Cross Fire Page 19

  “Which means he could be anywhere by now,” Sampson said, giving the shorthand version for me. “Which means we should wrap this shit up and get back out there.”

  “Do you think Hennessey was working for the two dead guys in the car?” someone asked anyway.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “We’re still trying to track down who they were. It does seem like he’s cleaning house, though. Whether or not he’s finished is another question we don’t have an answer for.”

  A lieutenant in the first row spoke up. “Do you mean finished cleaning house, or finished with these sniper killings?”

  The questions were natural, but they were starting to get on my nerves. I held my hands out in a shrug. “You tell me.”

  “So, in other words,” Chief Perkins cut in, “we’re nearly twenty-four hours out and we know less than we did before these murders, is that it?”

  Nobody wanted to answer. There was a long silence in the room.

  “Something like that,” I said finally.

  Chapter 101

  TWO MORE DAYS of nerve-rattling quiet went by without much progress or any sign of Steven Hennessey or even anyone who might know him. Then, finally, there was some movement over at the Bureau. Max Siegel called me himself to tell me about it.

  “We got something over the Web,” he said. “Anonymous, but this one checked out. There’s a guy going by Frances Moulton, supposedly fits Hennessey’s description down to the toenails. He’s got an apartment over on Twelfth, except nobody’s seen him for approximately two months. Then, this morning, someone spotted him coming out of there.”

  “Someone — who?” I asked.

  “That’s the ‘anonymous,’” he said. “The super at the building backed it up, though. He hasn’t seen this Moulton character in months either, but he gave me a positive ID on Hennessey’s picture when I brought it over.”

  Either this was huge or it just felt that way given the zeros we’d racked up until now. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, when you’re desperate.

  “What do you want to do with this?” I asked. Whatever it meant, it was still Siegel’s lead, not ours.

  “I’m thinking you and I might sit up on this place for a while, see what happens,” he said. “If you want, I’m game. See? I can change.”

  It wasn’t the answer I’d expected, and my own pause spoke for itself.

  “Don’t bust my balls, here,” Siegel said. “I’m trying to play nice.”

  In fact, it seemed like he was. Did I love the idea of spending the next eight hours or more in a car with Max Siegel? Not really, but more than that, I didn’t want to be on the outside of this investigation for a second.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I’m in. Where can I meet you?”

  Chapter 102

  I EVEN BROUGHT coffee.

  Siegel brought some, too, so there was plenty of caffeine to go around. We parked in a Bureau-issue Crown Vic on the east side of Twelfth Street between M and N. It was a narrow, tree-lined block with a lot of construction going on, but not at the Midlands. That was Frances Moulton’s place and, if we were on the right track, Steven Hennessey’s address as well.

  The apartment in question was on the eighth of ten floors, with two large windows facing the street. They were both dark when we got there. Max and I settled in for the long haul.

  Once we’d said everything there was to say about the case, it got a little awkward — long silences set in. Eventually, though, the conversation loosened back up. Siegel threw me a softball, the kind of thing Bureau guys ask when they don’t have something better to say.

  “So, why’d you get into law enforcement?” he asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  I smiled into my lap. If anything, he was trying too hard to do the buddy-buddy thing.

  “Hollywood just didn’t work out. Neither did the NBA,” I deadpanned. “What about you?”

  “You know. The exotic travel. The great hours.”

  For once, he got a laugh out of me. I’d decided before coming that I wasn’t going to just sit there and hate him all night. That would have been like torture.

  “I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “If things had gone differently? I think I could have been a pretty good bad guy, too.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You have the perfect murder in your head.”

  “Don’t you?” Siegel said.

  “No comment.” I popped the lid on my second coffee. “Most cops do, though. Perfect crime anyway.”

  After another long pause, he said, “How about this: if you could take someone out — someone who really deserved it — and you knew you could get away with it, would you be torn?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s too slippery a slope for me. I’ve thought about it.”

  “Come on.” Siegel laughed and leaned back on the car door to look at me. “Say it’s just you and Kyle Craig alone in some dark alley. No witnesses. He’s all out of ammo and you’ve still got your Glock. You’re telling me you don’t pull the trigger now and ask questions later?”

  “That’s right,” I said. The Kyle reference was a little weird, but I let it slide. “I might want to, but I wouldn’t do it. I’d take him in. I’d like to bring him back to ADX Florence.”

  He looked at me, grinning as if he were waiting for me to break.

  “Seriously?” he said.

  “Seriously.”

  “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  I shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

  “That you’re a human being. Come on, Alex. You can’t get by in this business without at least a little walk on the dark side.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Been there, done that. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t pull the trigger.” Whether or not it was true, I really wasn’t sure. I just didn’t want to go there with Siegel.

  “Interesting,” he said, and turned back to face the front door of the Midlands. “Very interesting.”

  Chapter 103

  ALEX WAS LYING through his teeth. He was a good liar, but he was lying. If he had any idea he was sitting across from Kyle Craig right now, that Glock would be out in a heartbeat, and one round shy a second later.

  But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Cross didn’t have a clue. Any doubts about that were well behind them. This couldn’t possibly be more delicious, could it? No, it could not.

  Kyle sipped his coffee and went on. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” he said offhandedly. Interesting — Siegel’s speech and inflection were now more natural to him than his own.

  “What do you mean?” Cross asked.

  “The whole ‘foxes in the henhouse’ thing. The good guys and the bad guys, all mixed in together. The line between good and evil isn’t so clear anymore.”

  “That’s true,” Cross said. “More for the Bureau than the PD, though.”

  “I mean everywhere,” Kyle said. “The crooked congressman. The greedy son of a bitch CEO who just can’t get by on that first ten million. Hell, embedded terror cells. What’s the difference? They’re all out there, right under our noses, living next door. It’s as if the world used to be black and white, and now it’s all just gray, if you squint a little.”

  Alex was staring now. Right into his eyes. Was he finally tuning in?

  “Max, are you talking about Steven Hennessey here? Or yourself?”

  “Huh-oh,” Kyle-Max answered, and shook a finger at him. “I didn’t even see you switch hats. Very slick, Dr. Cross.”

  And Alex just laughed. It was amazing, really. Kyle had managed to make Cross hate Max Siegel, and now, with the turn of a few screws, Kyle was well on his way to making Alex into a true-blue fan of the smart but obnoxious agent.

  Who knows — Siegel might have gotten all the way to an invitation for family dinner or some such thing, at the rate this was going. But then something happened that even Kyle hadn’t expected.

  A bullet came through the windshield.

  Chapter 104
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  SIEGEL AND I were both out on the pavement and behind our doors at the same time. I heard another shot hit the grille, and then a sickening thud as one hit Siegel’s side of the car.

  “Max?”

  “I’m okay. Not hit.”

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  My Glock was out, but I didn’t even know where to point it. My other hand was dialing 911 while my eyes scanned the buildings around me.

  “One of those two,” Max said, pointing at the Midlands and the place just north of it.

  I looked up at Hennessey’s apartment again — still dark, with the windows closed. Rooftops were his thing anyway. Wasn’t that true?

  “Hello? Are you there?” said someone on my phone. “This is Nine-One-One Emergency. Can you hear me?”

  “This is Detective Cross, MPD. We have an active shooter at Twelve Twenty-one Twelfth Street Northwest. I need immediate assistance, all available units!”

  Another shot exploded a planter and a second-floor window directly behind me, one after the other. I heard a scream come from inside an apartment.

  “Police!” I shouted for anyone who could hear. “Stay down!” At least half a dozen people were still out on the sidewalk, scrambling for cover, and there was no way to keep more from coming along the walkway on the road.

  “We’ve got to do something. We can’t just stay here. Someone’s going to get shot,” said Max.

  I looked at him across the driver’s seat. “If he’s using a scope, and we move fast, he might not be able to keep up.”

  “Not with both of us anyway,” he said grimly. “Take the Midlands. I’ll get the next one up.”

  This was completely outside of protocol. We should have waited for backup, but with the potential for so much collateral damage, we weren’t willing to delay any further.

  Without another word, Siegel came out of his crouch and sprinted across the street. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.

  I counted to three to put some space between us, then started running with my head down. Another window shattered somewhere behind me. I barely noticed. My only focus right now was on getting to the other side of that apartment building’s front door — and then getting inside after Hennessey.

  Chapter 105

  ONCE INSIDE, I took the stairs. It was ten flights to the roof, but I’m in pretty good shape. Adrenaline did its job, too.

  A few minutes later, I was coming out on top of the Midlands. It was a strange déjà vu — a lot like the other night at the museum.

  I swept my Glock left and right — nothing. No one behind the door either.

  I’d come out through a utility room, and the walls were blocking my view of the Twelfth Street side of the building. That’s where Hennessey would have been shooting from if he was here.

  Sirens were wailing in the distance; with any luck, they were headed my way.

  I pressed my back against the wall and moved slowly to the corner, weapon first.

  The street side of the roof, though dimly lit, looked deserted to me. There were a couple of folding lawn chairs and a steel barrel lying on its side.

  No sign of Hennessey, though.

  I came to the edge and looked out. Twelfth Street was quiet down below. Other than the Bureau car with its doors open and a patch of broken glass on the ground, there wasn’t any indication of what had just happened.

  A few people were even walking by, oblivious to the damage.

  Then, as I leaned out for a better look, my foot hit something that made a small, metallic clinking sound. I took out my Maglite and pointed it at the ground to see what it was.

  Shell casings. Several of them.

  My pulse spiked, and I turned around — right into the barrel of a Walther nine millimeter.

  The man with his finger on the trigger, presumably Steven Hennessey, held the pistol up about an inch from my forehead.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “Not a goddamn muscle. I won’t miss from this distance.”

  Chapter 106

  HE’D DONE A pretty good job of changing his appearance — glasses, dark hair, clean-shaven. Enough to let him move around the city anyway.

  And probably enough to walk away from here unrecognized, too, I realized. It was all starting to fall into place.

  “Hennessey?”

  “Depends who you ask,” he answered.

  “You left that anonymous tip at the Bureau yourself, didn’t you?” I said. This whole thing was a setup, I felt sure, and we’d given him exactly what he wanted — a quiet surveillance detail by the people who knew the most about him. Whether he’d been trying to kill us in the car or draw us closer, I still didn’t know.

  “And look what I caught,” he said. “Now, I want you to reach back slowly and drop that Glock right off the roof.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll throw it over there. I can’t put this thing in the street.”

  “Sure you can,” he said. The tip of his Walther was cool when he pressed it into my forehead. Presumably he’d been using something bigger a few minutes ago.

  I reached back and let the Glock fall. When it smacked onto the concrete below, my stomach clenched.

  He took a step back then, out of arm’s reach.

  “To tell you the truth, I just wanted you dead and out of the way. But now that you’re here, I’m giving you thirty seconds to tell me what you’ve got on me,” he said. “And I’m not talking about what’s already in the papers.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you are,” I said. “You want to know how deep you need to go before you can disappear again.”

  “Twenty seconds,” he said. “I might even let you live. Talk to me.”

  “You’re Steven Hennessey, aka Frances Moulton, aka Denny Humboldt,” I said. “You were with U.S. Army Special Forces until two thousand two, most recently in Afghanistan. There’s a grave in Kentucky with your name on it, and I’m assuming you’ve been running freelance off the radar since then.”

  “What about the Bureau?” he said. “Where else are they looking for me?”

  “Everywhere,” I said.

  He adjusted his grip and locked his elbows. “I know who you are, too, Cross. You live on Fifth Street. No reason I can’t make a stop there tonight, too. Understand?”

  I felt a rush of anger. “I’m not messing with you. We’ve been grasping at straws. Why do you think we don’t have a whole team here?”

  “Not yet you don’t,” he said. The sirens were definitely getting closer, though. “What else? You’re still alive. Keep talking.”

  “You killed your partner, Mitch.”

  “Not what I’m asking about. Give me something I can use,” he said. “Last chance, or you won’t be the only Cross to die tonight.”

  “For God’s sake, if I had something, I’d tell you!”

  The first police cruiser came screaming up the block down below.

  “Looks like your time’s up,” he said.

  A gun fired — and I flinched before I realized it wasn’t Hennessey’s. His eyes opened wide. A line of blood rolled onto his upper lip, and he collapsed straight down in front of me, as if someone had just dropped his strings.

  “Alex?”

  I looked to the right. Max Siegel was standing on the roof of the next building, lit from behind by a small shaft of light from the stairwell. His Beretta was still up and pointed my way, but he lowered it when I turned to him.

  “You okay?” he called.

  I stepped on Hennessey’s wrist and took the Walther out of his hand. There was no pulse at the neck, and his eyes were like blank saucers. He was gone. Max Siegel had taken him out and saved my life.

  By the time I stood up again, the street was filling fast. Besides the sirens, I could hear doors slamming and the squawk of police radios. The block was locked down, but I still needed to go and find my Glock.

  Siegel appeared to stare after me as I headed for the door. I owed him a thank-you, to say the least, but the street noise would’ve swallowed my
words, so I just flashed a thumbs-up for now.

  All good.

  Chapter 107

  IT RAINED THE NEXT MORNING. We had planned to do our big press briefing outside but ended up moving it to the Daly Building lineup room instead. A hundred reporters, maybe more, had shown up for this thing, and we put a live audio feed in the lobby for the spillover and also for any latecomers.

  Max and I sat at a table at the front with Chief Perkins and Jim Heekin from the Directorate. The sound of camera shutters was everywhere, most of them pointed at Max and me. We were most definitely the odd couple.

  This was one of my famous moments. I’d had a few before. There would be a couple of weeks of constant interview requests, maybe a book offer or two, and definitely some number of reporters waiting outside my house when I got home that night.

  The briefing started with a statement from the mayor, who took about ten minutes to explain why all of this meant we should vote for him in the next election. Then the chief gave a rundown of the basics of the case before we opened up the floor to questions.

  “Detective Cross,” a Fox reporter asked right out of the gate, “can you walk us through the events of what happened on that roof last night? A real blow-by-blow? Only you can tell that story.”

  This was the “sexy” part of the case — the stuff that sells papers and ad space as well. I gave an answer that was short enough to keep things moving along but detailed enough to keep them from spending the next hour hounding me about how it feels to come face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer.

  “So, would you say that Agent Siegel saved your life?” someone followed up.

  Siegel leaned into his mike. “That’s right,” he said. “Nobody takes this guy out but me.” They gave him a good laugh for that one.