Shoot (13 page)

They reported that Littleton had been busted by the NYPD and the FBI in his Manhattan hotel room. They were assisted by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. There was video of a smirking Littleton in handcuffs, outside a police precinct. The station had nothing about the APN raid yet.

“Fast work, Tiffany,” I told her.

“Your wish is my command, Shepherd,” she said, plopping on the bed and kissing me. She kissed my left temple on my three-scar slash. She pulled back the covers and began planting kisses on my left arm, on the pale spidery scars that wrapped up and down my flesh. When she moved to my legs and kissed the red rippling scars there, I pulled my legs away.

“All better,” I said.

“Lord-a-mighty, what happened to you, sugar?” she asked. “The war?”

“Some of it,” I admitted.

“And the rest?”

“Flat tire,” I told her with a straight face, sitting up. “A blowout.”

“I read about that,” she said.

“Let’s talk about your scar, instead,” I countered, licking a small, faint crescent on the side of her right breast. “The war?”

“No,” she laughed. “Doubles tennis.”

“Why did this happen last night?” I asked.

“Why did what happen?”

“Us. My birthday present.”

“Why not?” Tiffany giggled. “You’re a tad banged-up, Shepherd, but a certifiable hottie. Maybe it was my patriotic duty. I wanted it, you wanted it. We’re not breaking any laws, are we?”

“That simple?” I asked.

“Some of the things we did were not so simple,” she laughed.

In the shower, we kept it simple. Breakfast was set up in the living room by the time we were dressed. Tiffany was calling, texting and tweeting as she nibbled on the room-service breakfast spread and flipped through TV channels. I told her she had done a good job, having the Tea Party guy busted. “You slapped Littleton down and he’s Governor Dodge’s buddy. That was a sharp political move.”

“Like you said, you left that part up to me. Just being a good citizen,” Tiffany grinned.

“But the APN guys are in the wind. That was the important part,” I told her. “We don’t want them walking around.”

“I know,” she said. “The FBI says they’ve got some hot leads on who and where those guys are.”

“In my experience, that’s what they say when they’ve got zip,” I replied.

“I hope that’s not true.”

“I’ve got to go back to… my office and get back to work,” I told her. “Tell me what Chesterfield decides.”

I felt vaguely slutty and had a guilty teenage urge to escape the scene of the sex crime.

“You don’t have to run off,” Tiffany said.

“Actually, I do. I have to meet a source to try and nail down those Aryan Purity Nation guys. It would be a lot easier if you would just get their address from the feds, although it sounds like they scared them off.”

“Oh, okay, great. But we’ll meet later?”

“Sure, as soon as one of us has something to report.”

“That’s not what I meant, darlin’.”

“Oh, right. Absolutely, Tiffany. Later.”

We kissed. For a while. On the way out, I made a guilt call to Jane at home but fortunately she had already gone to work. Or wasn’t answering my calls. I tried the animal hospital but she hadn’t yet arrived. I called Amy.

“Where the hell have you been, Shepherd? You haven’t answered your damn phone.”

“The uh… charge ran out and I fell asleep,” I lied.

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“Where did you sleep? It wasn’t here. I just got back from walking Skippy and Dr. Strangelove. Your bed was not slept in.”

“Ahhh… at home,” I told her, vaguely.

“At home with Jane or at home in your apartment?” she asked in a much too friendly voice.

Shit.

“Do you already know the answer to that question, Amy?”

“I do,” she replied in that same, chipper voice.

“Then why ask me?”

“Educational purposes,” she said.

Shit.

“So, you called Jane and my apartment last night?”

“You bet I did. Don’t worry, I pretended to be someone else. I told Jane I was someone at your paper. She gave me your cellphone and said you were at my house. When I called your apartment and did the same thing, it was strange. A woman who identified herself as your mother answered.”

“Why is that strange?”

“Well, she also gave me your cellphone number but she seemed to think I was someone from the Bureau. She said the FBI was waiting outside your place.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. That’s probably because of that story about Hardstein. Nothing to do with our case.”

“Oh, okay. So, you’re working. Where are you now?”

“Amy, do you know where I am?”

“Well, your GPS is still at the Knickerbocker. I assume you’re in the same place. Did you and Tiffany have a pleasant evening?”

“I drank too much. You hacked my phone?”

“It’s not really hacking,” Amy protested. “I just accessed your GPS locator.”

“I’m leaving now,” I told her. “I’m back on the job.”

“Are you going to meet your fed source?” Amy asked.

“On my way.”

“Okay, talk to you soon.”

As I went through the Jurassic Parking exit, the loud chants of the dueling demonstrators drowned out the noise of the city traffic, even at that early hour. As I crossed the street amid the shouting voices, I again felt twinges of guilt, the echoes of a distant Catholic childhood. I even imagined I heard my mother’s voice calling me. I laughed and walked faster.

“Francis! Francis! Over here!”

I turned toward the voice.

Guilt, hell. It
was
my mother.

My parents were holding signs and shouting from the crowd, the anti-Tea Party group, of course. They were in their full civil disobedience outfits: sneakers, jeans, protest t-shirts, swimming goggles and bicycle helmets—in case of tear gas or clubs. Mom was sporting a large
CORPORATIONS ARE NOT PEOPLE
! sign. Dad held a smaller
JAIL THE WALL STREET CRIMINALS
placard.

This was my parents’ idea of a fun-filled vacation in the Big Apple.

I approached cautiously. A cop told me to move on. I took out my press card, clipped it to my shirt, and he backed off.

“What are you doing here?” my mom asked.

“Working.”

“The FBI is looking for you,” my father said. “I think they only have a subpoena because they didn’t come in and search your apartment.”

I was momentarily stunned my dad had actually spoken to me.

“I know. My editor warned me. I’m avoiding them.”

Most parents would be upset if their sons told them they were withholding information from the FBI. My father seemed proud of me, for the first time in more than ten years. I didn’t tell him it was about Senator Hard-On. Or that I was working with the FBI on another case.

He asked what I was doing inside the convention center. The last thing I was going to say to him was that I had just slept with a Republican. I told them I was working on a story about the convention. About threats against Speaker Chesterfield. That was pretty much true.

“Everything okay with the apartment?” I asked, just to have something to say.

“It’s
your
apartment,” my mother said. “We saw the mail. Why did you tell me it was a friend’s place?”

“I’m only subletting. I knew you wouldn’t take it if you knew it was mine. So, are you going to be demonstrating here long?”

“Between here and 740 Park Avenue, for a few days,” my mom said.

“740 Park Avenue?”

“740 Park Avenue,” my dad said, as if correcting a dull student. “The richest apartment building in the world— home of the billionaire Roehm brothers, the main architects of the vast right-wing conspiracy against democracy.”

“Oh,
that
740 Park Avenue,” I said, causing my dad’s bushy eyebrows to lower. “Aren’t those the guys who bankroll the Tea Party?”

“Exactly,” my dad said. “They bought Congress, and are now engineering the largest voter disenfranchisement scheme in history.”

I became aware of someone edging in closer to us, listening.

“Who are we talking about?” Ginny Mac asked.

“Buzz off, Ginny!” I told her.

“I was here first, Shepherd,” she laughed. “What are you keeping from me? Who are these lovely people? Do they know Littleton?”

“Littleton? No, we’re his parents,” my mom volunteered.

“Really? You’re Shepherd’s parents? Wow. I’m very happy to meet you,” she said, shaking hands in a demonstration of how unmitigated her gall was.

“Well, aren’t you pretty,” my mom said, turning on the charm. “Are you Jane?”

“No, I’m his
other
girlfriend. I’m Ginny Mac.”

“Other girlfriend?” my dad asked.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I protested. “She’s a reporter for a competing newspaper. She’s crazy. She sent mob thugs to beat me up.”

“She did what?” my dad asked.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Ginny cackled, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “He’s always making up lies about me. It must have been somebody else he screwed over who sent those guys to tune him up. I hear they are very unhappy with him. Tell your sonny boy to watch his back. Nice meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd. Hope to see you again soon.”

Ginny strolled off, with a toodle-oo wave. What the hell was she doing here? Had she been assigned to get reactions from the political crowds to Littleton’s arrest? Or was she stalking me again? Did she send Jay-Jay and his pals? I saw Ginny make a call on her cellphone.

“Francis, what was that all about?” my mom asked. “Is she your girlfriend or not?”

“Not. We… dated… briefly—before I realized she was a dangerous psychopath.”

“I thought she was a journalist?”

“What’s the difference?”

“But you’re with Jane now?” my mom pressed.

“Yes. I don’t know. I may have screwed that up too, Mom. Look, I’ve got to get to work. Maybe we can talk later?”

They both smiled politely but I was sure they were relieved to get rid of me. As I turned and walked away, I spotted Ginny hovering behind some cops. I was afraid she was going to follow me but after a few steps, I noticed she turned back toward the demonstrators. My phone rang. It was Tiffany.

“Hi, Tiffany, what’s so…”

She was sobbing and gasping for breath.

“Tiffany, what’s wrong?”

“Shepherd, it’s Percy… Just get back here now! I don’t know what to do. I’m in his room… He’s dead!”

I told Tiffany I was on the way, and she hung up. Looking back, I saw that Ginny Mac was talking to my parents again. This time she was writing in her notebook and she had a photographer taking their picture. Damn. She was so distracted she didn’t see me slip past and back into the Knickerbocker Convention Center.

I dialed Amy on the run and gave her the news. On the fourteenth floor, all was quiet. Where was everybody? I approached Chesterfield’s door and knocked.

“Who is it?” Tiffany asked from the other side.

“It’s Shepherd.”

She opened the door and hugged me, her face pale, her eyes red and wet. She was dressed in another executive dress suit, this time dark gray. The room was filled with sunlight. The picture window curtains were wide open. The smell hit me in the face. Gunpowder. Tiffany took my hand and led me down the short hallway to the living room.

“Wait!” I said, grabbing her hand. “Tiffany, why are you here alone? Is anyone else here?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I just called you.”

We seemed to be the only ones in the room except the Speaker of the House, Percy Chesterfield. His speaking days were over. The guy I was supposed to keep alive was on his back, dressed in creased suit pants, black dress shoes, a powder-blue dress shirt, and a red tie. The dead man who would never be president wore a frozen look of surprise, his eyebrows up, his mouth slightly agape.

Unlike Taliban KIAs or the victims of the Hacker, I had met this man before he was killed. It made it more difficult to be objective, more like when my own guys got whacked.

The politician’s deep tan was gone, his skin ashen. His expensive handgun was undisturbed in its holster on his left hip. A cigarette was still held between the first two fingers of his right hand, which rested on the carpet, but it had burned itself out. There was a bloody concave wound the size of a fist in his chest. In the center of the wound was a neat hole, about the diameter of a large grape. The crater and hole was surrounded by blackened, burned shirt. It looked like he had been killed by a heavy weapon, maybe a .50 caliber, at close range.

“This can’t be happening,” Tiffany said, still crying. “He didn’t answer, so I came over and… he was just lying there… I didn’t hear anything. Was it a bomb?”

“I’m not sure. It’s weird. It looks like a few different things. Did you call the cops? His security?”

“No… just you.”

“Do you want me to call NYPD?”

“Of course. I’ll call security. I just…”

“Tiffany, did you touch anything?”

“No. Wait, I came and I saw him and I rushed over and shook him… He was… cold… I’m not sure.”

She was in shock. I took a closer look at her. She had a smear of blood on her right cheek and one of her knees. She had knelt down and kissed the guy. Did she love him? I took out my phone and did a quick video of the room and the body and I began backing out. In the hall, I took a look in the bathroom and shot more footage. It was white, immaculate. I pulled Tiffany out into the hall and dialed Izzy Negron. I told him what I was looking at.

“What is it with you, Shepherd?” Izzy asked. “What makes you a shit magnet?”

“I think he’s been there for hours, Izzy.”

“Can you tell what did it?”

“Not sure. Maybe a shotgun. Big-ass hole, lots of blood and lots of powder burns.”

“Shotgun, point-blank?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m not sure. It’s weird. More like an IED.” I hung up.

Tiffany sat down on the hallway carpet and began crying again. I walked down to the checkpoint and hailed two of the EPS suits.

“Yessir?” one asked.

“You have a security situation, gentlemen. Percy Chesterfield is dead in his room. Call out the troops.”