Shoot (33 page)

“Miss Draper, do you have any information about these killings?”

“Me? Not guilty.” She scraped the plate clean. “Obviously, if I did, as a good citizen I would have told you immediately. Shepherd, thanks for a lovely evening but did you bring me here just to spring this elaborate prank?”

“Guilty.”

“I’m disappointed. Unless you gentlemen need any more of my help tonight, I’m going home. Again, Shepherd, thanks for a memorable evening.”

She blotted her red lips with her napkin and stood up, smoothing her skirt. Bryce kissed me on the cheek and walked away. She was quite a dish.

“She is guilty as shit,” Izzy declared. “Almost jumped out of her panties.”

“Second the motion,” Phil agreed. “She knew exactly what that was.”

“Yeah. Be nice to have some proof,” I ventured. “But that missing security footage is gone forever, I think.”

“Yes, and the handyman didn’t implicate Bryce in any way,” said Izzy. “Pyle claimed the job was set up by phone, by somebody who knew about his criminal record. The man—a man not a woman—threatened to get him fired unless he cooperated. He said he met a guy on a dark street and was given an envelope with ten thousand bucks in hundreds. He swore he only installed the clips and had no clue what they were for.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“Still being questioned downtown. And we’ve got nothing concrete on Bryce. She’s never been arrested, nothing shady in her past, grew up in Connecticut, attended all the right schools.”

“Terrific. So, how did you guys like your gourmet meal, courtesy of the
Daily Press
?” I asked.

“Two thumbs up,” said Phil. “Are you going to eat your chocolate musket?”

Izzy and Phil gave me a ride home in the back seat of their unmarked car and we talked about how to go at Bryce. Phone taps were ordered into place, surveillance begun and further background checks arranged, plus routine shoe leather, like talking to her neighbors, family, friends, co-workers.

“Shepherd, I gotta say that was the most ridiculous piece of police work I ever saw,” Izzy told me from the front passenger seat. “Also, maybe the best.”

“Also delicious, expensive and fattening,” Phil added from behind the wheel. “But next time, let us in on the gag from the beginning. It might have been better to build a case slow. Like that food.”

I told them I figured if they started grilling her co-workers and neighbors, Bryce would have found out quickly and the element of surprise would have vanished, especially since my story was hitting the website. They didn’t dispute that. I suggested we discuss Bryce in the morning and got out at Jane’s house.

“Just so we’re clear,” Phil told me through the open window, “anytime you want to pay to question suspects at that fancy joint, I’m in.”

I went inside to say hello to Skippy, who was wild from being cooped up inside. Jane was still not home. I checked my phone, which was stuffed with messages: Mel wanted to know what new follow-up lead I had for the morning. Jane apologized for an emergency that was keeping her late. Ginny Mac begged me to call her. There were lots of other messages from my colleagues in TV and radio, who saw my latest scoop and wanted to get more out of me. I called Jane first.

“Sorry, Shepherd, I had an emergency surgery,” she told me. “I was worried about you. Give me another half hour to make sure the patient comes around in recovery okay, then I can come home. We had pizza here. How was your dinner?”

“Sweet. Izzy and Phil loved it but our guest was shocked by dessert. I’ll tell you later. I’m taking Skippy out for a run now. Why were you worried about me?”

“I don’t know, I just had a scary feeling before but you’re fine. See you soon.”

Skippy and I took off, toward my meeting with Tiffany at ten. I called Mel and told him we could go with another exclusive—Tea Party Animal suspects being questioned by cops. I made his night.

“You Fokker, that’s what I’m talking about! Yes!”

I called Ginny Mac. Because I’m such a nice guy.

“Thank God you called!” Ginny said. “I gotta see you, tonight!”

“No thanks, Ginny. It was fun, in a masochistic sort of way, but we’re done, okay?”

“You don’t understand, Shepherd. You have to back off. I’m trying to help you.”

“Why would you suddenly start doing that?”

“I can’t talk on the phone.”

“Tell me now or forget it.”

“Damn you, okay. Look, Faith told her son to get you and—”

“Thanks, Ginny, but that’s old news. I took care of that. Seeya.”

“No, asshole, let me talk. I heard her talking about you. She said she and you were even-up. She was done with you.”

“There you go.”

“No, there
you
go. Then she said that was okay because she heard somebody else out there was going to punch your ticket.”

“Who?”

“I have no clue. You should back off, be careful.”

“She’s probably talking about the Tea Party Animals but how would she know?”

“I don’t know but… you know her family business… and one thing criminals do is sell illegal guns. Maybe she heard something.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, thanks, Ginny.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe sometime we could just hang out?”

“Sure, I gotta run, okay?”

She was trying to scare me.

Skippy and I ran toward my second dinner date. The bistro had a short white picket fence around its open-air dining area, topped by strings of little white fairy lights. Tiffany was sitting at a round table outside. A red citronella candle warmed her face, a chilled pink cosmo in one hand. She was wearing white shorts, tight lavender tank top and straw-colored sandals. Wow. I waved. She and Skippy hit it off and she petted him while I ordered a beer, an assorted appetizer platter and a burger for Skippy. Tiffany and I worked on the appetizers and fed Skippy.

“Do you always order dog burgers here?”

“They’re Skippy’s favorite, although he hasn’t met a food he doesn’t like yet.”

We laughed and pretended there was no tension in the warm night air.

“So is your boss ready to confess her part in the murders?” I asked.

“That’s bull and you know it,” Tiffany said.

“She lied about her smoke detector and she is the only one who mysteriously survived. She’s at the top of the menu of suspects.”

“Bull. You can pop turds in the oven—that don’t make ’em biscuits,” Tiffany smiled. “You already know Katharine was just lying to hide her nicotine addiction from her kid— she told you already.”

“The girl showed up unexpectedly?”

“Yes, the senator expected her the next morning but the father got rid of her early.”

A United States senator lied to police and the FBI and misled a major investigation because she didn’t want her teenager to know her mom had lied about smoking?

“That may explain it,” I said. “What if the Tea Party Animal knocked on her door, but decided not to blow the senator away in front of her daughter? Also, the mini-muskets are single-shot.”

“Nice try,” Tiffany said. “But nobody knocked on the door. I asked them both repeatedly.”

“Nobody?”

“Right. Only hotel people.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Was one of them named Bryce, a nice-looking blonde?”

“I have no idea. Shall I ask? That’s why I’m here. Full cooperation.”

“Okay. Yeah, ask them that right now. Please.”

She pulled out her phone. Skippy finished his burger and looked at my plate hungrily.

“Okay,” Tiffany told me, still on the phone, “the senator’s daughter answered the door to a female hotel staffer. She was pretty and blonde but she doesn’t remember the woman’s name. She checked the towels or something and left.”

“Would she recognize this person if she saw her again?”

“Maybe,” was the answer.

I sent Tiffany a photograph of the lovely Bryce Martha Draper and she forwarded it to the senator. The confirmation came quickly.

“That’s the woman,” Tiffany said.

I texted the new info and the identification of Bryce to Izzy, who, along with the feds, could make the identification official. A piece of the puzzle.

“What’s the significance?” Tiffany asked.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. It was the musket that did not go boom in the night,” I explained.

“Come again, darlin’?”

“I think the senator is still alive only because her daughter arrived early. I’m not sure if it was a practical issue of not enough bullets or some vestige of humanity. What was the other thing, Tiffany?”

“Oh, my God! What? What other thing? Oh… You know what it is. You felt something, too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah but my situation… suddenly being single… turned out to be temporary.”

“Well, bless your heart, Shepherd, aren’t you the shy gentleman? Go back to your girlfriend. I’m just fine. I just… I was just hoping you felt the way I did, is all.”

“I … I wish I could.”

“Well, honey, the world will turn. Come see me in the White House. You never know.”

“You are… something.”

“You bet your ass I am, sugar.”

On the way home, Skippy and I had an informal chat about the case as we walked along the west side of Fifth Avenue, the park and its 150-year-old stone wall on our left. As usual, Skippy was a good listener and made supportive noises, which consisted of mewling, yowling and burbling sounds. I asked him why I had kept the unfired zip musket. If I turned the Tea Party Animal’s weapon on him or her, would that break my no-gun vow? Skippy just huffed. Of course it would.

“Did I do the right thing, breaking it off with Tiffany?” I asked him.

Skippy responded with a sarcastic chortle. I was asking a male dog if I should be faithful to one female. I told him I would check out Bryce in the morning. How long had she worked at the hotel? How long had she and the New Minutemen been planning the killings? Long enough to make arrangements for the toilet tank hiding places, long enough to set up the video security system hacking, long enough to construct custom firearms designed specifically for the job, long enough to find a hotel with soundproof rooms… Weeks, months of planning…

Maybe the New Minutemen weren’t just hired guns or political extremists, but experienced covert operatives. Like me. It was a new hotel, opened this year. What if billionaires built the hotel, with large toilets, soundproofed suites and a specific security system—just so the murders could take place there?

Skippy scoffed at that.

Ridiculous, absurd. A massive right-wing conspiracy. They would’ve had to know in advance where the GOP convention would be held. Impossible. Yeah, but what if? Who owned the hotel? I didn’t know. Skippy didn’t know. It couldn’t hurt to check.

Skippy pulled the leash, a low rumble in his throat. He spun around fast. I’d been distracted, in my own little world, ignoring my surroundings. Suddenly, the back of my neck was bristling with dark eyes. I pivoted around.

Oh shit.

Four men in long leather duster coats, hats and beards. Like the ones who had followed me before. Were these the New Minutemen? They moved faster now, two on the sidewalk in front of me and two in the street, flanking me on my left. A classic, L-shaped deployment, so they would not shoot each other. Each was maybe thirty feet away, close enough not to miss but not close enough for me to do anything. They were pros. There was a garbage can and trees near and behind me but nothing big enough to hide behind. The four-foot-high stone wall of the park, ten feet away, blocked escape to my right and there was a sharp drop to the unseen ground on the other side. I knew the sidewalk behind me was open but I wouldn’t get three steps.

One by one, they racked their pieces, black tactical bastards with what looked like three barrels. Shotguns. Short 12-gauge Bullpups. They had fifteen rounds each, times four. I didn’t need to do the math. It equaled death. I knew I should move fast but I didn’t.

“The Aryan Purity Nation, I presume? Or is it the New Minutemen? Don’t I get a smoke and a blindfold?”

“You were warned,” one of the shadowed faces in front of me replied. “Embrace the suck.”

I remembered the cease-and-desist message on my phone from the New Minutemen. I let go of Skippy’s leash. I decided to go over the wall, a hundred-to-one shot but my only chance at cover.

“Run, Skippy!”

He didn’t run. I gave the order again but Skippy, usually so obedient, started advancing on them, snarling.

“No, dammit, Skippy! Run!”

The first blast exploded in a horizontal fountain of fire and blinding white sparks fifty feet long. What the fuck? It roared past, singing my right side. Something shattered behind me. I moved involuntarily to the left, away from the wall. All four weapons opened up and I was bathed in thundering sparks. I felt impacts, burning, blinding, yelling at Skippy to run. I couldn’t see him but, in between booms, I heard his ferocious roar. I dove toward his voice. The night was on fire. I couldn’t hear Skippy anymore. I fell and the world went dark, my vision blurred with after-images of the arcing electric flames. My ears were ringing, things flame-red around me. Garbage can, trees, all burning like torches. Still alive. I saw a pale shape and scrambled toward it. Skippy on the ground—not moving. His fur was wet and smoldering.

NO!

I howled, picked him up in my arms and staggered toward the park. My legs had just enough strength to propel us onto and over the angled chest-high stone wall.

The fall knocked the wind out of me but I stumbled around in the dark woods, keeping the wall on my right. I could feel Skippy’s heart beating against my chest, fast, but he wouldn’t respond to my whispered questions. I could smell blood and burned hair. I put him down, used my shirt to wipe his bloody fur and saw more blood come from his abdomen. I wadded my shirt against the wound and hugged him tight to stop the flow. I pulled out my phone, hit a number, and ran. A walkway led to the right, out of the park. I stopped and peeked around the wall but saw only a few cars. The New Minutemen were not there. I sprinted east. Skippy’s heartbeat was slowing down. I ran faster. Why was I still alive? Jane answered the phone. I yelled at her to stay there, that Skippy had been shot and she had to save him.