Hunter: A Thriller (28 page)

“No bother at all, Ms. Woods. We’re watching his place. But you sound upset. Is everything all right?”

He heard her draw a deep breath. “I’m just calling to say that I can’t do this anymore.”

Erskine
threw him a questioning look. Cronin put his finger to his lips, then put her on speaker, so his partner could listen in. “Tell me what’s the matter,” he said, keeping his voice gentle.

“He called tonight. Just a little while ago. We talked only briefly. But I could tell how hurt he was. He doesn’t think he can trust me.”

Erskine
rolled his eyes.

“Ms. Woods, I understand you’re upset. But think about it. If he’s guilty of something,
of course
he would be angry if he thought he couldn’t continue to con you.”

“You didn’t hear me. I said
hurt
, not angry. Detective Cronin, I
know
him. And yes, I realize he’s not telling me everything about his past, and yes, some things still don’t add up. But I also know that he’s a decent man. And a compassionate one, in so many ways. He has the strongest code of personal honor of any man I’ve ever known. So I just can’t buy your theory about him. I don’t think he’s involved.”

“My theory doesn’t contradict anything you said, though. If I’m right, he’s probably the brains behind the vigilante team. He’s certainly intelligent enough. And as for his code of honor—Ms. Woods, have you ever heard the term ‘righteous slaughter’?”

“No. What’s that?”

“It’s when somebody kills a bunch of people because he’s convinced himself that they deserve it. You see it all the time with mass murderers—the guys who walk into some fast-food joint or post office and mow down everybody in sight. They always have some grand excuse for it, some grievance or injustice they think rationalizes their revenge. The people they shot all had it coming to them. Well, that’s not much different from the way vigilantes think, is it?”

“Except that in this case, the people getting shot really
do
deserve it.”

Erskine
grinned and gave a thumb’s-up; Cronin scowled at him.

“Well, miss, that’s not for us to decide. We just can’t let individuals decide for themselves who lives and who dies, and for what reason. But you’re forgetting things. Like that pizza van you’re sure he was in. How do we explain things like that?”

“Detective, we both know he takes elaborate security precautions. He has to. That was probably part of it: something he does so that people can’t follow him. Have you asked yourself how much of his behavior can be explained by simple paranoia?”

“Fair point, I suppose. But why would he have to be paranoid about us? We’re on his side. But he’s not been fully honest, either with me or with you.”

“You know
exactly
why he’s not been open with you—he told you himself. He knows you’re associated with the people who want to silence him. And I know why he can’t trust me, either. It’s because
I’ve
been deceiving
him
, almost since the day we met. About important things that he has a right to know. I think he senses it. And I think that’s why he’s holding back. He has damned good reason not to trust me. Not to trust either of us, Detective. Maybe if we give him more reasons to believe in us, he’ll open up and tell us the things we need to know.”

He gave up. “Okay. So how did you leave it with him?”

“He said we probably both need a little break from each other. A couple of weeks. Then he wants to try to work things out.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that he was really beat tonight and wanted to turn in early.”

He glanced up at the window, watched the light from the TV moving on the curtain.

“Ms. Woods, I told you that I’d love to believe this guy. I really would. So you trust him, then.”

“With my life.”

COLUMBIA HEIGHTS
,
WASHINGTON
, D.C.
Thursday, November 27, 11:10 p.m.

From his vantage point in the SUV parked next to the kids’ playground, he could see into the rear yard behind the apartment buildings. At eleven-ten, an Hispanic kid in his early teens clambered down the steps of the building to his left, being dragged along by a big Doberman on a leash. The dog couldn’t wait to get out into the small yard the before lifting his leg against a bush.

During his recons the past few nights, he’d watched the kid walk the dog several times around eleven. He was relieved that the kid, and not his target, owned the dog: No way he’d break into an apartment and face down a guard dog. Still, even though the animal would be in another apartment, he might bark up a storm when he entered.

In addition, the target, Orlando Navarro, was obviously on guard, keeping out of sight for the most part, and staying close to other people whenever he emerged from his apartment. From all reports, Navarro—a beefy bodybuilder covered with gang tats—was no genius. But it didn’t take genius to figure out that murderers whose names appeared in the newspapers were vigilante targets.

And the fact that his old
amigo,
Tomas Cardenas, had been whacked must have scared the hell out of him. Navarro had gone into hiding immediately after
Cardenas
was killed, changing his residence, with permission of the court. However, he had a problem staying hidden. Though free on appeal for the killing of Tommy
Banacek
, he was still on the hook with his probation officer for past crimes. Navarro had to show up at the office once a week to check in with the Man and take a urine test. And his P.O. knew where he lived.

So it really wasn’t too hard to track him down. From a disposable cell phone, he’d called a low-level clerk in the probation department, routing the call through an online Caller ID “spoofing” service. The service allowed his phone to “spoof” the local courthouse’s phone number, so that it appeared on the clerk’s Caller ID. The service was even programmed to alter his voice as he spoke.

All it took, then, was a little “
pretexting
”: prying privileged information from an unsuspecting source by impersonating somebody with a legitimate need to know. His pretext was that he was a records manager at the courthouse. He told the probation clerk that the judge needed to know if one Orlando Ramirez Navarro had been complying fully with the terms of his probation. Could the clerk look up his records, please?.... Great. Now, at what day and time are Mr. Navarro’s weekly appointments with his P.O.?.... Uh-huh. And have his urine tests been coming back clean?.... Good. By the way, let me read off the contact information we have, just to make sure it’s all correct in our records.... Oh, you say that’s his
old
address? Well, please give me the new one, so that I can update our files.... Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Jones.

Piece of cake.

So, the guileless clerk had pointed him to Navarro’s new digs in this public-housing complex in
Columbia Heights
. A lot of Hispanics lived in the area, and his target no doubt hoped that he would blend right in. From his recons, during which he used a different vehicle each night, he was sure that the guy lived alone. Gang pals sometimes showed up in the evening, allowing him to note which second-floor apartment lights went on and off when they arrived and left. That gave him an idea of the layout of the place. Tonight, a couple of them showed up around eight and left at ten-thirty. One set of windows, which he’d figured for the living room, went dark about eleven, and immediately the window to its left lit up. The bedroom. He’d be in there by himself, now.

For this job, he’d use a combo from the Eastern Shore weapons cache that already had been used previously: the Beretta 92FS with SWR Trident suppressor, popping Alabama Ammo 147 grain Special Ks.
R
eliable, accurate, and most importantly, very quiet.

But this couldn’t be like any of the previous missions; that had already been decided. The plan was to leave the target here, with the news clipping on him. It was just too difficult to remove the body, unseen, and deposit it where it might be more symbolically appropriate.

Still, this guy—the second gang-banger involved in the death of George
Banacek’s
kid—just had to go. For one thing, he was unfinished business. For another, after he was taken out, the other murderers in the news stories would know that none of them could hide anywhere.

He waited for the kid to drag the Doberman back inside, then gave it another two minutes for everyone to settle in. His watch said eleven-fifteen. Time to go hunting.

Once the traffic cleared, he rolled the Chevy Trailblazer out from the curb, down the street past the front of the building, then into the driveway that led behind the complex. He backed into a parking spot close to the building, leaving the engine running. The silenced Beretta and newspaper clipping were inside the deep, right-hand pocket of his long leather coat. A small lock-pick gun was inside the left one.

There were no security cameras to worry about, but he wore a broad-brimmed leather hat, anyway, and kept his head down as he moved down the sidewalk and up the short steps to the building entrance. He also wore brown leather gloves to match his coat and hat. A good gangster look that wouldn’t be out of place here.

The door lock was no problem; the electronic pick got him inside within ten seconds. Against the wall to his right, stairs led to the second- and third-floor apartments. He made sure to keep himself physically oriented as he crept up to the second-floor hallway. Estimating the distances from what he’d seen from the front of the building, he knew that Navarro occupied the second apartment to his left.

He stepped quietly to that door. Listened. Noise from a TV or stereo from within, probably the bedroom. More bass thumping from somewhere else down the hall. Good. The racket would mask any sounds of his entry.

He glanced down the hallway in both directions. Clear. Then drew the Beretta from his coat. One in the chamber, full
mag
, hammer down. He thumbed off the safety. With his left hand, he carefully inserted the pick into the upper dead-bolt lock and pressed the button. Even the soft buzz-rattle of the pick made him cringe. Then stuck it into the door-knob keyhole. Another brief buzz. He withdrew the pick, dropped it back into his coat pocket.

Pointing the gun upward in his right hand, he leaned against the door with his left shoulder. Carefully turned the doorknob with his left hand. Eased the door open, just enough so that he could slip quickly into the darkened room and swing it almost shut behind him, leaving it slightly ajar for a fast exit.

For just a second, he saw the bright rectangle of the bedroom entrance, ahead and to his right.

Then there was a rustle and blur of motion on his left.

The big Doberman, barely visible in the weak light from the bedroom, was so fast that he only had an instant to jerk up his left arm to shield himself as it leaped. Its weight and momentum knocked him back against the apartment door, slamming it shut loudly.

His hand banged against something and he dropped the gun.

He fought to retain his balance as the dog snarled and clamped down on his left forearm. It shook its head violently, its sharp teeth tearing right through the thick leather and into his arm. The pain was excruciating.

He regained his footing, straightening his body and lifting hard with his arm. But the animal, growling savagely, wasn’t about to let loose; he only succeeded in pulling it upright, flat against his body. Barely a foot from his face, its wild eyes glinted darkly into his.

Then his peripheral vision caught a huge silhouette in the bedroom doorway.

“
Matar
!”
Navarro yelled. Then lunged toward him.

One chance.

He pushed out with his left forearm, forcing the Doberman’s head back vertically, while simultaneously crashing his right forearm down like an axe against the back of the dog’s neck. He heard the snap, felt the jaws release. He kneed the dying creature hard, propelling it into the path of the charging giant. Navarro stumbled over its body, staggering toward him, off-balance.

He took a step forward to meet him, grabbed his huge, flailing left arm, then pivoted, pulling him and accelerating his forward momentum. The big man slammed head-first into the wall, sinking to his knees.

He snapped out a front kick; his boot caught the back of Navarro’s head, banging it again into the wall. Stunned, the guy slid farther down the wall—then stopped, propping himself with his huge arms, planted like quivering tree trunks on the floor.

He pivoted again and snapped out a side kick, this time against the guy’s left elbow. Heard the
crunch.
Navarro toppled, rolled over onto his back, then seized his elbow with his other hand and started screaming.

He stopped that by dropping on the guy’s throat with his knee. Navarro’s limbs shook and twitched.

He stood, swaying, and groped for the light switch on the wall near the door. Found and snapped it on.

With a crushed larynx, Navarro couldn’t breathe. The big man’s eyes bugged out; his bear-like right hand now pawed helplessly at this throat, his face turning blue. The twitching of his legs was slowing. He’d be unconscious in seconds. Then die.

Not that way.

He looked around, found the Beretta near the door. Went to Navarro and bent over him. The guy’s bulging eyes still tracked him.

“This is for Tommy
Banacek
, you bastard.” He stood back, aimed at his head, and pulled the trigger. Then shoved the gun back into the coat pocket, pulled out the newspaper clipping, and dropped it onto his chest.

Only then did he notice the rising din of shouts in the building. Of doors opening down the hallway. He leaped to the door and flipped the deadbolt back in place. Looked around the scene for anything he may have dropped. His hat. He picked it up and put it back on. What else?

That’s when he saw the spatters of blood.

He looked at his left arm for the first time. The leather was stained dark; a trickle flowed from the end of the sleeve, dripping onto the floor and into his glove.

His blood. His DNA.

Not good.

Elevating the arm, which hurt like hell, he pawed his coat open with his other hand. A zippered pouch was sewn inside. He yanked open the zipper, drew out a small spray bottle from among its other contents. Then crouched and began to spray the blood drops everywhere he saw them.

Excited voices at the door, now, babbling in Spanish.

He wheeled around, bloody arm pressed against his body, looking everywhere for stains he’d missed. Found a few more and sprayed.

Knocking.
“
Orlando
? ¿
Estás
bien
amigo?”

He had to get out. Now.

He shoved the bottle back into the coat pouch. Killed the lights again. In the glow from the bedroom, he jumped over the dog’s body, then headed over there and flipped off those lights, too. The whole place was dark, now.

Somebody rattling the doorknob, then pounding the door.
“
Orlando
!
Abre
la
puerta
!”

He ran to the sliding glass door at the front of the apartment. Unlatched and yanked it open, went outside onto the second-floor patio balcony. Felt the clamminess in his left glove. If he touched anything, he’d leave blood traces. If he removed it, he’d leave fingerprints. He scanned the yard below him. He’d have to get down from here one-handed.

He waited until a car passed on the street, then clambered awkwardly over the iron railing. Holding on with his right hand, he knelt at the edge. Then gripping the bottom of the railing one-handed, he let one leg at a time slide over the edge. He dangled a second, then let go.