The Innocent (18 page)

Robie still said nothing.

Julie looked out the window. “My parents were all I had. I ran away when I could have stayed and helped them. Now they’re dead. I know I’m young, but I can help you. If you just give me a chance.”

Robie looked out the window too. “Okay. We’ll do this together. But it’ll be tricky.”

“So what do I do first?” she said eagerly.

“You have a paper and pen in your bag?”

“Yes. And I have the laptop my school gave me.”

“How long ago did you see your parents?”

“About a week.”

“Okay, you write down everything you can remember about the last couple of weeks. I want you to try and recall anything you saw, heard, or suspected. Anything your parents said. No matter if it seemed insignificant. And anyone else around who they knew or were talking to.”

“Is this busy work or is it really important?”

“Neither one of us has time to waste on busy work. This is stuff we need.”

“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll start tonight.”

He rose to go.

“Will?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll make a good partner, you’ll see.”

“I have no doubt, Julie.”

But his gut was ice. He much preferred to work alone. He didn’t like having another life riding on him.

“R
OBIE, GOT TIME
for a cup of coffee?”

It was Nicole Vance on the phone.

Robie had answered the call on his way down the elevator after leaving Julie. He’d given the teenager a key to the apartment but asked her not to leave it without checking with him first. And he had told her to set the alarm.

“Anything break on the case?” he asked the FBI agent.

“There’s a place open late near First and D southeast called Donnelly’s. I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Give me ten more than that.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“I’ll see you there.”

Robie grabbed his car from the street. The traffic across town was light at this hour. He parked on First and gazed up at the Capitol dome in the background. Five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress plied their trade near here in various buildings named after long-dead politicians. They, in turn, were surrounded by an army of lobbyists flush with cash who worked relentlessly to convince the elected officials of the unassailable righteousness of their causes. Such was democracy.

Donnelly’s was busy for the lateness of the hour. Most of the patrons were drinking something stronger than coffee. When Robie hit the doorway, Vance caught his eye from the back of the main room.

He sat across from her. Her clothes were off-duty ones because she’d been home. Slacks, flats, light blue sweater, corduroy jacket.
Good choices for the chill in the air. Her hair was down around her shoulders. It had been tied back earlier. Long hair and crime scenes were sometimes problematic. She smelled of a fresh shower with a light dusting of perfume. She must have scrubbed hard, thought Robie. The stink of death could get right into your pores.

Her cup of coffee was parked in front of her. With a wave of his hand Robie got the waitress’s attention and pointed at Vance’s cup and then at himself.

He waited until the woman came with a fresh cup and departed before he focused on Vance.

“So here I am.”

“You’re a hard man to find.”

“You only called me once.”

“No, I mean at DCIS. I called the number you gave me. They confirmed you worked there, but your file is classified.”

“Nothing earth-shattering about that. Told you I was out of the country for a while. That stuff was classified. Now I’m back.” He took a sip of coffee and set his cup back down. “Please tell me that’s not the only reason you asked for this meeting.”

“It’s not. I don’t like to waste time, so here we go.”

She pulled a manila folder from the bag sitting next to her. She opened the file and took out some photos and pages.

“Background on Rick Wind.”

Robie leafed through the photos and written materials. One picture was of Wind in death, hanging above the urine-smelling floor of his pawnshop. The other photos were of Wind in life. Several of him in military uniform.

“Army, huh?”

“Career enlisted. Went in at eighteen. Did his full time and then he was out. He was forty-three.”

“Their kids were little. Did they start late?”

“Jane and Rick Wind were married ten years. Lots of failed attempts at getting pregnant. Then they hit the jackpot twice in three years. Then they decide to end the marriage. Go figure.”

“Maybe Rick Wind decided he didn’t want to be a father.”

“Not sure. They had joint custody of the kids.”

“Where was he living?”

“In Prince George’s County, Maryland.”

“You find a cause of death?”

“ME’s still working on that. No obvious wounds other than his tongue being cut out.” She paused. “Isn’t that what the mob would do to snitches?”

“Did Wind have ties to the mob?”

“Not that we know of. And he wasn’t working with any federal or local police investigations as an informant. But he runs a pawnshop in a bad part of town. Maybe he was laundering dirty money and got his fingers caught in the cookie jar.”

“And they kill his wife and kid too?”

“Maybe as a warning against other future skimmers.”

“Seems a bit much. Particularly since they must’ve known Jane Wind was a Fed and her murder would trigger FBI involvement. I mean, why bring yourself the extra grief?”

“Thank you for your faith in the crime-busting prowess of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Time of death?” he asked.

“About three days, the ME said.”

“No one noticed him missing? His ex?”

“Like I said, they had joint custody. It was her week. They apparently didn’t communicate much. He worked the pawnshop alone. Maybe he didn’t have many friends.”

“Okay, but this all could have waited until tomorrow.”

“The gun we found near the bombed-out bus was the same gun that fired that round into Jane Wind’s floorboard.”

“I know. You already told me that.” Robie picked up his cup and took another sip.

Never should have fired the round. Never should have lost my weapon.

“And the kill round for Wind and her son?” he asked.

“Different weapon entirely. Rifle round. Came through the window like we speculated.”

“Again, all of this could have come over the phone.”

“The rifle round was pretty special.”

“How so?”

“Looks to be military-grade ammo,” she said flatly.

Robie took another sip of coffee. Though his heart was beating a little faster, his hand did not shake even slightly.

“What was the specific round? Could they tell or was it too deformed?”

“It was jacketed. Came out in fine shape.” She looked at her notes. “It was a 175-grain Sierra MatchKing Hollow Point Boat Tail. That specific enough for you?”

“Lots of that kind of ammo around.”

“Yeah, but our gun expert said this was different. Special Ball, long-range, and slight residue of a modified extruded propellant. I’m not sure what all that means, quite frankly. But he speculated it was U.S. military. Sound right to you?”

“Our guys use that ammo. But so do the Hungarians, the Israelis, the Japanese, and the Lebanese.”

“You’re just full of gun facts. I’m impressed.”

“I’ll give you some more. The U.S. military uses the M24 Weapon System. Our target was over three hundred meters from the shooter with a single pane of glass in between. And weather conditions last night were fine with very little wind. The round you’re talking about is also called the 7.62 MK 316 MOD O. The components of the 175-grain round are the Sierra projectile, Federal Cartridge Company match cartridge case, Gold Medal match primer, and the modified extruded propellant. That round leaves the barrel at over twenty-six hundred foot-pounds per second. At three hundred meters, the Sierra would have plenty of juice to clear a child’s skull with enough kill power to end another life in close proximity.”

Robie had really been thinking out loud. But when he saw the look on Vance’s face he wished he had kept these technical observations to himself.

“You know a lot about sniper stuff?” she asked.

“I’m with the DOD. But the Sierra ordnance is also available to the public. Too bad we don’t have the casing.”

“Oh, but we do. The shooter didn’t police his brass. Or at least if he did he wasn’t successful.”

“Where was it? I didn’t see it in the room the sniper was set up in, and I was looking for it.”

“Crack in the baseboard. The casing was ejected, hit the concrete, probably bounced and rolled right into the crack. Completely invisible. The sniper was operating in the dark. No electricity in that building. Even if he tried to look for it before making his getaway he wouldn’t have spotted it. My guys only found it later, when they were on their hands and knees with laser lights.

Robie licked his lips. “Okay, let me ask you something. Maybe you know the answer, maybe you don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Was the casing shiny or dull?”

“I don’t know. They found it after I had already left. But one phone call can answer that.”

“Make the call.”

“It’s important?”

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

She made the call, asked the question, and received the answer.

“Dull, not shiny. In fact my guy said a little discolored. Do you think it was old ammo?”

Robie finished his coffee.

She tapped her fingernail impatiently against the tabletop. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Robie. I made the call. Got the answer. Now tell me why it’s significant.”

“The military doesn’t use seconds or rejects or old ammo. But manufacturers charge extra to buff up the casing to make it look shiny and pretty. The Army could give a crap about that; it has nothing to do with operational performance. A dull bullet flies as straight and true as a shiny one. And the Army buys millions of rounds, so it saves them a ton of money to go without the extra buffing. Now, the civilian rounds are typically shiny because those folks don’t mind paying extra.”

“So then we’re definitely looking at military-grade ammo?”

“And that makes things more complicated.”

“Is that all you can say?” she said in an incredulous tone.

“What do you want me to say?” he replied evenly.

“If this is a U.S. military hit on a government employee then this is not just complicated. This is a shitstorm. That’s what I want you to say.”

“Okay, this is a
potential
shitstorm. Satisfied?”

“By the way my boss was royally pissed that you shot your way into that pawnshop. He said he was going to be talking to DCIS.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll pull me from the case.”

“Where the hell are you coming from, Robie? Do you even want to be an investigator?”

“Are we done here?” He started to get up.

She looked up at him. “I don’t know, are we?”

He left.

She followed him outside.

Vance put a hand on his shoulder. “Actually, I’m not done with you.”

Robie grabbed her arm, pulled hard, and they both fell behind some trash cans. An instant later a barrage of bullets shattered the front window of Donnelly’s.

R
OBIE ROLLED, LIFTED
his gun from its holster, and aimed through a crevice between the toppled trash cans. His target was a black SUV with the rear side window down a crack. The muzzle of an MP-5 submachine gun was visible there and was currently spewing out a hail of bullets.

Right before the shots had started Robie had pushed Vance down and behind him. When she tried to rise up, he slammed her back down.

“Keep down or you’ll lose your damn head.”

The bullets from the MP shredded the trees, outdoor tables and chairs, and big umbrellas and pinged off the building’s brick façade.

People inside Donnelly’s and out on the street screamed, ducked, and ran for cover. Through all the chaos, Robie kept his calm and fired. His shots were dead-on. He hit tire rubber to disable the vehicle, the front and rear passenger windows to knock out the shooter and the driver, and the front-side metal of the SUV to kill the engine.