Wake the Devil (7 page)

W
esley Simms was still in the office across the street waiting for his chance. A polite knock on his door caused him to look up from the desk he was sitting at.

“It’s open, Mr. Schulman. Come on in.”

An Atlanta SWAT officer holding an AK-47 assault rifle pushed the door open but didn’t enter.

“Oh,” Wesley said. “You’re not Abe Schulman.”

“No, sir. Sorry to interrupt. We’re just checking offices.”

“For what?” Wesley asked, looking over the top of his glasses.

“Nothing to be alarmed about, Mr. Walker,” the cop said, glancing at the name on the door. “A man was shot yesterday and we had a report the shooter might be in this building.”

“Are you serious? Who was shot?”

“A priest, unfortunately.”

“Holy crap,” Wesley said, putting down his pen. “Come in—look around if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the cop said, seeing the rooms were empty. “Just these two offices, right?”

“Right. Just these two. Who the hell kills a priest? That’s sick.”

“No argument from me, sir. Sorry to disturb you. Have a good day,” the officer said and began to close the door.

“You, too.”

Wesley shook his head and went back to the notes he was pretending to write. He listened for the sound of the lock clicking shut and kept his face neutral. He was still shaken by the appearance of the
police at the building he had chosen. From his window, he watched the cops converge on the entrance from both directions. There was no longer any doubt they knew he was in Atlanta. Their showing up at the church settled that. Of course, he’d prepared himself for the possibility, but it was still annoying. Move—countermove. Sometimes, that’s the way these things went.

A few seconds passed and there was still no lock click, which meant the cop was still there. The Mentor whispered in his ear to keep writing.

“Sir,” said the cop, opening the door again. “What are those two doors at the back of your office?”

Startled, Wesley looked up. “Cripes, I thought you were gone. What did you say?”

“The doors. Where do they go?”

“One’s to a supply closet; the other’s to my bathroom.”

“I’d better give them a quick look.”

Head scanning from side to side, the officer came into the room, alert for any signs of danger. Cautious.

“Not a problem,” Wesley said, lapsing momentarily into his Irish accent.

He tossed his pen down and pushed himself away from the desk, nearly stepping on the body of Leland Walker, attorney at law, stuffed into the foot well. He waited until the cop was satisfied.

“Sorry. The fellow we’re after is awfully dangerous. We were told to be extra cautious.”

“Hey, I appreciate it,” Wesley said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Fan of Coke?” the cop asked, motioning with his chin to an empty half-liter bottle Wesley was holding.

“Not really.”

“What’s the bottle for?”

“It makes a cheap but effective silencer.”

“Wha . . .”

The killer drew his gun and fixed the bottle over the muzzle so quickly the cop had no time to raise his weapon. One shot was all it took. The young man’s head snapped backward, with a startled expression on his face. Wesley dragged his body into the supply
closet, picked up the file he’d been looking at, along with a law book, and left the office.

*

Janet Newton was telling Jack and Beth, “In Tel Aviv three years ago, a man slipped into a synagogue during a Saturday prayer service and used an ice pick to kill a retired colonel in the Israeli army when he went to the men’s room. One thrust at the base of the skull into the brain. Later that morning when their emergency people responded, a bomb went off, killing six others and injuring twenty more. Among the dead were the colonel’s wife and son.”

“So he’s a terrorist?” Beth asked.

“An opportunist,” Janet Newton said. “The bomb had no purpose except to create confusion and give the Sandman a chance to get away.”

For the third time, Jack checked his cellphone then asked, “What did forensics say about the bomb’s construction?”

“It’s in the file,” Janet said. “The Mossad looked at the pieces they recovered, but no prints or DNA on anything.”

“Which may be significant,” Jack said. “His caution indicates his prints or DNA are on file somewhere.”

He glanced at the phone again and began tapping his fingers on the table.

*

Wesley examined his reflection in the glass sign by the elevator doors listing businesses and their suite numbers. Still shaken by what happened, he made a deliberate effort to calm himself and smoothed his hair into place. His suit was a blue pinstripe. Just another lawyer heading to court. Under his arm was a thick manila folder bulging with papers and secured at the top with a thin metal clasp. Along with the file was a black book with red lettering on the spine indicating it was Title Nine of the Official Code of Georgia on Civil Practice.

It took some effort to keep the agitation off his face. Warning bells were going off inside his head. This was the second time they’d shown up. Once, luck. But twice . . .

Steady on, son, the Mentor said. Keep looking at that deposition.

I know, Father. It’ll be tough getting out of here. They’re all over the place.

They’re checking offices for a sniper, not people leaving. There’s a cafe on the first floor. Let’s grab a bite to eat. Have to keep our strength up.

Wesley shook his head and got on the elevator.

In the cafe, he selected a table at the side, put down his file, and calmly went to the refrigerator case and took out a chef salad and a bottle of peach-flavored Snapple. People complained about the price of gas, which was selling at close to $3.50 a gallon. But a gallon of Snapple was going for around $37.00. Crazy.

It took him fifteen minutes to finish eating. During this time, he browsed the deposition. Boring. He finally opened his cellphone and began to speak in a low voice.

Better now? the Mentor asked.

I’m fine.

Anything here we can use, son?

There’s always something if you look carefully.

That’s my boy. What are the cops doing?

Going in and out of the lobby. If they follow standard procedure, they’ll do a personnel check in three to five minutes.

Guess it’s time to leave, then.

*

Head down and still pretending to read intently, Wesley nearly collided with a female SWAT officer on his way to the elevator. He apologized and kept moving. Once he reached the underground garage, he pressed a button on the lawyer’s car entry fob. It took two tries before a pair of headlights flashed and a polite chirp identified the Audi’s location. Very cool. He liked Audis. Those Germans really knew how to make cars. Minutes later, Wesley found himself driving north on Peachtree Road to the address in the file.

*

Janet Newton’s briefing continued. “The Sandman’s employed a variety of ways to take out his victims. Bombs and a .50-caliber rifle are
among his favorite weapons, but he’s also used knives and poison. The only commonality we can see is his penchant for disguises.”

“I’d like to know more about them,” Jack said.

“In Madrid, a member of their Parliament was murdered. Their police checked the street cameras and did a head count of the security personnel on duty at the time. Turned out there was one more head than they bargained for.”

“Any physical description?” Beth said.

“A woman.”

“You told us we’re looking for a man, as in Sandman.”

“We are,” Janet said. “He may have been working with a partner at the time, which is contrary to what we know about him. All the cameras showed was the back of the phony cop’s head.”

The deputy director was about to continue when Jack’s cellphone buzzed. He held up a hand for her to wait.

“Hi, Ben. What do you have?”

Jack listened to the response, nodding.

“You sure they’re street shoes?”

Another pause. Beth and Janet exchanged glances.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Did you notify Pappas and Sheeley? Good. We’re on our way.”

As soon as he disconnected, he informed them, “There’s about to be another attempt on the witnesses.”

“How do you know?” Beth asked.

“From the evidence you collected,” Jack said, getting up.

She and Janet both stood and followed him to the door.

“You were correct about verifying a fire marshal was at Rachel Lawrence’s office. A little while ago, I sent the electrostat image of the footprint you found to Ben Furman. He identified the shoe as a Braxton Strider, street model, men’s size ten . . . leather sole.”

“So?”

“The fire department wears shoes with thick rubber soles and reinforced steel toes for safety. I told Ben if the electrostat didn’t match to call Glen Sheeley and scramble SWAT. They should be at the building now.”

Their trip took ten minutes. As Jack predicted, the area was teeming with police. The SWAT commander met them in the lobby with more bad news.

“Dispatch reported a man’s body was found in a dumpster not far from here. Most of the clothing had been removed along with his identification.”

“What about finger prints?” Beth asked.

“Great idea, if the guy had any fingers.”

Her mouth opened in shock. Not something you hear every day.

“Whoever killed him took the fingers for a souvenir,” Sheeley said.

“It’s the Sandman,” Jack said. “He was ID-proofing the body. I imagine that will be our fire marshal.”

Sheeley made a face. He was a huge man, close to two hundred fifty pounds. From the size of his chest and arms, Sheeley looked as if he could step into the ring at any pro wrestling match. His head was completely shaved. Despite his size, Beth heard he relaxed by building ships in bottles.

“What are your people doing?” Jack asked.

“Going door to door in both buildings across the street like you suggested. We’ve eliminated everything below the seventh floor because the angle’s too steep for a shot.”

“What about another bomb?” Janet Newton asked.

“Not enough time,” Jack said. “Dwayne Stafford with Robbery-Homicide was there with the witnesses and had the man under observation the whole time except when he went into an empty office next door. Beth double checked it and saw nothing suspicious.”

“Maybe we’ll get a description,” Janet said.

That prospect didn’t excite anyone.

The SWAT commander took the hand microphone off his shoulder and called for a com-check, just as Wesley predicted.

One after another, the team members responded, with a lone exception. “McNamara, com check. Report,” Sheeley repeated.

He was met by static.

Sheeley turned to the nearest cop and asked what building and floor McNamara had been assigned to.

“That one on the right, boss. Mac and Harry Chu are going from fourteen and working their way down.”

“Chu, come in,” Sheeley said.

“Chu, here.”

“What’s your status?”

“I’m finishing twelve now, Captain.”

“Where’s Mac?”

“He’s taking eleven down through eight. So far everything’s quiet.”

The sergeant Sheeley had just spoken to was also trying to raise McNamara on his walkie-talkie. He shook his head indicating it was a no-go.

Sheeley keyed his mic again. “Mac, what’s your twenty?”

“How about getting a GPS location on his cellphone?” Beth asked.

“Great idea.”

*

Less than five minutes later four SWAT officers emerged from the eighth floor at opposite ends of the hall. Using triangulation from cell towers, dispatch was quickly able to identify Leland Walker’s office as the location of McNamara’s cellphone. Jack, Beth, and Janet waited by the elevator until the scene was declared safe. Both Janet and Beth had their weapons out, as did Jack. It was unnecessary because there was enough firepower in that hallway to kill Stone Mountain. If anyone came out of the door showing a gun, their chance of living more than one second was nonexistent.

Harry Chu, another officer, crouched in front of the attorney’s door and carefully examined the lock. When Chu flashed the SWAT commander a thumbs up, Sheeley responded by motioning him to try the handle. It was open. With weapons at the ready, Chu and his companions entered the office.

Seconds passed.

Finally Chu called out, “Clear.”

Jack let out the breath he’d been holding. Almost immediately that was followed by a curse, prompting Glen Sheeley to draw his weapon and follow them in. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, but was probably less than a minute, Harry Chu stepped out and jogged down the hall to where Jack and the others were. His eyes were red-rimmed and it was obvious he was struggling to hold himself together.

“Sir, Commander Sheeley would like you and the ladies to join him.”

Jack set off down the hallway. He found Glen Sheeley staring at something in the storage closet. The lunch he’d just eaten felt like a rock in Jack’s stomach.

Danny McNamara, known to his friends and fellow officers as Mac, was lying on his side staring at the wall.

Whatever they say in the movies and books about cops stoically viewing the bodies of their dead companions is pure bullshit. Unless you’re made of granite, the sight hits you like a body blow. Tears were rolling freely down Sheeley’s face.

“Kid must have surprised the subject,” Sheeley said, his voice thick and hoarse.

Jack nodded slowly and without any conscious thought, he pulled a pair of black elastic gloves out of his pocket and began putting them on. The smell of blood in the room was now apparent. He had the impression of stepping into a nightmare. He’d met McNamara once or twice and liked him. They had even shared a beer together one night when Beth was working late. Mac had told him he was enrolled at Georgia State University studying psychology. He looked at the boy’s body and felt his stomach clench. What a waste. What a miserable waste.

“Look at the back of that Coke bottle,” Beth said, pointing. “The back’s blown open.”

“Poor man’s silencer,” Jack said. “Is this office supposed to be empty?”

Looks were exchanged before Sheeley told one of his men to find the building manager.