Crossfire (13 page)

Cait’s cell phone rang as she left the hospital. The display read UNAVAILABLE, but she had a feeling she knew who it was.

‘‘Cavanaugh.’’

‘‘Hey.’’ Frank Angetti’s voice confirmed her guess.

‘‘The place is all set up, ATF will be here at nine in the a.m.—’’

‘‘Nine? They keep bankers’ hours?’’

‘‘Hey, don’t jump on my ass. I’m just the messenger.’’

‘‘They’re going to miss morning drive time.’’

‘‘Yeah, but you asked for their forensic guys,’’ he reminded her. ‘‘Which means you won’t need them until the guy shoots someone else.’’

‘‘Unless he shoots someone else.’’ Although it was overly optimistic, especially for her, Cait was hoping that letter to Valentine Snow had just been bravado.

‘‘You don’t really figure we’re done with the wacko? Or him with us?’’

Her partner might make her want to scream on an often daily basis, but he had gone through the academy. He wasn’t stupid. And he’d been an FBI agent a lot more years than she had. Like he was always saying, he’d seen it all and had the ulcers and the bald head to prove it.

‘‘No.’’ She told him what she’d learned about the UNSUB’s weapon.

‘‘Christ.’’

‘‘Yeah. Which is why we’ve got to get this guy. Like yesterday.’’

‘‘No shit, Skippy. But unless you’ve got a secret decoder ring you’ve been keeping from me, we’re not going to break the case tonight. So I’m going home and hitting the sack.’’

‘‘Might as well. Since I have the feeling it might be the last sleep you get for a while.’’

She knew she should take her own advice, but she was so wired, she figured it was going to be one of those nights she spent staring up at the ceiling with her mind in hyperdrive.

‘‘We need to talk to Michael Gannon first thing in the morning,’’ she said.

‘‘Father Mike?’’

‘‘He’s not a priest anymore.’’

‘‘He’s not? Jeez, I guess that shows how long it’s been since I’ve been to Mass.’’

Finally something they had in common. ‘‘I don’t know the particulars, but he’s running a free clinic now. And he’s got some veterans’ PTSD group.’’

‘‘You think our UNSUB’s one of ’em?’’

‘‘I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe one of them might know someone he thinks could be capable of going postal and blowing people away. Or have a handle on where our guy could get his hands on a weapon like that.’’

‘‘Even if one of the group’s vets suspected one of their own, why would they tell us? Semper Fi and all that.’’

‘‘I thought about that. A vet turning in one of his own would have to be one of those major decisions of conscience. Especially in a culture where troops are fighting for the guy in the foxhole next to them. But how does keeping silent about a killer protect your fellow soldier? Wouldn’t you be risking all vets being painted with that same wide murderous brush?’’

‘‘Beats me.’’

The shrug in his voice had her grinding her teeth. He might be senior, he might have graduated from the academy, but thank God he was so close to retirement, because if she was stuck with Angetti as a partner much longer, she wouldn’t have any molars left.

‘‘My brother’s a career Marine,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve never gotten why he’d drop out of college to go fight in Desert Storm. No way am I going to try to understand the military mind-set.’’

That attitude sure wasn’t going to help get the vets to open up.

‘‘Look, I’ve got an idea,’’ Cait said, deciding there was no way she could take her partner to the group with her. ‘‘We need all the manpower we can get, so it doesn’t make any sense us running around together. Drew Sloan’s doing the autopsies tomorrow. Why don’t you cover them, and I’ll go talk to Gannon. Besides, I know him. He’s my former partner’s brother.’’

‘‘Just how I wanted to spend the day,’’ he grumbled. ‘‘With a double-feature slice and dice.’’

‘‘Let’s just hope that’s the worst thing that happens tomorrow,’’ she said. ‘‘So, does that work for you?’’

‘‘Yeah. Good luck with the priest. We break this before the guy decides to get up in a tower and start blasting away at all the tourists in town, and we’ll probably get ourselves some shiny medals from the mayor.’’

Cait didn’t want a medal. What she wanted was to catch her sniper before he could shoot again. As she drove through the streets, which on any normal night would be dark and silent but tonight were still packed with drunken party animals, she was hoping Michael Gannon could provide a key.

Not only did the widow of one of the victims volunteer with his group, but given that he was a former vet himself, he might just have another viewpoint.

She wondered about confidentiality. If he’d still been a priest, any confession could have been protectedby the seal of the confessional, which bound a priest to silence under Church law.

But he was no longer a priest, she reminded herself as she pulled into the parking garage of her apartment. And, knowing him as she did, she knew that if anyone of his group were actually to confess to such a crime, he would do the right thing—if he couldn’t get the guy to turn himself in, he’d report it himself.

But what if the vet didn’t actually confess?

She climbed the three flights of stairs to her apartment, which, unfortunately hadn’t been built with Buccaneer Days in mind. The pirates belting out ‘‘Louie, Louie’’ on the street below sounded as if they were in her living room.

Focus.

Okay, so, what if, perhaps, a vet was just giving off bad, even dangerous vibes? Like he might be thinking about blowing people away. Or having flashbacks. Could having the FBI suddenly show up at his door be the final straw?

Which wouldn’t be the end of the world if he was her sniper.

But what if he was some innocent guy who’d done his duty for flag and country and come home understandably messed up?

Cops and FBI agents weren’t superhero crime fighters. They were human. They made mistakes. But Cait knew she’d never forgive herself if she fucked this up and sent an innocent person over the edge.

Deciding she’d better get up to speed on PTSD, she took a bag of coffee out of her freezer, spooned a heaping measure into her coffeemaker, filled the reservoir with water, and turned on the switch.

By the time she’d taken a shower to wash the stench of the morgue out of her hair and changed into a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, the coffee was done. She filled a dark blue FBI mug and turned on her laptop. It took Google .13 seconds to kick up 5,000,310 Web sites.

Which meant she was looking at a very long night.

‘‘This is so fucking cool!’’ Charlie Jensen said, stroking the black silencer on the Russian sniper rifle with the same expression other men might have while stroking a beautiful woman’s naked breasts. ‘‘So, it’s really silent, huh?’’

‘‘At the range I’m going to be using it,’’ the shooter said.

It was a risk, shooting from a mere fifty yards from the front of the cathedral at one of the busiest times of the day, but he figured all those feds and cops who were undoubtedly spending the night setting up their command post would shit bricks when they realized they were up against a guy with solid brass balls.

‘‘Fucking cool,’’ Jensen repeated as he popped the top on another bottle of Bud. His second this morning.

Which was just as well. Although the alcoholic vet wouldn’t have been his first choice, like a former defense secretary once said, ‘‘You’ve got to go to war with the army you have.’’

Now the shooter just hoped they could get through the day without his army of one getting a PTSD flashback. Which was why he was letting him drink. Hopefully the beer would work as a tranquilizer.

‘‘I’ll bet it cost a fucking arm and leg, huh?’’ Jensen asked for about the tenth time in the last ten minutes.

‘‘It wasn’t cheap,’’ the shooter agreed as he finished filing the serial number off a Steyr GB.

He held it up. Pointed it at the TV—where some guy was explaining isobars on a big weather map studded with smiling cartoon suns—and pulled the trigger.

The big black automatic was a Special Forces favorite. If everything went according to plan, he’d need only a single round, but after reassuring himself that the freshly oiled mechanism worked perfectly, he filled the magazine to its eighteen-shell capacity.

‘‘So, whatcha gonna do with that anyway? Can’t shoot long range with a nine-millimeter,’’ the guy said, demonstrating that he did have some functioning gray cells.

‘‘It’s a backup piece.’’

That was the truth, so far as it went. It wasn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but hell, the shooter and veracity had never exactly been on speaking terms.

‘‘Fucking cool.’’ That seemed to be the phrase of the day. ‘‘Maybe I should keep it up front with me,’’ he suggested. ‘‘Since you’ll be in the back with the rifle.’’

‘‘No.’’ He stuck the pistol into a black leather gym bag. ‘‘Your job is to drive.’’ He stood up. ‘‘Soldier.’’

He used his best military tone. The guy, who, according to what he’d shared at the whiny vets group, had been a more gung ho soldier than the shooter, apparently recognized the tone of authority when he heard it.

He pushed himself up from the couch.

‘‘Yes, sir,’’ he said.

His salute was sloppy. The shooter hoped his driving would be better. The last thing they needed was for him to get pulled over for a DUI.

The shooter picked up the rifle and stuck it into the golf bag he’d gotten at a pawnshop in Georgetown.

‘‘Okay,’’ he said. ‘‘Let’s get this show on the road.’’

‘‘Mom?’’

‘‘Yes, darling?’’ Dara Long asked her son absently as she drove across the Somersett bridge, maneuvering her ancient Honda into the right lane and trying not to see the blue smoke billowing up from the Civic’s tailpipe.

Of all the changes in her life since her husband had decided to trade her in for the bottle-blond so-called physical trainer with the bought boobs who’d supposedly been helping him rehabilitate his knee after arthroscopic surgery, one of the things she missed most about her marriage was her ice white Volvo V50. Although she’d never, in a million years, ever thought she would end up driving a station wagon, having a child had changed her.

Gone was the fast-living baseball Annie who’d nabbed the sexy shortstop every sports reporter in the South said was on the fast track to New York City and Yankees pinstripes. In her place was a stereotypical soccer mom who would do anything to keep her child safe. Including buying that Volvo she’d ended up having to sell to pay the lawyer bills.

Not that Chad had ever really wanted custody of their son—a son who was happier drawing pictures of cars than swinging a bat and had pretty much flunked out of T-ball because he’d been too small. Too slow. And, well, to her mind, too sweet.

But Bimbo Barbie was high maintenance, and if there was one thing her former husband knew, it was how to play hardball. Which was why, when his new trophy girlfriend—and Dara knew it was her idea— suggested it, he threatened to use that bout of depression she’d suffered through after Tyler was born as a reason why she wasn’t a responsible mother and shouldn’t be awarded custody of their son.

And if that hadn’t been bad enough, he’d also brought in her hard-drinking, hard-partying days— never mind that he’d been the one she’d been drinking and partying with.

She’d known Chad and Barbie didn’t really want Tyler living with them in their little love nest. What they did want was to put her in a position where she’d be willing to negotiate away any divorce settlement.

In the end, she’d won custody. But not before it had cost her the pretty little Craftsman bungalow, her car, and seventy percent of the child support any family court judge in the country would’ve considered acceptable. As it was—surprise, surprise—eighteen months later, Chad still hadn’t come up with a single payment.

She’d watched him strutting out of the courtroom with the bimbo and known he believed he’d won the long, drawn-out battle. Which just went to show that not only was he an adulterer, but he was a stupid one.

Because the son they’d created together that day when he’d gotten called up from Charleston, where he’d been playing for the A-level Devil Dogs, was a prize more valuable than any house, or car, or wide-screen high-definition TV—which Chad had also ended up with.

‘‘Did you know that Somersett wasn’t really founded by a pirate?’’ Tyler asked.

‘‘It wasn’t?’’ She turned onto a wide street shaded by magnificent old oaks. Maybe someone ought to inform the tourism bureau. Or, maybe not, she thought, as she braked for a crowd of colorfully dressed jay-walkers.Given how many bucks the wannabe Black-beards and wenches poured into the town’s coffers.

‘‘Admiral Somersett wasn’t a pirate. He was a privateer.’’

‘‘What’s the difference?’’

‘‘A pirate is a guy who commits robbery on the sea. Privateers had official government papers, called letters of marque. That’s French, I think.’’

‘‘I’m pretty sure it is,’’ she agreed.

‘‘The papers were given to them by kings and queens so they could attack enemy ships. Then they got a percentage of the booty.’’

‘‘Sounds a lot like piracy to me.’’

‘‘But it wasn’t. Because it was official.’’

His earnest tone had her fighting a smile. ‘‘Well, I suppose that does make all the difference.’’

‘‘It does. Even our country had privateers working for them during the Revolution and the War of 1812. Congress said the president could use privateers during the Civil War, but President Lincoln never did it.’’

‘‘I had no idea.’’

‘‘It’s true.’’

‘‘If you say it, Tyler, I believe it.’’

‘‘Admiral Somersett was one of the bravest of all the privateers. Even better than Sir Francis Drake. He even had a battle with Blackbeard in the harbor.’’

‘‘Did he now?’’

It had been a long time since she’d heard him so excited about anything. Which gave Dara’s heart a lift and made up for the traffic and the bad muffler she couldn’t afford to replace.

‘‘Yeah. I guess it was a really big deal. And the admiral won. And took all the gold that Blackbeard had on his ship and gave it to the king. Who rewarded the admiral by giving him Somersett. But it wasn’t a town yet. It was just a swamp. But Admiral Somersett could see its potential.’’

‘‘A farsighted man, the admiral.’’

‘‘And really, really rich.’’ He sighed as they approachedthe twin towers of St. Brendan’s Cathedral. ‘‘I wish there were privateers these days.’’

‘‘Why is that?’’ After braking to allow a flame red BMW to cross in front of her, she pulled over to the curb, getting in line with the other parents delivering their children on this first day of the new school year.

‘‘Because then I could grow up to become one and get lots of gold and silver and rubies and buy you a new house. And a new car. And anything else you want.’’

‘‘Oh, darling.’’

Dara was grateful for the sunglasses she’d put on against the bright morning glare, since they kept him from seeing the tears welling up in her eyes. She leaned across the space between them and ruffled his carrot-colored hair. Which was, she feared, something else that probably acted as a red flag to childish tormentors.

‘‘I don’t need rubies. Because I have you.’’

‘‘I love you, Mom.’’ His freckled face was too serious for his age.

‘‘I love you, too, sport.’’ The moment the doctor had put him into her arms in the delivery room, she’d been flooded by so much love she’d been afraid her heart might explode in her chest. ‘‘And thanks for the history lesson. Where did you learn all that, anyway?’’

They’d been to the library just last week and she couldn’t remember him checking out any books on pirates or local history.

‘‘I looked it up online while you were sleeping,’’ he said.

‘‘Clever.’’

She made a mental note to make sure her parental controls were set up. Not that she thought he’d go looking for trouble, but these days there were so many more things endangering children than when she’d been her son’s age.

‘‘I guess you were interested because of Buccaneer Days?’’ She reached behind the seat and retrieved his Spider-Man lunch box.

‘‘Sorta.’’ He glanced up as a group of boys walked past the car, laughing and punching each other on the arms. ‘‘Mostly I wanted to be prepared for school.’’

How on earth had she and Chad the jock created this serious, intelligent child? There were times she wondered if he could have been accidentally switched with another baby in the hospital nursery.

‘‘I’m sure your teacher won’t expect you to know all that history the first day of school,’’ she assured him.

‘‘It’s not for class. It’s for recess.’’

‘‘Recess?’’

‘‘I’ve been practicing what to say. So I can use my speech utensils and not s-s-stutter so the other kids won’t laugh at me.’’

The tears threatened anew. She wanted to tell him that he needn’t worry. But she’d never lied to him and had no intention of beginning now.

‘‘Good plan,’’ she said, forcing optimism into her voice. ‘‘So.’’ She took a deep breath. ‘‘Want me to walk with you?’’

‘‘Mom!’’ She’d have never thought she’d be thrilled to have him suddenly turn into an average eight-year-old in danger of being embarrassed by his mom. ‘‘I’m not a little kid anymore.’’

‘‘True.’’ She didn’t have to fake this smile. ‘‘So, have a super day.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ He squared his thin shoulders. As he reached for the door handle, she kissed him on top of the head, and refused to have her feelings hurt when he rubbed at his hair.

As she watched him, looking heartbreakingly small and vulnerable as he made his way all alone toward a plump, snowy-haired crossing guard who was shepherding a flock of uniformed children across the street, Dara Long said the small, silent prayer she’d been saying every day of his young life.

Please, God, keep my child safe.