“I’m sorry about Alec,” Uzi said.
“He was only twenty-six,” Jiri said, his Czech accent thicker than Uzi had noticed in the past. “Always on time, always did good job.” He closed his eyes. “These terrorists are, what do you say, pigs?”
Uzi had other words for them. He placed a reassuring hand on Jiri’s shoulder. “I’ll make you a promise, okay? We’ll catch the person who killed Alec. You have my word.”
Jiri tilted his head in confusion. “You’ll catch…?”
“I’m with the FBI.”
Jiri nodded. “Miss Harel, she took hard drive for the camera. She said they may show person who planted bomb.” He shook his head. “I know her a year and didn’t know she was part of FBI.”
Uzi didn’t bother correcting the concierge. He looked above Jiri’s head at the two black-and-white monitors, one of which was trained on the curbside of the Hamilton House’s entrance. If Leila took the digital recording, she was probably going to erase it using Department of Defense secure deletion algorithms. It was taking a big risk, though, because the responding Metro cops — or someone else from the Bureau — should have inquired about the recording, too. “Anyone else ask you about the surveillance — about the cameras?”
Jiri nodded. “I told them I already give them to Miss Harel. That’s okay, what I said?”
Uzi forced a smile. “Yeah, that was good.” He glanced back at the security monitors.
“Are you okay?” Jiri asked. “I got you away from the fire best I could. Tried to find Alec, but—”
“That was you who pulled me away from the car?” Uzi noted a muted nod from the Czech. “I owe you, man. You ever need help with anything, let me know.” He faked a wide yawn. “Meantime, I’m gonna head upstairs and get some sleep. Can I get the key?”
Jiri lifted his thick body from the stool and reached beneath the desk. He pulled Leila’s apartment key from a drawer and handed it to Uzi.
“Thanks, man. Take some time off. Go for a drive. Clear your head.”
Jiri checked his watch. “Someone supposed to come soon. I go home.”
He gave Jiri’s shoulder a gentle pat, and then headed for the elevator.
The doors parted on the eighth floor. Uzi stepped onto the thick carpet and strode slowly toward Leila’s apartment. At three-thirty in the morning, nearly everyone on the floor was asleep. He put his ear to her door and listened. Quiet.
He inserted the key, gave it a slow turn, and then stepped inside. His main objective was to secure a number of items that would contain Leila’s fingerprints — and preferably some DNA — without her becoming suspicious. One of the wine glasses they’d used should contain at least an index or thumb print and saliva. But reaching the kitchen meant crossing in front of the bedroom.
He slowed his breathing and waited until his eyesight had accommodated to the darkness. A moment later, he began inching along the wall, focusing his hearing, keying in on movement.
The bedroom door was open. He stood beside it, listening, trying to see as much of the interior without revealing himself — in case she was lying awake in bed. If she startled, he would merely explain that DeSantos had insisted he be examined by the Bureau emergency room doc, and that he was returning to get some sleep. He didn’t want to go back to his place because if he was the target of the car bomb, it was no longer safe. And he didn’t want to be alone. Coming back to be with her after a life-threatening event would be consistent with his recent behavior.
As he stood outside her door, he realized he had left his Puma and Tanto knives somewhere in the apartment. He remembered taking them off — but when? Probably when they started undressing one another. Where? In the bedroom. No — the bathroom.
He still had his boot knife, but a weapon in hand would blow his cover story.
Uzi waited by the door but heard nothing. He knelt down and peered around the jamb at the bed. The side where he had been sleeping looked unchanged: the comforter was drawn to the side just as he had left it. His eyes trailed over to Leila’s side, and the covers there, too, appeared to be folded back. He could not see her body. He decided to walk in, as if returning to her after meeting with DeSantos. It would make his job more difficult but not impossible: he would have to resort to his backup plan — use the bathroom and quietly search her medicine cabinet and drawers for items that might contain her prints. He rose from his crouch and walked into the bedroom.
It was empty. Uzi stood there, considering his options. Best to know if she was in the apartment before he started snooping around.
“Leila?” he called into the darkness. He walked into the kitchen, then moved into the living room. “Leila?”
He returned to the bedroom to find his knives — but they were not there. He searched his mind, replaying the evening. He remembered getting up around 11:30 and realizing he’d left the phone in his car. Did I take the knives with me? No, I was just going out to the car to get my phone.
He unsuccessfully searched the room again. Uzi bit his bottom lip, craving a toothpick like a smoker craves a cigarette. Did Leila take my knives? Did she know I wasn’t coming back because her group planted the bomb?
There were no answers, not yet.
He stepped into the bathroom, his eyes scanning the surfaces, the floor — and then he remembered. The countertop, under the gold towels they had thrown on the vanity after getting out of the bath. He grabbed a handful of fine Egyptian terrycloth and tossed it aside — exposing his knives, right where he’d left them. Cool.
He slipped the Tanto around his neck and clipped the Puma to the inside of his pocket, and then moved back to the kitchen, resuming his primary task. But the dinner glasses they’d used were no longer in the sink. And the dishwasher was empty.
Beside the stove was a ceramic container filled with multicolored toothpicks. He grabbed one and stuck it in his mouth. He still needed to find something with a liftable set of fingerprints. Back in the living room, he noticed two DVDs on the end table beside a small briefcase. He rummaged through the soft-sided leather attaché, but other than various books on counterterrorism and a blank notepad, he found nothing of value. But the DVDs…
He handled them by their edges and flipped them over. They had the purplish hue of “burned,” or homemade, discs — as well as smudges, which looked like two partial prints. Without proper lighting and equipment, it was hard to tell with certainty. But even if there weren’t any usable latents, the discs might contain incriminating data.
He walked back into the bathroom and slid open the drawers. He pulled several strands of hair from her brush, a few of which contained follicles — and DNA. As he turned to leave, a small makeup mirror caught his eye. He huffed on the surface, and a number of fingerprints appeared. Gotcha. He took it back into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of Ziplocs, and placed the mirror, hair strands, and DVDs in their own bags.
Now he had to get them to the lab.
Uzi caught a cab and arrived at the Hoover Building at 4:30 in the morning, time melting away like an ice cube on a Phoenix street in August. He was greeted by the stout FBI policeman who had owned the lobby’s graveyard shift the past two decades.
“Anyone in the lab?” Uzi asked.
The man snorted. “Hang out for a few hours and you’ll have your pick of whoever you want.”
“I don’t have a few hours.” Uzi went behind the security desk and lifted the receiver. He dialed the extension and waited. As he was about to hang up, the line was answered. The voice was groggy and raspy.