more than one murder?”
“Hey, even Hannibal Lecter had to start somewhere.”
“He was a fictional character. You know that, right?”
Ned nodded a little uncertainly. “Cool movie.”
“So why a serial killer?”
“His M.O.,” Ned said confidently.
“M.O.?”
“Modus operandi.”
“Yeah, I know what the term means. I was referring to how you were using it in this situation.”
“Stuffed his victims in a fridge, right? That’s pretty original shit. I bet any day now we’re gonna be reading about folks crammed in freezers, or meat lockers, or you know, like… um…”
“Other cold places?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe small people in under-the-counter fridges.”
Ned laughed. “Like Popsicle Mini-Me’s. Hey, maybe he’ll call himself the Stone Cold Killer. Get it?”
“Yeah, that’s real clever.”
He leaned over the counter and assumed what he no doubt considered was an ultra-cool expression. “Hey, you ever go out for a drink?”
“Oh, lots of times. I’m one party girl.”
“Well, maybe sometime we should do it together, party girl.”
“Maybe we should.”
He pointed a finger at her and pulled an imaginary trigger with his thumb and made a clicking sound with his mouth. At the same time he winked.
These were the moments when Mace so desperately missed her Glock 37 that chambered .45 G.A.P. “one-shot-and-you-drop” cartridges. The standard issue for MPD was the Glock 17 nine-millimeter, and undercover officers usually got the Glock 26 nine-millimeter, which regular officers routinely carried as their off-duty weapon of choice. Mace had dutifully carried the 17 as a cop, but her off-duty and undercover sidearm had been the 37, a gun she wasn’t supposed to have. But she had never been that great at following rules, and the 37’s superior .45 stopping power had saved her life on two occasions. Now, of course, she could carry no gun at all.
“Hey, Ned, piece of advice, when pointing even a pretend gun at someone, be prepared to duck or you might end up taking a double tap right here.” She twice poked a spot dead center of his forehead.
He looked confused. “Huh?”
She merely winked and started to walk away.
“Hey, babe, I don’t even know your name.”
She turned back. “Mace.”
“Mace?”
“Yeah, like the fire-hot spray in the eyes.”
“You got my interest, babe.”
“I knew I would.”
CHAPTER 32
THE PLACE Beth had chosen for dinner was Café Milano, one of D.C.’s most chic restaurants, where folks loved to go see and be seen, in a Hollywood-esque sort of way. It had a wall of windows looking out onto a quiet street, although tonight there was a string of Carey cars and black government SUVs parked up and down its narrow confines.
The bar emptied out into the dining area so it was a little noisy, but Beth’s high-ranking position garnered her a table in what was probably the quietest corner in the place. She had changed out of her uniform and was dressed in a knee-length skirt and a white blouse open at the neck, her blond hair splayed over her shoulders. Her work shoes had been replaced with black heels. The bulk of her security detail waited outside, although two armed plainclothes were at the bar enjoying multiple glasses of ginger ale.
Mace roared up in her Ducati, shook off her helmet, and slipped inside, dodging past a party of suited men and their rental dates, all of whom would have failed a breathalyzer test in any state in the country. Her cop’s eyes watched them until they climbed into a white stretch Hummer driven by a sober driver in a black suit.
Mace scanned the room and saw her sister waving. She sat down and slid her bike helmet under the table. The tablecloth was white and starched, the aromas wafting from the kitchen pleasing, the crowd an interesting mix of young, middle-aged, and old, variously dressed in suits, jeans, sneakers, and spike heels.
“You clean up nice, sis,” she said.
Beth smiled and gazed at Mace’s clothes. Black slacks, low-cut gray clingy sweater, and high strap heels. “Did you do some shopping today?”
“Yep. Like you said, I’ve lost some weight.”
“How were the stilettos on the Ducati’s gear shifter?”
“No problem. I just skipped over the even ones.”
The waiter came over and Beth ordered them two glasses of wine. After he left she said, “Since you’re paying, and driving, let’s go easy on the vino. And the list here can get pretty expensive.”
“Sounds good. I guess you’re not packing tonight.”
“Not while drinking alcohol; that’s still department policy.”
“Is your off-duty carry still the .40 caliber or the Glock 26?”
“Twenty-six, same one I carry on duty.”
“Must be nice.”
“Nothing nice about having to carry a gun, Mace. It’s a necessity