Thin Line (7 page)

"Which means it could have been before Taylor got there," Bear said. "That might explain why he bolted."

I nodded. "Or someone was already there. Maybe McLellan was being used as a bargaining chip, and when Taylor called the third party's bluff, McLellan was
terminated."

"Then what happened to Taylor?" Frank said.

"Left with the third party maybe." I thought it over for a second, then added, "We didn't see Taylor leave, so it's possible he wasn't alone when he did."

"And how'd they leave if you guys had the door covered?" Frank asked.

"Gotta be another way out," Bear said.

The car's cabin was quiet for several minutes as we each worked through the various scenarios.

"And then there's the other possibility," Frank said.

"That someone else wanted Taylor dead," I said. "And McLellan was sent to do the job, and failed."

Frank nodded, said nothing. If someone else wanted Taylor dead, Frank should have known. Now he'd have to find out who the guy worked for, and what he was
doing inside Taylor's apartment.

The community of assassins was larger than most believed. Some operated within a single agency or organization, others, like Bear and me, contracted our
services out, and still others operated with a great deal of moral ambiguity and took job offers from anyone and everyone, and often from the highest
bidder. We had to find out who'd sent McLellan to determine the reason he was there and what kind of man he was. That wouldn't be an easy task, either.
Frank would have to call in some big favors; and even then, he might not receive verification that McLellan had ever existed.

"You've been awfully quiet during this segment, Joe," I said.

He nodded, said nothing.

"What's your input?"

"I'm trying to sort it out myself. I lost track of McLellan a couple months ago."

"Well, what can you tell us about his past?"

"You saw the folder. That's what I have."

"Jesus Christ. Frank, why am I putting up with this?"

Frank said, "He's working an investigation too, Jack. We're gonna share. Joe's taking the angle on McLellan in an effort to piece together the guy's moves
the last couple months. If we're lucky, together you two will figure out why those two were destined to be at the same place on the same day, and why the
wrong one came out dead."

We pulled into a shopping center parking lot and stopped next to a dark sedan.

Joe Dunne handed Frank a business card and dropped another on his seat. I presumed it was meant for me. "I'll be in touch. If you get anything on
McClellan, call me immediately."

The door shut, and Frank pulled away. My initial reaction was to light him up over bringing in the FBI. Then my gut said don't bother.

We were sixty miles out of D.C. An hour, at least, not taking traffic into consideration. I wouldn't be able stay there for long.

"I need to get back to New York."

"Why?" Frank said.

"I missed something in that building."

"The escape route," he said.

"Maybe I can find a homeless who's familiar with the place. Get him to lead me to it."

"What do you think you'll find?" Bear said.

"Don't know if I'll find anything. I have to determine how he, or they, got out. I missed something, and that's unacceptable. It put the job at risk. And
that put us at risk."

The thought that I'd led Bear into a potential trap ate away at me. We'd had each other's backs since we were eighteen. He'd never let me down.

"So we'll head back up tonight," Bear said.

"No," I said. "I'll head back up. You stay and follow up on any leads Frank comes up with. Check with your sources, too, and see what they have to say."

Frank said, "Don't speak a word of this with anyone else. I'm serious. The wrong person gets wind of this and we'll all be screwed."

I turned away, stared out the window. "We're already screwed, Frank."

FIVE HOURS LATER I pulled into a multi-level garage four blocks from the apartment and parked in a vacant spot that cost me over five hundred dollars a
month. It was one of two that we leased. We always left a car parked at the other location, though not always the same vehicle. Paranoia prevented me from
doing so. I'd spend too much time wondering if anyone noticed the car that never left.

I headed to the apartment first. Though the snow had stopped falling the night before, the trek wasn't any easier because of it. A thin layer of uneven ice
coated the sidewalk. Felt worse than an ice rink. I slipped a half-dozen times. Managed to keep from falling.

When I reached the building, I half-expected to find Clarissa waiting there. She had no idea I'd left. Probably didn't care. That, or she'd ream me for not
letting her know. We'd tried dating once before. The relationship had lasted three months before we decided it wouldn't work. Don't know what made us think
this time would be any different. She'd grown. I'd grown. We'd grown apart.

I entered the condo slowly and cautiously. Clarissa wasn't there. No one else was, either.

I pulled a fresh cell phone from the safe and placed a call to an old contact from my days on loan to the CIA. If anyone could dig up the details of Brett
Taylor and Neil McLellan's relationship, it was Brandon Cunningham.

"How's life in Madison, Wisconsin?" I said.

Brandon laughed. "Not even close."

It had become a running joke that every time I called, I'd name a random place in an attempt to throw off anyone who was listening. Only a few people knew
his real location outside Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Fewer knew the man's past and his current affiliations. I wasn't among those who did. All I cared about
was that he remained affiliated with me.

"What d'you need, Jack?"

"Without going into much detail, I'm trying to tie together what relationship, if any, two guys who entered the Army at roughly the same time twelve years
ago had then, and currently have now."

"Can't you tell by their records?"

"Would I be calling you if I could? It'd be nice if it was that easy. Unfortunately, it isn't this time."

"So I guess my follow-up question is unnecessary."

"Probably."

"You got names?"

I gave him the names and waited while he tapped at his keyboard. He must've pinned the phone between his shoulder and face because his heavy breaths
surrounded the occasional grating of his stubble against the mouthpiece.

"You're not gonna like this, Jack."

"What is it?"

"I ain't got nothing, man. These guys are ghosts."

I walked toward the window and positioned myself so I could see down the concrete corridor. More storm clouds had rolled in. Even the snow on the ground
had taken on the sky's gray appearance.

"I'll have to dig a little deeper," Brandon said.

"You do that. Get back to me on the standard number."

"Will do." He paused, then added, "Working alone on this one?"

"Alone enough." Leaving the door open a crack for outside involvement would spook Brandon. I knew that. But it might also get him thinking of other avenues
to investigate.

"Who else is involved?"

"Let me worry about that, Brandon. You know it's best that way. Focus on getting me anything and everything you can on those two guys and what they've been
up to."

"How far back?"

"If it's relevant? Birth."

We ended the call. After pulling the battery, I snapped the phone in two. One half would go in the dumpster, the other in the middle of the road. A random
trashcan would be suitable for the battery. I trusted Brandon, but only to a point. If given enough incentive, he'd turn on me in a heartbeat. I couldn't
take the chance that he'd track me through the cell. When he called back, he'd do so on a generic number that I had routed through six servers. His call
would travel halfway around the world and back before it reached me.

I turned back to the window. Light was fading fast. The gray glow would turn to artificial orange and yellow soon. I decided this was a good time to head
over to the brownstone and poke around. The type of people I needed to question would be there. Fewer of those who wanted to question me would be around.

A cab dropped me off across the street from the café Bear and I had sat in front of a day earlier. The interior lights were off. I had half-hoped
they'd be open so I could give a little grief to Alexis, the woman who sold me out to Clarissa. That'd get back to Clarissa, though, so it was better that
the establishment wasn't open. I took one look inside after crossing the street and confirmed the place was empty.

Despite the frozen sidewalks and frigid air, the sidewalk teemed with enough activity to keep me on my toes. I walked with my head on a swivel. The crowd
contained a mix of regular folks out for a walk or perhaps out for dinner and plenty of street people. Those were the ones I had to watch. Any of them
could be dumb enough to target me. And worse than that, one of them could be an undercover. Asking about the scene inside the brownstone would give a cop
enough of an excuse to pull me aside.

Nothing good would come from that.

I found shelter from the biting wind on a covered stoop. There I surveyed the area. Piles of snow rose and fell like a tattered seawall along the side of
the road. None of it was white. Ice covering north-facing windows reflected the streetlights, which cast orange pools of light on the ground below. The
poles had been spaced close enough that little of the ground remained in the dark. Only the rare tree that broke through the concrete floor provided
respite from the glow. Surprisingly, the entrance to the brownstone was undisturbed and unaltered. I saw no yellow police tape strung across the door.

Did anyone know what had happened inside the day before?

I studied the faces that passed by. Few, if any, even noted my presence.

Half an hour passed with little change in the scenery. Gusts of wind whipped up clouds of snow. The powder settled again on the street, only to spiral back
to the curb in a violent torrent from the next car that passed. The people who walked by did not linger. I isolated three potential witnesses. All had been
there when I had arrived. One was a prostitute, presumably, who hung back close to an alley opening. The second was a young Hispanic drug dealer. You
wouldn't think it to look at him, but the fact that he was camped out on the sidewalk and had people stop by at odd intervals gave him away. The most
promising prospect was leaning back against Taylor's building, wrapped up in a flannel blanket. He hadn't been there the day before, but I had a feeling he
frequented the spot. I'd start with him. The other two were always on the lookout for something. A client. The cops. Whatever.

The homeless man had nothing better to do than observe it all.

I lifted my collar and pulled it tight across my neck and under my chin, then vacated the stoop and turned in the direction of the liquor store located two
blocks to the west. An offering of whiskey would produce results faster and easier than strong-arming the guy camped out in front of the brownstone. It'd
also be cheaper than the cost associated with getting stories out of the other two possible witnesses.

When I returned fifteen minutes later, the drug dealer was gone. Perhaps he'd had enough of the arctic blast and closed shop for the day. Or maybe sales
had been stronger than normal since everyone was stuck with nothing to do, and he had to restock his supply. Also gone was the hooker. I didn't bother to
check the alley. That she wasn't there was good enough for me.

The homeless man didn't acknowledge me as I cut across the icy street diagonally toward him. His face was hidden under a gray hood. I couldn't see his
eyes.

The snow was piled up high enough that I had to kick through it to cross the asphalt-to-concrete threshold. My foot hit the ground and slid six inches or
so on the ice. I threw my arms out to regain my balance and nearly dropped the whiskey peace offering.

The brief ice show caught the man's attention. He unburied his chin from his chest, and the hood fell back a couple inches. His face hadn't seen a razor in
the better part of a year. Frost covered the hairs that draped over his lips. His eyebrows where thick and wily, covering eyes that showed no fear of me.
He was short, stocky, and despite his age, could still hold his own. From six feet away, the stench of the man hit me. I fought back the urge to let him
know and stopped there. His gaze darted from me to the unmistakable sight of a liquor bottle in a brown bag. His tongue shot out, wetting cracked lips.

"How long did you serve?" I said.

His gaze lifted from the liquid devil in my hands to my eyes. "Twelve years."

"When?"

"Eighties."

"Any action?"

"Place called Panama."

"A lot of tough men went to Panama in the eighties."

He shrugged. "They said it was for a 'just cause,' but I'd have gone for any cause."

The man, though disheveled, was a SEAL. A former SEAL, but a SEAL nonetheless. What were the odds?

"Are you braving the frigid conditions to talk war with an old vet? Or is there some other reason you're standing there with my favorite drink at dusk when
the temperatures are barely in the teens?"

I held the bottle out in front of me. "How do you know it's your favorite?"

He reached for the bottle, smiled, said, "They're all my favorite."

I didn't let go after he wrapped his gloved hand around the sheathed bottle. "Consider this payment in advance."

"For what?" His posture changed, became defiant.

"Answers."

"To what kind of questions?"

"The kind I'm going to ask."

"What if I can't help you?"

"I only ask that you try."

"Fair enough."

I let go of the bundle, then gestured toward empty brownstone's door. "Let's go inside."

THE BUILDING'S FOYER was warmer than outside, but not by much. Steam rose in front of me with every exhalation. Light peeked through the crack between the
closed door and the frame. A myriad of footprints littered the dusty floor, going this way and that. They could have belonged to shoes that adorned the
feet of other homeless, or cops, or government agents.