Shoot (31 page)

“Yessir, Mr. Shepherd, how may I help you?”

“Get a chance to ice your hand?” I asked.

“Not yet. Kinda busy. Thanks for asking.”

I noticed for the first time that her voice was somewhat musical, her eyes sparkling.

“You know who I am?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course. I’ve been reading your stories online. They’re great.”

“Okay, cool. I just have a few quick questions for you, Bryce…?”

“Bryce Martha Draper.”

“Bryce Martha Draper, what a lovely name.”

“Thank you. What questions?”

“Well, are you married?”

She laughed. “No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“With this job and school? I’m working on my masters. Not at the moment, no.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three. What does this have to do with the murders?”

“Nothing,” I confessed, giving her my best you-caught-me smile. “Look, I really want to take you to dinner tonight and pick your brain for some background for my stories— strictly off the record. How about eight at L’Éveil?”

“Wow. Probably the most expensive French restaurant in town,” she noted. “That’s the place that slow-cooks for a week and does all kinds of weird scientific things to food, right? You must have some expense account.”

“Yeah, unlimited. Please say yes, Bryce. I think you’re a very interesting person. To be honest, I suddenly can’t stop thinking about you. I hope that doesn’t creep you out?”

“No, it doesn’t, actually,” she said, rewarding me with a big-eyed look. “I think you’re interesting, too, and I also want to pick
your
brain about the case. I just heard the cops are back in lockdown indefinitely and we won’t get our suites back tonight. They won’t tell me what’s happening. Did you find something new up there?”

I gave her a sly smile. “I promise to tell all at dinner— before I put it in the paper. Please say yes, Bryce.”

“Okay, Shepherd. It’s a date. Do you know what ‘L’Éveil’ means in French?”

“No,” I lied. “Evil?”

“No.” She leaned slowly over her counter, giving me a better view of her cleavage and a sweet whiff of something floral, to whisper in my reddening ear.

“Arousal.”

Oh, man. I retreated before she could wipe the floor with me.

It was three when I got outside. I called Amy and told her I was stopping by.

“Now is not good, Shepherd. I have to sell crack to a movie star in thirty minutes.”

“Is it an emergency?”

“Yes. No, it’s a case. Undercover sting, insurance job.”

“What movie star?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone.”

“Reschedule it, please. I just got out of the convention center. I’ll be right over. Oh, and make sure no one else is in the house.”

“What? I told you…”

“Amy, I’ll be right over. Be there.”

“Okay, okay. Bye.”

When I got to Amy’s townhouse, I told her what really happened in the park and produced my surprise in the plastic bag.

“This better be important, Shepherd. A ten-million-dollar performance bond is on the line. What the hell is that?” she asked, staring at the tube.

“That,” I replied, “is a musket without the flintlock.”

“What? It looks like a pipe bomb.”

“I know but it’s one of at least six identical weapons secreted inside the locked toilets of the rooms of the Tea Party Animal assassination victims.”

“You’re shitting me?” she said, moving closer, peering at the gray cylinder.

“I shit you not. I found this one inside Senator Carroll’s throne. It hasn’t been fired. The others, in the victims’ rooms, had been used. Izzy said they look like single-shot zip guns.”

“I’ll be damned.”

I put on my gloves and Amy donned surgical gloves. I opened the bag and gently placed the firearm on top of it. I used my phone to take still pictures from every angle, then carefully flipped it over and did the same on that side. Then I did video, as Amy held the tube and displayed all aspects.

“This is different from a zip gun,” Amy said. “They use rubber bands and a nail to hit a center-fire cartridge that you load into the back of the pipe. This thing is sealed at both ends.”

“Yeah. But I think the round fires through that foil on the top. That thin box on one side, closer to the padded bottom than the top, has a hinge.”

I held the pipe in one hand and gently tugged at the top side of the assembly. It swung out toward the rear at a right angle to the tube and kept going for another forty-five degrees until I met resistance. I didn’t force it. The box was hollow, like the top of an old Zippo cigarette lighter.

“Be careful,” Amy warned, moving away.

“My middle name, Amy. It’s a trigger assembly,” I told her. “Look, under the box is a small sliding switch. That tiny bubble on the tube next to it looks like an LED.”

“Exactly, it’s a bomb,” she said. “Please don’t blow up my house. I just got a new espresso machine.”

“Nobody got de-res’d. This is a firearm, although it’s been completely reinvented. I think it’s electrical or maybe piezoelectric.”

“De-res’d?”

“De-resolution. Blown to bits.”

“Oh. Sounds bad. You’re sure it’s not an explosive device?”

“Not unless this copy of the others is a Shanghai Surprise and is rigged to blow up when we find it and play with it. I think it’s a hand cannon.”

I reached over and slid the tiny switch. The tiny LED glowed red.

“Jesus,” Amy gasped.

I slid it back and the red light went off again. Amy started breathing again. I folded the trigger assembly back to the initial safe position and picked it up. I put my right hand around the tube, over the trigger area, and used the butt of my left hand to brace the end of the weapon for recoil.

I pointed the gray muzzle away from us, holding both arms straight out.

“There’s a small triangle of metal on the upper end,” I told her, “a fixed gunsight. Except for the switch and fold-down trigger assembly, there are no moving parts, no bullets, no shells, no firing pin, no ejector mechanism. I think all you have to do is squeeze with the trigger hand to send a charge to the black powder in the tube, which discharges a silver ball and silk wadding into the chest of the victim at point-blank range. Then, all you’d have to do is hide it and walk away.”

“Wow,” Amy said. “You brought this here so I could tell my GOP customers the real deal and alert them to possible future danger?”

“Of course. With pictures. I’m emailing them to you now. I still work for you, right?”

“Right.”

“You have a few hours to do that before I file it with the
Daily Press
. I also still work for them.”

“What are you going to do with this thing?” Amy asked. “You know it’s a state felony to steal evidence and it’s a federal crime to possess this gadget? It’s also not a nice thing to do to your cop buddies.”

“Yeah, I feel bad about that but I may find a use for it. I’ve helped them a lot more than I’m hurting them, if at all. They’ll get it eventually, but I wasn’t here and you never saw it, okay?”

“For sure. I don’t intend to join you in jail. If you live that long. The cops were here earlier. You know they think you assaulted those mafia goons again?”

“Yeah, thanks. Jail is the least of my problems,” I told her, heading for the door. “I have to go home and change and go out on a date with one of the concierges at the hotel and eat a $2,000 dinner that’s been cooking for the past month.”

“Does Jane know about this?”

“Not yet.”

“Shepherd, I know you’re a young guy but don’t be an asshole. Jane is a wonderful girl. You’ll regret this later.”

“Maybe but at least my paper will be paying for it. Oh, you mean with Jane? Relax, Amy, everything’s cool. As Phil would say, everything is awesome.”

Jane wasn’t home but Skippy was glad to see me. I took him out for a walk and called Jane. She said she was trying to catch up and was booked until at least nine. Perfect.

“That’s okay,” I told her. “I’ve got a business dinner at eight. When I get home, I’ll tell you about what I found at the hotel.”

“What? Tell me now.”

“Not on the phone, okay?”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Text me.”

“Nothing on the phone or online.”

“This is unfair. Now I’m dying to know. Who are you eating with? Izzy and Phil?”

“Actually, yes. Plus someone from the hotel, which reminds me, I have to call and make reservations.”

“Okay. See you later.”

I looked at the time: after five. I called L’Éveil. I asked to speak to the executive chef, whom I had met before, a man named Henri Plouffe, and told him I needed a custom order for dinner.

“This evening?” he asked, doubtfully. “This is very close, Shepherd, not many hours.”

“Yes. It doesn’t matter what it costs, Henri. The paper will pay. It’s very important and it’s a surprise. I’m sending you the pictures and measurements now.”

“This is business or pleasure?” he asked.

“I guess you could say it’s both but what it really is, is preparation and misdirection.”

“I do not understand.”

“Magic, Henri. I’m asking for some of your magic. On short notice.”

“I make art, okay, Shepherd?”

“Yeah, sure, but you use science to make magic, which is an art. Great art.”

“Yes, thank you, this is true.”

French chefs are so sensitive.

When Skippy and I got back home, I fed him, took a shower and changed into my one suit: a navy-blue two-button jacket number, a pink short-sleeve dress shirt and purple power tie. It didn’t feel powerful, just tight and sweaty. I felt overdressed, and underequipped without my backpack. My cell rang.

Tiffany Mauser was calling.

“Hi, Tiffany. Long time, no see. How’s the weather in D.C.?”

“Quit it, Shepherd. I just heard about the pipe pistols in the toilets from the security people. You found those damn things, didn’t you?”

“Off the record, yeah. On the record, the cops found them.”

“Bless your heart. I just called to thank you for continuing to work on the case after the way we treated you. You are amazing. The senator…”

“I’m awesome,” I corrected her. “Are we still talking about my work or…”

She responded with a naughty laugh. What was I doing?

“Seriously, you’re a good man.”

“And they’re hard to find,” I reminded her.

“This is not why I called… Okay it’s not the only reason I called… I’m back in town for a day. I was wondering if you were free tonight. I’d like to see you. I also have something to tell you. It’s important.”

“I’d like to see you, too,” I heard myself saying.

I told myself I was just being polite. I told her I had a business dinner at eight but I’d meet her for a late dinner at ten at Park It, a cool little bistro near the park.

“Great, that’s right near my hotel,” she said, I’m sure for no reason at all. “You’re going to eat two dinners?”

“I’m a growing boy. Besides, I’m chowing down at a very fancy, trendy spot, an artistic, artisanal eatery for RWPs, so I’ll probably be starved.”

Looked like it was going to be a busy night. After Tiffany hung up, I tried to ignore the guilty Jiminy Cricket voice in my head, slut-shaming me with a man-whore lecture. Fuck the little bug.

I pulled my beat-up MacBook out of my new backpack but the shattered screen made it impossible to work on. My new one wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. I wrote my story on Jane’s home office desktop and called Sparky. I told him about the pictures I had taken of the mini-musket inside Senator Carroll’s crapper and the stills and video I had taken later. I told him to take credit for the shots and video and say it was a secret source.

“Fucking hey, man. These are great! I’m popping a woody. This shit is exclusive?”

“Totally. But the cops and others have them so we have to file tonight, in case there’s a leak.”

“No problem, amigo. You rule. This time, I’ll split the photo resales with you, right? No argument.”

I agreed. I walked him through the murder device description and operation.

“Okay, Sparky. I’ll send you a copy of my story, so you can write your captions. It’s past six o’clock, I’ve got to call Mel now.”

First I called Izzy’s cell and told him I was going to pull the trigger on my story on the toilet tubes at eight. I also requested that he and Phil do me an interesting favor. He agreed without questions.

I then got my boss on the line and predictably, because it was close to deadline, Mel Greenbaum cursed at me. At least, as close to cursing as Mel the Mild got.

“I got an exclusive break in the Tea Party Animal story, Mel, with exclusive photos and video—use it or lose it.”

“What friggin’ story? Why don’t I know about this shih-tzu?”

“You know now,” I told him. “I sent you my story, Sparky is sending pictures. You should have both by now.”

I read the top of my copy out loud to him:

* * *

After assassinating presidential candidate Percy Chesterfield and four other top GOP pols, the Tea Party Animals hid their smoking murder weapons—five high-tech mini-muskets—inside the sealed toilet tanks of their dying victims, the
Press
has learned exclusively.

The bizarre gadgets—electrically fired plastic tubes— remained secreted inside the opulent bathrooms, under the noses of an army of local, state and federal investigators since the killings—until the elite NYPD Major Crimes Squad discovered them today. The crucial find came just hours before the suites of the five victims were to be opened again to the public.

* * *

I continued, reading Izzy’s anonymous quote about the guns. Mel stopped me before I got to the background copy.

“Yeah, I got the cheese-licking thing in front of me. Nice of you to finally do some more fuggin’ work,” Mel complained.

“You don’t want the story, Mel? I know someone who does. I spoke to Faith today. The
New York Mail
wants me back at twice my current salary.”

“No, no, no! I want the mother-trucking story—I’m just sayin’. Don’t be an asshat, okay, Shepherd? The story is good, nice pictures. How did you get all this?”