What Lies Behind
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This part of the operation was the trickiest. Whipping out their weapons at an airport was a surefire way to get noticed. If a bogey were to make a move now, they would have to counter it with subtle, quick and meaningful brute force.
Xander was fine with that. It had been ages since he’d been in an honest-to-God fight. He wouldn’t mind sinking his fists into a bad guy’s face.
It wouldn’t happen today. The job had been simple, straightforward. James Denon was well-liked by his people, his company and his country. There had been no signs of trouble all week. The people who hated him were half a world away, and the trip had been on close hold, so they had no idea he was in the States.
They’d timed their arrival well. The wait was short; after only fifteen minutes, their principal’s flight was ready. This was the beauty of Teterboro, New Jersey’s private airport. The crowds were smaller, the people waiting for private flights and charters. The usual program—parking, security, long wait times at the gates—wasn’t at all the same.
Good for the principal, but more difficult for Xander to fit in. They’d been lucky today; there was a group of private high schoolers being ferried to Canada, and they were creating quite a bit of distraction. Enough for Xander to find a spot along the periphery and look like one of their chaperones, exhausted already by their energy.
Behind the mirrored lenses, he watched the small crowd. Their principal began making his way toward the doors. Xander gave Chalk the nod, stood, stretched. Moved toward the double glass doors to the tarmac, gave things a look-see. All clear. He spoke quietly into his hand mike. “We’re a go. Plane’s here.”
Chalk, standing four feet away, touched the principal on the shoulder, gestured unobtrusively toward the door. Xander kept watch while the principal and his people dutifully paraded out the door, across the tarmac and into the plane.
Five minutes later, it was done. The flight attendant had closed the door, and the plane pulled away, engines purring.
“A final all clear,” Xander said, and felt the tension of the past few days leak away.
Chalk strolled toward the exit, and Xander followed, cautious to watch their backs. No reason to get made just because the operation was over.
They met up in the parking lot. They had rented two cars. They’d take them back to JFK, drop them and the job would officially be over.
“That went well,” Chalk said.
“It did. And now he’ll tell all his friends. Let’s get to JFK. I want to go home.”
Chalk’s phone rang. He answered with his usual, “Hoo-rah.” A moment later his face turned white.
Xander instinctively put his hand on his weapon at his belt, a sweet little SIG Sauer he preferred for close-up work.
“What is it? What happened?”
Chalk didn’t answer, just made a helicopter with his finger and about-faced smartly, back toward the private terminal. Xander stepped next to him. A moment later, Chalk hung up.
“That was Denon. They’re turning the plane around, some sort of mechanical problem. Looks like you and I aren’t done just yet.”
They were at the entrance now, and there was a lot of activity inside. Xander saw four airport employees running toward the back doors. The private schoolers were gathered together at the southern end of the room, pushing toward the windows, staring, one of their chaperones waving her hands to get them to stay put.
Xander ignored everyone around him but Chalk, tuned them out, lasered his focus. “What’s the issue, did he say?”
“No. He’s justifiably concerned.”
“Think it’s directed at him?”
“I don’t know, but we better be ready for anything when that plane lands.”
“If it is, they knew we were on him. They waited until we left to make a move.”
“That’s pretty fucking sophisticated. I haven’t seen a tail, or anything to indicate we were being observed.”
Xander nodded. “Me, either. Could his itinerary have leaked? He’s a good target, we both know that. The threat assessment showed plenty of people who want him dead.”
“If so, someone inside his senior staff or the folks he met with did it. No one else knows he’s here.”
They jogged through the doors, went straight to the back and out onto the tarmac. With the hullabaloo, no one thought to stop them. So much for being inconspicuous, though.
“Sam is going to skin me alive if I don’t get home tonight.”
Chalk shot him a grin. “Cheer up, lover boy. If our principal goes splat, you can get right on the next plane south.”
“If our principal goes splat, we’re done for. You take the terminal, I’ll meet the plane. Cover my six.”
He would be totally exposed, but there was no help for it. Chalk disappeared into the shadows behind him, and Xander stood with the other employees, his arms crossed, staring toward the empty tarmac. He listened hard to the charter employees. Apparently, the engine lights had flashed red, and the pilot wasn’t about to try a transatlantic flight with possible trouble. It could be a simple mechanical issue.
Xander had a feeling that wasn’t the case. Just a small frisson of something, up the back of his neck. He scanned the area. Murmured, “All clear,” into his mike.
A few moments later, the Gulfstream came into view.
Xander stepped to the side, out of earshot, and phoned James Denon, who answered sounding rather panicky. “What’s happening? They won’t tell us what’s happening.”
“We’re here, sir, we’re waiting on you. There’s nothing apparent on the ground. Are you all right?”
“I am. What in bloody hell is going on?”
“They’re saying it was an engine problem. Chances are, that’s all this is. You just sit tight once they land. If they force you to disembark, make sure you come out last. I’ll be waiting for you at the foot of the stairs. We can follow the same protocol as before, staying out of sight, but right now, I think we should stick close.”
“I agree. Something feels off.”
“Roger that, sir. You hang tight inside as long as they’ll let you.”
Xander hung up and casually turned, scoping the building behind him. He still had his shades on, eyes roving right, then left. He couldn’t see Chalk, which was good. His adrenaline was surging, running hard through his body, so hard his hands were fighting the urge to shake. Breathe, Xander. Breathe.
The Gulfstream touched down, a small puff of white smoke rising from its tires. It headed toward the terminal, then suddenly altered course and began taxiing toward the southern hangar instead of the terminal. A radio crackled on the hip of the employee standing nearest him.
“This is Gulfstream 890. Got another warning light, we’re leaking oil. Gonna head directly into the hangar. We’ll disembark the passengers before we go in. Better find another plane, looks like we’re going to be out of commission for a while.”
There were sharp curses from the assembled crowd, but Xander ignored them.
The hangar.
A hundred yards away.
Xander had eyes on it, but he wasn’t close enough to scope it properly. He scanned the building rapidly, looking for anything out of place. There was something, near the roof, twenty degrees to the right. A shadow. As he watched, the shadow pulled back slightly, and there was a flash. A mirrored flash.
His adrenaline shot into overdrive, and he clicked on his comms unit.
“Chalk, buddy, we got a shooter on top of the hangar.”
“Roger. Can you take him?”
“I need to get closer, and higher. If I start heading his way, he’ll know I saw him. You’re gonna have to end around, let me get into position.”
“There’s a metal ladder behind me, runs up the side of the terminal building. The two buildings are about the same height. Should be the right angle.”
“This might draw some attention to our client.”
“Better attention than dead. I’ll cover Denon, you take the shooter. Out.”
Xander heard the whine of the engines. He was out of time. He broke with the employees and quick-walked to the edge of the terminal. Went up the ladder, wishing like hell he had his M4. He’d have a better chance of taking the guy out that way.
His mind was preternaturally calm, clear, crisply assessing everything. Wind speed, atmosphere, angle. The lack of a load in the SIG, the best place to take the shot. Up on the roof now, and of course there was very little to hide behind.
He’d lost eyes on his target, but he scooted to the north edge of the roof, and found him again. The assassin was low now, crouched against the concrete buttress. Relaxed, but ready, a M2010 ESR trained on the crowd below. Xander recognized a professional at work, and his heart sank.
Xander clicked his mike. “I’m in position. Son of a bitch has an M2010.”
Chalk whistled. “Can you take him out?”
Xander took off his sunglasses. Laid on his stomach, inched to the edge. The terminal’s high roof was a boon; he had a down angle on the shooter.
“Xander? Talk to me, buddy. What’s happening up there?”
“Shh. I’m concentrating.”
Chalk’s voice raised slightly. “Concentrate faster, the plane door’s opening.”
God, he would kill for a set of binoculars, or even a range finder. He made the distance between the two buildings, from the end of his muzzle to the shooter’s head, at just under a hundred yards.
Doable.
Xander shut his eyes, then opened and refocused. Modulated his breathing. Rolled onto his knees. Braced, got his grip perfect. Ignored Chalk in his ear saying, “Tick tock, buddy, time’s running out. They’re making them all disembark. I’ve counted three, that’s the staff. Denon’s going to be out next.”
He watched the shooter on the roof swivel his rifle down, finger in the trigger. It was time.
Xander braced his arms. Felt a wind gust, made a small adjustment. Swallowed, and squeezed.
The gun moved smoothly in his hands, and the shooter on the opposite roof collapsed, his rifle catapulting over the concrete buttress to the tarmac below.
“Threat eliminated.”
Chapter 9
Georgetown O Street Tommy Cattafi’s apartment
SAM ADMIRED THE building that housed Cattafi’s apartment. His place was in the basement of a beautiful three-story redbrick town house. An overgrown Norway maple was planted in front of the house, its broad leaves just beginning to show a tinge of yellow. In a few weeks, Georgetown would be a riot of colors, putting on a show, but for now, it was still green, only a bit less vibrant and deflated than even a week before.
Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. A patrol officer sat in his vehicle, unseeing, staring into his lap. The scene hadn’t been fully released yet. It would be another day or two at least before that happened and the cleanup could begin. The reparation of lives torn asunder by those left behind. As if by cleaning away the blood and gore, a life could be set to rights again.
Sam thought about the kid in the hospital, and his family flying to see him, to make life and death decisions on his behalf, and a familiar sense of hopelessness filled her. Senseless violence always did.
The cop still hadn’t noticed them standing five feet from his vehicle. Fletcher arched an eyebrow at her and put a finger to his lips. He squared his shoulders, put on his best glower and marched up to the patrol car.
When the young patrol saw Fletcher, he jumped out of the car, fumbling his phone into his pocket, and practically saluted. Sam bit back a laugh—Fletcher’s new position was a source of great pride for him, and if terrorizing the junior officers made him happy, so be it.
The young officer stammered a greeting. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Officer Beggs. Are we finding the crime scene less than scintillating this morning?”
“No, sir. Not at all, sir.”
“Hmm. This is Dr. Samantha Owens. We’ll only be a minute. You have the sign-in sheet?”
“Yes, sir.” Beggs reached into the patrol car and came out with the clipboard. Fletcher signed himself and Sam into the crime scene. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have been ready for your arrival.”
“Yes, you should have. What if Chief Armstrong had walked up to you playing with your dick in the front seat of your car?”
The patrol’s face turned beet red. “Sir, I was texting my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be home for a while. I wasn’t—”
Fletcher started to laugh. “Relax, kid. I’m playing with you. You’re fine. Go back to whatever it was you were doing.” And to Sam, “Come on.”
She gave the kid her best apologetic yes, he’s an idiot smile and followed Fletcher to the steps that led down to Cattafi’s apartment.
Sam shook her head. “Why must you torture the youngsters?”
“Oh, that was nothing. You should have seen the hazing we got when I was coming up. These kids are so protected, the worst we can do is hassle ’em a little. We can’t get mean with them.”
“Still, Fletch. You’re a leader now.”
“Yeah, that’s me. The leader. Leaderman!” He put his hands on his hips and braced his legs apart, turned his head to the side in his best superhero pose. “I should have a giant L on my shirt.”
“And a cape. Don’t forget the cape.”
“Lieutenant Leaderman. I like it.”
“I don’t know, Leaderman. You’d probably have to wear lederhosen or something, just to go with the theme.”
“Screw that, Owens. I’m wearing tights and a cape, or I’m not gonna play.”
“You are five. You know that, don’t you?”
He smirked at her. “You have no idea.”
The banter felt good, right. But it was time to be serious now. Sam snapped on nitrile gloves and followed Fletcher down the stairs.
Fletcher turned off the goofball, turned on the cop. “You know some of the story, but I’d like you to give me your impressions based on what you see. Be prepared, it’s a bloody mess.”
He swung open the door, and they went inside.
The hallway was dimly lit. The windows were low and the space didn’t have much light. But it was surprisingly spacious, with dark hardwood floors and white walls. They walked past a kitchenette with brown granite countertops and stainless appliances into a decent-size great room with a large flat-screen TV and a relatively new black leather couch.
“Someone spruced up this place,” Sam said.
“Apparently, Cattafi. He likes to renovate in his spare time. Landlord was all for it—it will only improve the rental value for a new renter.”
“Spare time? When I was in med school, spare time meant shoving in two slices of pizza while mentally rehearsing the vascular system and getting horizontal as quickly as possible for as long as I could.”
“Horizontal, eh?” he said with a leer.
“Sleeping,” she replied forcefully, but couldn’t help blushing. There’d been quite a bit of horizontal rumba while she was in med school, too, with her love, Eddie Donovan, away from home. He was gone now, but it wasn’t lost on her that Eddie was the reason she was standing here, in a blood-spattered apartment in Georgetown, her own house and new life, a new love, only a block away.
Eddie had been an officer in Xander’s Ranger unit in the Army. Their shared loved for the man was an unbreakable bond between them.
“Earth to Owens.”
She came back to the apartment. “Sorry, Fletch. Daydreaming.”
“If you’re ready, then...” He gestured toward the small hallway, and she stepped through into the living room.
Fletcher wasn’t kidding. The place was a bloody mess. Dark stains were everywhere. The bar to the kitchen, the floor into the hall, the walls.
“Someone went pretty nuts in here.”
Sam shook her head. “It’s arterial spray. The velocity can be shocking. I assume this is Souleyret’s blood, since she’s the one who’s dead. She’s clearly missing quite a lot of it.”
“That’s what it looks like. Keep going.”
Sam stepped carefully, avoiding the bloody trail of shuffling footprints that smeared down the hallway. She hugged the wall, edged into the bedroom. Things were worse in here, the meaty scent of the blood intensified in the smaller space. She could see where Souleyret had bled out; she’d crawled across the small bedroom floor until she bumped up against the base of the bed. The rug was stained crimson, with a small, nearly bloodless impression in the middle. Sam could see the girl, curled up against the bed, arms around legs as she died. The bedclothes themselves were rumpled and stained with blood. The wall behind the bed was decorated with cast-off spatter in a morbid Jackson Pollock–esque pattern.
“Where was Cattafi found?” she asked.
“There. Other side of the bed. Like he fell off.”
She moved carefully to the other side of the room. There was a lot of blood on the floor here, too, similarly spaced, with a bloodless impression. “He was half on, half off?” she asked.
“Yes. Three great big wounds to his torso, the knife in his hand.”
“Photos?”
“Plenty of them. But first, tell me, what do you see?”
She shut her eyes briefly and let the scene coalesce before her. Heard the screams of Souleyret, tried to envision the step-by-step that led to the great gouts of blood spread throughout the apartment. A bottle fly bumbled drunkenly past her ear. She opened her eyes, swatted at it. Amazing how the food chain supplemented itself. Less than twelve hours in and new lives were already springing up.
“Conventional wisdom says Cattafi stabbed her in the living room. She managed to get away and dragged herself into the bedroom. He followed her, administered one last cut, then stabbed himself in the chest three times. He did leave a note.”
Sam was already shaking her head. “No. That’s not it. Look.”
She pointed to the floor, showed Fletcher a scrape in the trail of blood. A fuzzy footprint, barely discernible, with the heel and toe in the wrong spot to support his theory. “He was backing in here. Blocking whoever had attacked them from getting to Souleyret again. He was protecting her. When the blood’s run, you’ll find his is in the living room, too. There was definitely a third party involved.”
Fletcher was looking at her like she’d just conjured water out of thin air. He knelt down, looked closer at the footprint. Walked it off mentally, stood with a grunt.
“You’re right. Damn it. How did you do that? You saw the whole scene.”
“I...” She stopped. He was right. What the hell had just happened? Was she suddenly psychic? Able to discern from the scene what had happened just by its proximity?
A feeling of dread ran through her. No. She wasn’t. And she wasn’t reimagining the crime scene, either. She’d seen it before. Or one that looked damn close to it.
Chapter 10
SAM WALKED THROUGH the crime scene once more, tracing the backward steps of Thomas Cattafi. Everything was muddled; the blood had dried in streaky brown swooshes, but now that she knew what she was looking for, she could clearly see his steps. It went that way sometimes; when the blood was fresh, it was hard to see exactly what had happened. That’s why it took so long to release crime scenes—good homicide detectives would come back two or three times to see how the scene changed as it aged.
She thought about the files on her coffee table. The Hometown Killer stabbed several of his victims. Could he have struck again, so soon, this time in Georgetown? And was this the reason Baldwin wanted her on the case? He sensed yet another connection?
No. She was reading into the crime scene, projecting all the horrors from the files she’d been reading the night before. It was all in her imagination.
She dragged her attention back to Fletcher, who was visibly upset. “This is staged to look like a murder-suicide. The note, the blood being dispersed, everything. But it’s a setup. How did we miss this?”
“Sometimes a zebra is a zebra,” Sam said. “And sometimes a zebra is an elephant in disguise.”
He cocked his head. “Huh?”
“Occam’s razor. Your team went to the most logical conclusion because that’s what the scene was meant to present. What exactly do we know about Amanda Souleyret?”
Fletcher caught the tone in her voice. “Not much. We just took her body out of here an hour ago. Why?” he asked slowly.
“Do you know where she’s from?”
Fletcher’s dark eyes were troubled. “We don’t know much at all. Just the basics. It’s early days in the investigation. I figured her family can fill us in.”
“I’d like to be there. To talk to them, I mean.”
“Sam, what aren’t you telling me?”
Sam ignored him. She bent, looked closer at the small breakfast bar. “Here,” she said quietly. “It started here.”
Fletcher nodded, ran a hand across his chin. He hadn’t shaved and the hairs rasped against his palm. “That’s what my blood spatter analyst said, too. First strike left that lovely castoff.” He pointed at the ceiling. Spots of blackened blood speckled the white. “I’d say whoever killed her was in a rare temper.”
Sam could envision the knife, gliding silver through the air, an overhand arc. Landing with a thunk into the woman’s neck, the arterial spray shooting. Souleyret’s screams, if she had screamed, would have been cut off as quickly as they started. And then he’d stabbed her again and again, driving her back into the bedroom, where Cattafi had tried to defend her, had put himself in the killer’s path.
She admired him for it. It would most likely cost him his life, but at least he’d die a hero. A waste, either way.
“Tell me what you know, Sam.”
“I don’t know anything, Fletch. For a moment, the scene seemed familiar. Just to satisfy my curiosity, when we finish up here, let’s stop back at my place. I’ll take a look at my files, see what’s niggling at me about this.”
He took her word for it. She tucked the odd feeling of familiarity away. She’d look at it later. There were other questions that needed to be answered. Most importantly, what was an undercover FBI agent doing in the apartment of a Georgetown University medical student?
She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. Smelled something off, something close. Deeper than the tang of blood and the effluvia of dead bodies. Sweet, almost flowerlike, but not. She couldn’t place it, had never come across the scent before. It wasn’t pleasant, and it wasn’t a natural part of the crime scene, she was sure. It smelled a bit like overripe honeysuckle, but sharper, with some mint, perhaps, both scents overlaid with a sickly rot that made her gorge rise.
Where was it coming from? She saw nothing unusual, or out of place, except for the copious streaks of blood.
“Fletch, come here. Do you smell anything?”
Fletcher breathed in deep. “Blood and gore and carpet cleaner. Maybe some old pot smoke. Bacon grease.”
“Nothing flowerlike? Like old flowers left to mold in a vase of water?”
“Like the way patchouli smells? I’ve never liked it, but I can’t say—”
“No, that’s not it.”
Fletcher came closer, sniffing. “Ugh. Yeah, I smell it now. What the hell? It wasn’t here earlier.”
Sam edged to the breakfast bar, wrinkled her nose as the smell grew stronger. She looked closer at the bar. Runnels of blood had come off the counter, streamed down the paneling. There was a break in the blood, almost as if a ruler had been placed in the down flow and the blood had run over it in a perfect line.
“Do you have a Maglite?” she asked.
“Sure,” Fletcher replied, handing her the flashlight he’d stuffed in his jacket pocket.
She shone the light on the edges of the counter, then down into the paneling. In one small area, about twelve inches across, the blood dribbled into nowhere, just plain disappeared. There was an edge here, a break in the wood. It was almost indistinguishable from the other panels—it looked like a normal seam where the pieces met. She reached out and pressed the edge, and a panel popped open. The scent gusted forth, and she stepped back, gagging.