Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (6 page)

A
woman behind her screamed. Sherlock shoved her to the ground and fell on top of her as the man fired, the bullet chipping a shard of concrete from the sidewalk. The man was only twenty feet away, but thankfully he had to handle the moving motorcycle. Sherlock pulled her Glock and fired off her magazine at him as he fired off five shots at her. A revolver, she thought, when he fired again, but nothing happened. He stuffed the gun back in his coat, swerved away from her, and accelerated. With her final shot, Sherlock got the front tire and the motorcycle weaved and lurched out of control, threading through honking horns and yelling people to the far side of the street, and hit a fire hydrant, luckily enough for an old couple standing a few feet behind it. The shooter managed to jump off before the motorcycle slammed against the hydrant and the guy jumped, fell, landing hard, then managed to get himself together and run.

The crying woman was on her feet, yelling as she grabbed Sherlock’s arm, “That idiot! He was going to shoot me! You stopped him. That was a great shot. Are you a cop?”

“Yes. FBI. Stay!” Sherlock managed to break free and took off after the man. After running full-out for a half-block, she slowed and leaned down, her hands on her knees. Then she straightened and slowly looked around. No sight of him. The woman had cost her
valuable seconds. He hadn’t seemed very agile or fast, so she imagined he’d hidden himself behind one of the bushes that surrounded many of the houses that lined the block. He could have gone anywhere from there. She jogged back and nodded to the old couple standing by the wrecked motorcycle, called out for them to please stay. She ran back to the woman, who was hugging herself, shaking. She was on the small side, in her thirties, all bundled up and shivering, not with cold, Sherlock knew, but from fear. As for herself, after all the running, she was toasty warm, her adrenaline level now starting its way back down. She knew exhaustion would follow later.

It would be full-on dark in maybe fifteen minutes.

“You’re okay,” she said, and because the woman looked to be on the bitter edge, Sherlock pulled her against her, rubbed her hands down her back, smoothed out her voice. “It’s all right now. He’s gone.”

Between bursts of sobs and moans, she said, “He was going to shoot me, kill me.” She shook. “I know who it was—” Her voice firmed up, became fierce. “It was that bastard husband of mine, Lou. He told me he would kill me if I left him, but I didn’t think he meant it. I mean, he hit me once and I punched him back hard in the face. Boy, did that feel good. I left him last week, and would you look, he did mean it, he tried to kill me.” Her voice was rising—not good. Sherlock rubbed her arms, said over and over, “No, Lou didn’t do this. Lou didn’t try to kill you. The man on the motorcycle, he was shooting at me.”

“If you weren’t here right at this minute, right at this spot—” Her breath hitched and she grew perfectly still.

Sherlock tried again. “Listen to me now, Mrs.—”

“Glory, my name is Glory Cudlow, and that jerkface—”

“No, Glory,” she repeated very slowly, spacing out her words to
break through, “the bastard wasn’t your ex-husband. Lou wasn’t after you. Whoever it was, he was after me.”

Glory looked at her, slack-jawed. Was that disappointment she saw? Surely not. Sherlock lightly touched her flushed cold face. “Believe me. Okay, tell me, Mrs. Cudlow, did you recognize that motorcycle?”

“No, I’ve never seen it before.”

“So it doesn’t belong to Lou?”

“He could have gotten a new motorcycle, to celebrate me being gone. It’d be just like him.”

A half-dozen people were crowding around now, asking questions, others looking at the Kawasaki. Thank God no one had been hurt in that rain of bullets. Sherlock dialed 911 and gave the very calm female dispatcher the particulars. When she punched off her cell, she asked everyone to stick around to talk to the police. She remembered Davis telling how Natalie Black done the very same thing yesterday morning.

There was grumbling, but four people stayed, bless them. Sherlock got Mrs. Cudlow’s cell number and her address. It was only two blocks away. Sherlock sent her home with an order to calm herself with a water glass full of merlot, assured her for a third time it wasn’t Lou who’d shot at her.

She waved at the older couple across the street, who were still staring at the crumpled motorcycle when two Metro cop cars screeched around the corner. Two and a half minutes, good time. Sherlock showed them her creds, asked one of the officers to go over immediately to the couple before they left, since they’d seen the man closer than anyone. “Tell them to describe him as exactly as they can while he’s still fresh in their minds. I’ll come see them as soon as I can.”

“Yeah, yeah,” one young officer said. “Glad to be reminded how to do the job.”

Two veteran cops arrived in a second Crown Vic. She introduced herself and showed them her creds. While Officer Newberg interviewed the witnesses, Sherlock walked to the motorcycle beside Officer Clooney. It was wrapped around the fire hydrant, a double helix of black smoke curling out of the smashed engine, and the smell of burned rubber was thick and nasty in the cold air. Thankfully, the fire hydrant hadn’t burst and flooded the area with a gusher of freezing water.

“And that’s the problem trying to do nasty deeds from a motorcycle,” Officer Clooney said. “Not enough control, and if a tire goes, the sucker’s down and out. The guy was lucky to be able to run off. Could you tell what kind of gun he was using?”

“Probably a revolver since he fired off six shots, then shoved the gun back in his coat,” she said, “so no shells.

“As to the make—this is an impression, since it happened so fast, but what my brain picked up was that it wasn’t new, it looked big and worn, like one of those Colt New Service revolvers, you know, the kind your great-granddaddy brought back from the Great War? Maybe a Colt M1917 you’d find mounted on the wall or a Colt official police revolver. Maybe the guy bought it at an antique-gun show.” She sighed. “Or maybe I imagined the whole thing and it will turn out to be a Beretta.”

Officer Clooney asked for a description and Sherlock told him the man was wearing a camel wool coat, his face covered up, and he was wearing sunglasses, adding, “I couldn’t tell his age, but when the motorcycle hit the fire hydrant, he was pretty fast jumping off and getting out of there.”

Officer Clooney jotted this down. “Okay, I’ll put out an APD,
our people will canvass the neighborhood, but you know as well as I do it doesn’t look promising.

Officer Clooney called in the motorcycle’s license plate. A moment later, he said, “The Kawasaki belongs to Don E. Huzar, Farlow, Maryland, reported stolen early this morning. You have any idea why this guy would try to kill you, Agent Sherlock? Is there some gnarly case you’re working on? Maybe a drug gang?”

“I honestly don’t know who it was.” She started to tell Officer Clooney about her feeling someone had been staring at her, then stopped at the roar of the Porsche engine taking a corner too fast onto 34th.

She smiled. “That’s my husband. I guess your nine-one-one operator called him.”

Officer Clooney grinned. “Agent Savich, right?”

“Right.”

“You bet it was all over the air. You and your husband are always good business.”

Savich pulled the Porsche with great precision close to the opposite curb, burst out and hit the pavement running. He stopped six inches from her, saw she was all right, and took several deep breaths. Slowly he reached out his hand and cupped her face, studied her.

Officer Clooney said, “She gave as good as she got, Agent Savich. Look where the bozo’s ride ended up.”

Savich glanced over at the wrecked motorcycle.

Sherlock said, “Turned out okay, but I was aiming at him, of course. At least I got a tire.”

Savich took her arms in his hands. And felt something wet. His heart jittered. He looked to see her coat was ripped high on her arm. He said in a deep, calm voice, “He got you.”

Sherlock looked down at her arm, and of all things, she felt a sudden stab of pain. “Isn’t that a kick? I didn’t feel anything at all until you pointed that out. Now it hurts. Well, I did it again.”

Savich peeled off her coat, pulled her sweater off her shoulder, and saw it was only a graze, really, the bullet scratching through her skin. No need for stitches. Antiseptic and a small bandage should do it. Still, his heart was galloping even with the proof in front of him that it wasn’t much of anything, thank the Good Lord. It wasn’t even bleeding now. He pulled her sweater and coat back into place. He stood there with her hands now in his and wondered where his brain had gone. “You’re all right,” he said finally. “You’re all right.”

She knew he was scared, knew he was remembering San Francisco, knew that if it had been him, she’d be a mess. She smiled. “Yeah, no worries, I promise. We’ll take care of it at home. You made really good time, Dillon.”

“The nine-one-one operator called me.”

Officer Clooney smiled. “Which one, Agent Savich?”

“Jodie.”

Officer Clooney nodded. “Well, Agent, we’ve got two women, Agent Sherlock one of them, who both claim to be the guy’s intended victim.”

Savich stared hard at Sherlock. Her nose was red from the cold. She was pale, not from what had happened, but from something else, something like guilt from some knowledge she hadn’t shared with him? He looked away from her, over at the ruined tire, breathed in the smell of burning rubber, and said very calmly, “If Agent Sherlock says the shooter was after her, there’s no question here.”

The cop who’d been speaking to the older couple across the
street jogged over. “Agent Sherlock, I asked that old couple to describe the man who jumped off the crashing motorcycle. They said they really didn’t see him.”

“But they were right there,” Sherlock said. She weaved where she stood. It was humiliating.

Savich said, “Guys, we’re going to leave the crime scene and the interviews to you because I’m taking my wife home to clean off the blood. We’ll follow up with you tomorrow. Thanks for coming so quickly.”

Clooney nodded toward the Porsche. “Nice car, Agent Savich.”

“Thanks.”

As he was leading Sherlock away, she called out over her shoulder, “Officer Clooney, I’ll personally call Glory Cudlow tomorrow and put her mind at rest. As for Mr. Huzar’s Kawasaki, you’ll notify him? Tell him it’s sort of totaled?”

Clooney nodded. “We’ll follow up on the ballistics, the witnesses while you get some iodine and a Band-Aid. I’ll get back to you with what we learn. We’ll need a full statement from you tomorrow.”

Savich put her in the Porsche, fastened her seat belt himself. She said even before he turned on the sweet motor, “The old couple, their name is Thompson, and I have their address. We’ve got to speak to them. I don’t understand why they told the officer they didn’t see the man. We’ve got to go see them, Dillon. Now.”

He eyed her, slowly nodded. “All right.” Actually, Savich wanted to yell at her, wanted to hide her under his coat, but he couldn’t, at least not right now. He pulled out his cell. “I’ll call Gabriella, tell her we’ll be a little late. She can wait awhile and then put the eggplant in the oven for us.”

Eggplant. It was too much. She began to laugh.

Natalie’s house
Chevy Chase, Maryland

Tuesday evening

D
avis looked up to see Natalie Black glide down the posh wide staircase decked out in a long black gown, delicate strands of diamonds at her neck, her ears, and her wrist. Her incredible Sherlock-red hair was pulled back in a chignon, fastened with a diamond clip. She looked elegant, utterly certain of her world and her place in it. This was the woman who’d chomped down on Jitterbug’s forearm and bounced her fist off his face.

His Glock, always his reliable friend, was secured comfortably on his belt, and he knew no one would realize he was wearing it. His tux was cut that well, thanks to his mom, who’d forced him with believable threats to his father’s tailor. It wasn’t Armani, but it was close. He’d forked out a month’s salary for the privilege of looking like he belonged, no matter how high on the food chain a function was, and tonight’s was pretty close to the top. Hooley was wrong. Tonight Davis was nothing but cool in a bespoke tux with a gun at his belt and an incredible woman walking toward him. He hummed “Come Out and Play” by The Offspring.

He smiled as he stepped onto the huge black-and-white marble square entrance hall. He said, “What would you like me to call you?”

“Natalie. The truth is, Davis, everyone will think you’re my boy toy.”

Hooley guffawed and smirked, leaving
wuss
hanging clear but unspoken in the air.

Davis said, “Shall I drape myself all over you?”

She laughed as he slipped a black wool cape over her shoulders, so beautifully made it almost put his tux to shame. “Give me the occasional smoldering eye, that’ll do it.”

He eyed the diamonds. “If there’s trouble, all those rocks could be a casualty.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t let a lady lose her sparklers, Davis.” She gave Hooley a grin and walked out the front door to the waiting black bulletproof custom limousine. The driver was a young, smooth-faced Puerto Rican with ancient dark eyes and wearing no expression at all.

“Keep the lights on, Hooley,” Natalie called back to her henchman. “Guard the manse.”

Hooley nodded, standing in the open front door in his favorite pose, arms folded over his massive chest.

Natalie settled herself in the backseat and met the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Luis, this is Special Agent Sullivan. Davis, this is Luis Alvarez. He’s a bodyguard and a professional driver. Luis, you know where we’re going.”

Luis looked street-smart and tough, probably had since he was a boy; maybe he’d been an alley rat in San Juan, or in L.A. Davis met Luis’s eyes in the mirror. He saw Luis was assessing him back. Luis nodded and pressed the button to raise the clear privacy shield.

“Hooley brought in Alvarez?”

“Yes, right after the incident in the park. You also haven’t met Connie Mendez. She’s with me when it’s not comfortable for the guys to be, such as in my bedroom. Hooley told me she can shoot the ace of spades off a card while painting her toenails. You’ll like her.”

Three people guarding her, on her own dime. Good enough. He said, “So you said your daughter is coming with the secretary of state’s son? You said they might be serious?”

“Well, as I told you, I’d always thought of them more as brother and sister. If Perry needs a last-minute date, he’s the one she calls and vice versa. Maybe there’s more now, but like I said, she won’t talk to me about it. We’ll see.”

Davis said slowly, “She’s unusual. I’ve never met anyone like her before. She looks like you.”

She cocked her head at him. “For the most part, but in temperament, Perry was her father’s daughter from the get-go. I’ll never forget when she grabbed his finger when she was three months old and wouldn’t let go.

“From the age of six, he took her to the home Redskins games. Later, she got to visit the sideline of every professional football stadium in the nation. She was in the locker room when he examined injured players, held their hands if they let her, which they usually welcomed, while her father worked on them. She told a receiver once he should have taken his option route outside, where the safety wasn’t, but her dad would get him well anyway.”

Davis checked out the cars driving near them on Cransford Avenue. “I wonder if her father would have managed to get her on the sideline in today’s games?”

“Since Brundage was larger than life, a real presence in NFL lore, I imagine he could have managed it. He thought Perry’s real
love affair with football started when Joe Montana tossed her a ball on his way to the locker room at halftime, and smiled at her, and beckoned. She threw him back a perfect spiral, so her father told me. Joe carefully stood only six feet away. She grew up with the coaches and players, sat in on their meetings whenever she could get away from school, and no one stopped her from sneaking in the back of the room. I guess you could say football was in her blood.

“When she was a teenager, I suppose I expected to see girly concerns take over, you know, obsessions with makeup and boys, but not a bit of it changed.”

Davis said, “Her future husband is going to be in football heaven with somebody like her as his wife. I’ll bet she makes great guacamole, too, right?”

Natalie laughed. “Very true. Even if sportswriting weren’t her job, I’d bet Perry would still try to keep in touch with the players and the coaches. She even makes a point of getting to know all the up-and-coming college players before they’re drafted. Believe me, she has her own take on who should draft them. She’s always discreet. She’s never burned a coach or a player or a player’s wife for telling her something off the record. And she’s well liked, almost family.”

“Tell me about the folks we’re meeting tonight, and why you’re suddenly being so cautious you’ve brought me along.”

“I’m done with being vulnerable. You’re with me at this shindig tonight because you’re a trained objective other, a fresh eye. I want you to watch and listen, see if your gut tells you something I’m missing. And I want everyone to know I’m protected now.”

“You honestly think it’s possible one of the political guests at this function could be responsible for what’s happened?”

She shrugged. “At this point I’d be stupid to rule out anyone but my closest friends.” She touched her fingers to his sleeve. “You’ll make sure no one poisons my rubber chicken or shoves a shiv in my back, won’t you?”

“A little cyanide’s always a nice choice, but a politician poisoning your chicken leg? At the secretary of state’s house? That would be rude.”

Natalie smiled. “Let me tell you, Davis, politicians are many things, but one thing you can count on is that they’re always self-serving. No matter what kind of dodgy acts they’ve committed, they will do anything to keep themselves in office. Show me a politician and I’ll show you a Borgia-in-training.” She sighed. “I think in another time politicians made good grave robbers. And now they don’t even wait until the night to strip us to our skin.”

Davis eyed a black truck that was coming up fast on Natalie’s side. He met Luis’s eyes in the mirror. Luis pulled forward and smoothly changed lanes. The truck changed lanes behind them. He met Luis’s eyes again, and nodded.

Luis accelerated, changing lanes to turn off onto the less residential Moran Avenue, moving toward the warehouse district.

“What’s wrong?”

The privacy screen came down. “Mrs. Black, that guy in the black truck. He’s too interested in us.”

Natalie braced herself while Davis twisted around in the seat, his Glock now in his hand. The black truck had speeded up, taken the exit too fast after them, scaring the crap out of the drivers behind him.

Natalie said, “Let’s not try to lose him, Luis. Let’s get him. Come on, Davis, with the two of you, I’m safe. Please, let’s try to get him.”

Davis gave her a look and nodded. “I got his license plate easily enough, so you bet the truck’s stolen. Natalie, write this down,” and he read out the license.

Luis said, “I’m turning right on High Leaf Street, up ahead, lots of warehouses for us to lie in wait. Let’s get this moron. Mrs. Black, you stay down, okay?”

She said okay and Davis didn’t believe her for a second.

Luis turned smoothly onto High Leaf and gunned the limo. Three dark buildings later, he pulled into a parking lot and around to the back of a darkened building with
ACME BLINDS
in big aluminum letters across the front.

Natalie lowered her window. “He’s got to know I’m not alone.”

Whoever it was, Davis thought, really wanted Natalie Black dead. He felt no fear from her, no panic, like yesterday with Jitterbug. She was ready. What the driver was doing, chasing her down in a truck, when, like Natalie said, he had to know she wasn’t alone, was foolhardy. Luis cut the lights. Both Davis and Luis lowered their windows as well. They were all quiet, waiting. Thick black clouds scuttled over the quarter-moon. Rain was on its way, probably later this evening.

“Davis,” she said in an urgent whisper, “I can see you’re still arguing with yourself about getting out of here to keep me safe. But no, let’s get this guy. This is our chance. We’ve got to get him. Promise me.”

He knew he shouldn’t ever jeopardize a civilian, but she was right, and that’s exactly what he’d been thinking. If they could catch this guy, then it would be over. He nodded. He’d keep her safe. One look at Luis and Davis knew he was as committed.

They waited, breathing in the silent air, seeing no one, all the office workers long gone. The black truck drove slowly by.

Natalie shouted, “Get him, Luis!”

The limo lights went on bright and the big Mercedes shot out from behind the Acme
warehouse, blinding the driver of the black truck.

Davis leaned out the window, took careful aim, and shot out the driver’s-side front tire. The truck screeched out, rubber flapping around the wheel, but the guy didn’t slow.

Both Davis and Luis continued shooting, emptying their magazines, but the truck was moving too erratically for any of the shots to count. “He’s heading back to Marlow,” Natalie shouted.

But no, he strong-armed the truck left and accelerated into the empty parking lot behind a trio of warehouses, the truck now riding on the rim, the limo not twenty yards away.

Luis slammed on the brakes when they saw the truck with the driver’s-side door open.

Silence: sudden, absolute silence.

Luis pulled up behind the truck and both men carefully made their way toward the front cab. The smell of burned rubber and scorched metal hung in the air. The truck was empty.

Natalie was right on their heels. “He’s gone,” she said. “We’ll never find him, too dark, and too many warehouses along this route.” She nodded to Luis and Davis. “Well, we tried. I’m glad Perry wasn’t with me, she’d have jumped out of the limo and leapt through the cab of the truck and torn the guy apart.”