Cross Fire (9 page)

Little Bronson’s pupils dilated — not with fear but with sudden interest.

“I’ve got a nice job for you, little man, if you’re up to it. You want to earn five hundred dollars?”

BALLISTICS WERE IN.

This was the report everyone had been waiting for, and I scheduled it to coincide with that day’s Field Intelligence Group conference call. On the line, we had the whole team from MPD, as well as people from FBI, ATF, Capitol Police — just about everyone was dialed into this case by now.

Reporting in, we had Cailin Jerger, from the Forensic Analysis Branch at the FBI lab in Quantico, and Alison Steedman, who was with their Firearms-Toolmarks Unit.

After a few quick introductions, I handed the call over to them.

“Based on fragments in all three victims’ skulls, I can tell you conclusively that the same weapon was used every time,” Jerger told the group. I’d gotten most of this in the morning, but it was news to almost everyone else on the call. “A 7.62 caliber can trace back to dozens of weapons, but given the
nature and distance of these shots, we believe we’re looking at a high-grade sniper system. That brings it down to seven possibilities.”

“And it gets better from there,” Agent Steedman joined in. “Four of those seven are bolt-action rifles. By all accounts, the first two victims, Vinton and Pilkey, went down within two seconds of each other. That’s too fast for bolt-action, which leaves three semiautomatic possibilities — the M21, the M25, and the newer M110, which is state of the art. We can’t rule any of those out, but these shots were all taken at night into variable lighting conditions, and the M110 comes with a thermal optical site, standard.”

“All of which is to say that your shooter is likely to be very well equipped,” Jerger said.

“How hard is it to put your hands on an M110?” I recognized Jim Heekin’s voice from the Directorate of Intelligence.

“They’re made in only one place,” Steedman told us. “Knight’s Armament Company in Titusville, Florida.”

I’d already been tracking this, so I spoke up here.

“So far, all of Knight’s stock is accounted for,” I said. “But once these systems hit the field, mostly in Iraq and Afghanistan, they can and do go missing. Souvenirs from the war, that kind of thing. So they’re pretty much impossible to trace.”

“Detective Cross, this is Captain Oliverez at Capitol Police. Didn’t your report say the fingerprints you found on Eighteenth Street were
nonmilitary?
”

“Yes,” I said. “But we’re not ready to rule out a military connection, in terms of how the weapon might have been procured and how it’s been used. In fact, that brings up
another point.” I’d been sitting on this one for half a day, but really it made no sense not to share it with the group now.

“Let me stress something here,” I said. “I want to keep this out of the press until we have some kind of proof either way. I know it’s like herding cats — there’s a lot of us on this call — but I’m counting on your discretion across the board here.”

“Whatever happens in Vegas…,” someone joked, and there were a few soft laughs.

“The point is this,” I said. “All of these systems we’re talking about are crew-served weapons. The military model is one shooter and one spotter in the field.” I could hear people on the line mumbling to one another in their various conference rooms. “So you can see where I’m going here. It could be shades of two thousand two all over again. We’re probably not looking for a single shooter anymore. Most likely, we’re looking for a two-man team.”

AS SAMPSON AND I came out of the conference room, we found Joyce Catalone from our Communications Office standing outside the door.

“I was just going to pull you out,” she said. “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

I looked at my watch — four forty-five. That meant at least three dozen reporters were downstairs, waiting to grill me for their five and six o’clock news cycles. Damn it — it was time to feed the beast.

Joyce and Sampson walked down with me. We took the stairs so she could run through a few things for me to consider on the way.

“Keisha Samuels from the
Post
wants to do a profile for the Sunday magazine.”

“No,” I told her. “I like Keisha, she’s smart and she’s fair, but it’s too early for that kind of in-depth piece.”

“And I’ve got CNN and MSNBC both ready to give this thing thirty minutes in prime time, if you’re ready to sit down.”

“Joyce, I’m not doing any special coverage until we have something we want to get out there. I wish to hell that we did.”

“No prob,” she said, “but don’t come crying to me when you
want
some coverage and they’ve moved on to something else.” Joyce was an old hand in the department and the unofficial mother hen of Investigative Services.

“I never cry,” I said.

“Except when I get you on the ropes,” Sampson said, and threw a punch my way.

“That’s your breath — not your punches,” I told him.

We’d reached the ground floor, and Joyce stopped with her hand on the door. “Excuse me, Beavis? Butt-Head? We ready to focus, here?” She was also excellent at her job and great to have as backup at these daily press briefings, which could get kind of hectic.

Did I say “kind of”?
A buzzing swarm of reporters came at us the second we hit the front steps of the Daly Building.

“Alex! What can you tell us about Woodley Park?”

“Detective Cross, over here!”

“Is there truth to the rumors —”

“People!”
Joyce shouted over the group. Her volume was the stuff of legend around the office. “Let the man make his statement first!
Please.
”

I quickly ran down the facts of the last twenty-four hours and said what I could about the Bureau’s ballistics report without going into too much detail. After that, it was back to the free-for-all.

Channel 4 got in first. I recognized the microphone but not the reporter, who looked about twelve years old to me. “Alex, do you have any message for the sniper? Anything you want him to know?”

For the first time, something like quiet broke out on the steps. Everybody wanted to hear my answer to that one.

“We’d welcome contact of any kind from whoever is responsible for these shootings,” I said into the cameras. “You know where to find us.”

It wasn’t a great sound bite, and it wasn’t badass or anything else that some people out there might have wanted me to say. But within the investigation, we were all in agreement: there would be no goading, no lines in the sand, and no public characterizing of the killer — or killers — until we knew more about who we were dealing with, here.

“Next question. James!” Joyce called out, just to keep things focused and moving along.

It was James Dowd, one of the national NBC correspondents. He had a thick pad of notes in his hand, which he worked off of as he spoke.

“Detective Cross, is there any truth to the rumors about a blue Buick Skylark with New York plates — or a dark-colored, rusted-out Suburban — near the scene in Woodley Park? And can you tell us if either of those vehicles has been traced back to the killer?”

I was pissed and taken off guard all at once. The problem was, Dowd was good.

The truth was, I had an old friend — Jerome Thurman from First District — quietly following up on both of those leads from the night of the Dlouhy murder. So far, all we had
was a mile-long list of matching vehicles from the DMV, and no proof that any of them were connected in any way to the shootings.

But more than that, we had a strong desire to keep this information under wraps. Obviously someone had spoken to the press, which was ironic given my lecture about discretion on the FIG call just a few minutes ago.

I gave the only answer I could. “I have no comment on that at this time.” It was like dangling a steak in front of a pack of wild dogs. The whole mass of them pressed in even closer.

“People!” Joyce tried again. “One at a time. You know how this works!”

It was a losing battle, though. I threw out at least four more “no comments” and stonewalled until someone finally changed the subject. But the damage was already done. If either of those vehicles did in fact belong to the snipers, they now had full warning, and we’d just lost an important advantage.

It was our first major leak of the investigation, but something told me it wasn’t going to be our last.

LISA GIAMETTI LOOKED at her watch for maybe the tenth time. She was going to wait five more minutes and then take off. It was just amazing, the way some people didn’t think twice about wasting your time in this business.

Four and a half minutes into the five she’d allowed, a dark-blue BMW pulled up and double-parked in front of the house.
Better late than never anyway. Nice car.

She checked her teeth in the rearview mirror, ran a hand through her short auburn hair, and got out to meet the client.

“Mr. Siegel?”

“Max,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m not used to the city traffic.”

His handshake was warm, and he was just tall, dark, and hot enough to forgive easily. Considering all the eye contact, she figured he liked what he saw as well. Interesting guy, and well worth the wait.

“Come on in,” she told him. “I think you’ll like this place. I know I do.”

She held the door open for him to go first. The place was a half-decent row house on Second in Northeast, a little overpriced for the current rental market but a good fit for the right tenant. “Are you new to Washington?”

“I used to live here, and now I’m back,” he said. “I don’t really know anybody in the city anymore.”

He was doing the code thing — new in town, alone, etc. No ring on the finger either. Lisa Giametti was not an easy mark, but she knew a hungry man when she saw one, and if something happened to happen here, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

She closed the door and locked it behind them.

“It’s a great block,” she went on. “You’ve got the back of the Supreme Court Building right across the street. Not exactly a lot of loud parties over there. And then a nice little yard in the back with off-street parking.”

They came through to the kitchen, where the garage was visible outside. “I don’t have to tell you how handy that can be around here.”

“No,” he said, looking somewhere south of her eyes. “That’s a very nice pendant you’re wearing. You have good taste — in apartments and jewelry.”

This guy didn’t waste any time, did he?

“And how about the basement?” he asked next.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I’d like to see the basement. There is one, isn’t there?”

Normally the client might have asked about the upstairs at this point. Maybe even the bedroom, if she was reading
this guy correctly. But whatever. The customer was always right, especially when he looked like this one did.

She left her briefcase on the kitchen counter, opened the basement door, and led him down the old wooden stairs.

“You can see it’s nice and dry. The wiring’s been redone, and the washer and dryer are only a couple of years old.”

He walked around, nodding approvingly. “I could get a lot of work done down here. Plenty of privacy, too.”

Suddenly, he took a step toward her, and she backed into the washing machine.

If there had been any doubt about where this was headed, it was gone now. Lisa tossed her hair. “Do you want to see the upstairs?”

“Of course I do — just not quite yet. You mind, Lisa?”

“No, I guess not.”

When she went to kiss him, he reached between her legs at the same moment, right up her skirt. It was a little presumptuous — and a little hot, too.

“It’s been a while,” he told her apologetically.

“I can tell,” she said, and pulled him closer.

Then, before they ever got to the paperwork still waiting on the kitchen counter upstairs, Lisa Giametti got the fuck of her life, right there on the two-year-old Maytag washer. It was hot, and dirty, and quite wonderful.

And the 12 percent commission was very nice, too.

THE FEDS DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Metro Police didn’t know shit either. All anyone knew was that Washington was becoming one very hot and scary place to live.

Denny ate up the headlines — page A01 every morning, lead story every night at five, six, and eleven. He and Mitch sold their papers in the afternoon, then caught the evening news at Best Buy or, if they had a few extra bucks, at one of the watering holes that didn’t mind a couple of dusty guys like them sitting at the bar.

It was always the same story: unknown assailant, phantom fingerprint, and very high-grade weaponry. A few channels were throwing around rumors about a Buick Skylark with New York plates, and a supposedly dark-blue or black rusted-out Suburban — which would have worried Denny a lot more if his own Suburban wasn’t white. Even eyewitnesses were going south these days, just like everything else in the republic.