Hunter dh-1 Read online

  The phone hummed again. He sighed and pushed himself away from her. The covers fell back, revealing her body to him for the first time in full light. His breath caught in his throat.

  His hand groped for the phone as he drank in the sight of her. “Yes?” he said, never taking his eyes off her.

  “Hello, Mr. Hunter. Sorry if I’m bothering you, sir. It’s ten-thirty. Would you be joining us for breakfast this morning in the dining room? We stop serving at eleven.”

  He stared at the swell of her breasts, the smooth, gentle curves of her belly and hips, the impossibly long legs. “No, I don’t think so. Thank you. Is it possible to have a breakfast sent to our cottage?”

  “Yes, sir. All day.”

  “That’s great. I’ll call in an order later.”

  He slid back under the covers, drew her close. Felt the silken warmth of her flesh against his. He wrapped his arms and legs around hers.

  Smiled and closed his eyes.

  *

  He felt something tickling his leg and woke up.

  She was sitting upright in the bed, naked in the soft light, like a pale goddess. Her finger was tracing the scar on his thigh.

  “Hi, you,” he said. “Good morning.”

  She looked at him. “Hi, you. But it’s afternoon.”

  They held each other’s eyes, remembering.

  “Wow,” he said.

  She began to giggle. “You creep. Do you have any idea how sore I am?”

  He sat up, grinning. “Aw, the poor baby. Should I kiss it and make it better?”

  She blushed and threw a pillow at him. He grabbed her and she squealed as he wrestled her back onto the thick down comforter. He held her close and they searched each other’s eyes and he kissed her, long and gently.

  She giggled again. “Down, boy.”

  “But you inspire me.”

  “ Please, Dylan. I just couldn’t. Besides, I’m starved.”

  He sighed. “Okay. I’ll order room service. Besides, I guess I’ve gotten my money’s worth from last night’s dinner.”

  “You bastard,” she laughed, pounding his shoulder with her fist. Then, looking serious, she held his face between her hands. “Dylan?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way. You’ve got a gorgeous body. But the scars. Do you mind telling me what happened?”

  He buried his face against her throat. Felt its pulse against his lips.

  “Automobile accident. Three years ago. Truck crossed the center line. I swerved, but he clipped me and sent me over the guard rail. My car flipped a few times. I was pretty badly carved up.”

  He felt her forefinger on his scalp, tracking the thin scar down and along his jawline. “My face was especially bad. The door caved in and mashed it pretty good. It took the doctors weeks to put it back together.”

  “They did a great job. I love this face.”

  “I’m glad. It took me a while to get used to the new me.”

  “You didn’t look like this before?”

  “Somebody once told me I used to look like Tom Hanks.”

  “Well, now you look a lot like Clive Owen.”

  “Who’s Clive Owen?”

  She kissed his cheek. “A man who looks a lot better than Tom Hanks.”

  *

  She lay back against him in the tub, her head resting on his chest. The hot, powerful jets pounded at them, raising coils of steam into the air. He could smell the scented candles positioned around them. He tilted his head back, noticing for the first time that the ceiling of the luxurious bathroom was composed of mirrored tiles. Using his legs, he lifted her body slightly out of the water.

  “What are you doing?” she said above the churning noise of the jets. “I’m getting cold.”

  He pointed toward the ceiling. “Look at us.”

  In the shimmering candlelight, the steam drifted like fog across their reflected bodies, alternately hiding and revealing.

  “Oh, great. I’ve gotten myself involved with a voyeur.”

  “No jury of men would convict me.” In the mirrored surface, he watched his own dark hand slide slowly over the naked, glistening curves of her torso. “I feel like Michelangelo.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “We are beautiful together, aren’t we.”

  He squeezed her, then closed his eyes, letting their bodies relax and drift as one in the roiling water. He tried to push from his mind all thoughts of his past and his future. He tried to hold onto nothing but this moment of magic.

  But the warning voice was whispering.

  NINETEEN

  Rockville, Maryland

  Thursday, September 25, 1:02 p.m.

  When the blond man with the mustache and sunglasses entered the crowded clubhouse and looked around, Barton Ames figured that it had to be the guy. He pushed away from the bar and carried his Scotch over to meet him.

  The man turned to him. Smiled. “Mr. Ames. How do you do?” He held out his hand.

  “That’s me. Thanks for making the trip over.”

  “No trouble at all,” Grayson said. “I am delighted that you saw my little ad here on the bulletin board.”

  “Me, too,” Ames replied. “New carts cost an arm and a leg, so I have to stick with used. But if yours is everything you say it is, the price sure is right.”

  “Shall we take a look?”

  “Great.” He downed the rest of his drink, left the glass on a table, and they went outside.

  Grayson wore brown tweed, real high-quality. He had this air about him, too, like some kind of aristocrat or something. A faint accent. Upper crust, for sure. And you couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored shades. Ames felt a little intimidated by the guy.

  “So, you said you don’t have time for golf anymore?” Ames asked as they crossed the grass near the first tee.

  “Not with my travel schedule. My clientele is far-flung, regrettably. I rarely stay in one place long enough to have the opportunity to work on my game. So, it’s a complete waste to keep a cart.”

  “Investment advisor, did you say?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, my sporting goods shop-business hasn’t been so great this year.” He grinned. “So maybe you got some hot investment tips?”

  A little smile played on the man’s lips. “A golf cart, perhaps?”

  He laughed. Grayson was cool, for sure.

  They reached a row of parked golf carts, where Grayson pointed out the pale green one with the white sun top. Ames walked around it, took a long look at the electric engine and batteries, ran his hand over the white leather seats. He liked the rear flip seat, too, since he often golfed in a foursome. He asked Grayson to start it up for him, and the thing hummed smooth and quiet.

  “It’s a beauty, all right. Looks brand new.”

  “It’s three years old, but as you can see, I haven’t used it much. In fact, it’s been sitting idle for so long that the original tires suffered. So, I got rid of the old ones last week and put on a new set. Also, I had it cleaned thoroughly. I think it’s good to go.”

  “And only twenty-four hundred, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  Ames nodded. “Well, your loss is my gain.”

  Grayson turned to him; his mirrored sunglasses reflected the mid-day sun.

  “I wouldn’t say that I am losing anything,” he said, smiling. “It served its purpose.”

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Thursday, September 25, 2:45 p.m.

  “Got some new paper here on the forensics,” Paul Erskine said, entering the office.

  Cronin looked up from the piles of paperwork on his desk. “Okay, put it on that stack.”

  “FBI report’s on top.” The stocky, middle-aged detective plopped several file folders onto an already-teetering column.

  “They send that stuff out to the rest of the task force yet?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me the talking points.”

  Erskine s
ettled his bulky frame into the worn armchair next to the desk. “Let’s start with the ballistics. The slug they retrieved at the scene, this time it was an Alabama Ammo Special K.”

  “So what have we had so far? Bracey’s round was a Remington Golden Saber. Valenti’s was a Fiocchi, right?”

  Erskine nodded. “They’ve all got things in common, though. All 9 x 19’s, all subsonic. But Ballistics says that from the rifling, they all came out of different barrels.”

  “So three different guns, then. Which tends to confirm our theory of multiple shooters. Subsonic ammo and nobody hears any shots-so figure they’re using silencers, too. What else?”

  “The tire prints are common Goodyears. Length and depth of the tracks, and the mark where the rear ramp came down to unload the golf cart, all consistent with a small box truck-like the ten-or-twelve-foot Ryders and U-Hauls. The federales ran down all the rental places within a hundred miles for the days before and after. So far, zip. If it’s privately owned, we got problems, because they’re not really sure about the make or year.”

  “Terrific. Tell me more.”

  “From the tracks on the lawn, they ID’d the brands of the golf cart tires and the man’s golf shoes.”

  “Golf shoes?” He chuckled. “Clever. They dressed the part. They probably figured- Wait. Did you say ‘man’s’? Singular?”

  “What I said. Just one set of footprints, in and out. Also, one set, the same ones, where the truck was parked. Looks like only one guy unloads Conrad and the cart from the truck. Then shoots Conrad right at the scene. Then drives him on the cart over to the house. Then lugs the stiff all the way across the yard to the flagpole. Carries him, ’cause there’s no drag marks. Then climbs the pole, rigs the pulley, and hoists the body. All by his lonesome.”

  Cronin frowned and sat back in his swivel chair. “Jesus. He has to be hellaciously strong. What do we have here, a weightlifter?”

  Erskine looked at him over the top of his half-moon reading glasses and shrugged. “You’d think, but he can’t be too big. Yeah, we have deep prints tracking in-short steps, because he’s carrying the body. The prints going out, though, they’re much shallower and wider spaced. From that, the feebs say the depth works out to somebody no more than two hundred, max, probably lighter. And the stride suggests medium-tall height, maybe just over six feet.”

  “I’ll be damned. Okay, what about the pole? Prints, blood, fibers?”

  “Dream on.”

  “The pulley?”

  “Homemade gadget. The tube part of it tracks back to the type of pipe used at probably half the construction sites around here. They could’ve bought or just swiped a chunk of it almost anywhere. The pulley itself, and the weld rod they used to make the tube, they’re the most common brands out there, too. You can get them at any hardware store.”

  Cronin thought about it. “They had to know all about that flagpole in advance to fabricate that pulley gizmo to fit it. And the golf cart: They knew where they were going and what they needed once they got there. That means they had to be inside that community snooping around on at least one previous occasion. Just like the other hits, these guys planned this one down to the tiny details.”

  “Did they ever.”

  “They aren’t making it easy for us. They’re real pros.” Cronin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Then looked at his partner. “Paul, you know what worries me?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m starting to think that maybe they’re law enforcement. Current or ex.”

  “Jesus. You think?”

  He sighed. “Right now I don’t know what to think.”

  “Don’t worry, Ed. Whoever they are, they’re taking way too many chances. Sooner or later, they’re gonna screw up.”

  “Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Friday, September 26, 6:45 p.m.

  “Who the hell is this?” Bronowski answered his cell with his patented charm.

  “The last great hope of Western civilization.”

  “Oh. Hunter. Your name didn’t come up on the Caller ID.”

  “I would hope not.”

  “So, what’s the occasion? Feeling lonely? Where are you? Want to come to my house and introduce yourself, at long last? Meet the wife and mooch some supper?”

  “Nothing, no, none of your business, no, and no. I’m in my car, heading off on a few weeks’ vacation.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed, Bill. Haven’t I caused you enough grief for the time being?”

  “You have, and then some. But I was hoping you might do a follow-up on the Lamont story next week. I’ve gotten mail from a few people, crime victims, who want us to poke into the history of his rulings in criminal trials.”

  He pulled into the driveway, shut off the car. “Lamont is hiding out, for the time being. He can’t do any immediate harm, so a follow-up piece will wait. Meanwhile, something else has my attention.”

  “Good to hear. I trust it’s got a lot of potential.”

  He was looking at Annie’s house. “Definitely.”

  *

  Hours later, illuminated only by soft candlelight, they lay in each other’s arms in her big four-poster.

  He nuzzled her fragrant hair. His limbs felt heavy and relaxed. His body seemed to be floating, drifting along in a slow, languorous current.

  It dawned on him that he was happy. Happy, for the first time in many years. The realization astonished him.

  What did you do to yourself?

  “Dylan?”

  He closed his eyes and squeezed her. “Yes?”

  “I know we’re both private people. But the thought occurred to me again today-I don’t even know where you live.”

  He opened his eyes. Saw shadows moving on the walls, cast by the sputtering candles.

  “I mean, isn’t that little strange?”

  You knew it would come to this.

  “I have an apartment in Bethesda. In a high-rise, right off Wisconsin Avenue. Just a couple of blocks from the Metro.”

  She remained quiet.

  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I think you’ll like it. Why don’t we go there next weekend?”

  She snuggled against him, the satin sheets whispering with her movements. “That sounds nice.” He heard the smile in her voice.

  Trust.

  Hers and mine.

  He kissed her forehead and closed his eyes again.

  TWENTY

  Cannon House Office Building Washington, D.C.

  Friday, October 3, 11:08 a.m.

  Kenneth MacLean did not often have a case of nerves. But he did now as he waited in the marble rotunda of the Cannon Office Building, watching the House Majority Whip conclude a live television interview.

  For his part, Congressman Morrie Horowitz seemed relaxed and comfortable under the camera lights, standing against the impressive, familiar backdrop of soaring white Corinthian columns. He toyed playfully with a well-known Capitol Hill correspondent for CNN, like a genial, horse-faced grandfather handling a naughty child. But MacLean knew that the affable appearance was an illusion. You don’t get to be a party Whip if you don’t enjoy hardball politics.

  Echoing noise from a small group of visitors made the interview unintelligible at this distance. MacLean took the opportunity to lean over the second-floor balustrade and admire the vaulted dome, where natural light poured through the central glazed oculus. It reminded him of the one in the Pantheon in Rome, which he had toured during a vacation visit to the Vatican a few years before.

  He noticed that the reporter had turned to the camera and was making what looked like concluding remarks. When he finished, a scruffy young man standing beside the camera made a knife motion across his throat. Horowitz’s young aide, George, who had been leaning against a column, approached his boss and pointed in his direction. Before MacLean could even move, the politician was he
aded his way, led by a toothy grin that beamed as bright as the television lights.

  “Ken, great to see you! So good of you to stop by,” he said, pumping MacLean’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder as if they were old college drinking buddies. It was only the second time they’d ever met.

  “My pleasure, Congressman.”

  “Wish I could’ve met you in the office, Ken, but I have a vote coming up at eleven-thirty. Have a few minutes? Good. Walk with me.”

  Horowitz led the way while two aides trailed them. They made small talk until they arrived at an imposing set of bronzed elevator doors. Once inside, Horowitz didn’t waste time getting to the point.

  “About H.R. 207, Ken. We’re all tied up with other business for the next couple of months, but we’re looking good for squeezing a vote in before the Christmas recess.”

  “That’s great to hear, Congressman.” MacLean started to relax.

  “But the reason I wanted to talk to you. Some people in my caucus are beginning to get a bit nervous. It’s all that vigilante nonsense, and those Inquirer stories about crime victims.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nobody wants to be tagged as ‘soft on crime.’”

  “I know.”

  They were now walking along the broad underground passageway that linked the Cannon Building to the Capitol. Thick pipes and cable conduits ran along one wall, while the other was decorated with pictures.

  “Hey now, don’t worry. We’re still in good shape for a floor vote. Just a few folks are wavering, that’s all. I’m sure I can hold them. Especially since nobody has gone directly after the bill in the media. We do get some mail from the victims’ rights groups, but so far there’s no public commotion.”

  “I see.” He understood the implication. And it caused him to remember the phone call yesterday-an interview request from some researcher with a funny name. Diffendooser, or something like that. He was glad now that he hadn’t taken the call.

  “So the plan is, we keep a low profile until the vote. If there’s any public discussion, though, I may have to call upon you again, and your associate-what’s his name?”

  “Dr. Carl Frankfurt.”