out front on a murder in our own backyard. I’m wondering too.”
That surprised Bree. Chief Michaels was by nature a pragmatist, and he knew the command structure in a situation like this as well as she did.
Before she could reply, he said, “Where’s Alex in all this?”
“FBI snapped him up. I don’t know exactly what he’s working on.”
“Course not,” the chief said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if this consultant thing’s going to work. It’s …”
“Sir?”
“When Alex was on board full-time, I could count on Metro PD being out front no matter the case,” Michaels said.
“He’s that kind of detective, sir,” Bree allowed.
“He is,” the chief said, and then he leaned across the desk. “But he’s unavailable. So I need you to step up, Bree. I want my chief of detectives to be hungry. Not a paper pusher. Not a caretaker. I want you to be bold, to take action, stand for something in the community. I mean, for God’s sake, a U.S. senator was assassinated in our jurisdiction and we’re not breaking ground?”
“Chief, again, and with all due respect, the FBI—”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the FBI or the Secret Service or the Capitol Police. This is my city, and you are its chief of detectives, Stone. Prove you still should be.”
Bree was taken aback for several moments before lifting her chin. “And how exactly do I prove that, sir?”
“You find Senator Walker’s assassin and deliver his head to Mahoney on a plate.”
CHAPTER
10
HANDS CLASPED BEHIND his back, Sean Lawlor paced through a comfortable Airbnb apartment some five blocks from where he’d seen to the end of U.S. senator Betsy Walker.
Within hours of a successful strike on such a sensitive target, most other professional killers would have tried to leave the area, if not the city, if not the country. But Lawlor wasn’t like most professionals. He was an elite practitioner, and he prided himself on thinking and acting outside the norm.
Given Senator Walker’s stature, he had no doubt that the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services would be looking for people entering and leaving the country on a very short turnaround. That would have brought scrutiny he didn’t need.
So Lawlor had decided to stay in Washington for three days before going to New York, where he planned to spend a long weekend. He would return to Amsterdam through Newark the following Monday.
He went to the kitchen and checked a laptop computer open on the counter. It showed a heavily encrypted internet browser linked in real time to one of his bank accounts in Panama. Nothing yet.
What the hell is taking so long?
Then again, Lawlor had sent an encrypted copy of the thermal-imaging scope’s memory file only three hours ago. He didn’t know why that was necessary. Walker’s death was all over cable news. It should have been enough.
He felt a buzzing in his pocket. He dug out a burn phone, checked the caller ID, and allowed himself a smile.
“I’m here, Piotr,” Lawlor said in Russian.
“Sergei,” Piotr replied. “You’ve made my world happier.”
“I don’t see the results in my account.”
“Large transfers take a while these days if you want them to move anonymously. In the meantime, are you free to meet and discuss your future?”
Lawlor checked his watch. “If it’s this evening.”
“That works. George Washington Hotel rooftop bar. Eight p.m. And you’ll soon be receiving a token of appreciation for a job well done.”
Lawlor smiled, said, “Thoughtful of you.”
“Even wolves have moments of kindness.”
Lawlor hung up and went to the bathroom to shower and shave.
When he was done, he padded back through the apartment, towel around his waist, and heard a ding.
He loped over to the laptop and was more than pleased to see that 1.4 million euros had just landed in his Panamanian account.
I like that, Lawlor thought. I like that a lot .
And who knew what Piotr had in mind for him now?
Someone in the lobby buzzed his apartment.
Lawlor stiffened. Very few people knew he was in the United States, let alone in Georgetown, let alone in this apartment. Other than Piotr and the blokes he’d rented from, of course, and—
The buzzer went off again.
He shut the laptop cover, went to the front hallway, and pressed the intercom.
“Yes?” he said. “Who is it?”
A woman with a Southern accent drawled, “A gift from your happy agent.”
A gift from his happy agent? This kind of tip was unexpected but not unheard of in an assassin’s line of work, especially if the strike had been of a sensitive nature,