The Silent Places (15 page)

Another cop Hastings knew had left the department to become a lobbyist in Jefferson City. Bobby Hahn was his name. Most of his clients belonged to municipal unions—police and fire fighters, mainly. He attended every police department Christmas dinner, was always dressed to the nines, and was very difficult not to like. Of course, Bobby Hahn was working for them.

Hastings did not believe that Fawcett and Hahn were bad guys. He wasn’t even sure they were attracted to power. Fawcett went into politics because he was bored with police work. And Hahn became a lobbyist because he sensed, correctly, that he would probably be better at working for cops and fire fighters than anyone else in Jeff City. To be sure, both men liked the limelight and liked wheeling and dealing. But vain men are not necessarily corrupt men. Moreover, they enjoyed politics.

Neither Fawcett nor Hahn was at this thing, though. This was another level.

Hastings remembered Dan Anthony telling him that Preston might run for president. Now Hastings wondered what it would be like if Preston actually got there. Would he tell his grandchildren that he’d once gotten bawled out by the president? That the president was a jerkoff? That he had a very cute wife?

Hastings watched as Senator Preston stopped at another table and extended his hand to a boyish-looking man. The man wore his hair cut short, almost military style, and he wore a nice blue suit and a red silk tie. Hastings saw the senator’s expression change—just. Where it had been jovial and open, now it was concerned and agitated. Hastings did not believe it was feigned, an attempt to show empathy over hearing about the death of a friend or a loved one. The senator seemed very uncomfortable.

Hastings moved forward.

The man talking with the senator did not fit the description of John Reese. He was too young, to begin with. And there was no way he could have gotten into the fund-raiser. Still, he made Hastings uneasy.

Hastings walked over.

When he got there, the senator turned to him and said, “What?” his tone short.

“Just wanted to know if everything is all right,” Hastings said.

“It’s fine,” Senator Preston said. “When we’re ready to leave, we’ll let you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Senator Preston made a sort of shooing gesture to him, and if not for this, Hastings would have left quietly.

Hastings turned to the younger man and extended his hand.

“George Hastings.”

“George,” the man said, “Kyle Anders. How are you?” His tone was friendly and pleasant. All-American.

“Fine,” Hastings said. “Hope you’re enjoying our city.”

“I am. It’s a lovely place. You’re a police officer?”

The senator frowned at Hastings.

“Yes,” Hastings said. “A detective.”

Anders looked briefly at Senator Preston, then back to Hastings.

“Well, I’m glad to see the senator’s in good hands.”

“We try,” Hastings said. “It was nice meeting you.”

He walked away, and a few moments later, Klosterman walked over to him.

“What was that about?” Klosterman asked.

Hastings said, “He seemed bothered by that guy. I wanted to check it out.”

Klosterman looked at Kyle Anders, who was still talking with the senator.

“He doesn’t match Reese’s description,” Klosterman said.

“I know.”

Murph was on the roof of the hotel, patrolling the perimeter. With him was a uniformed police officer who was a member of the tactical team. The tact team officer had a rifle slung over his shoulder. His hair was high and tight—a marine’s cut—and when there was a trace of daylight, he wore a pair of Oakley sunglasses. Paramilitary, though no one had asked him to be.

Murph used binoculars to look at the ground and the buildings around them. See if any cars got through the blockades, delivery trucks in the area that had not been authorized. To the north, there were no buildings as high as the hotel. To the south, there were two apartment buildings. Murph scanned the windows. Left to right, down a row, then right to left.

Murph’s two-way squawked and he answered it.

“Go,” Murph said.

“Murph,” Rhodes said. He was at the hotel entrance, where the car would take Senator Preston away. Rhodes said, “George just buzzed me. The senator will be leaving in five minutes.”

“Okay.”

Murph repeated the message to the tact team cop and the cop said, “Good. It’s getting fucking cold up here.”

It was, too. Dark now and the wind blowing. They could hear traffic from Lindell and Kingshighway below—city lights spreading out before them, darkness over Forest Park, which was about a hundred yards away.

Murph took another pan of the apartment buildings with the binoculars. One more sweep and in a few minutes the senator would be in his car and he and Rhodes would be relieved and could go home. He would call his wife on his way home, see if she had saved any dinner for him. …

And then he saw it.

An open window in the apartment building across the street.

It probably didn’t mean anything. Plenty of people opened their windows. Even on a cold night. Some people couldn’t sleep unless it was cold.

But there was no light in the window, no light at all.

Murph held the binoculars on the open window and tried to see beyond the black square. Movement, a person, something.

Nothing.

He called Hastings on the two-way.

“Yeah.”

“George, this is Murph. Probably nothing, but I see an open window on the other side of Lindell Boulevard.”

Hastings asked, “What building?”

“The Ambassador.”

“See anything?”

“No. It’s dark. The lights are off.”

“What floor?”

“I’ve counted. Let me recheck. … It is the … tenth floor … the sixth window from my right. … From the western side.”

“Is the window within range of the front of the hotel?”

“I can’t tell from here, but I would presume it is.”

“Okay. Stay there, keep an eye on it. I’m going to redirect the senator to a different exit. Over.”

Hastings relayed the information to Klosterman.

Hastings said, “Stay with Preston. Get him out the north door—the back alley. I’m going to check things out.”

Hastings radioed a patrol officer and met him at the hotel entrance. Together, they walked across the street.

Reese went to the window and looked down at the hotel entrance. There was an awning from the door of the hotel to the semicircular drive. The awning blocked his view. But he remembered what sort of car the senator had arrived in and he knew that activity would buzz once Preston came out. Between the end of the awning and the car, there would be a space of approximately twenty feet. That would be the window. With his infrared scope, he would be able to see the target. However, he would only get one shot before Preston reached his car. Also, he could not stick the rifle out the window and steady it and wait, because there was a chance someone would spot the rifle. He would have to steady the rifle, aim, and hit the target quickly and confidently. Not the easiest of conditions.

But it would be enough.

Reese moved to the window and took another look.

Hastings held the two-way in his hand now and was ready when it squawked.

“Yeah?”

“George, it’s Murph. I just saw movement in the window. A form. A man, I think.”

“The light still off?”

“Yeah.”

“You still got Walters with you?”

“Yeah, he’s right here.”

Hastings hesitated. He had always been uncomfortable with tact team members. He didn’t think they were trigger-happy, per se. But he had known more than one who had been disappointed to leave a hostage situation without getting to shoot a bad guy. Hastings didn’t know Walters well. Walters was a young cop, with about three years in the department, and he’d been very happy to get the slot on tact.

Hastings said, “Tell him to put his rifle on the window.
But he is not to shoot unless he receives a direct order from me
. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hastings showed the desk attendant at the Ambassador his identification even though he had a uniformed cop with him. Quick explanations were given and the desk attendant summoned the night security guard. Hastings hoped he was an off-duty cop, but he wasn’t. An older man, unarmed, which was probably a good thing. They walked with the guard to the elevator.

Reese saw the senator’s car pull up to the awning. He reached for his rifle, taking it by the stock.

A man approaching the car—

But not the senator.

A black guy. Tall, wearing slacks and a sport coat. Looking confident and in charge. A cop.

Getting into the front seat of the senator’s car.

What?

The car’s brake lights coming on. And then the car was moving forward, pulling out of the drive. The senator nowhere to be seen.

Shit
.

Preston wasn’t coming out the front.

“Goddammit,” Reese said. “God
damm
it.”

It would have to be another time.

He disassembled the rifle and put it back in its case. He put his jacket back on and then his overcoat. Then he left the apartment and moved into the hallway. He walked to the elevator, and when he was halfway there, he heard it ding and saw the light flash on, signaling that it was stopping and someone was about to get off.

Shortly after Reese was recruited by the CIA, one of the instructors said to him, “No one doubts you’re a good soldier. But that’s not going to be good enough for intelligence work. If I’ve got a choice between having a good soldier and a great salesman, I’ll take the great salesman every time.” Reese later realized that
salesman
was a kind word. The instructor really meant con man. Persuasion,
acting
. Anyone can shoot a gun. But a real pro can bluff his way out of many situations. The key is to act as if you’re in your surroundings. Act as if you belong. And through acting,
become
the other. If you believe you are the other, those around you will believe it, too. The instructor quoted Buchan, saying, “‘A fool tries to look different: a clever man looks the same and
is
different.’”

Normally, that’s what Reese would have done. When the elevator dinged, he would have gotten on and persuaded the occupants by his mere presence and body language that he was a tenant, not an intruder. He would even have made polite small talk.

But in a split second, something told him that would not be a good idea.

Perhaps it was the fact that Preston had not left by the front door. The black cop getting into the senator’s car, directing it elsewhere …

Reese saw the doorway to the stairwell and went through it just as the elevator doors opened.

Hastings was the second one out of the elevator, coming out after the apartment building’s security man. The uniformed cop was behind Hastings. Hastings saw and heard the door to the stairwell close. He kept his eye on it as he followed the security guard to the apartment, the security guard removing his passkey from his pocket.

Hastings turned to the uniformed officer and said, “Check the apartment.”

Before the patrolman could reply, Hastings went through the stairwell door. The door shut behind him and he peered down thestairs.

He saw no one. He stood still and listened. Heard footsteps.

Hastings moved down the stairs, hurrying now.

Reese heard the steps above. A man, moving quickly. Reese kept moving—not running, but picking up the pace. He thought about stopping at the sixth floor—maybe the pursuer would continue down the stairs—but then that could backfire if the man stopped on that floor, too, Reese being in the middle of a hallway, exposed. Reese did not think the pursuer had seen him. He had not heard the door open until he was on the eighth floor—he had a two-floor head start. He would continue to the bottom, go out the front door, slip into crowds and traffic. Blend in, disappear.

Hopefully, circumstances would prove his evasive action was unnecessary, the pursuer merely a tenant of the building.

Then he heard the voice from above.

“
Hey!
You down there. Stay where you are. I’m a police officer. I want to talk to you.”