Not that way.
He looked around, found the Beretta near the door. Went to Navarro and bent over him. The guy’s bulging eyes still tracked him.
“This is for Tommy Banacek, you bastard.” He stood back, aimed at his head, and pulled the trigger. Then shoved the gun back into the coat pocket, pulled out the newspaper clipping, and dropped it onto his chest.
Only then did he notice the rising din of shouts in the building. Of doors opening down the hallway. He leaped to the door and flipped the deadbolt back in place. Looked around the scene for anything he may have dropped. His hat. He picked it up and put it back on. What else?
That’s when he saw the spatters of blood.
He looked at his left arm for the first time. The leather was stained dark; a trickle flowed from the end of the sleeve, dripping onto the floor and into his glove.
His blood. His DNA.
Not good.
Elevating the arm, which hurt like hell, he pawed his coat open with his other hand. A zippered pouch was sewn inside. He yanked open the zipper, drew out a small spray bottle from among its other contents. Then crouched and began to spray the blood drops everywhere he saw them.
Excited voices at the door, now, babbling in Spanish.
He wheeled around, bloody arm pressed against his body, looking everywhere for stains he’d missed. Found a few more and sprayed.
Knocking. “Orlando??Estas bien amigo?”
He had to get out. Now.
He shoved the bottle back into the coat pouch. Killed the lights again. In the glow from the bedroom, he jumped over the dog’s body, then headed over there and flipped off those lights, too. The whole place was dark, now.
Somebody rattling the doorknob, then pounding the door. “Orlando! Abre la puerta!”
He ran to the sliding glass door at the front of the apartment. Unlatched and yanked it open, went outside onto the second-floor patio balcony. Felt the clamminess in his left glove. If he touched anything, he’d leave blood traces. If he removed it, he’d leave fingerprints. He scanned the yard below him. He’d have to get down from here one-handed.
He waited until a car passed on the street, then clambered awkwardly over the iron railing. Holding on with his right hand, he knelt at the edge. Then gripping the bottom of the railing one-handed, he let one leg at a time slide over the edge. He dangled a second, then let go.
He landed in a half-roll, holding his left arm crushed against his body, hoping like hell that he wouldn’t leave blood on the grass. Rising to his feet, he ran in a crouch, staying in the shadows close to the wall, then darting around the corner. He slowed to a walk as he approached the parking area. Heard muted shouts from somewhere inside the building.
Crossing the small lot at a steady pace, he kept his head down under the lights until he reached the SUV. He climbed inside, pulled the door shut.
Then grunted under the searing pain. He’d forgotten and used his left hand.
He put the idling vehicle in gear and pulled away, driving and shifting clumsily, one-handed, relieved only that it was his left arm that was damaged, not his right.
So it was Navarro’s Doberman, after all. Probably paid the kid to walk the dog, so that he could stay inside. Where he thought he’d be safe.
He had to put a few miles behind him before digging into the first-aid kit. But he knew the dog had inflicted some real damage. His forearm felt ripped to hell, maybe some torn tendons in there. It would require professional attention. He had to get to a doctor, pronto. The right kind of doctor, the kind that would take a big wad of cash and ask no questions. He knew a few of those.
If he could get to one before he passed out.
He fought off waves of shakes and dizziness. Adrenalin crash… Okay, maybe even shock.
So, focus, you son of a bitch. Don’t blow it all now.
After you get yourself patched up, you’ll need to go to ground for a while. You need the R amp;R. You’re losing your edge.
But right now, you need to stay clear-headed. Focus.
You can do this… You’ve handled lots worse than this…Come on, stay in your own lane… Just a few more miles…
Bethesda, Maryland
Thursday, November 27, 11:55 p.m.
“His TV finally went off,” Erskine said, lowering his binoculars.
Cronin looked up, saw the darkened bedroom window. He checked his watch. “Eleven fifty-five. Maybe he stayed up to watch a ‘Frasier’ rerun.”
“Why don’t we call it a night, Ed?”
“I’m with you. I don’t see him going anywhere now. Chief’s on my case about all the overtime, anyway.”
He had just turned over the ignition when he felt the vibration. “Who the hell is calling at this hour?” He pulled out the cell, saw the display. “Oh great. Abrams.”
Erskine launched into a string of profanity, and Cronin had to wave him to silence.
“Yeah, Marty… Where?… Can’t Bancroft handle it?” He shut his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Give us forty-five.” He clicked off the phone, then, exhausted, lay his forehead against the steering wheel.
“Don’t tell me!”
“Okay, Paul. I’ll just take you there and let it be a surprise.”
Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C.
Friday, November 28, 12:52 a.m.
After a quick stop for coffee and doughnuts, it was closer to one in the morning that they got to the scene. Abrams met them in the hallway and gave them the preliminaries, then led them inside. They took in the dog, then the body.
Cronin whistled. “Holy hell, Navarro is huge.”
“Was,” Abrams corrected. “Well, nothing much for him to do in the joint but lift weights all day.”
“So, you’re telling me somebody actually beat the crap out of this dude before he shot him?”
“And then some. M.E. took a quick look and guesses at least a fractured skull, elbow, and crushed throat. Maybe more will show in the autopsy. And look closer at the dog. See the way the head’s twisted? Broken neck.”
Erskine stood with his mouth half-open, disbelieving.
Cronin’s gaze shifted from one body to the other. “So our perp has a gun, but he doesn’t use it on the dog. He doesn’t even use it on Navarro, not at first. Instead, he takes on and kills the Doberman, bare-handed. And then, for all practical purposes, he kills this gorilla, also bare-handed, before finishing him off with one tap in the forehead.” He turned to his colleagues. “Remember the hit up in Bowie, that deal with the flagpole? I’m guessing this perp is the same shooter. Whoever the hell he is, he’s inhumanly strong to do all this stuff.”
“What’s with the smell?” Erskine asked, wrinkling his nose. “Somebody started cleaning the joint already?”
“That’s ammonia, all right,” Abrams said. “But it’s not from us. And that’s even more interesting. Look down there. See those smears on the tile? And the little beads of spray over there? Our shooter sprayed ammonia around here.” He pointed to a young CSI tech who was bending over the Doberman. “Jeff thinks the perp was using it to break down blood stains. Destroy any DNA.”
“ His blood, then,” Cronin said. “Our boy was injured.”
“That’s how I see it. Only thing that makes sense. You don’t take on two monsters like these and walk away without a scratch.”
“So where’s the ammonia?” Erskine asked, looking around in the kitchen.
“There isn’t any. None that we found yet, anyway.”
“You mean he took it with him?” Erskine asked.
“Maybe he brought it here with him,” Cronin said. “For exactly these kinds of situations.”
Abrams said, “These guys think of everything.”
“Which means we won’t find the shooter’s DNA here,” Cronin said wearily.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said a nearby voice.
They turned. It was Jeff, the tech. He was grinning. He wore white latex gloves, and he had lifted dog’s head, displaying its muzzle and teeth and hanging tongue.
All covered with blood.
“Gentlemen,” Abrams said slowly, a smile crossing his lips, “Maybe we just got our first big break.”