“You believe in a frontal assault.”
“Exactly, exactly right.” Shepard shoved the toothpick into his mouth. “So you think you can handle this, three hundred guys under your watch, some of ’em who hate your guts?”
“First of all, they’re not all male, and second of all, yeah. I can handle it. The task force is designed to compartmentalize everything.”
“It’s also designed to have everything and everyone funneled to you. You will be interfacing with a lot of these people. You will.”
“Not a problem,” Uzi said.
“Don’t let me down,” Shepard said. “Just don’t let me down.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me where we stand.”
“Working on a number of things. A buddy of mine from the Pentagon is poking around with me. Hector DeSantos.”
“I know.”
Uzi hesitated — Shepard clearly had his sources — then said, “Hector’s sharp. We make a good team.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got two hundred ninety-nine other team members.”
Uzi reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of message slips. “They won’t let me forget. Can I go now? I’ve got some calls to return.” He stood up and started for the door.
“I heard you kept your appointment with the shrink.”
Uzi turned, his hand on the knob. “I made you a promise. I keep my word.”
Shepard let a smile creep across his lips. The toothpick poked through. “I know you do.”
DAY TWO
When Uzi walked into his office, he found that a new stack of message slips had accumulated on his desk. He spent nearly three hours returning calls when Madeline, his assistant, handed him another note.
“I thought you might want to see this one right away,” she said. “The results are back on some of the evidence from Congressman Harmon’s home.”
Uzi arrived at the lab twenty minutes later.
He sat on a stool beside the FBI lab technician, Keisha Beekert. Clad in a white lab coat, the prematurely gray Beekert nudged a pair of reading glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose, then indicated the counter in front of her where several castings of the assailant’s footprints rested.
“Do you see the problem?” she asked.
Not being an expert at reading plaster, he hesitated. As his eyes started their second pass over the castings, Beekert lifted one and cradled it in her hands.
“Here. What kind of shoe does this look like to you?”
Uzi tilted his head, appraising the large plaster chunk. “One belonging to Bigfoot?”
“I might accept that answer, because it would appear that your suspect is over eight feet tall judging by the size of his shoe.”
Uzi thought of a joke dealing with men and their shoe size, but didn’t want to get nailed with a sexual harassment suit. “What kind of shoe does it look like to you?” he asked instead.
“A Redfeather Women’s Performance 21 snowshoe.”
“A snowshoe,” Uzi said. “But there’s no snow on the ground.”
Beekert looked at him over the tops of her glasses, probably wondering if he was dense or stupid.
Uzi decided to put her concerns to rest. “So you’re saying the UNSUB used snowshoes to mask his shoe make and size. So we can’t track him that way.”
“Sharp guy you’re dealing with here.”
“Wait a minute. You said it was a women’s snowshoe.”
“So you’re pretty sharp yourself. Yes,” Beekert said, “that is what I said. According to the manufacturer, it’s got ‘an innovative V-tail tapered design with an Aircraft 6-series aluminum frame.’ Rated for up to 175 pounds. But judging by the depth of most of the imprints, I’d estimate this person to be north of 200 pounds. A rather hefty woman, I’d say.”
“A fact the manufacturer might be pleased to learn. They can expand their market.” He shrugged. “To heftier women.”
Beekert twisted her mouth in disappointment.
“Okay,” Uzi said, “I get your point. You’re saying that either this was a very large female assassin, or a slightly-larger-than-average male hit-man. The latter is more likely.”
“I wouldn’t want to draw conclusions for you. My job is merely to point out the facts.”
“And the fact is, this guy is good. Very good.”
“Wish I could’ve helped you more.”
Uzi pushed off the stool. “Me, too.”
Following a classified briefing at the Strategic Information and Operations Center, Uzi was leaving the Hoover Building’s garage when he saw Karen Vail’s red hair inside a Bureau-issue Dodge Stratus. She rolled down her window and pulled up alongside him.
“I’ve been doing some more thinking on the Marine Two downing.”
“Oh, yeah? I thought this was Frank Del Monaco’s case.”
“You want my help or not?”
Uzi smiled. “Go on.”
“Can’t talk right now. Gotta drop off some papers. Meet me at the coffee house across the road from my office. Gargoyles. Give me about an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
Karen Vail walked into Gargoyles ninety minutes later. Uzi was seated at a table watching the door and waiting for her, an empty cup of espresso in front of him. He had been returning calls, mowing through his message slips and emails when he saw Vail by the door. He set his phone on the table and leaned back in his seat.
“You didn’t tell me there were a couple of gun-related homicides connected to this case,” she said before her buttocks had hit the chair.
Uzi squirmed a bit. “Until we get some more evidence, I can’t say they’re—”
“My gut says they’re related. You seem to trust my gut, so what that’s worth, I’m not exactly sure. Any case, to your bomber. I think I can give you some general parameters. But we’re clear this is unofficial. I don’t even want you giving me shit if it turns out I’m wrong.”
“No shit.” He wiggled his fingers. “Spill.”
“Okay, here’s what I think.” She looked at his empty cup, then stood up. “I need some coffee first.”
She led the way to the counter, Uzi following, feeling like a kid who couldn’t wait to open his birthday present. “Come on now, don’t keep me in suspense—”
“Can I get you anything, Agent Vail?” the man behind the counter asked.
Uzi raised his right brow. “Guess you come here a lot.”
“Shut up,” Vail said to Uzi. She looked at the counterman. “The usual. And my friend will have some coffee grinds.”
“Black,” Uzi said. “Lots of sugar.” He looked at Vail. “’Cause I’m so sweet.”
Vail rolled her eyes.
“Another espresso, please,” he said. The man moved off to prepare their drinks.
Vail leaned her buttocks against the counter and faced Uzi. “So here’s what I think. That big chopper, the Super Stallion? What a name, typical macho male thing.”
“Karen—”
“Okay. First thing you have to understand about bombings is that victimology is criticaclass="underline" who is the victim — or more specifically, who’s the target? Remember the Centennial Park bombing? The big problem was trying to figure out who the guy was trying to kill. It was a directional bomb, we could tell that much, but there were a lot of potential targets in the vicinity: several different corporate tents, families, a security guard— We didn’t know what his intent was, so we couldn’t accurately assess what this offender was all about.