“Okay. I need you to think about this, Mikey. You remember the Fletcher killing?”
“The New York hit, from the roof top?”
“Right. Is there a possibility that a Dremov was the rifle used?”
The grin pulled into a tight frown. “Well, the caliber is right. Dremov’s can be made to take either a thirty-nine or a fifty-four millimeter. The bullets recovered, and the shells found, indicate manufacture outside the states.” He shrugged. “It could very well be the weapon used.”
“Dremovs can be broken down, right?”
“Absolutely. They can be put together in under a minute, and the break down is even faster.”
Alex was tapping her hand against her knee. “Mikey, I know with some handguns, they leave on the bullet a pattern unique to the type of gun, not just the individual barrel. Is that true of rifles?”
“Well, yes, to a smaller degree. But it’s not a marking on the bullet itself, it’s a pattern on the shell, from both the hammer, and the ejector if it’s an auto or semi-automatic weapon.”
“Did you check the shells found in New York?”
“Yes, against the markings of over thirty different rifle types. There was no match.” He watched Alex’s frown grow. “But.”
“But?”
“But not against a Dremov. Didn’t have a clue that it was a possibility. They can’t be imported. I don’t even know if we have the pattern for a Dremov on file.”
“Can you check?”
“Sure. Probably take me till tomorrow — I’m behind as it is.”
“No rush. It’s not like we have the gun.”
“I’ll do my best to check it by tomorrow afternoon. Good enough?”
“Definitely. Thanks, Mikey. And consider yourself on report for those shoes, Mister.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell you what. The regulation, as old as it is, says that all agents must wear a protective cup when in the field. It was actually written before women were accepted into the Bureau, but I don’t think anyone’s ever changed it. The day you start wearing one, I’ll stop wearing my sneakers.”
“Sounds like a deal to me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Cause you wouldn’t be the same without the shoes, and there’s no way in hell you could get me into one of those jockstrap things.”
Mikey’s laughter followed her as she left the lab.
*******************************************************
Alex dropped onto her couch, bringing her feet up and stretching out. She’d left work after the 3:30 meeting, glad to find the Metro much less crowded than it usually was. There’d been a little touch of fear, when she thought about her ride home the night before. But the tickling itch in her back did not develop, and the ride had been quiet. Alex had been so tired, she almost missed her stop.
Now, she was home, and resting. She had stopped at Christo’s as she walked home from the Metro stop, and bought her usual chicken parmagian with garlic bread. Stretched out on her sofa, she placed the foam container on her stomach, and lifted the lid. The steam wafted up, bringing the scent of tomatoes and cheese.
Appleby jumped onto her legs and watched her.
“No, big guy, you don’t get any. You don’t like tomatoes, and cheese makes you sick.”
His nose twitched in an effort to remind her that he did like chicken.
“Appleby, you’ve got plenty of food in your dish. This is mine. Go away.”
He didn’t move. She took a bite, pointedly staring at him. Alex reached for her cup of tea, still meeting the cat’s eyes. She swallowed, then sighed.
“Fine. Here.” She pulled a piece of chicken off her plate and handed it to him. He settled contentedly by her feet, chewing.
“Jeez, I’m supposed to be a big tough FBI agent, and I can’t even say no to my cat.”
Alex snuggled down further into the couch. She used the remote to turn on the stereo, letting the violins and guitar of ELO flow over her. “Only the Electric Light Orchestra can blend the sound of symphony with rock and roll — and do it so very well.”
That had been another sticking point between her and Sarah. She swore by the classic rock she’d grown up with. Sarah loved only jazz and classical music.
As she ate, Alex tried to get her mind onto something other than work. The music, the food, Appleby’s begging. Anything but Mather, and Dabir, and, especially, Teren Mylos.
It didn’t work, and she was soon going back over what had happened in the afternoon meeting.
She and Cliff had explained the basics of what they’d learned from the CIA, and then David told them about Clymes and his revelation. He’d also passed around the folder on Wilford, including the picture. It was the photo of the dead man that brought Ben Cleves to his feet. He’d reached over to a stack of papers on the table, searching through them until he found what he was looking for. Then, with a breath and a grin, he handed his partner the photo, and the sheet he’d pulled from the pile.
“It’s him,” was all he said.
Mark Garnett had nodded. “Yep. I think it is.”
Cliff leaned over towards them. “Wanna tell the rest of us?”
Ben looked up. “Sure.” He turned the piece of paper he’d taken back from his partner, showing it to everyone. Then he held Wilford’s picture up next to it. “They’re the same guy.”
David frowned. “Well, yeah. That’s the sketch from Philly, of the driver of the car, isn’t it?”
Alex answered him, her eyes wide. “No. That’s the sketch of the suspect from Baltimore. Right, Ben?”
“Yep.”
Suddenly the things she’d been forgetting were clear to Alex. “Fuck.” She slapped her hands on the table top in front of her. “Fucking shit! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”
“Think of what, Alex?”
“The description, Cliff. The way Sargeant Leonard described the killers in Philly. He said the driver was of medium build with sandy blond hair. And how was the Baltimore suspect described? Same fucking way.”
“Calm down, Alex, we got that part.” David tried to calm his irate partner.
“Yeah, but did you get the rest? No, because I’ve been a stupid—”
Cliff placed a hand on her shoulder. “Alex, shut up.” Alex did. “Now, take a deep breath.” She did so. “Let it out.”
Alex exhaled through her clenched teeth.
“Now, Alex, calmly tell us what you’re talking about.”
Alex turned to Louis Baker, who was sitting next to his partner, Steve Hentgen. They had been assigned the bombing death of Doug Wilson.
“Lou, would you please repeat the description of the man seen near Wilson’s car?”
Lou frowned. “Brown hair, about five-eight, maybe five-nine. Wasn’t very detailed, and it doesn’t fit Wilford.”
Alex shook her head. “No. But it does fit George Mather.”
There was silence in the room.
“Something has been bugging me ever since Dave and I got back from Philly, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. When Ben connected his shooter’s description to the photo, it hit me. Leonard described the two men he saw exactly the same way our witnesses described what they saw. They’re the same men. The same two men.”
Cliff cleared his throat, but found himself curiously unable to say anything. He coughed, instead.
It was finally Tom Jorgen who broke the silence. “Well, with the descriptions, we can place these guys, one or the other, in Baltimore, Philly, and Atlanta. What about New York and LA?”
Alex sighed. “I don’t know. We were told that Mather was in New York, and owns the proper type of weapon, but there is no solid proof. Not that eyewitness statements are altogether solid, but we don’t even have that.”
Cliff finally found his voice. “It’s a good point. I may be able to believe that all four east coast victims were killed by our two crispy critters, but I don’t think they did the job on Arturo.”
Everyone had to grin at Cliff’s description of Mather and Wilford.
“Has anyone heard from Bill and Victor?”
“Yeah. They interviewed the driver, and he fingered a guy named Brillo. They’re gonna stay a few days to see if the police can find the suspect.”
“Cliff, I think David and I should interview Brogan.”