Thin Line (34 page)

"Excuse me," I said. "Have you seen the woman that lives here recently?"

"Wasn't friendly with her." She spoke with an Eastern European accent. "But there were movers here yesterday. Guess she found a new place."

Perhaps she had.

I waited until the woman disappeared into the safety of her apartment. She cast one last glance in my direction as she slipped through the opening.
Afterward, I made my way to the same stairwell and descended to the main level.

The car wasn't far away, but I had another stop I wanted to make before leaving. The brownstone. I wasn't sure when I'd be back, and the scene would never
be as secure as it was at this moment. Not saying it had been kept pristine, but every day that passed meant someone else could have trampled on possible
evidence.

I hailed the first taxi to approach. A man with a short gray beard and a bald head and a cigarette dangling from his thin lips asked me where I wanted to
go. I had him drop me off four blocks north and east of the brownstone.

The path I walked took me past the café where Bear and I had sat in the freezing weather, drinking lukewarm coffee, moments before we were to do our
job.

Moments before everything changed.

It had all started at the café.

Things seemed uncertain at that time. They always did. And it was the same state of constant flux I'd grown accustomed to. But this, now, I had no idea
where the next few moves I would make would take me. That didn't sit well.

A short walk later I saw a scorched skeleton rising from the ground, squished between two renovated buildings, amid smoldering ruins and ashes and rubble.

My head swung like it was attached to a swivel. My gaze didn't linger long on any one spot. And it was pointless. If whoever had burned down the brownstone
had a spotter, they wouldn't be visible on the street.

And so I turned, and looked up to the same spot where I had waited days ago, across the street from the now-burned-down brownstone. A shadowy figure backed
away from the window. I reached behind my back, wrapped my hand around the pistol's grip. I moved toward the door. Walking, jogging, running, jumping past
the stairs. Inside the mold and mildew hit me. My nostrils itched and my lungs burned. I ignored the sensation, knowing that in a few short seconds, it'd
pass.

I heard the sound of soles squeaking on linoleum. It came from above. I took the stairs two at a time, then paused on the landing. A door slammed shut on a
higher floor. I passed by the second floor and continued on to the third. The dim hallway stretched out in front of me, four or five apartments on either
side. Pale light peeked out from under the doors. I approached each slowly and cautiously.

All I wanted to see was the glow emanating unblocked from under the door and a pinprick of light through the peephole. Every door but the last on the right
met the requirements. I almost didn't notice. At the final second, the dot of white disappeared for an instant. Someone could've passed by, on their way
from one room to the next. But when I looked down, I noticed the last two inches on both sides of the space under the door were darkened.

Someone was standing there, inches from me, on the opposite side of a dented hunk of solid-core wood, and they weren't moving. Were they waiting for me?

This all happened in a couple of seconds. I never stopped moving. The door to the other stairwell approached. I wrapped my hand around the knob.

The door behind me cracked open.

I held my pistol down by my thigh. Turned my head to the right, slightly, so that I could see the door in my peripheral vision. Yellow-white light bled
into the hallway. A shadow filled some of the space. They took a deep breath, as if to steel themselves. An exhale, grunt, hand gripping the doorframe,
black barrel of a pistol emerging.

I spun, back pushing through the heavy hallway door.

He grunted, emerged from the apartment. I didn't attempt to identify the man. My focus remained on the pistol, which he angled at me while contorting his
body.

I held the sidearm waist-high, and instinctively fired. The suppressor muffled some of the sound, but not all. If anyone in the adjoining apartments was
near their front door, the sound might be enough to give them cause to investigate. Or just call 9-1-1.

The man shot back, but missed. Plaster exploded to my left and rained down on me. The deafening sound echoed throughout the stairwell and hallway. My ears
sang.

I fired again. Both shots had hit him. Crimson blooms formed at his lower gut and dead-center on his chest. He fell, landed sideways. Ragged and sporadic
breathing followed.

A door opened. An old woman poked her head out. Curlers weighed down her blue-tinted hair.

"Get back in there."

She froze at the sight of a pistol aimed at her face.

"Now," I said.

She complied. I returned my attention to the dying man on the ground.

"Who are you?"

The man said nothing.

I rose and placed the heel of my shoe against his stomach. "Who the hell are you?"

His eyes rolled back in his head.

I leaned over and searched his pockets, all the while keeping my eyes up, focused on the open doorway to the apartment. Did he live there? Or had it been
the only one he found unlocked? I considered tempting fate and investigating, but after coming up with a wallet and cell phone, I left the man to die and
made my way down the stairs.

THE TEMPERATURE WAS in the mid-forties. Might as well have been ten below. The sweat that coated my face, back, and chest cooled and felt like ice melting
on my skin. The sidewalks were deserted. I heard no sirens. That old woman was probably cowering behind her door or under a table. Eventually, someone
would walk out of their apartment and find a man dying or dead in the middle of their hallway.

I wasted no time moving, heading back the way I came, past the café. I took a look inside in an attempt to determine if Clarissa's friend was working.
Didn't see her. Perhaps she had seen what, or who, had started the fire at the brownstone. I had no shortage of potential candidates. Brett could have come
back and done it himself. Not likely, but possible. Maybe McSweeney on her way out of town. Frank, the CIA, the Old Man, or anyone else with a vested
interest in not being indicted could be responsible.

There were better things I could spend my time worrying about. That's what I told myself. The fact that someone had been watching over the remains of the
building, and then attempted to kill me, told me that I needed to keep pursuing the investigation. Were they looking for me, though? Had they expected that
I would return? Maybe the shooter had been there to watch for anyone suspicious. But he'd fled when I spotted him. He hadn't made an attempt on me until I
passed by his hideout. Could have let me go. Instead, he attacked.

He'd been waiting for me. Maybe not only me, but I was on his list.

I pulled his phone out and checked the contact list. Empty. I navigated to the recent calls list. One number. I didn't recognize the area code. Could have
been Maryland. Maybe Montana. One of those that I was confused by every time I saw it. And it really didn't matter. Presumably, the number was a forwarder
and routed around the country. Like mine. Like Bear's. Nothing like Brandon's. But then, whose was? The timestamp indicated the man had called the number
around the time I was outside the building. Further evidence he'd recognized me and reported my presence.

And whoever he reported it to had authorized him to strike if I came closer.

I only had one shot at this. After my call, they'd know their man was down. They'd abandon the number, their position, everything.

The café provided shelter from both the wind and prying eyes. And it was empty except for a portly red-cheeked guy behind the counter who didn't seem
to care I hadn't approached him for a cup of coffee.

And I could have used one about then. But this was more important.

I called Brandon on my cell and asked him if he could link up to the phone I had taken off the man in the apartment building. He had me sort through
various menus and read to him combinations of letters and numbers that made little sense to me but had him giggling like a child watching cartoons.

"All right, Jack," he said. "When you redial that number, I'll capture every step of the way. You just need to hold the line for twenty seconds. You got
that?"

"I think I can manage to count that high."

"Good. How're you gonna keep them on the line?"

"No clue, Brandon. Not a single friggin' clue." I glanced up at the counter. The guy had taken a seat on a stool and paged through a magazine. I couldn't
tell which one. "OK. I'm gonna dial now."

"Wait, wait, wait," Brandon said. "I'm not quite ready."

I approached the counter. The guy looked up from his magazine. I spotted a blonde straddling a motorcycle on the page it was opened to. The man's cheeks
grew redder.

"Help you, sir?" he said.

"Restroom?"

He aimed a finger down a narrow hall, waited for me to pass, then went back to his stool and his literature.

"All right," I said. "How about now, Brandon?"

"Yup, I got you, your location, so on. Go ahead and make that call."

I placed my cell on the sink and grabbed the faucet. It felt grimy, pitted, like it had powdered cleaner caked on it. I turned it, then cupped my hands
under the cool stream of water that fell into the sink. I splashed some on my face. My lips parted, allowing some into my mouth, swishing it around, then
spitting it out. I cut the water, grabbed a paper towel, and dried off.

After a deep breath, I highlighted the number and pressed send. There was a delay as the call routed through multiple switches, possibly including a
government server.

Finally I heard the half-burst of a static-laden ring. Another, a full one, followed. On the fifth ring a man answered.

"Got an update?"

I hesitated while attempting to place the voice. It didn't draw a match. Instead of answering him, I groaned.

"Vogel?" He paused, presumably waiting for me to answer. I didn't. "What the hell's going on?"

Again, I answered with a groan. The countdown in my head continued. We were halfway there.

"Vogel, Christ, stay where you are. I'll get the team over there now."

"Wait," I said in as gravely a voice as I could muster.

"What?"

I grunted a few times, took a deep, wheezy breath, then choked. Quite a production, and in all, it ate up five more seconds, which meant the twenty Brandon
required were up. Best to add a few more to be on the safe side.

"I can't keep this line open," the man said. "Stay put. I'll have someone there in a couple minutes."

The call ended. A phone icon flashed several times on the screen, then disappeared. The time stared back at me. I grabbed my cell off the sink.

"Tell me you got it?"

"I got something," Brandon said. "It'll take me a while to figure this out. That call went all over the world, but if anyone can trace it, I'm the guy."

"Love your confidence, man."

"Always said I'd be making millions in the big leagues if my body hadn't been so ravaged."

I smiled, said, "Call me when you know something. Also, look up this Vogel guy. Can't be many with that last name in the community. I'm gonna make my way
to the car and get moving."

For a moment, I stood in front of the sink, regarding myself in the mirror. With a nod to my reflection, I tucked both phones in my pocket and exited the
restroom. I ordered a cup of black coffee from the red-faced guy, then left the café through the front door.

Two police cars were parked further down the street, across from the burned-out brownstone. Blue strobes reflected off the buildings. I didn't see the cops
on the street. There'd be plenty after the body was found. And who knows who else would show up after Vogel was identified. That didn't matter. Forensics
did. In my haste, I hadn't wiped down every surface I'd touched. In a day or two, I might be named as a suspect. It all depended on what restrictions Frank
had removed from my files.

The garage was close, but I figured the less time I spent on the street, the better. I grabbed a cab and ignored the middle-aged Irish woman's attempts at
conversation. She dropped me off in front of a hotel I had no intentions of staying at. I entered the lobby, walked past the desk, and exited in the rear.
The abandoned alley led me to the parking garage.

I peered through the tinted windows of a passenger van. I had a view of the area surrounding my car. I gave it thirty seconds, then started toward the
vehicle. A parade of footsteps resulted in a long succession of echoes throughout the structure. Sounded like an army approaching. But only one man was
creating them.

Me.

Brandon called back before I'd managed to merge onto I-95. I activated the speaker and set the phone in the console.

"OK, Jack. I've got some information on Vogel. Wasn't easy, either."

"Tell me what you know."

"Kind of atypical, I think. Joined the Navy at eighteen, SEALS not long after. Left at twenty-six to finish his degree, which he'd started working on
during his enlistment. All online, apparently. At twenty-eight he enrolled at Georgetown Law. Finished at thirty-one. Shrugged off several potential
employers. Immediately got a job with the FBI."

"The FBI?"

"That's what I said. Why?"

"Those guys usually end up CIA or cops, if anything. Just wondering why he chose to be a Feeb."

"Well, if you want to go unkill him, you can find out."

"What about family?"

"Wife, kid, divorced before he was done with the Navy." He paused, and I said nothing. "This guy was all over the place with the Bureau, man. LA. Dallas.
Denver. Chicago. D.C."

"Which office does he work out of now?"

Brandon's phone beeped a couple times like he'd hit the keys while shifting the device from one ear to the other. "None, man. He bailed on the Bureau. He
was up for a leadership position. Didn't get it. Quit."