“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whoever executed this operation has either done it before, probably in the military, or they planned for it extensively.”
“Are you saying that because of the-”
“Triangulation of fire. It’s the exact opposite of crossfire.” He peered closer at Browning. “Were you ever in SWAT, Ray?”
Browning shook his head. “No. Five years in patrol. The rest of it in investigations. Why?”
Chisolm squatted and motioned for Browning to do the same. “I know for a fact that you’re one hell of a detective, Ray,” Chisolm said. “Everyone does.”
“Thanks, but-”
“The thing is,” Chisolm continued, “that no one can know everything, right?”
“Of course not.”
“Even if some people think they do,” Chisolm added, his eyes flicking toward Lieutenant Crawford as he conversed with a Channel Five news reporter.
Browning smiled slightly. “Even if.”
“Okay, then. Here’s what you might not know.” Chisolm removed his pen from his uniform shirt and scratched in the dirt while he spoke. “Here’s the van,” he said, drawing a small circle in the dirt, “and here’s the house.”
“Got it.”
Chisolm marked the positions of the gunmen with a large dot for each. “This is where the shooters were staged,” he said. “Keep in mind that every one of them had cover and concealment, whether it was the one behind that tree over there or crouched next to the front tire of that pickup truck.”
Browning nodded.
Chisolm drew a line from shooter to shooter, creating a rough semicircle. “They’re covering about 120 degrees of the compass here. That gives them a huge field of fire, but it also keeps them from being in a crossfire and out of danger of hitting each other.” He emphasized his point by drawing lines from each shooter’s position toward the house.
“It was an ambush all along,” Browning muttered.
“Exactly,” Chisolm said. “They used the gangster drive-by tactic and threw a couple of shots into the house as a ruse. This draws the majority of the bangers outside.” He stabbed his pen into the dirt. “Once they’re outside, they walk into the middle of hell. From their perspective, bullets would have been coming from everywhere.”
Browning nodded thoughtfully. “One of the witnesses said that the shooting was loud and definitely from what she called machine guns. But she said it only lasted about five or ten seconds at the most.”
“Right,” Chisolm said, “because these guys knew what they were going to do. They had a plan. They had concentrated fire. They poured a full magazine of rounds down onto these poor bastards, went back to cover, and did a reload. Meanwhile, the van swoops in. They use it for cover as they get away.”
“That’s pretty organized,” Browning said. “And impressive.”
“It’s more than impressive,” Chisolm said. “It takes training, experience, and balls. You have to be ready for anything.”
“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Browning quoted.
Chisolm nodded emphatically. “Exactly. In this case, you got DeShawn here, who didn’t come outside right away because he was checking on his cousin. So he’s not in the kill zone when they open fire. He gets a good look at them after the first volley.”
“He was a little bit outgunned, it sounds like.”
“Sure he was. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do these guys do? When things don’t go as planned?”
Browning considered a moment. “They stay calm. They continue to fire. And they stick to their plan.”
“And they get away,” Chisolm added, smiling. He pulled his pen from the dirt and wiped it clean. The two men stood, both ignoring the crackling sounds of the other’s knees. “See, Ray? You’re as smart as I figured you were.”
Browning snorted. “We’ll see.”
“Detective Browning?”
Both men turned to see a man of about thirty years old in a suit. Chisolm recognized him immediately.
“Payne?” he asked, surprised.
Payne gave him a contemptuous look. “It’s Agent Payne,” he corrected, flashing his credentials. “FBI.”
Chisolm raised his thumb and forefinger to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Memories of a younger Maurice Payne riding in his training car danced in his head. He recalled the weak, mush-mouthed commands, all the fumbling, the constant mistakes.
“FBI,” he muttered. “Great. I don’t need this headache.”
“The agency is working in conjunction with your chief of police to address the issue of Russian organized crime in River City,” Payne announced. “I expect full cooperation from you on this matter, Detective.”
Browning waited a beat before offering a clipped “Of course.”
Chisolm opened his eyes and sighed.
Payne turned his gaze to Chisolm. “That goes for you as well, Officer Chisolm.”
Chisolm chuckled. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Payne answered, but Chisolm could see the spiteful delight dancing in his eyes.
“Sure you don’t,” Chisolm said. He nodded at Browning. “If you need anything, let me know.” Then he turned to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Payne asked.
Chisolm kept walking.
“I’m talking to you, Officer,” Payne yelled after him. “Come back here!”
“My shift’s over,” Chisolm said, not bothering to turn around. “And I don’t answer to you.”
When he reached the yellow crime scene tape, Ridgeway lifted it for him. He gave Chisolm a rare smile. “Have a good sleep, Tom,” he said.
Chisolm returned the grin and jerked his thumb in Payne’s direction. “Oh, with him in charge, I imagine I’ll sleep like a baby.”
0843 hours
Anthony Battaglia slid his house key into the lock and paused to gather himself. He’d stopped for beers again after work. With B.J. He’d promised himself he’d only have one, but before he realized it they’d each had three. Both had done a good job of keeping up pretenses that the sexual tension wasn’t there, while at the same time doing nothing to dispel it. Battaglia wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Well, you’re not gonna figure it out standing on the porch.
He closed the front door behind him as quietly as possible. He figured Rebecca would be awake, but it was summertime and they let the kids sleep in. He tossed his keys onto the table next to the door and wandered into the kitchen.
Rebecca sat at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked up when he walked in. “Busy night?”
Battaglia shrugged. “There was a shooting near the end of shift.”
“Was it bad?”
“It was a gang drive-by,” Battaglia answered. “They unloaded on those guys with assault rifles.” He reached out and took a bite of Rebecca’s toast. “Killed four.”
Rebecca lowered the newspaper. “Four?”
“Yep.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It wasn’t horrible when it was one?”
“It was,” Rebecca said, “but… four? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like that happening here before.”
Battaglia yawned. “I don’t know if it has or not.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He hoped she didn’t notice the beer on his breath. “I’m heading to bed.”
“Okay,” she said behind him. As he neared the doorway, she asked, “It was bad enough you needed beers after, huh?”
Battaglia looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of us from the platoon had choir practice after shift. Why?”
Rebecca gave him a warm smile. “It’s not a problem, babe. But I’m here if you want to talk to me, too, okay?”
Guilt washed over him. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Battaglia nodded. “Well, good night, then.” He turned to go.
“Babe?”
“Yeah?”
“I finished a new poem last night. I left it on the nightstand for you.”