Closure

  “Where you park the girls?”

  “Dropped them off at Caesars, probably spent a couple of grand by now. Luther’s with them. He’s too big and ugly to screw, so Profit don’t worry about him tagging along. Better him playing baby-sitter to them two. At least the car don’t bitch, ya know? Hate being stuck in this room though.”

  “Shit man, I’m here all night, at least you get to go out later.”

  “What you mean later?”

  “The boys said they going to Cheetahs! Why you think he had you dump them girls at the damn mall?”

  “No shit? I’m up for that. Don’t worry, my man. I’ll get a lap dance for ya.”

  “Fuck you, change the damn channel. Lakers are playing tonight.”

  Sam put down the earphones long enough to check the phone book for Cheetahs. A big strip bar not too far away. Must be popular by the way the page was dog-eared. He opened the small room safe and pulled out the transmitters and directional radio. He applied the self-adhesive strips to the first three transmitters, and the magnetic mounts to the remaining two. He then pulled out the laptop and punched up three different routes to and from Cheetahs with his mapping software. The boys should be well liquored up and have their guard down by the time they got there. He would be ready when the driver left. He slipped the earphones back on and settled down on the bed to wait. He muted his own TV so he was listening to the game from across the street.

  —TEN—

  The state of Georgia holds 47,208 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 31,629 are repeat offenders.

  Sydney Lewis was in her dungeon cell. At least that was what she called it. It was the one she had been assigned when she first came to work for the FBI. It was in a sub-basement of the building. No windows, little heat. The ceiling was decorated with a variety of pipes leading in all directions. It was government gray with thirty-year-old furniture. But it did have some things she liked. It was close to the labs. It was far from the brass. Nobody else wanted it, and best of all, it had a sticker on the door that designated it a bomb shelter. She was one of the only people to have two offices in the building, although she hardly used the one upstairs that came with her promotion.

  Sydney was tired. After three long days and nights, she was going over the stack of information that she and her team had compiled. It added up to a few inches of paper that had landed on her desk an hour ago. The worst part of it all was that despite all the money and man-hours that had gone into the report, they had not turned up anything that she would call solid enough to use in court. Nevertheless, she had to review it all to make sure before she signed her name to it.

  First the car. The car contained thirty-two different sets of prints. Twenty-eight of which had so far been identified as various friends, clients, girlfriends and the wife. Her team would work at identifying the remaining four until the case was closed, but she doubted it would matter. She also had the now famous 9-iron that had deflected the round after it had done its job. The impact had been on the reverse side of the club, and had been rather obvious. The round was still out there in the suburban woods of Orlando. Mel’s people would keep looking till they found it. Since the target had moved through the intersection after the shot was delivered, plus the subsequent deflection through the windshield, which may have altered the trajectory even further, the possible places the round could have landed were numerous. Better Mel than her.

  “Good luck, guys,” she voiced out loud. She squirmed in her seat to get her gun out of her ribs.

  Next on the list was the thick report on the rifle. A Remington 700 in .308, rare and very expensive. Also the same rifle used by the US Army snipers. A coincidence? Jack didn’t think so. He claimed shooters usually stuck with what they knew. He should know, he was a shooter himself. And this shooter had impressed Jack. She knew Jack’s skill with a rifle, and if Jack was impressed, she was, too. She was still working on her skills with a pistol. Something Jack had helped with once. She had improved. At least Jack had said so. She needed more work. Anyway, the chamber markings on the shells matched the markings on the test rounds. No surprise. The wrench in the works was that upon disassembly, it was discovered that the firing pin had been removed from the rifle. No way to match the rounds, at least the one that had been used, to the rifle. The man had covered his tracks as much as possible; a professional. The fire had removed any hair, prints, or fibers.

  Fibers. The fire had consumed everything, save a section of collar from a camouflage jumpsuit. No hair or DNA material recovered. There was also a one-inch section of face net, charred, no hair, nothing useable.

  Latex. Also found in the fire. Same kind used in medical gloves. The lab even identified the brand. Diamond. Used in every hospital and ambulance in the country. Dead end.

  Then there was the shoe. Twenty pages on the shoe, a Nike brand; size 11½, men’s. The man had a long stride. The book put him between 5'10" and 6'2", about 200 lbs. The lab claimed the tread had no wear on it. The shooter had splurged on a brand new pair for the job.

  Sydney sighed and looked at the clock. 10 p.m. again. She had a half-hour drive to her condo. Maybe she’d even get five hours sleep before she had to rise and be back in for a meeting. Or, she looked across her office, there was always the couch.

  * * *

  Seven stories above her, Jack was not having a good day either.

  Deacon was not pleased with the way this case was going. Jack sat in the man’s office while his boss paced in front of the windows. The current copy of the Orlando Sentinel was on the man’s desk blotter. Jack could see his own image, upside-down, on the front page. Same one that his wife had shown him on a tabloid TV show last night. The reporter had gotten some good shots of him working the scene. The car-jacking cover story hadn’t lasted a day. Danny Drake. Evidently the only guy to hang around long enough to see him. He was the only one to have pictures. He was the only one to know about the envelope. The man had covered all that in his first story, and had done two follow-ups on the life and times of T. Addicot. The case had turned cold. The wife was on the tube doing a good job of portraying the grieving widow. The golf buddies were demanding to know what was going on with the investigation. Larry and Dave had stayed behind and followed up for two days with no success. The information hounds on the second floor were sifting through the leads recovered from T’s office. There was a mountain of them. T. had screwed quite a few people over the years. Trying to pick one guy that was the most pissed was impossible, but they would run them all down best they could. Deacon had the Orlando office working double shifts until it was done.

  “Have you got anything good to tell me, Jack?”

  “We’re working everything we have, sir. I just don’t see anything promising. The guy who hit him was definitely a pro. He had researched the target for some time. Had to know he played golf every Saturday. It was the one thing he did on a standard time line. A stranger in his little gated community would have been noticed. The lawyer’s office and the majority of his commute were too public. His schedule was chaotic. Then there’s the method the shooter used to do it. Ask the HRT guys. This guy is an excellent shot. He put it right in the brain stem, just as they are taught to do. Death is instantaneous. Plus the way he disposed of the rifle and made his escape. He knows something about forensics, and knows how to escape and evade. I’m ready to put money on the fact that this guy is current or ex-military, or maybe law enforcement. It would take a lot of time and self-study to get this knowledge as a civilian,” Jack replied.

  “You’re checking with DOD and CIA?”

  “Yes. DOD will give up all their past and current snipers. Maybe not the Delta guys; we’ll have to wait and see. CIA? Who knows if they ever give up anything.” Jack spread his arms to say he didn’t have the clout for that request.

  “I’ll talk to their Director of Operations, he owes me a favor. He’ll want something in return. Maybe not today, but somewhere down the road. I hate being in debt to those guys. Yo
u think the letter is real?” Deacon raised his right eyebrow at Jack.

  Jack hated it when he did that. His wife would do that when she thought she was being fed bullshit by her husband. She was often right. It always gave him a guilty feeling.

  Jack let out a sigh. He had been thinking about that for three days. The hit said professional. Most professionals do what they do for money. If it was a business situation, why leave the letter and the newspaper clippings? If the shooter wanted press, why would he address it to the FBI, and why him in particular? The price of fame, he figured. It was like the shooter was giving them a chance to do something before he raised the ante. The shooter had offered them a preview before he went public. He referred to “We” in the letter; was he working for someone, or with someone? The letter promised more. Was the shooter waiting to see how they reacted? If so, what would he do next?

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Jack replied. “But this letter, it wasn’t a threat. It’s an announcement.”

  * * *

  Paul was at that moment just printing off the same front page article that was on the Deputy Director’s desk. He was following the Orlando reporter’s work. He was the only one to have some key information, and he also wrote well, something to consider.

  “This may be our guy,” Paul said to his fish.

  Paul swiveled around to his online computer. He randomly tapped the keys while he weighed the risk of emailing Sam, or waiting for a phone call. The urge to act was strong now that they had gotten started. The next letter was going to the press. They had decided on the Washington Post, and the New York Times, with another going to CNN. Sam had wanted the first to go to the FBI exclusively, for reasons Paul had never received a straight answer on. He had finally just dropped it. But maybe this guy from the Orlando Sentinel was a better choice? He was young and therefore hungry. He had a web address printed next to his byline. Convenient. He would run it by Sam and see what he thought. Tomorrow was the fight in Vegas, and no doubt Sam was busy. He would wait until after the Vegas job to broach the subject. He picked up the remote on the desk and turned up the volume on the TV. CNN was on as usual, and he could see the Vegas strip behind the talking head, just the sports guy talking about the fight. He’d leave it on to keep him company for awhile. The fish was not exactly a big talker.

  Time for some research. He clicked himself online and went to the website he had gotten from the sports card trade magazine. Sports cards, the things he had collected as a kid, were now a billion dollar industry. Made him sick when he thought of the ones he had thrown away during one of his many moves. The guest list for the card show was still posted and unchanged. The dates were the same. He saw a 1-800 number for information, but decided to pass on that. Maybe if he obtained another cell phone.

  He logged out of the site, and punched up Sam’s treatment schedule. He wasn’t due for any chemotherapy for another week. He should be all right if he stayed on schedule out west. Last Monday had been terrible. Sam had made it home all right, but an hour later had a spell of vomiting. It lasted a few hours until he passed out. He had some chills the next day, but mostly it was the fatigue that hit him. Paul didn’t even try to feed him that day. He put some of Sam’s favorite crackers next to the bed, but few of them disappeared. Sam finally showed some strength Tuesday night, and by Wednesday was ready to go to the airport. Paul forced two meals down his throat before he left, and Sam finished them both. This was actually a quicker recovery than last time. Sam had told Paul about the Procrit Dr. Maher had added to his regimen. They both agreed that must be what was helping. Whatever it was, Sam said he felt good, good enough to go to work.

  He was contemplating a phone call to Sam when the cell in his jacket pocket started ringing. He reached for it hanging on the back of his chair, and managed to answer on the third ring. Only one person had the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Just thought I’d check in. How are things?”

  “Shitty, how about you?”

  “The same,” Sam answered. Any other reply and Sam would have hung up immediately and gone shopping for a lawyer. This code-phrase stuff sounded stupid, but was still a safeguard they had chosen to use.

  “You pick up that hardware you needed?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah, no problem there, already have the trigger assembled, and I plan on having a couple tracers on the car soon. So far, everything is working. You think you got enough stuff?” Sam joked.

  “Hey man, I was posing as a mine worker. They buy in bulk. Not like I could just go down to Wal-Mart and pick up a few sticks.”

  “I know, just fucking with you. I don’t think I like the idea of leaving close to a case of this stuff behind in the storage unit. Will the heat mess with it? It’s got to be 110 in the place.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly good for it. Cool and dry is best. Most of my friends keep theirs in the basement. But it should be all right. If you don’t want to leave it, ditch it in the desert when you get a chance.” Paul really didn’t care, but Sam worried about things like this.

  “That would be easy, they have plenty of desert. I’ll worry about it when I come to it. So far, everything here is working. Like I said, I’m going to attempt to place a tracer on the car, but even if I manage to plant our gift under it, blowing it around here is not going to be easy. This place is wall-to-wall people day and night. I don’t think there’ll be a place to do it safely. I may have to pass and maybe come back if there’s time later.”

  Paul winced at that. He knew there wouldn’t be time later. “Just do what you can, don’t take any stupid chances. We have more to pick from you know.”

  “I know—I know, just really want this guy.”

  “Has he got a lot of company?”

  “The usual, plus some friends for the fight. Nothing to worry about.”

  Nobody Sam would worry about being in the car with the target. Paul read between the lines.

  “Good, hey listen to this. Some reporter out of Orlando has been writing about the shooting. He knows about the letter and he got some pictures of Jack Randall at the scene. He’s got a gift for putting things together. I was thinking of putting him on the mailing list. What do you think?”

  Sam thought about it for a few seconds. He couldn’t see a downside. One more on the list was no big deal as long as they took the same precautions on all the letters. Might even be a benefit.

  “Sure, if you think it’ll help.”

  “All right, consider him in the club. You need anything?”

  “Some match-grade ammo would be nice.”

  “You have two rifles at $2500 a piece, and you’re still not happy?”

  “Anything to up my chances; it’s going to be a long shot.”

  “Something tells me you’ll do just fine.” Paul knew Sam was looking forward to Orange County. Not just for the target, but of the difficulty of the shot. His brother-in-law rarely missed, match-grade ammo or not.

  “All right, I’m going to listen in next door for awhile. Keep the news on, you never know what’s going to happen.”

  “All right, be careful. Don’t crimp the detonator with your teeth.”

  “Very funny, talk to ya later.”

  —ELEVEN—

  The state of Hawaii holds 5,846 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 3,916 are repeat offenders.

  Sam checked his watch. It was nearing 1 a.m. and he had been sitting outside the strip bar for over two hours. The driver and one security man had been sitting on the trunk of their car the whole time. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it involved a lot of hand gestures. He would just have to be patient. He had left the hotel as soon as the phone call had sent the driver downstairs. He’d managed to beat Profit and his crew to Cheetahs by a good ten minutes. He watched from his position fifty meters away as the man stepped out of the Cadillac’s passenger side door. He had already committed the plate number to memory. The two men Profit had left behind with the car were not please
d, but did as they were told. Sooner or later, one of them would have to take a piss.

  As if on cue, the bigger one left and walked towards the entrance, out of sight around the corner. The other man slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car. The music was loud enough for Sam to hear it from his place down the street. The driver then lit a cigarette, and leaned the seat back. This was what Sam had been waiting for. He quickly palmed the transmitters and left the car. He crossed the street to give himself the angle of approach he needed to pass by the rear of the car. As he got closer, he saw that the driver had his eyes closed. Good. He stopped for one second to untie his shoe. He walked with the laces flapping till he was close to the car. Quickly kneeling down behind the rear bumper, he was out of sight of the driver. Two transmitters were rapidly affixed to the rear bumper and the frame. He then calmly tied his shoe, before standing and walking toward the entrance. A glance behind him revealed the driver, still with his eyes closed, singing along with the girl on the CD.