork stopped in midair.
“With the numbers?”

“That’s the one. Any chance I can get you over here for a consult before things heat up too much?”

“I’m on my way.”

John and I never keep track of who owes how many favors to who. Our unwritten rule is, if you need me, I’m there.
But make sure you need me.

A few minutes later, I was knotting my tie on the way down the back stairs toward the garage. It was practically still dark out, but light enough to show a mass of slate-gray nothingness overhead — cloudy with a chance of a shit storm.

Based on what I remembered of Sampson’s earlier case, this was exactly the kind of thing MPD could not afford to be investigating right now.

Months ago, a young homeless man had been found beaten to death, with a series of numbers carved carefully across his forehead. It probably would have hit every headline inside the Beltway —
if the poor man hadn’t been a street junkie.
Even at the department, the case hadn’t generated much heat, which wasn’t exactly fair, but you could drive yourself crazy over “fair” in this capital city of ours.