Blood List (4 page)

Bai's itinerary had been public for weeks, but the guest roster had misspelled his name "Jui Pai." He wasn't a high-profile target, didn't have bodyguards or any serious party or industry connections. He was a non-entity, a nobody. They had no clues on why D Street chose him, except perhaps the similarity in initials to Jerri Bates. Even that was a guess.

They'd found the bolt-action .50-caliber sniper rifle in the apartment, set up on a robotic tripod with a high-quality digital video scope. The tenant was at work at the time of the shooting and seemed to be an upstanding citizen. The lock had been forced earlier that morning, and the killer had left the crowbar at the scene. There were fingerprints everywhere that matched D Street, but no phone.

A diplomat killed on American soil. The FBI had known that there was a killer loose and the initials of the intended target. The political firestorm had kept Gene and his team occupied for the next several weeks.

Gene clicked "Send."

August 14th, 3:52 AM EST; Gene Palomini's Apartment; Washington, D.C.

Nothing moved. Not even rats scurried about, in spite of the stink of rotting food coming from the dumpster behind the Chinese joint. Gene crept up the alley, pistol ready, and froze in the shadows. The break had come suddenly, a thunderbolt from a clear sky, and he'd be damned if he was going to mess this one up. The Voice of Reason killer had been haunting Richmond for two months and was a tabloid celebrity. The press fed into the man's megalomania, but at least they could be used to flush him out. The bait was out; the trap set.

Gene smiled in the shadows. His first major case as a Special Agent, his first big payoff after all his training. He took another careful step and checked the safety on his service pistol. Marty appeared from nowhere, and looked ready for anything. Gene's phone rang.

Gene snapped awake. His phone rang again. He licked his upper teeth and cringed at the slimy, cottony feeling left by too many gin-and-tonics the night before. He fumbled for the phone.
Stupid retirement parties. Everyone always drinks too much.
He blinked away the fog of ninety minutes' sleep, then lifted the receiver to his ear. He responded with his first semi-coherent thought. "What?" His voice groaned out, thick and sloppy.

Sam sounded wide-awake and cheerful, as always. He held the phone away from his ear, just close enough to hear. "Would you be interested to know that forty black NetPhones were mail-ordered to a P.O. Box in SoHo almost a year ago?" He squinted at the clock and lamented his coordinator's ability to work at all hours.

His brain spun as it tried to process human speech through a haze of sheer hell. "Did you say forty?" His head throbbed with every syllable.

"Yeah, like days and nights in the desert, Gene. Forty. Know anyone who might have need of forty NetPhone I-590s, paid for with a credit card linked to a fake Social Security number?"

Gene sat up. This killer, this dead-end, this invisible man who followed no patterns and killed without conscience, this monster who taunted his team for fun, had just made a mistake. "Do we know who picked them up and when?"

"The bad news is that the post office won't release that information. Right to Privacy and all that."

He hated it when Sam played with him. Why couldn't she just spit it out? Why hadn't he become a dentist, or a hula dancer—something, anything, other than an FBI agent? On the other end of the phone, Sam said nothing. She always made him ask. "What's the good news?" He stumbled into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and drank it as she replied.

"The good news is that they were picked up by one Bradley Jones. Bradley is a small-time hood with a long rap sheet of minor consequence—possession with intent to distribute, stuff like that. He just got busted on federal weapons charges and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and trying to plea he copped to a whole lot of weird stuff both legal and not, including this delivery. Thought it was a mob thing, phones fell off a truck or something. Anyway, he delivered them to a warehouse in Queens for a hundred bucks.

"I asked the super to check his records. He said the warehouse was rented by some guy who paid in cash, dropped his lease right after the delivery, just ate the security deposit. They're faxing over the lease so we can get the handwriting analysis guys on it. The local office is already fingerprinting everything they could find. If it was him, we'll know by noon or so."

"Great. What's the name on the lease, Sam?" Gene said.

"Um, here it is, Paul Renner," she said. "Guy's a ghost. He's got no record, no known place of employment, no known address. Social security number's fake."

Sacred Mother,
Gene thought, not sure if it was sacrilege or prayer,
let this be the guy's big screw-up.

"What do we know about these phones?"

Sam replied, "Well, that depends on how much you love me."

"Right," Gene said. "I love you very much. Now spit it out or I'll have you fired, then set on fire for messing with me at four in the morning."

Gene could hear the smile through the phone. "Well, we know that one of them came online last week."

"Great. So how do we find him?" Gene asked.

"Well," Sam said, "we don't. Not really."

"What does 'not really' mean?"

"It means that what we've got is a phone that's currently active, somewhere on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. That's all we can get tracing through cell towers. It's not nearly granular enough to be able to find him, but at least we can track his movements."

"All right," Gene said. "Do it."

*   *   *

October 5th, 2:30 PM PST; Los Angeles Public Library; Los Angeles, California.

Paul Renner sat in the public library disguised as a homeless man, his body tight with anticipation underneath filthy clothes. He looked at the text message again, then at the computer screen.
Larry Johnson, Jr., 8473 Eagle Crest Drive, Salt Lake City, Utah.
It was downright scary what you could find on the Internet these days.

Mr. Johnson was in his mid-sixties and had found God more than thirty years before when he'd met Mormon missionaries in a NYC park, who saved him from a life of addiction. He went from junky to janitor to union garbage man to shift supervisor in that time, had a lovely wife and seven children, and had retired two years ago. His rambling blog spelled out his typical day in far too much detail.

He spent most mornings doing the crossword and Sudoku in the paper, afternoons sitting in his front lawn sipping coffee—decaffeinated, of course—and waiting for his first grandchild to be dropped off after daycare. He spent his evenings babysitting until his eldest daughter got home, usually just in time to make him miss
Final Jeopardy
, then updated his blog from eight to ten.

It amazed Paul that anyone would write such shit and that anyone else would read it. Well, anyone who wasn't studying Larry Johnson, Jr.'s routine to find the best way to kill him, of course. Whistling, Paul committed most of the blog to memory, booked an American Airlines business-class ticket to Salt Lake City for "Scott Gleichauf," hacked through to gain administrative privileges, and formatted the hard drive.

He swore under his breath and pounded the keyboard, earning a look of reproach from the elderly woman next to him. He stood and flagged down a librarian. "Hey, that computer's broke. Just, like, turned off and shit, man."

Without waiting for a reply, he stumbled out into the afternoon.

*   *   *

October 18th, 11:27 AM EST; Deck of the
MaryAnne
; off the coast of Virginia.

This stinks,
Gene thought as he looked into the choppy water. The boat rocked under his feet. He reeled in and inspected his hook. The four-pound jackfish stared at him with dead eyes, still perfectly intact. He sipped his beer and cast an accusatory glance at his sunbathing brother.

"Marty, I thought you said sharks love these things."

Marty shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted at Gene. "They do. Maybe they're not hungry. Just wait." He closed his eyes.

"Sharks are always hungry," Gene said. "They seem more interested in the mackerel than the jackfish." He cast the line back into the water.

Marty smiled and pulled his hat down over his face, muffling his voice through the fabric. "Give it time, bro. There's like four big makos down there, and the chum's got them all riled up. They'll bite."

Gene took one last look in the water, then sat. "Fair enough." He looked out across the ocean at a massive cargo ship passing in the distance. "You ever think about changing the name of your boat?"

Marty shook his head, making the hat jiggle on his face. "Nope. That's bad luck."

"You don't believe in luck," he replied.

"True," Marty said. "But that doesn't mean boats don't. You don't fucking mess with maritime tradition."

"But isn't having a boat named after your ex-wife a little weird?"

"Not as weird as it could be. She's hard to steer, stubborn, built like a brick shithouse, and just about perfect…." He trailed off.

Gene smiled. "Which MaryAnne are we talking about, here?"

Marty chuckled. "Not sure, bro. I love them both, and never spent enough time with either one."

"This job's hard on relationships," Gene said. "Maybe not as hard as the Navy, but the long hours, unexpected travel, the danger…I don't know how the two of you lasted as long as you did." The left pole dipped. "Hey, we've got a bite!"

Marty flipped to his feet in one fluid motion, an impressive feat on the rocking boat, and grabbed the pole with both hands. Eyes sparkling, he gave it a heave. His muscles strained as he dug in his feet. "That's a big one!"

Gene's phone beeped.
Oh, great,
he thought. He pulled it from his belt and cupped his hand over the screen to block the glare. It said,
Utah
. The caller ID read
D Street
.

"If that's work, tell them we're fucking busy," Marty said, giving another pull and reeling in a few feet of line.

Gene sighed. "It's work, but it's not Sam. It's D Street."

Marty snarled. "I'm on vacation."

"Not anymore," Gene said. He grabbed the other pole and started reeling. "We need to get these lines in and get to port, ASAP." He hit his speed dial as Marty dragged the shark closer to the boat. The phone rang once.

"On it, Gene," Sam said in his ear. "He's in Salt Lake. Flew there from Des Moines three days ago. I'm putting calls out to Carl and Jerri as we speak. Doug's in California, might be a little harder to track down. You'll have a plane waiting. SLC?"

"Yeah, that's fine. There's no point in trying to be sneaky about it. It might tip him off that we know something. Notify the SLC field office that we're coming."

"Will do. I'll have Doug meet you there. What's your ETA to Dulles?"

"Um…." Gene looked around at the open water. "Give us two hours."

"You got it, Gene." Sam hung up.

Gene patted Marty on the back. "You've got ten minutes to land that shark or let it go."

"Yes, sir."

October 18th, 12:43 PM PST; San Jacinto Mountain; San Jacinto State Park, California.

Doug smiled sadly at the love of his life. Maureen Barnhoorn was a classic beauty, a tiny little thing with raven-black hair, high cheek bones, smooth skin tanned to milk chocolate, and soft brown eyes. They lay naked under the sleeping bag, bundled against the cold.

Doug watched the tears form in Maureen's eyes and stifled a flash of hatred for Gene Palomini. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I have to go." It was one thing to be on call. It was another to break her heart. To be fair, it wasn't Gene's fault. "This guy's going to kill someone else if we don't stop him. Something might break this time. We might get him." He brushed his fingers down her back.

"I know, baby," she said. "Robbie tells me you've got the FBI dream-job, the one everyone shoots for. Special Operations Units get the big guns, the big budgets, the big toys, and only the best get in. He's jealous, you know."

 Doug nodded but didn't interrupt.

"But Robbie doesn't have to be on call 24/7. His office is ten minutes from his house. He works forty hours a week and gets two weeks a year. Two
uninterrupted
weeks. He gets to spend evenings with his family. Every night." She rolled over and bit his shoulder. "While you, Mister Glamorous-Too-Good-for-a-Desk-Job-Superman, disappear for weeks at a time, following Palomini around, trying to catch this guy, leaving me at home with the kids. When was the last time we had two weeks off together?"

Doug grinned at her. "Last year. We went camping in the mountains. Sound familiar?" She widened her eyes and shook her head in false denial. "And we don't have kids, Maureen."

She grinned back. "Seven months."

"What?" he asked.

"Seven months. You. Me. Babies. Seven months."

He pulled back and searched her face with his eyes. She was beautiful, and ten times more so when she smiled. "You're serious."

She beamed. "Ultrasound confirmed it two days ago. I'm nine weeks along."

"We're having a baby—wait, babies?"

"Twins." She giggled.

Doug beamed. "Really? Boys or girls?"

"Too early to tell." She rolled off him, took his palm, and slid it down to her belly. "Two little peanuts, right here, just growing away."

He kissed her, long and slow. Pulling back, he looked into her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

She looked outside. "I wanted to be sure. After trying for so long, and nothing. I didn't want you to be disappointed."