Cross Fire, Page 3

  Inevitably, though, my thoughts returned to the case, to what I’d just seen.

  It was impossible not to think about those dark days in 2002, the last time we’d witnessed anything like this. The word “sniper” still strikes a bad chord with a lot of people in Washington, myself included. At the same time, there were some scary differences here, considering the skill of this shooter. It all felt more calculated to me, too. And then, thank God, I was asleep. Counting bodies instead of sheep, though.

  Chapter 9

  NANA MAMA ALREADY had the Washington Post spread out on the kitchen table when I came down at 5:30. The case was right there on page one, above the fold: “Sniper Murder Downtown Leaves Two Dead.”

  She double-tapped the headline with one bony finger, as if I might miss it.

  “I’m not saying anyone, no matter how greedy, deserves to die,” she told me straight-out. “This is absolutely awful. But those two men were no angels, Alex. People are going to take a certain satisfaction from this, and you’re going to have to deal with that.”

  “And good morning to you, too.”

  I leaned down to kiss her cheek and instinctively put a hand on the mug of tea in front of her. A cold mug means she’s been up for a long time, and this one was cool to the touch. I don’t like to nag, but I do try to make sure she gets enough rest, particularly since her heart attack. Nana appears to be going strong, but she’s still ninety plus.

  I poured some coffee into a travel mug and sat down for a quick look at the paper. I always want to know what a killer might be reading about himself. The story was opinionated, and wrong in a few important places. I never pay attention when supposedly smart people write idiotic things — here was another example of news that needed to be ignored.

  “It’s just a big shell game anyway,” Nana went on, warming to her subject. “Someone gets caught with a hand in the cookie jar, and we all pretend as though the ones we hear about are the only ones doing anything wrong. You think that congressman was the first and last to ever take a bribe here in Washington?”

  I ruffled the paper open to the continuation on page twenty. “An optimistic mind is a terrible thing to waste, Nana.”

  “Don’t be fresh with me so early in the day,” she said. “Besides, I’m still an optimist, just one who happens to have her eyes wide open.”

  “And were they open all night, too?” I said a little ham-handedly. Asking about Nana’s health is like trying to slip vegetables into the kids’ mac and cheese. You have to be sneaky, or you don’t get anywhere, and usually you don’t get anywhere anyway.

  Sure enough, she raised her voice to make it clear that I’d been heard and would be ignored.

  “Here’s another nugget of wisdom for you. Why is it when we hear about people getting killed in this city, they’re always poor and black, or rich and white? Why is that, Alex?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s a longer conversation than I have time for this morning,” I said, and pushed my chair back.

  She trailed a hand after me. “Where are you going this early? Let me make you some eggs — and where are you taking that paper?”

  “I want to do some digging at the office before my first interview,” I told her. “And why don’t you stick to the entertainment section for a while?”

  “Oh, because there’s no racism in Hollywood — is that it? Open your eyes.”

  I laughed, kissed her good-bye, and stole one more chocolate chip cookie off the table all at the same time.

  “That’s my girl. Have a good day, Nana. Love you!”

  “Don’t be condescending, Alex. Love you, too.”

  Chapter 10

  BY MIDMORNING, I was facing down Sid Dammler, one of two senior partners at the L Street lobbying firm of Dammler-Mickelson. Craig Pilkey had been one of their biggest rainmakers, as they’re called in the biz, pulling down eleven million in fees the previous year. One way or another, these people were going to miss him.

  So far, the firm’s official comment was that they “had no knowledge” of any wrongdoing among their staff. In the Washington playbook, that’s usually code for covering one’s behind without actually getting backed into a legal corner.

  Not that I was prejudiced against Dammler to begin with. That came after forty minutes of waiting in reception, and then another twenty of monosyllabic noncommittal answers from him, with an expression on his face like he’d rather be getting a root canal about now — or maybe like he was getting a root canal about now.

  This much, I’d already pulled together on my own: Before joining the staff at D-M, Craig Pilkey, originally from Topeka, Kansas, had spent three two-year terms in Congress, where he’d earned a reputation as the banking industry’s mouthpiece on the Hill. His unofficial nickname had been the “Re-Deregulator,” and he’d sponsored or cosponsored no fewer than fifteen separate bills aimed at extending the scope of lenders’ rights.

  According to D-M’s website, Pilkey’s specialty was helping financial service companies “navigate the federal government.” His biggest client by far at the time of his death was a coalition of twelve midsize banks around the country, representing more than seventy billion in total assets. These same companies were the ones whose campaign contributions to the other dead man, Congressman Vinton, had triggered the federal inquiry just under way.

  “Why are you telling me all this about Craig and Dammler-Mickelson?” Sid Dammler wanted to know. So far, he hadn’t indicated if any of it was news to him or not.

  “Because, with all due respect, I have to imagine that some number of people out there are going to be happy about Craig Pilkey’s death,” I said.

  Dammler looked deeply offended. “That’s a disgusting thing to say.”

  “Who might have wanted to kill him? Any idea at all? I know there were threats.”

  “Nobody. For God’s sake!”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You’re not helping us find his murderer.”

  Dammler got to his feet. The red on his face and neck stood out against the tight white collar of his shirt. “This meeting’s over,” he said.

  “Sit down,” I told him. “Please.”

  I waited until he was back in his seat.

  “I understand that you don’t want to give more airtime to your critics than they’ve already had,” I went on. “You’re a PR firm, I get it. But I’m not a reporter for the Post, Sid. I need to know who Craig Pilkey’s enemies were — and don’t tell me he didn’t have any.”

  Dammler leaned way back with his hands behind his head. He looked as if he were waiting to be cuffed.

  “I guess you might start with some of the national homeowners associations,” he said finally. “They weren’t exactly fans of Craig’s.” He sighed and looked at his watch. “There’s also the entire consumer lobby, the nut-job bloggers, the anonymous hate mailers. Take your pick. Talk to Ralph Nader while you’re at it.”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “Is any of this information tracked in one place?”

  “To the extent that it concerns our clients, sure. But you’re going to need a warrant before I even think about putting you in the same room with any of that. It’s private, it’s confidential.”

  “I thought you might feel that way,” I said, and laid two sets of paperwork out on the desk between us. “One for files — one for e-mail. I’d like to start with Pilkey’s office. You can lead the way, or I’ll find it myself.”

  Chapter 11

  Dear Fuckstick,

  I HOPE YOU’RE satisfied with yourself. Maybe someday you’ll lose YOUR fucking job and YOUR house, and then you’ll have some MOTHERFUCKING CLUE what you’re putting innocent people through out here in the REAL world.

  A lot, but not all, of the letters were pretty much like that. I’ll tell you what — when people get really mad, they curse!

  The writers were angry, disappointed, threatening, heartbroken, crazy. It ran the gamut. My warrant was good until ten p.m., but I could have spent the whole night r
eading hate mail in Pilkey’s office.

  After a while, I got tired of the slow walk-bys from the staff, so I closed the door and kept sorting.

  The mail was from all over the country but especially from Pilkey’s home state of Kansas. There were stories about homelessness, lost life savings, families who couldn’t stay together — all types of people who had suffered in the financial downturn and placed a whole lot of the blame on K Street and Washington.

  The blog entries, at least the ones that D-M tracked, were more radicalized, tending toward the political instead of the personal. One group, the Center for Public Accountability, seemed to lead the charge. They — or, for all I knew, some guy in a basement somewhere — had a regular column called “Fight the Power.” The latest entry was titled “Robbin’ the Hood: Steal from the Poor and Give to the Rich.”

  Using free-market principles as their Teflon cover, the members of the Boys & Girls Club of Washington, which is to say the banking lobbyists and our very own elected officials, have crafted one blank check after another for their corporate cronies. Yes, the very people who brought this country’s economy to its knees are still being treated like royalty on Capitol Hill, and guess who’s picking up the tab? These are your tax dollars I’m talking about, your money. In my book, that’s called stealing, and it’s all happening right before our eyes.

  Click here to get home addresses and phone numbers for some of DC’s most outrageous robber barons. Give them a call during dinner some night and let them know how you feel. Better yet, wait till they’re not there, then break in and help yourself to some of their hard-earned cash. See how they like it.

  In some ways, the most unexpected thing in Pilkey’s office was the collection he kept of his own press about the scandal. One recent article was still in an unmarked folder on his desk. It was a New York Times op-ed.

  Both Pilkey and Vinton are the subject of what will no doubt become yet another long, drawn-out investigation, proving nothing, punishing no one, and accomplishing negative gain when it comes to protecting the people who matter the most — the average joes of the world, just struggling to make ends meet.

  So, no surprise, Pilkey had more than his share of haters. This was almost the opposite of no leads. Everything I’d read was just the tip of the iceberg. I flagged anything that mentioned specific threats, but the information was mounting, and the list of suspects was going to be impossibly long.

  One thing was clear to me already: we were going to need a bigger team.

  Chapter 12

  DENNY HATED THE SHELTER on Thirteenth Street with a passion that bordered on homicide, and particularly tonight. Lining up on the sidewalk for a bed sucked big-time, especially while the rest of the city went apeshit over their two perfect sniper hits on Eighteenth Street. What a rush! And what a waste of a good night when he and Mitch should have been celebrating.

  Of course, it also made more sense than ever to be seen going about their business right now. So that’s what they were doing.

  Mitch stuck close as always, shaking his head and jacking his knee up and down the way he did when he got stoked. It made him look just like any of the other basket cases who called this place home, which was fine, so long as the big man kept his mouth shut.

  “Don’t talk to no one,” Denny reminded him as they filed like an army of zombies into the dorm. “Just keep your head down and get some sleep.”

  “I won’t say nothing, Denny, but I’ll tell you what. I’d sure rather be sucking down a little Jim Beam about now.”

  “Party starts tomorrow, Mitchie. Promise.”

  Denny put Mitch on the bottom bunk for a change and took the top for himself so he could keep an eye on things from the bird’s nest.

  Sure enough, not long after lights-out, Mitch was back up. Now what?

  “Where you going, man?” he whispered.

  “Gotta piss. I’ll be right back.”

  Denny wasn’t feeling paranoid exactly — just extra cautious. He sat up and waited a minute, then followed Mitch just to make sure.

  It was quiet in the hall. The place used to be a school, and these lockers were originally built to hold little kids’ lunches and book bags and whatnot. Now grown men used them to hold on to everything they owned in the world.

  And what a fucked-up world it was! No doubt about that.

  When Denny got to the bathroom, he found all the showers running with no one in them. Bad sign. This wasn’t good at all.

  He came around the corner to where the sinks were and saw that two big guys had Mitch pushed up against a wall. He recognized them right away — Tyrone Peters and Cosmo “the Coz” Lantman. Exactly the type of scumbags who kept decent people sleeping on the street rather than risking a bed in one of these shelters. Mitch’s pockets were turned out, and there were still a few quarters on the tile floor around his feet.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” Denny said.

  “No problem.” Tyrone didn’t even turn around to look at him. “Now get the fuck out!”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  Cosmo eyeballed him now and hunkered on over. His hands looked empty, but he was obviously palming something.

  “You want in? All right, you’re in.” He put a thumb and forefinger around Denny’s throat and held up a sickle-shaped blade until it was just under his nose. “Let’s see what you got to contribute —”

  Denny’s hand clamped down on the asshole’s wrist in a flash and twisted it almost three-sixty, until Cosmo had to double over to keep the arm from snapping in two. From there, it was nothing to stab the Coz with his own blade, three times fast into the ass, and even that was just a warning. The liver would have been just as easy to hit. Already, Cosmo was down and bleeding all over the floor.

  Meanwhile, Mitch had gone ballistic. He got his arms around the much bigger Tyrone’s waist and pile-drove him straight into the opposite wall. Tyrone got off two fast jabs — Mitch’s nose exploded with blood — but the asshole left his own jaw wide open. Mitch saw this and drove the heel of his hand straight up into it, until Tyrone went spinning. Just for good measure, Denny grabbed him on the fly and whipped him around once so his face caught some sink on the way down. A few teeth got left behind, and also a thick red smear on the dirty porcelain.

  They retrieved Mitch’s cash and took whatever else Tyrone and Cosmo had on them. Then Denny pulled the thugs back into a couple of stalls.

  “Punks don’t know who they’re messing with!” Mitch crowed in the hall. His eyes were practically shining, even with blood running down over his lips and onto his shirt.

  “Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way,” Denny said. He’d wanted them to be seen at the shelter tonight, but at this point they’d more than accomplished their mission. “You know what? Grab your stuff. Let’s get you that bottle of Jim Beam.”

  Chapter 13

  LIKE A LOT of the law enforcement brotherhood, FBI Case Agent Steven Malinowski was divorced. He lived alone — except when his two daughters visited, every other weekend and one month out of the summer — in a decent-on-the-outside, kind-of-pathetic-on-the-inside little ranch in Hyattsville, Maryland.

  Accordingly, there wasn’t much to come home to, and he didn’t pull into his driveway until just after eleven thirty that night. His gait, when he got out of his Range Rover, had at least a few beers in it, a shot or two as well, but he wasn’t drunk. More like out-with-the-boys tipsy.

  “Hey, Malinowski.”

  The agent’s whole body jerked, and he reached for the holster under his jacket.

  “Don’t shoot. It’s me.” Kyle stepped around the corner of the garage and into the light of the streetlamp just long enough to give a glimpse of his face. “It’s Max Siegel, Steve.”

  Malinowski squinted hard at him in the dark. “Siegel? What in Christ’s…?” He let the flap of his jacket fall back again. “You almost gave me a damn heart attack. What the hell are you doing here? What time is it anyway?”

  “Can we talk
inside?” Kyle asked. It would have been three years since Malinowski and Siegel had spoken; the voice had to be good but not perfect. “I’ll go around back, okay? Let me in.”

  Malinowski looked up and down the street. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” By the time he let Siegel in through the sliding-glass door to the kitchen, he’d turned off the lights in front and pulled all the shades. There was just the hood light on over the stove.

  He dropped his weapon into a kitchen drawer and pulled two longnecks out of the fridge. He offered one to Max.

  “Talk to me, Siegel. What’s going on? What are you doing here at this hour?”

  Kyle refused the beer. He didn’t want to touch anything he didn’t have to.

  “The op’s completely blown,” he said. “I don’t know how, but they found me out. I had no choice but to come in.”

  “You look like shit, by the way. Those bruises around your eyes —”

  “Should have seen me a week ago. A couple of Arturo Buenez’s boys worked me over pretty good.” Kyle patted the army-green duffel on his back. Inside was the liquid stun gun and water pack, wrapped in a thick blanket. “This was everything I managed to get out with.”

  “Why didn’t you signal?” Malinowski asked, and that was the one thing Kyle had never been able to figure out — how Max Siegel was to have made contact with his handler in an emergency.

  “I was lucky to get out at all,” he said. “I’ve been lying low in Florida until I could get up here. Fort Myers, Vero Beach, Jacksonville.”

  Maybe it was the beer, but Malinowski didn’t seem to notice that Kyle hadn’t actually answered the question he’d been asked. How could he? He didn’t know the answer.