“Our guess,” Uzi said, “is that the guy used a suppressor. The sound was kind of dispersed—”
“Very good. Yes,” Meadows said. “A suppressor will scatter the crack of the shot. The cartridge travels faster than sound and makes a fairly loud sonic boom. In a sniper situation, using a suppressor doesn’t mask the sound, especially on a round as big as this one is. What it does do is change the sound signature enough that the target is unable to determine which direction the shot came from, so he can’t return fire.”
“We already knew that.”
“I didn’t know that,” Vail said.
“You know serial killer shit,” Meadows said. “None of us expect you to know about high-powered sniper rifles.”
Vail tilted her head. “‘Serial killer shit’? You think that’s all I’m good for?”
“Tim.” Uzi shook his head. “Tim, my man. You just stepped into some seriously rank horse poop.”
Meadows looked from Vail to Uzi and back to Vail. “That is what I said, but it’s not what I meant. I mean, we all have our specialties. And you’re so good at what you do that I don’t look at you as having such a broad knowledge base dealing with the kind of minutiae I wade through.”
“I accept your lame apology,” Vail said. “Mostly because you’re a tough guy to stay angry with.”
Meadows shifted his feet. “Do you? Know a lot about rifle calibers and the science of suppressor technology?”
“Hell no,” Vail said. “I know serial killer shit. Other things, too. But not that kind of picayune stuff. Especially suppression technology.”
“Suppressor,” Meadows said with a frown.
“Speaking of suppressors,” Uzi said. “Can a device like the one our shooter used affect the accuracy of a shot?”
“Unlike our Renaissance-ish FBI profiler,” Meadows said, “you ask good questions. Have I ever told you that?”
“Couple a dozen times.”
Meadows zipped the jacket up to his neck, then began walking. “That’s debatable. My sense is that it depends a lot on the particular weapon matched with a specific suppressor. Good match, less chance it’ll divert the shot. But it definitely shouldn’t affect accuracy to the point where a trained sniper would miss completely.”
Uzi’s head snapped up. “How’d you know that’s what I was asking?”
“’Cause I’m smart and I know how you guys think.”
Uzi frowned. “Here’s the deal. Three guys are standing around talking and one of them gets popped from three, four hundred yards away. So was the guy actually aiming for me or my partner and missed? At four hundred yards, an inch or two is only significant to the guy who gets nailed and the guy who lives to tell about it.”
“As good as I am, as we all are — Karen excluded — I don’t think I can answer that one. As much as I want to ease your mind.”
Uzi stopped walking, and Meadows and Vail did likewise. “It’s more than just easing my mind. It’s a matter of pointing us in the right direction. This investigation takes on a different flavor if I’m the target — or my partner — instead of Tad Bishop.”
“Understood,” Meadows said. “I’ll do my best to answer whatever questions you’ve got.”
“I have an opinion on this,” Vail said.
“You mean a guess?” Meadows quipped.
“Uh, no, Tim. An informed opinion. If this is the work of a pro — and that seems to be the case here — a pro would match his equipment well, wouldn’t he? The best suppressor to the best rifle, just like he measures dew point, humidity, wind conditions, and so on to make sure that when he pulls the trigger, he stands a damn good chance of hitting his intended target. Not the guy standing next to him.”
“Well, well,” Meadows said. “The distinguished lady from the BAU does know a thing about snipers.”
“Yeah,” Vail said. “Or two.”
Uzi pulled a toothpick from its plastic wrapper and stuck it in his mouth as he looked off, surveying his colleagues swarming the area. “Deductions are great. But I want as definitive an answer as possible.”
Meadows pulled another evidence bag from his pocket. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Let me know as soon as you figure it out.”
“I know, you need it yesterday.”
Uzi held out a hand. “Hey, did I say that?”
“No, but I’m so used to hearing—”
“This one I need day before yesterday.”
Meadows stared deadpan at Uzi. “It’s almost nine o’clock. I was off three hours ago.”
“And now you’re back on.”
“You suck, you know that?”
Uzi nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”
“McCormick and Schmick’s. That’s where I want to go.”
Uzi winced. “That hurts, Tim.”
“A little pain is healthy, didn’t you tell me that once?”
Uzi jutted his chin back. “I never said that.”
“Well, someone did.”
“I did,” Vail said. “When I kicked you in the balls for insulting my new haircut.”
“You never kicked me,” Meadows said.
“You’re lucky. I really wanted to.”
Uzi pointed at the Ziploc-enclosed brass casing. “I want the answer, Tim. Fast. Even if it means working through the night.”
Meadows groaned.
“The way I see it,” Vail said, “sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet.”
Ninety minutes later, most of the task force members had secured what they needed and left. The forensic crew thinned as well, most of the evidence collection having been accomplished in the first hour at both crime scenes. They focused on the assassin’s perch, hoping to find an errant identifying mark in or around the house. With a handful of technicians remaining to finish combing the grounds, Uzi found Leila hovering around Bishop’s vehicle.
“Find anything?”
“Nothing useful. Just the usual stuff we all keep in our cars. No tracking devices. Most importantly, no smoking guns.”
Uzi cringed. “That was bad.”
Leila grinned. “I thought it was quite clever.”
He grabbed a peek at his watch. “So much for dinner at Amir’s. How about something that’s still open?”
“According to Shepard, you’re the boss. If you say it’s time to quit, we quit.”
“One thing you’ll learn about me, Leila, is that I never quit. But all good intelligence officers know that when you’re facing uncertain or unstable situations, and you get a chance to eat, you take it — because you never know when you’ll get another.”
“Very good. I didn’t realize you were ever in intelligence.”
“Actually,” Uzi said with a chuckle, “intelligence is something I’ve never been accused of.” He motioned toward the street, then led the way to his car.
Uzi helped Leila pull her chair up to the small, square table in the rear of Georgetown’s Thunder Burger & Bar. Despite the hour, the place was abuzz with talk and laughter. Uzi sat down heavily, then leaned back as the waitress set two cocktail napkins on their table. Uzi picked up the menu — which was surprisingly diverse — and offered it to Leila. “Hungry?”
“Very. But it’s late. I’ll just have a Caesar salad.”
A rush of grief washed over Uzi. Dena made the best Caesar dressing he had ever tasted: just the right amount of garlic and anchovies. It was so good he would lick out the Cuisinart bowl while they were cleaning up the kitchen. Dena could whip up something sumptuous from scratch, with whatever ingredients she had in the apartment.
Uzi couldn’t cook a can of soup, let alone figure out what all the different mixing bowls and oven settings were for. His mother never taught him the ways of the kitchen, but to be fair, he’d had no desire to learn. He was too interested in playing football, a tag game known as Ringalevio, or riding his bicycle.