Thin Line (33 page)

Until he went into the bedroom.

"These aren't doctored?" I said.

The Old Man shook his head. "I'm putting everything out in the open for you, Mr. Jack. I want you to see that I have your best interests in mind. I want
you to accept my offer when I make it."

I wanted to open my door and fall out. I was trying to figure out what the hell happened in Brett's apartment. The Old Man's sole desire seemed to be to
court me.

Three men had been in the apartment.

McLellan.

The ex-SEAL I encountered at the brownstone later.

And Brett Taylor.

In the next picture, two of them stood in Brett's room. I had no idea where the ex-SEAL was at this point. Hiding, presumably, because Brett wasn't to know
the man was in Brett's apartment.

It appeared Brett and McLellan were having an argument. The timestamps on the pictures were sporadic. Some were twenty seconds apart, others two minutes.
The sequence went from the two men facing off, pitting McLellan with his back to bed, to McLellan on the bed with an obvious mortal wound.

"Tell me you've got audio for this," I said.

The Old Man said nothing.

"Do you?"

"You told me to tell you I did. I don't like to lie to my associates, Mr. Jack. There is no audio."

"Full video then?"

"Only what you see there."

"The older man, the SEAL, where was he when these last shots were taken?"

"I can only presume he was elsewhere in the building."

"Who was he there for?"

The Old Man said nothing. I couldn't tell if he was withholding information, or simply didn't have an answer.

"Take me back to my car," I said.

The Old Man slowed, and then whipped the wheel in a circle. "Whatever you were offered for this job, I can pay you that on a monthly basis, Mr. Jack."

"What?" My mind had been going through the sequence of events in the pictures, trying to place words with expressions. Searching for a reason the three men
were together, and why one had been left dead in Brett's bed. And why Brett had lied to me about his presence in the apartment when it happened.

"There is no way you are this dense," the Old Man said. "I want you on my payroll. I'm willing to pay you a million dollars a year to work your way up to
be my right-hand man. Within months, you'll be practically running my operation, set to take over when I finally retire." He paused, smiled, then added,
"Or someone manages to put a bullet between my eyes."

We pulled up to a red light and still intersection.

"I've got no interest in being a criminal."

The Old Man laughed, a cackling, maniacal sound right out of an old horror flick. "You think you aren't one now? Killing for the government makes you some
kind of hero, right?"

"I don't go after choir singers."

"Neither do I. It takes bad men to do bad things, Mr. Jack, no matter what side of the law they're on. If there is even a side. As far as I am concerned,
there's no more difference between good and evil than there is space between us right now."

I didn't want to admit that we agreed on the topic. Still, I had principles to adhere to. "Look, I appreciate the offer, but-"

"Now is not the time to make any decisions. You've got to figure out what happened there, after all."

We pulled into the lot. My car stood alone amid a sea of brown sand.

"Do you know where Brett Taylor is now?" I asked.

"I told you, I called that off. He is no longer my concern. I'd suggest you forget about him too, Mr. Jack. Besides, he did you a favor."

I pushed my door open and dropped my right foot on the ground, stopped, looked back. "What about me? You said I was the target now."

"It turns out my overseas associates had another contact here in the States that they contracted. I suppose they wanted one party to handle the killing.
The other would take the fall if it came down to that."

"Which was which?"

"Who got there first?"

McLellan.

I shrugged. "He's dead. Brett's off the grid. Already encountered the ex-SEAL, and he's not getting around for a while."

"Most definitely not. He was found dead in a cabin in the woods this morning."

"Would you happen to know any additional details?"

The Old Man shook his head, said nothing.

"Of course you don't."

"Anyway," the Old Man said. "You see, I no longer have an interest in assisting my former associates. But this other party does. And their target now is
you."

I exited the car. Before my door had shut, the Old Man was pulling away. I heard the vehicle stop and idle. His window rolled down. I looked back.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Jack, about that job. In the meantime, let this go. No good will come of you digging any deeper. You either need to get away, or
join me. I can provide the protection you need now."

The Lexus faded into the cold, gray haze. I waited there, in the deserted parking lot, half-expecting Charles to return or a team of SIS agents to appear
and shoot me, or escort me back to D.C. I couldn't decide which would be worse.

The breeze momentarily died down. The sounds of waves crashing and gulls squawking took its place. If I could tune out the cold, I'd have stayed there the
rest of the day. With every second that passed, I slipped into an almost comatose state. There was nothing worse than losing. Except for tying.

And that was precisely what had happened.

There were no winners or losers here, except for McLellan and the ex-SEAL. Brett would always be looking over his shoulder. And so would I.

I couldn't leave it alone. I had to find him. The story had a missing piece, and it lay with Brett.

And whoever else the terrorists had contacted to take him, and now me, out.

BEFORE EXITING THE parking lot, I called Bear and updated him on my meeting with the Old Man, the new evidence, and the confusing story it told. He didn't
have much input, and wanted time to think it through, perhaps call a few of his contacts. We planned to meet up later that evening. But first, I needed to
head into the city.

During the drive, the Old Man's advice about letting the thing with Brett go kept playing on my thoughts. Aside from the other party now targeting me, what
could he have held back? I assumed there was more to Brett than I'd been told. Maybe McSweeney, too. The brother-sister angle hadn't sat well with me. The
chemistry wasn't right. Though it had been seventeen years since my sister, Molly, had been murdered, I could still recall the way we acted together. Even
my brother Sean and I, though we had our differences at times, there was a bond there.

Perhaps I was overthinking it.

Maybe after paying a visit to Clarissa, I'd find McSweeney and simply pose the question to her.

After ditching the car in the parking garage, I walked to my apartment building. My intention was just to pass by, not go in. Someone could be waiting
inside my place, gun aimed at the door, hoping I would show up. I made a quick check of the perimeter, noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Didn't mean it
was safe, though, so I kept going.

I hadn't called Clarissa on my way in. Wasn't that I wanted to surprise her; I wanted to catch anyone who might be watching her off guard. If she expected
the visit, they could become aware of my pending arrival.

Since the bar was closest, I went there first. The front door had cracked since the snowstorm. The split ran about head-to-waist-high on the right near the
hinges. I reached for the knob and found it unlocked. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. A shaded, slender figure hopped over
the bar and rushed toward me.

I smelled her perfume before her arms wrapped around my neck. Her lips pressed against mine. Peach Schnapps and gum. Reminded me of younger years.

"You doing all right?" My hands closed around her waist.

Her grip on my neck tightened and she said nothing.

Had something happened with the Russian? Had he tried to hurt her? I swept the room, spotted him perched on a bar stool near the kitchen door. He hoisted a
sweaty glass of water to his lips, took a sip, and then nodded.

"Clarissa, what's going on?"

"McSweeney showed up a while ago, a bit frantic. Said all she had was a bag packed. All she had time for, apparently. She wanted me to go with her. Said I
was in danger." She paused and bit her bottom lip. Her eyes darted back and forth, focusing on me, then the door, then another spot.

"All right, calm down and think. Did she say why?"

Clarissa shook her head, tight and terse. "No, she just repeated that I was in danger and should go with her. And, you know, if you had called and said to
do it, I'd have gone. But, I barely know the woman. And besides, I feel safe with that guy over there."

I glanced at the Russian again. He'd returned to acting like he wasn't paying attention.

"OK, we'll get this figured out. All right?"

She nodded.

"Go ahead and get back behind the bar. Let me talk to him for a minute."

She took the long way, rather than hopping back over. I gestured toward the Russian. We met at the other end of the bar, away from the sole occupied table
and talked.

I showed him a picture of the ex-SEAL from the brownstone. Though they were twenty years or so apart in age, their paths might have crossed at some point.
He took a long look at the picture, frowned, and handed it back.

"I can say he looks familiar, but from where, I don't know. If you want, I'll pass it around and see if anyone knows him, of him, or his last known
location."

After debating how much to tell him, I said, "I've got that last part, and he's not moving on from it."

The Russian lifted an eyebrow and leaned forward a couple inches.

I nodded. "Ran into him yesterday, but it wasn't me. Not saying I didn't leave him in bad shape, but certainly not enough for him to end up with a toe tag.
Someone came along later. I only have a general idea who, and I think it's someone hell-bent on clean up."

The man didn't press for details. He'd left behind this world some time ago. If I'd asked for additional help, perhaps he would have considered it. As it
was, he seemed content to stick to acting as Clarissa's bodyguard.

And I was content to let him.

I knew what I faced in the Old Man and Frank; the real danger was the unknown. What other contact did al-Sharaa have in the U.S. that would be willing to
assassinate a target for him? I understood the Old Man's motivation. Did money drive the other person, or was the catalyst ideological?

McSweeney's words to Clarissa meant something. For her to be afraid, it had to be someone, or some group, that could operate without fear of the NYPD. The
only way to know for sure was to find the woman.

Once again, that led me back to Brett.

I spent another thirty minutes at the bar, at Clarissa's insistence. She had the cook whip me up a burger topped with fried eggs. I wasn't hungry, but I
ate it anyway. I downed three cups of coffee. One before the meal. One during. One after. Figured that'd be enough to keep me going through the four hour
drive ahead of me.

I paid her for the meal. She made a show out of not accepting it, but did. Then I left.

Before heading to the garage to get the car, I decided to stop by McSweeney's apartment. I had to wait ten minutes in the cold before managing to catch the
door as someone exited. I took the stairwell to her floor. The carpet on the landing felt spongy under my feet, and I detected a hint of mildew in the air.
A drop of water hit my hand as I reached for the door. It had fallen from a pipe that ran along the ceiling.

I stopped in front of McSweeney's apartment and pressed my ear to the door. The old paint grated on my skin like sandpaper. I heard nothing. I reached for
the handle. Surprisingly, it was unlocked.

I wasn't sure what I expected to see. A bookshelf toppled over, perhaps. Her clothes strewn about, maybe. Furniture overturned, for sure.

There was none of that.

There was nothing at all.

I STOOD IN the empty apartment, aware that just a few days ago it had been fully furnished. A quick call to Brandon confirmed for me that Reese McSweeney
was a detective in the NYPD, and that she hadn't shown up for work in two days. Even her partner hadn't heard from her. Was this premeditated? Had
McSweeney planned to flee?

I continued through her barren apartment. It smelled of lemon and pine trees. Reminded me of Saturdays as a kid, when my mother had my brother, sister, and
me clean the house. She had knick-knacks on every shelf. It was my job to take them off, clean each individually, and then dust the shelf. If I didn't put
them back in exactly the right place, there'd be no television for me that weekend. And I hated missing my Saturday afternoon wrestling.

The discoloration of the hardwood floors was the only sign that there had been furniture in the place. I moved from the living area to her bedroom. Traced
the position of the bed. Her dress blues still hung in the closet, along with a pair of jeans and a sweater. Nothing else. I pulled them off their hangers
and searched the pockets, hoping for a note or receipt or anything that might give a clue. Came up empty. Why had these items been left behind? Someone on
the run wouldn't have packed everything up; they'd have left far more behind. And nothing had given me the impression that McSweeney had been planning to
take off.

Maybe that was it. She had disappeared; but not by her own doing.

I gave the closet a once-over, looking for any false spots on the wall where a cut-out existed. A place where a safe had been installed. Finding nothing, I
left the room, wiping my prints from the doorknobs. I checked the bathroom and linen closet off the hallway. They were as barren as the rest of the place.
I made sure to wipe everything down in the living room and kitchen, and then I left.

The stairwell door opened a second after I shut McSweeney's. I stood there, facing the door, and knocked. A slender, raven-haired woman in her early
twenties approached. She made eye contact as she passed.