a crusade. The irony alone just kills me.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“He’s angry at people of faith, but he’s not targeting pastors and priests. He’s targeting civil servants. He blames religion on the public authority. He’s just starting with cops and firefighters. Jesus, Tom, it’s an election year. That’s not happenstance. We need to alert the campaigns.”
“If all goes well tonight,” replied Tom, “we won’t need to.”
9
Lilly Toro wanted to vomit. She rolled down the driver’s window of her VW. The fresh air didn’t help. She was in the parking garage. It smelled of oil and frustration. Her one consolation was that she wasn’t alone. Dozens of cops and G-men were concealed on every rooftop within a two-mile radius, all armed, all watching her back. One FBI agent was literally watching her back: Tom Piper was hidden on the floor of the VW’s backseat, his six-foot-plus frame contorted like a curlicue. The fact that Lilly wasn’t the only uncomfortable soul here provided her with a modicum of solace. But she still wanted to vomit.
She was a journalist, damn it. She wasn’t meant to be part of the story. Yes, she wanted to be embedded with the task force, but in a few minutes a mass murderer would be appearing in this parking garage and his focus would be on her. The flak jacket underneath her sweater did little to allay her concerns. After all, the fucker had a tendency to shoot people in the head.
Lilly was wrong, though, about Tom’s discomfort. Discomfort didn’t even begin to describe the amount of pain he was in, most of it radiating from his left shoulder. He didn’t have to be here. Another agent could have easily taken his place in the car. This was his operation. Procedure dictated he remain at a distance so as to best oversee and coordinate. But Darcy Parr was dead. She had been his responsibility. If he had to suffer a bit to help catch her killer, so be it.
Which led Tom back to Esme.
She was back at city hall. When Tom last checked in on her, before heading out, she was sitting on the floor amongst teetering towers of paperwork. As her hyperactive IQ absorbed every datum of information, her lips moved along with the words of whatever British rock song was emanating from her iPod. Every so often she’d tuck some of her chestnut-brown hair behind an ear. Did she realize how adorable she was? Did her husband? It’s not that Tom didn’t like Rafe. It’s just…
Well, no. It was that. Tom didn’t like Rafe.
Not out of jealousy, mind you. Tom’s affection for Esme went well beyond romantic. She was the daughter he never had. Like any good father, he simply wanted what was best for his daughter. Rafe Stuart was not that. How could Tom respect a man who took a shining star and covered it with a tarp?
“We’re coming up on nine o’clock,” announced Norm over the radio. Since Tom had relegated himself to being Lilly’s body man for this particular op, he’d given Norm the reins. Right now Norm was crowded into an unmarked van with the chief of police and a cadre of his finest officers. They had tiny cameras planted all across the city block, and they all fed into the twelve monitors in the van.
Meanwhile, Norm was chowing down on a bean burrito. To his mind, nothing beat genuine Tex-Mex cuisine. When he was buried, he wanted to be buried near Corpus Christi, so his eventual decay would fertilize the corn crops used to create such crisp and succulent tortillas. What a righteous spin on “you are what you eat,” eh?
“Okay, girls and boys.” Norm washed down the last bite of his burrito with a mouthful of Coke. “It’s nine o’clock. All points, check in.”
All points checked in.
And waited.
And waited.
Daryl Hewes, who didn’t handle idleness very well, used the time to calculate his taxes. In his head. He was situated on the roof of the Santa Fe Building, one of the city’s oldest skyscrapers, with two of Amarillo’s finest. One of the cops held a pair of binoculars. The other peered through the scope of his rifle.
Daryl Hewes didn’t handle idleness well, but there was an even more primal motivation for his mental distractions. Since he’d met her months earlier, the accountant had been carrying a small torch for Ms. Darcy Parr. He could float off at the very sight of her blond locks, the very sound of her down-home Virginia accent. And now