Exposed (5 page)

Washington, D.C.

Artie left the SUV in a public parking lot where the government-issued license plate would warrant little attention. He was a quick learner and he knew better than to get tripped up on a simple parking fine or traffic stop. Like Ted Bundy. The guy gets away with murder, escapes prison and then gets pulled over in a VW bug, driving after 1:00 a.m. on Davis Highway in Pensacola, Florida. An astute police officer thought the orange VW looked out of place and checked the license plate, discovering the car had been stolen in Tallahassee.

Artie knew stuff like that. Bits of trivia about killers. He also learned from it. He knew not to draw attention to himself. So he parked the SUV and walked. He didn’t mind walking. He was in good shape, though he didn’t work out. Practically lived on fast food, switching from one kind to another. The hotel was only a few blocks away. He arrived as the tour bus was boarding. Perfect timing.

He had taken this tour of the Washington monuments a couple of times before. It was a great way to add to his collection. He could get DNA samples from people all across the country just by riding the ten-mile tour. Last time he had been lucky enough to confiscate a long red hair from a woman wearing a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt.

The driver collected Artie’s pass and he took an aisle seat across from a middle-aged couple. They said hello to him and immediately he pegged them from the Northeast, maybe New Hampshire. It was a game he played with himself, matching dialects to places.

“Where are you folks from?” he asked, friendly enough for a response.

“Hanover, New Hampshire,” both said in unison.

He smiled and nodded, satisfied.

“How about yourself?”

“Atlanta,” he chose this time, always using a city too big for anyone to expect him to know their aunt or cousin. Then he opened his tour brochure and closed the conversation. That was all he had really wanted, after all, was to prove himself right.

They took the hint but he could tell they would have liked to have asked more. He could morph himself into different characters. And he could be quite charming when he wanted to be. As a result, everyone seemed to enjoy talking to him. Sometimes he allowed it. It was good practice. Sometimes he could make up the lies faster than they could ask the questions. But he wasn’t in the mood today. He had other things that required his focus.

He glanced at his watch. In a few minutes the FBI would be storming suburbia, expecting a crash, and he would be miles away. Artie believed the plan ingenious even though he didn’t get to participate. He could imagine the routine. They would bring a SWAT team and a bomb squad, only they wouldn’t be anywhere near prepared for what they’d find. They were such linear thinkers. The fact that they couldn’t see that seemed just deserts for what was about to happen.

He slid his bulging backpack on the empty seat beside him. Usually it discouraged the stragglers, the tourists who thought they’d go on the tour alone and chat up other losers traveling by themselves. Speaking of losers, one was coming down the aisle now. He recognized the wandering eyes, looking, searching for one of its kind yet scurrying to find a seat. She wore a purple sweatshirt with embroidered butterflies and faded blue jeans and carried a huge, black purse, practically a saddlebag. Artie avoided eye contact when she looked his way, pulling open the brochure and pretending, once again, to be interested though he knew the route by heart.

She slid into the seat in front of him. In the reflection of the window he could see her pull the purse into her lap and start sifting through the contents. Soon he heard the
click-click
of nail clippers, and found himself thinking it was the nervous energy of a straggler held in captivity.

How rude. Whatever happened to common manners? People brushed their hair in public, scratched their private areas, picked their noses and trimmed their fingernails. And of course, he actually loved it, because he had learned to use their bad habits to his advantage.

Artie grabbed a tissue from his backpack and accidentally dropped his brochure. As he picked it up with one hand, he took a swipe at the floor with the tissue cupped in his palm. He wadded it up and stuffed it in the book bag without anyone noticing the gestures or the fingernail clippings he had collected.

Then he sat back, pleased. The tour hadn’t even begun and it was already quite successful, providing resources for the future. He glanced at his watch again. Yes, it was turning out to be a good day, a very good day.

Washington, D.C.

Artie left the SUV in a public parking lot where the government-issued license plate would warrant little attention. He was a quick learner and he knew better than to get tripped up on a simple parking fine or traffic stop. Like Ted Bundy. The guy gets away with murder, escapes prison and then gets pulled over in a VW bug, driving after 1:00 a.m. on Davis Highway in Pensacola, Florida. An astute police officer thought the orange VW looked out of place and checked the license plate, discovering the car had been stolen in Tallahassee.

Artie knew stuff like that. Bits of trivia about killers. He also learned from it. He knew not to draw attention to himself. So he parked the SUV and walked. He didn’t mind walking. He was in good shape, though he didn’t work out. Practically lived on fast food, switching from one kind to another. The hotel was only a few blocks away. He arrived as the tour bus was boarding. Perfect timing.

He had taken this tour of the Washington monuments a couple of times before. It was a great way to add to his collection. He could get DNA samples from people all across the country just by riding the ten-mile tour. Last time he had been lucky enough to confiscate a long red hair from a woman wearing a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt.

The driver collected Artie’s pass and he took an aisle seat across from a middle-aged couple. They said hello to him and immediately he pegged them from the Northeast, maybe New Hampshire. It was a game he played with himself, matching dialects to places.

“Where are you folks from?” he asked, friendly enough for a response.

“Hanover, New Hampshire,” both said in unison.

He smiled and nodded, satisfied.

“How about yourself?”

“Atlanta,” he chose this time, always using a city too big for anyone to expect him to know their aunt or cousin. Then he opened his tour brochure and closed the conversation. That was all he had really wanted, after all, was to prove himself right.

They took the hint but he could tell they would have liked to have asked more. He could morph himself into different characters. And he could be quite charming when he wanted to be. As a result, everyone seemed to enjoy talking to him. Sometimes he allowed it. It was good practice. Sometimes he could make up the lies faster than they could ask the questions. But he wasn’t in the mood today. He had other things that required his focus.

He glanced at his watch. In a few minutes the FBI would be storming suburbia, expecting a crash, and he would be miles away. Artie believed the plan ingenious even though he didn’t get to participate. He could imagine the routine. They would bring a SWAT team and a bomb squad, only they wouldn’t be anywhere near prepared for what they’d find. They were such linear thinkers. The fact that they couldn’t see that seemed just deserts for what was about to happen.

He slid his bulging backpack on the empty seat beside him. Usually it discouraged the stragglers, the tourists who thought they’d go on the tour alone and chat up other losers traveling by themselves. Speaking of losers, one was coming down the aisle now. He recognized the wandering eyes, looking, searching for one of its kind yet scurrying to find a seat. She wore a purple sweatshirt with embroidered butterflies and faded blue jeans and carried a huge, black purse, practically a saddlebag. Artie avoided eye contact when she looked his way, pulling open the brochure and pretending, once again, to be interested though he knew the route by heart.

She slid into the seat in front of him. In the reflection of the window he could see her pull the purse into her lap and start sifting through the contents. Soon he heard the
click-click
of nail clippers, and found himself thinking it was the nervous energy of a straggler held in captivity.

How rude. Whatever happened to common manners? People brushed their hair in public, scratched their private areas, picked their noses and trimmed their fingernails. And of course, he actually loved it, because he had learned to use their bad habits to his advantage.

Artie grabbed a tissue from his backpack and accidentally dropped his brochure. As he picked it up with one hand, he took a swipe at the floor with the tissue cupped in his palm. He wadded it up and stuffed it in the book bag without anyone noticing the gestures or the fingernail clippings he had collected.

Then he sat back, pleased. The tour hadn’t even begun and it was already quite successful, providing resources for the future. He glanced at his watch again. Yes, it was turning out to be a good day, a very good day.

Elk Grove, Virginia

Maggie’s hand stayed tucked inside her jacket, fingertips on the butt of her Smith & Wesson as the door opened. It had to be a mistake or a brilliant setup. The little girl who answered the door couldn’t be much older than four, maybe five years old.

“Is your mom here?” Cunningham asked and Maggie didn’t hear a trace of his surprise. Instead, his voice was gentle and soothing, like a man who had once been a father to a child this age.

Maggie’s eyes searched the room beyond the doorway. A noisy TV was the main attraction, with pillows, dirty plates and discarded toys surrounding it. The place was a mess, but from neglect, not a hostage takeover.

The little girl looked neglected, too. Peanut butter and jelly with crumbs stuck to the corners of her mouth. Her long hair was a tangle that she pushed out of her eyes to get a better look at them. She wore pink pajamas with stains where cartoon characters’ faces used to be.

“Are you sellin’ something?” Maggie could tell it was a question she was used to asking, well rehearsed and even with a dismissive frown.

“No, sweetie, we’re not selling anything,” Cunningham told her. “We just need to talk to your mom.”

The little girl took a glance over her shoulder, a telling sign that the mother was, indeed, here.

“What’s your name?” Cunningham asked while Maggie edged closer inside.

She could see two doors, one door was open, showing a bathroom. The door to the right was closed. From what she remembered on the computer monitor, the second heat source was on the other side.

“My name’s Mary Louise, but I don’t think I’m ’posed to talk to you.”

The little girl was distracted and watching Maggie. She wasn’t as smooth with children as Cunningham and somehow kids always sensed it. Just like dogs. Dogs always seemed to be able to pick out the one person who was uncomfortable being around them, then gravitated to that person as if trying to win her over. Dogs, Maggie could handle. Children, she didn’t have a clue about.

She heard the whisper of one of the FBI techs in the microphone bud in her right ear, “Nine minutes,” and she glanced back at Cunningham. He touched his ear to tell her he had heard, too. They were running out of time. Maggie’s gut instinct told her they should snatch up the little girl and just leave.

“Is your mom asleep, Mary Louise?” Cunningham pointed at the closed door.

Mary Louise’s eyes followed his hand as Maggie slipped behind her and into the room.

“She hasn’t been feeling good,” the little girl confessed. “And my tummy hurts.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Cunningham patted her on the head. The distraction worked. Now Mary Louise didn’t even glance back at Maggie, who tiptoed across the room, her eyes taking in everything from the
People
magazines scattered on the coffee table to the M& Ms spilled on the carpet to the plastic crucifix hanging on the wall. She looked for wires. She listened over the TV cartoons for any buzzing or clicking. She even sniffed the air for sulfur.

“Maybe I can help you and your mom,” Cunningham told the girl who stared up at him and nodded.

Maggie could see the girl was on the verge of tears, biting her lower lip to keep from crying. It was a gesture she recognized from her own childhood and she hated that adults were evidently still using that stupid ruse that “big girls don’t cry.”

But it was clear Cunningham had won the girl over. She reached up and took his hand. “I think she’s really sick,” Mary Louise said under a sniffle with a quick swipe at her nose. Then she started leading Cunningham to the closed door.

That’s when Maggie heard another whisper in her ear, “Four minutes left.”

Elk Grove, Virginia

Maggie’s hand stayed tucked inside her jacket, fingertips on the butt of her Smith & Wesson as the door opened. It had to be a mistake or a brilliant setup. The little girl who answered the door couldn’t be much older than four, maybe five years old.

“Is your mom here?” Cunningham asked and Maggie didn’t hear a trace of his surprise. Instead, his voice was gentle and soothing, like a man who had once been a father to a child this age.

Maggie’s eyes searched the room beyond the doorway. A noisy TV was the main attraction, with pillows, dirty plates and discarded toys surrounding it. The place was a mess, but from neglect, not a hostage takeover.

The little girl looked neglected, too. Peanut butter and jelly with crumbs stuck to the corners of her mouth. Her long hair was a tangle that she pushed out of her eyes to get a better look at them. She wore pink pajamas with stains where cartoon characters’ faces used to be.

“Are you sellin’ something?” Maggie could tell it was a question she was used to asking, well rehearsed and even with a dismissive frown.

“No, sweetie, we’re not selling anything,” Cunningham told her. “We just need to talk to your mom.”

The little girl took a glance over her shoulder, a telling sign that the mother was, indeed, here.

“What’s your name?” Cunningham asked while Maggie edged closer inside.

She could see two doors, one door was open, showing a bathroom. The door to the right was closed. From what she remembered on the computer monitor, the second heat source was on the other side.

“My name’s Mary Louise, but I don’t think I’m ’posed to talk to you.”

The little girl was distracted and watching Maggie. She wasn’t as smooth with children as Cunningham and somehow kids always sensed it. Just like dogs. Dogs always seemed to be able to pick out the one person who was uncomfortable being around them, then gravitated to that person as if trying to win her over. Dogs, Maggie could handle. Children, she didn’t have a clue about.

She heard the whisper of one of the FBI techs in the microphone bud in her right ear, “Nine minutes,” and she glanced back at Cunningham. He touched his ear to tell her he had heard, too. They were running out of time. Maggie’s gut instinct told her they should snatch up the little girl and just leave.

“Is your mom asleep, Mary Louise?” Cunningham pointed at the closed door.

Mary Louise’s eyes followed his hand as Maggie slipped behind her and into the room.

“She hasn’t been feeling good,” the little girl confessed. “And my tummy hurts.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Cunningham patted her on the head. The distraction worked. Now Mary Louise didn’t even glance back at Maggie, who tiptoed across the room, her eyes taking in everything from the
People
magazines scattered on the coffee table to the M& Ms spilled on the carpet to the plastic crucifix hanging on the wall. She looked for wires. She listened over the TV cartoons for any buzzing or clicking. She even sniffed the air for sulfur.

“Maybe I can help you and your mom,” Cunningham told the girl who stared up at him and nodded.

Maggie could see the girl was on the verge of tears, biting her lower lip to keep from crying. It was a gesture she recognized from her own childhood and she hated that adults were evidently still using that stupid ruse that “big girls don’t cry.”

But it was clear Cunningham had won the girl over. She reached up and took his hand. “I think she’s really sick,” Mary Louise said under a sniffle with a quick swipe at her nose. Then she started leading Cunningham to the closed door.

That’s when Maggie heard another whisper in her ear, “Four minutes left.”