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  110

  I PULL my car into the lot of the apartment house in Huntington. I had been halfway to the Hoover Building when Books called me from here.

  Petty jumped him, Books told me, but when I see him coming out of the rear door of the building, it looks more like Petty ran over him with a truck. The left side of his face is bruised and scraped. The right side’s okay, but above his ear the hair is caked with blood and the area’s swollen, as if he’d grown a tumor since I last saw him.

  “You shoulda seen the other guy,” he says when he gets in my car. “I feel like such an idiot.”

  I put my hand up to his face, though it’s hard to touch it.

  “I’m okay,” he says.

  And suddenly I burst into tears. He brings me close while I release the nervous energy, the worry, the feelings I’ve suppressed.

  “I didn’t…know…what happened to you,” I say after a few minutes, catching my breath, the sobbing finally passing. “I hadn’t heard from you…”

  I look at him. He’s trying to smile. It’s not easy with all the bruising.

  “I can’t lose you, Books. I don’t know what that means. I really don’t. But I can’t.” I take a deep breath. Where did all that emotion and confession come from?

  “Okay, first of all, I’m fine,” he says. “Second of all, I suggest we tackle the task of finding our serial killer before we address the far more difficult and complex mystery of Emmy and Books.”

  I wipe my face, laughing. He always makes me laugh. “Deal,” I say. “But how about before we do either of those things, we take you to the emergency room?”

  “No, I’m okay. My pride is wounded, I have a massive headache, and I’m going to look like the Elephant Man for a few days, but otherwise I’m ready to dance a jig.”

  No, he’s not. “Can you drive?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay to drive.”

  “Then follow me to the nearest ER. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  He sighs. “My head hurts too much to argue with you.”

  “And then you’ll go home and rest.”

  “No, I’m not going home to rest. I’m following Elizabeth tonight.”

  “Elizabeth? Still?”

  “What?” he says. “Nothing’s changed. I know someone’s funneling cash to her. I still think it’s Citizen David. But why can’t Petty be Citizen David? If he can be Darwin, he can be David too.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “If I’m wrong, I’m wrong,” he says. “But there’s only one way to find out. She’ll leave tonight the same time she always does, I bet. And I bet she goes to the Payton Club again for one of her little meetings.”

  “Even tonight, after the day we’ve had?”

  “Especially tonight, Em. I don’t know who she’s been meeting with or what she’s been saying, but I know this much—she has a lot of new information to share after today.”

  “Take backup, then,” I say. “Take me.”

  “No and definitely no,” he says, “in that order. Nobody else at the Bureau knows I’m looking at Elizabeth Ashland. I can’t drag other agents into this and tell them we need to investigate someone who could ruin their careers if she ever found out. And even if I could, it’s too much of a risk that she’d sniff it out. And you? I’m not letting you anywhere near that place. Besides, you have plenty to keep you busy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “I’m going alone,” he says. “And I promise you this—that’s the last time anybody jumps me.”

  111

  BOOKS AND I drive our separate cars to the ER in Huntington, where they clean the wound on his head, stitch him up, and give him some pain meds. He doesn’t like it, but even he concedes it was the right decision.

  Afterward, we split up, Books heading out for his evening of surveillance, me heading for my evening of research. I return to Hoover to find Rabbit and Pully looking like two kids cramming for an exam, moving from their telephones to their computers, papers all over their cubicles.

  They are doing so many things at once. Monitoring hits on license-plate readers and cameras in every direction from Annandale, Virginia. Doing background checks on our various suspects. Searching for Dodge Caravan registrations and trying to tie them, in any way, to Petty or Lieutenant Wagner.

  And I’m going to add at least one new assignment—searching for registrations for Chevy Impalas, which Books thinks is the car Petty was driving.

  But at least I can help now too.

  “Have you guys eaten today?” I ask.

  “No” and “No time” are the answers I get, nearly in unison, from Rabbit and Pully.

  “You need to. This may take days, guys. You barely slept last night. You have to eat and you have to sleep or you’ll fall apart.”

  Rabbit throws off her headset and sits back in her chair. She blinks her bloodshot eyes as if it’s the first time today she’s looked at anything but a screen. Pully stands and moans, his palms on his back, stretching like an old man even though he’s barely old enough to drink.

  “Listen, guys,” I say. “It’s almost seven now. You’ve been at this all day. You’ve exhausted nearly everything you can find in terms of data. And any human intelligence—those people aren’t getting back to you tonight, so there’s no point in waiting for them. Let me take it from here.”

  “No way,” says Rabbit. “The guy who blew up a homeless shelter is mine. I’ll stay up for a year if that’s what it takes.”

  “She’s serious,” Pully says. “Remember, you’re talking to someone whose idea of fun is organizing protest rallies and volunteering at soup kitchens.”

  “A little volunteering would do you good, Pully,” she shoots back. “Get out in the real world instead of sitting home playing Dungeons and Dragons.”

  “Dungeons and Dragons?” He laughs. “I think I was born the year that went out of style.”

  “Okay, people, listen,” I say, reclaiming their attention. “Last I checked, I’m your boss. And you’re supposed to listen to your boss. I know I read that somewhere.”

  “I think it’s in the manual,” says Pully.

  “Right, so go home. Have a meal, get a decent night’s sleep. Return in the morning and all those people will begin calling you back, and the pieces will start fitting together.” I clap my hands. “Really, guys. What was your plan? Pull an all-nighter? You’d be hallucinating by dawn.”

  “And what about our fearless leader?” asks Rabbit, who is warming up to the idea of food and a bed despite herself.

  “I haven’t spent all day cooped up like you two,” I say. “And anyway, I have a few things to take care of, then I’ll go home too.”

  They drag their feet a bit, but it helps when your boss is pushing you out.

  When they’re gone, I sit down in front of the computer. When Citizen David started his bombing spree, Rabbit began collecting raw data from around the bombing sites—CCTV-camera footage, license-plate readers, tollway cameras. Then she took the raw data and put it into a useful format so we could play with it—perform cross-references, run pattern analyses, dump it into algorithms, isolate various characteristics.

  Are Darwin and Citizen David the same person? Books could be right. I admit, it never would have occurred to me.

  We know this much from the bulk data around the sites that Citizen David bombed: No single vehicle with the same license plate was captured at all of the locations—Connecticut, Florida, and Alabama—during the relevant times. We would’ve picked that up immediately. But maybe Petty drove his Chevy Impala to one of the bombing sites. We never had a reason to focus on this particular make and model of vehicle before.

  So it’s a long shot, but it could be a home run. If, that is, Petty is Darwin. And if Darwin is Citizen David. And if Petty was driving a Chevy Impala, as Books believes but isn’t sure. A long shot, yes. But that’s what data girls like me look for.

  I glance at the time. It’s now exactly seven o’clock. If Books is righ
t about her regimented, seven-to-seven schedule, Elizabeth Ashland will be leaving for the day right now.

  I go onto the data drive on my computer, the W drive. The bulk data—all the information assembled from all the sources from all three of Citizen David’s bombing sites—is in, appropriately, the bulk-data folder. The folder is pass-code protected.

  I type in the pass code and pull up the bulk-data file.

  “Wait a second,” I say aloud, though I’m alone.

  This isn’t the bulk-data file. Not the raw data, anyway.

  This has been edited.

  Edited by whom?

  I think it through. The members of our data team—Pully, Rabbit, and I—have access to the raw data. We have the pass code. Who else does?

  Supervisors in our chain of command. The director, of course, as well as the assistant directors and…

  Does Elizabeth Ashland, a special assistant director, qualify for clearance?

  I pull up the clearance manual. Yep. She sure does.

  Elizabeth has access to our raw data.

  112

  HE RUNS through his house removing everything that could incriminate him. In his upstairs bedroom, the materials he used for the scar: the makeup pencil he used to draw the outline of the scar, the rigid collodion scarring liquid, the powder, the lip gloss to give the scar a bit of a shine. The gray wig, of course. He puts it all in a grocery bag.

  He looks in the mirror and forces himself to take a deep breath. Things didn’t go well today. But it could have been worse.

  You have to trust your plan, he reminds himself. They can’t tie anything to you. Even if they suspect you. Even if they’re sure it’s you.

  It all leads to Lieutenant Wagner. Everything. Every murder was committed in a city that Wagner was visiting. The Taser, the watch, both found at Wagner’s house. And of course, Wagner has now fled! Only a guilty man would flee!

  They’ll never find Wagner’s body, buried at that deserted power plant. Sure, the drive to the storage shed was compromised, thanks to that damn police barricade, but the trip to the abandoned power plant was pristine. Nobody could possibly know that he buried Wagner there. Nobody was going to be looking at the power plant.

  They won’t find the duplicate Dodge Caravan either, the one he used for all his travel, all the murders, the one he customized just like Wagner’s. It’s several towns away, in a private rented garage paid for in cash. And even if they did find it, it’s just a vehicle. It may be souped up exactly like Wagner’s, but so what? They can’t tie it to him. It’s been wiped clean. It’s not registered to him. The license plates have been removed. There’s no connection to him.

  The duplicate wheelchair he used? Now, that could be a problem. It’s one thing for the FBI to find a dime-a-dozen Dodge Caravan in some private garage. It’s quite another for them to find a wheelchair that’s not only the same make and model as Wagner’s but has the same American-flag decal and RANGERS LEAD THE WAY sticker on the shroud.

  No, it’s time to retire, once and for all, the duplicate wheelchair. He pulls it out of his downstairs closet and wheels it into the garage.

  First, he puts on gloves and wipes down everything. He vacuums the leather seat. No reason to leave a stray print or fibers.

  Next, disassembly. It will be much easier to dispose of this chair in parts instead of tossing the whole thing in a river or somewhere. The armrests, the shroud, the wheels, the footholds, the joystick, the motor—everything is unscrewed and separated.

  Now it’s simply a matter of taking the parts to various different spots—garbage dumps, recycling centers, storm drains, municipal garbage cans, ponds and rivers, alley dumpsters.

  He looks at the time. It’s 7:00 p.m.

  Lose the wheelchair, he thinks, lose the makeup and wig, and there’s nothing tying any of this to you.

  And then he can finalize his plans for the next target, which will make the bombing in Chicago look like amateur fireworks.

  113

  BOOKS PARKS his car on the street not far from the Payton Club. He doesn’t bother tracking Elizabeth from headquarters. He’s that sure she’ll come here tonight.

  He waits across the street, a busy avenue with plenty of vehicle and pedestrian traffic, so he’s not worried about sticking out. His heart races as he sees Elizabeth, buttoned up as always, with the same self-assured stride as always, taking the steps up to the main door, ornately decorated in gold and framed by the flags of the nation, the District, and the club. The door opens as she approaches. Books sees a warm exchange between Elizabeth and the doorman before it closes.

  Now it’s waiting time. He could badge his way in there, but he doesn’t know the layout of the multistoried club or where Elizabeth could be. He could lose the element of surprise. All he knows is that she tends to spend a few hours there. His best guess is that she has a cover for being there. She works out there or she eats dinner there or both, and then she somehow meets with her source. She might meet with the source first, right away; doubtful but possible. Or they might meet at the end of her time there.

  No way to know, so he has to keep his eyes glued to the front door. It’s the only means of entry and departure in the evenings; he’s checked on that and confirmed it. Maybe the person Elizabeth is meeting has yet to arrive. Maybe that person beat her, and Books, here. But that mystery man or woman’s going to have to leave at some point. Books is prepared to wait until ten, when the place closes, if necessary.

  He touches his face. The abrasions on his left cheek from where he hit the asphalt hurt more than the bump on the right side of his skull, where Petty struck him with the baton. The pain meds he got from the ER are helping, at least.

  As stupid as he feels about letting someone like Petty get the better of him, he knows he’s lucky too. Petty could have killed him. If that woman and her granddaughter hadn’t arrived when they did…

  A group of men in suits enter the Payton Club. Books snaps photos of each of them, zoomed in. It’s a Thursday night, a prime night for socializing. His camera will get a lot of use.

  You’re in there somewhere, he thinks. And you’re going to have to show yourself sooner or later.

  114

  NINE O’CLOCK. It’s taken me two hours to reassemble the raw data that was sent to us by the various agencies and that Rabbit organized and collated for us so we could run our searches. It’s not the first time I’ve done this sort of thing, but it’s been a while, and I have a newfound appreciation for the work Rabbit does.

  Somebody tampered with the raw data after it was put into an organized, usable format. But whoever it was couldn’t tamper with the original data delivered to us. That would be impossible.

  “You didn’t think we’d re-input the original data, did you, Elizabeth?” I whisper.

  Finally, it’s ready to run. I start with the basics, the first thing any analyst would run. A simple compatibility search to see if the same license plate was captured around all three of the bombing sites—Seymour, Connecticut; Pinellas Park, Florida; and Blount County, Alabama—during the relevant time periods. I run the search and press Enter.

  And I get a hit. One hit. One license plate that was tagged at each bombing location.

  I nearly jump out of my seat. I pull up the license plate and do a search for the vehicle registration.

  When I get the results, I really do jump out of my seat. Then I back away from the computer like it’s suddenly radioactive.

  “My God,” I say.

  I’ve had this wrong. I’ve had this wrong all along.

  115

  ELIZABETH ASHLAND leaves the Payton Club at a quarter past nine. She walks out the door and down the steps with the same confident stride, the same put-together presentation, as she had when she entered.

  Books waits. The place will close at ten. At most, he’ll have to wait another forty-five minutes for Elizabeth’s contact to leave too.

  Will it be Shaindy Eckstein, the Post reporter?

  Or Petty, w
ho, up until yesterday, Books would not have thought capable of walking into an exclusive social club like the Payton?

  Michelle Fontaine? He doesn’t know much about her, only that she happened to quit her job at the same time Lieutenant Wagner either left town or was murdered.

  Maybe Lieutenant Wagner? Whatever Emmy thinks, there’s no way to be certain that Wagner was framed—set up as the patsy and murdered. Nothing is certain right now.

  Wait—what if it is Wagner? Wagner’s in a wheelchair. He wouldn’t be walking up the steps.

  “Shit.” Books breaks from his spot and jogs over to the intersection. There it is—the wheelchair-accessible entrance, on the east side of the building. He’d forgotten about that. So now Books has to cover both the front entrance and the side entrance? He’s standing right on the corner, not exactly hidden.

  Did he already miss Wagner, or someone else, leaving from the wheelchair-accessible exit?

  “Damn it,” he whispers. Did he make another mistake? First being jumped, then failing to cover what, in hindsight, should have been obvious—

  Books freezes as the front door of the Payton Club opens and a man comes out and goes bounding down the stairs. Into a waiting town car.

  No. No way.

  Books remembers to breathe, his mind buzzing now. As the town car pulls away, Books hustles to his own car, jumps in, and follows.

  He learned today, a lesson from Petty, that he’s rusty when it comes to vehicular surveillance. But it doesn’t matter. Not this time.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispers.

  After the two vehicles break free of the traffic and head out onto an open road toward the interstate, Books draws his car up behind the town car. No use in pretending. Nobody’s pretending anymore.

  The town car pulls over to the side of the road. Books does the same.

  One of the back doors of the town car opens. An invitation.

  Books kills the engine and gets out of the car. Walks over to the town car and gets in the back seat. There are two men in the front seat, only one in the back.