“Can you find the coroner’s report?”
She chortled. “Please.” A few clicks later, she was there, her eyes scrutinizing the screen like laser scanners. “‘Accidental Death.’” Her fingers were soon away again, rapid fire, stopping only long enough for her to fast-read something, then she was off again. I was awed by the coordination between her fingers, eyes and mind, her ability to assimilate and filter through information at warp speed. “Of course there’s several blogs claiming he was murdered for something he was writing about. CIA, Mossad, Putin. The usual suspects.”
I gulped down some coffee, thinking about what to do next. “Who was the fire investigator?”
“Dan Walsh. A fire marshal out of Battalion Twelve. That’s with Engine Thirty-five on Third Avenue.”
“Can you get me his home address?”
Gigi gave me a mocking stare. “You really need to get with the program, G-boy.”
I smiled. “Duly noted. Again.” I finished my last mouthful of pancake and set my fork down. “OK. Will you see what else you can dig up about Rossetti? I need to shower. I have a fire marshal to visit.”
“On a Sunday? Is nothing sacred to a rogue FBI agent?”
I had to smile at that. Then I remembered Lendowski’s phone. “Can you get into a locked BlackBerry?” Before she gave me a look that could wipe the data off a terabyte array, I added, “An FBI BlackBerry.”
A beatific expression lit up her face. Clearly I was about to make this a Sunday worth remembering.
35
Mamaroneck, New York
The scene outside Tess’s house was markedly busier. Two local patrol cars had joined a second FBI sedan now parked along her street. The Stingray van was still close by, of course, but they’d moved it an extra block away to try and attract less attention. Gallo and Henriksson had at least managed to agree on that single point: the need to keep the story quiet and avoid letting the press and the blogs get hold of it. Because of the controversy over the rampant eavesdropping and the failures in recent foreign policy, the intelligence community was already trying to live down a constant barrage of criticism. The negative publicity of an FBI agent murdering a CIA agent was something they were both keen to avoid.
Annie Deutsch was back outside the house, leant against her car, oblivious to the cold. After the big meeting earlier that morning she’d had a private sit-down with Gallo in his office and, after thanking him for his support, she’d lobbied hard to be reassigned to keep tabs on Tess, despite the fact that she and Lendowski had already failed at that task once. Gallo had initially resisted but he’d ended up relenting, willing to accord her a chance to redeem herself and find out what happened to her missing partner.
Four agents, assisted by members of the local police force, were canvassing the area around where Lendowski’s car was found. They’d yet to yield anything useful.
Deutsch had yet to confront Tess. Even though she knew Tess had lied to her after she’d come home last night, she needed to get through to her. She needed Tess to feel Deutsch could be trusted. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was sure that Reilly would need help, and she had to do everything she could to make sure she was there to offer it if-or rather, when-that time came.
She was thinking about how best to approach Tess when a number she didn’t recognize lit up the screen on her phone. It had a Virginia area code.
She took the call with her customary, “Annie Deutsch.”
“Agent Deutsch? Alejandro Fernandez. Virginia DFS, Manassas. I was told you’re taking Agent Aparo’s calls?”
It took her a couple of seconds to process what he was referring to: Virginia’s Department of Forensic Science. Aparo’s work cell had been rerouted to the switchboard at Federal Plaza, as had Reilly’s. She didn’t know where Manassas was.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m calling with the lab results on the second bullet. Agent Aparo had asked me to keep him in the loop.”
“I’m sorry-the second bullet?”
“From the shooting in Arlington?”
Deutsch straightened up. “I wasn’t aware of this.”
“The bullet from the body, that one’s conclusive. It matches up to the Glock we found at the scene, the one registered to Sean Reilly. We recovered a second bullet, though. It was embedded in the wall of the garage. You weren’t told?”
“No.”
“OK. I assumed you’d want to know.”
Deutsch felt her pulse race. “Of course. What did you find out?”
“It’s fresh. Recent. Could easily have been fired around the time the shooting took place.”
“What else?”
“Not much. We don’t have a casing, and the bullet was too badly damaged by its impact to give us anything we can run through the database. One thing, though. It wasn’t from the same gun.”
A burst of adrenaline flooded through her. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Reilly’s gun was a Glock. This slug's a forty-five. I’ve sent it over to the CFL in DC, but I doubt they’ll find anything we couldn’t.”
Deutsch thanked him and told him to keep her appraised of any further developments. She hung up and was still thinking about how much a second bullet could help Reilly’s case when a passing car distracted her momentarily.
She turned instinctively as her eyes were drawn to it. It was a white Toyota Prius with a single occupant, a man with a shaved head and thick, black-rimmed glasses. She couldn’t see him clearly, but the impression she got was of a rather effete man. He slowed a bit as he passed-basic human curiosity, she assumed-glancing at the house and the uniforms outside before driving on.
Sandman’s eyes registered every detail as he took in the scene outside Tess Chaykin’s house.
His mind working like a 3D scanner he mapped out the house’s relative location to its neighbors, its entrance and driveway, the positions of the law enforcement vehicles watching it. He was even sure he glimpsed Tess Chaykin at her window, looking down at her new reality.
He noted the FBI agent he’d read about in the most recent report Tomblin had sent him, Annie Deutsch. They had her phone on special watch now in case the CIA liaison’s read was correct and she had more vested in the case than she’d admitted.
He thought of ways to apply more pressure on Reilly. Chaykin was the obvious soft target, of course. So were Reilly’s son and Chaykin’s daughter. He already knew where they went to school, knew the ideal spots on the likely route they would be taking every morning. School would soon be out for the Christmas holidays, but for the time being, he had that option if he needed it.
He wondered about Deutsch. Was she a potential pressure point too? Not as powerful, to be sure. But it was a possibility.
He turned the corner and drove away, headed for the café where he’d slipped Aparo his final condiment. The omelet baguettes looked to die for, he mused, enjoying his little joke, and he was famished.
It was there that he received an email alerting him to two new assignments, there that he first started imagining how he would kill the highly talented Marcus Siddle and the slightly creepy Ralph Orford.
36
Queens, New York
I drove out to Queens in Gigi’s BMW 4 Series convertible, which she’d offered to me without even blinking.
I checked my face in the mirror-exhausted but presentable-before climbing out of the BMW and walking across the street.
The fire marshal who signed-off on the coroner’s report on Kyle Rossetti lived in a 20s Astoria semi, from where it would take no more than thirty minutes to drive across the East River to the Twelfth Battalion building on Third Avenue.
A couple of traditional wooden sleds lay on the postage-stamp front yard. The noise of joyfully shrieking children mixed with the slap of snowballs finding their target drifted from the rear of the house. They sounded happy. I hoped I wouldn’t have to apply too much pressure to get the information I needed.