Fatal Twist Page 2

  “Which way was he headed?”

  “That’d be…north.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  Nelson looked at the storefront window, as if it would refresh his memory. “Yeah, something was slung over his shoulder.”

  A rifle? “Slung over his— You mean like a backpack?”

  “No, it was bigger than that, long and thick. That’s all I remember. I was—”

  “Thanks,” Diemond said, then walked out. Turning his head to conceal his radio, he keyed the mic. “Positive ID. One hour ago. Carrying large, oblong shoulder-slung rucksack. Look sharp, I think we’ve got him. Four minutes.”

  Diemond hurried down the street, eyeing the surrounding buildings. Across the avenue was Sarducci’s, a known haunt of Milo Stoneham. Was Stoneham there now?

  As Diemond approached the restaurant, he glanced up at the office building across the street. Best he could see, everything looked clear. Commercial buildings like this one did not have windows that opened, meaning Washington would have to be on the roof. He stepped up to Sarducci’s and cupped his hands against the storefront.

  LEROY WASHINGTON LAY PRONE, peering through his Redfield scope, calculations taken, his breathing and pulse rate sufficiently muted. He’d accounted for the nine-mile-per-hour wind and dew factor, and extrapolated for the glass the round would be penetrating on the way to Milo Stoneham’s skull.

  As he lay there, the chill penetrating his toes, he flexed his fingers to maintain proper circulation. Nerves were threatening to break his concentration. He was so close to executing this man he could taste it.

  Yet LeRoy Washington had never savored death. After his fifteenth snipe during a mission in Somalia, he nearly lost it. He didn’t want to kill anymore, no matter how many people it would save by eliminating this one scumbag from the face of the earth. But stern words from his sergeant and a chat with a seasoned colleague provided a renewed understanding as to why he did what he did. And he got better at turning off the emotion.

  But here and now, emotion was all he had. Milo Stoneham would die—or LeRoy Washington would die trying. It was a simple equation, one he’d worked out several weeks ago. There was no choice. It had to be done. It was his responsibility. He had the skills and he had the motivation.

  The only question: Was Stoneham going to die now, or sometime in the near future?

  Washington refocused on the scope and watched as the waitress took orders from the diners at Stoneham’s table. She was partially blocking his shot, and although he could’ve taken it and still hit his target, the myriad variables increased the risk of collateral damage. As it was, he had chosen his angle such that there’d be no one in the path of the round behind Stoneham’s head, should he miss.

  He watched and waited.

  VAIL AND BLEDSOE ARRIVED AT Reliant Couriers at 1250 I Street NW, and took the stairs to the third floor. They asked for the human resources manager and huddled in her office, where the nameplate read simply, Regina.

  After dispensing with formalities—which largely consisted of Vail saying, “FBI,” and holding up her creds—Vail got down to business.

  “Charles Reed. He working today?”

  “What’s this about?” Regina said.

  “It’s about us asking the questions and you giving the answers,” Vail said. “Let’s try that again. Is Charles Reed working today?”

  Regina flushed and appeared to recoil slightly—but recovered and said, “Yes.”

  “He in the office?” Bledsoe asked, craning his neck to look through the windowed wall off to their left.

  “I believe he’s at lunch.” Regina consulted her watch, and then said, “Actually, he should be back by now.” She sat down behind her computer, tilted her head back to look through her reading glasses, and struck some keys. “But…apparently, he’s not.”

  Vail leaned closer to the monitor to grab a peek. “What time was he due in?”

  “Thirty-five minutes ago.” She lifted the handset and made a call. After asking a few pointed questions, Regina hung up and said, “He’s obviously late. No one’s heard from him. You want me to call him?”

  Vail was thinking of the larger picture and asked, “You issue work phones? Or do your employees use their own?”

  “Every courier carries a company phone.”

  “You have his number?” Bledsoe asked. “Who’s the carrier?”

  “Verizon,” Regina said, tapping more keys. She grabbed a pen and jotted down the information, ripped off the paper, and handed it to Bledsoe.

  “Let’s make this easy,” Vail said. “Most cell phones have GPS locators, for emergencies.”

  Regina nodded. “Of course. Ours are enabled and we sometimes use it to track—”

  “Do the employees know that? I mean, is it something you tell them— Has it ever come up in a meeting, or do you mention it in an employee manual?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Call Verizon,” Bledsoe said. “We need to find Mr. Reed.”

  “Fast,” Vail said. “We need to find him fast.”

  Regina removed her glasses. “Why? I don’t understand. What’s he done?”

  “Just do it.” Vail pointed at her phone. “Now.”

  DIEMOND’S HANDS WERE CURLED AGAINST Sarducci’s bronze storefront windows. His moist breath huffed on the glass as he strained to see inside. There— Stoneham was sitting at a table with several guests. He keyed his mic. “Got a positive ID on the target. In the restaurant. Shooter’s gotta be on the building across from 1000 G. What’s your twenty?”

  “Approaching from the north. Be there in a couple minutes.”

  “No time. I’m going to the roof. Meet me there.”

  As Diemond crossed the street, a brisk wind ruffled his hair. He wondered if he should instead warn Stoneham; although his orders were to apprehend LeRoy Washington, the overarching concept was to keep Milo Stoneham alive. Did he have time to locate and disarm Washington before he got off a shot? Or should he take the time to warn Stoneham and let Washington get away? No.

  The corner newsstand, to his right. Newspapers. Wind. He covered the distance in four strides, saw a hefty, water-polished river rock sitting atop a stack of the Times, and grabbed it. He stepped aside and, exhibiting the form from his high school quarterback days, hurled the oblong projectile at the restaurant, then darted into the nearby office building’s front entrance, headed for the roof.

  WASHINGTON WATCHED THE WAITRESS collect the menus and step away from the table. His trigger finger took out the slack. This was it. He’d done his best to slow his heart rate, which, given the white fury he felt toward Milo Stoneham, was an accomplishment.

  As he peered through the scope at Stoneham’s right temple, his internal voice urged, Now. Do it!

  He squeezed the trigger just as a high-pitched crash from seven stories below exploded upwards toward him. His shot went awry—but it didn’t matter as Stoneham himself had jerked aside from the noise. Washington pulled his face from the scope. What the hell was that?

  Down below: a shattered storefront window and people scurrying to see what had hit it. It wasn’t his round, as the window imploded a split second before he took the shot.

  He peered again through the scope to see if he could chance a second attempt. But with people on their feet, it was not feasible. With any luck, the errant round would be swept up by a janitor, or it’d roll beneath a booth and never be found. For all he knew, it could be embedded somewhere in the building’s limestone face.

  He’d regroup and try again another time. Meantime, he needed to pack up, get rid of his trace, and get off the building’s roof.

  DIEMOND WAS TAKING THE STAIRS two at a time, sucking air to keep his legs pumping. Where the hell is Croft? Probably on the goddamn elevator. He thought of bringing him up on the two-way, but didn’t want to break his stride by fishing around his pocket for the radio.

  After bursting through the roof door, his pistol drawn, Diemond crouched and did
a once-over scan of the landscape. He gulped oxygen to calm his respiration, but the cold burn of chilled air stung his lungs. He pushed on, navigating the myriad heating and air conditioning contraptions, intake fans and piping. His shoes crunched the roughened gravel surface as he cleared the roof grid by grid, weapon out in front of him, swinging left and right with his field of vision.

  Finally, convinced no one was up there, he subjected the area to a more thorough detective’s scrutiny. Beside an oblong condenser was a smoldering can two feet around. He used the end of his SIG Sauer to lift the hot lid. A rush of acrid accelerant-tinged smoke smothered his face. He swatted it away with his free hand and peered inside. Ashes. But he had a feeling that, moments ago, it contained gloves, a ghillie suit, and other trace that would’ve implicated LeRoy Washington.

  Diemond strode to Washington’s most likely vantage point: overlooking Sarducci’s with a clear shot of Stoneham’s table. At his feet, he saw the suggestion of swept surface dirt, as if something soft had dragged across the ground. A ghillie?

  While it was far from conclusive, and while he’d know more if he got a forensics team up here, he was certain his theory would prove out. So where was Washington now?

  Diemond cursed himself for arriving seconds late. As he reached for his two-way, the radio squelched. “Vulture, come in.”

  Diemond summoned the energy to reply. “On the roof.”

  “I’ve got him. Over.”

  “Repeat?”

  “I’ve got LeRoy Washington.”

  WHEN DIEMOND ARRIVED IN THE LOBBY, he saw his proud partner astride a handcuffed and disheveled LeRoy Washington.

  Back at their vehicles, Diemond said, “Follow me in your car. He’ll ride with me.”

  Diemond shoved Washington into the backseat of his Crown Vic, then drove out of the alley and headed down G.

  Washington leaned forward. “Yo, man, you got nothin’ on me.”

  “I gotta tell you, Mr. Washington, you have the right to remain silent. Did Detective Croft explain your rights to you?”

  “Man, you gots the wrong guy. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Diemond pulled out his cell phone and hit *11. While it connected, he glanced in the rearview. Croft was following in his Ford. Diemond shifted his eyes to the prisoner. “Are you LeRoy Washington?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then we got the right guy.”

  VAIL AND BLEDSOE ran to their car, armed with the address of Charles Reed’s current location. They had asked the Verizon tech to keep a locator signal open and to inform them the moment Reed’s twenty changed. They explained this was an urgent matter of life and death, and Vail, in her tactful manner, said, “Don’t fall asleep at the wheel, buddy, or you could be responsible for a young woman’s murder.”

  She imagined the tech’s jaw flying open—and his eyes remaining glued to his monitor, afraid to blink. Just the way I want it.

  Sirens wailing and lights flashing, Bledsoe alerted DC Metro detective Hurley and the Park Police Major Crimes detective of where they were headed and requested backup. But Vail knew they were the closest, and there was no way they would wait for their colleagues to arrive with a woman’s life in danger.

  And potentially many more—if Charles Henry Reed skipped town.

  DIEMOND PULLED INTO THE LOT behind an old, dilapidated brick building in a depressed northeast area of the district. He got out and yanked Washington from the backseat, then gave him a shove toward the structure as Croft parked his Ford beside Diemond’s.

  Diemond rooted out a key from his pocket and slipped it into the padlock on the building’s rusted door. He shoved it open, pulled Washington along, and led him down the stairwell and into the basement, shooing spider webs from his face as he went.

  “Yo, I want my call. I want an attorney.”

  “I hear you,” Diemond said. “I promise, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

  They descended the stairs to a dark, spartan room. The ground was greasy black, the air musty mildew. Croft reached over and turned on a light. A lone bulb burned dimly from the ceiling. A rat scurried out from behind the long-out-of-service boiler.

  “What the hell is this?” Washington asked.

  “We’re gonna chat for a bit,” Diemond said, “then you’ll get your call.”

  Diemond pulled a folding chair from the darkness and set it in front of Washington. “Have a seat.”

  “You sure you wanna do this?” Croft asked. “I think we should take him in. We’ve got enough—”

  “Do we? Ask the scumbag yourself. He’ll tell you we ain’t got shit on him. And he’s probably right. We can have forensics comb the area, but the guy’s military. He knows how to remove trace.” He turned to Washington. “That can filled with smoldering ashes on the roof. Your gloves and ghillie suit, right?”

  Washington, sitting forward in the chair because the handcuffs didn’t allow him to lean back, said, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “See, Croft, the rifle, when we find it, won’t have any trace of him because he wore gloves and wiped it down to get rid of DNA. And none of the parts will be traceable back to him. He’s a smart shit.” He turned to Washington. “Aren’t you, LeRoy?”

  Washington looked away.

  Diemond sucked at his teeth, appraising his prisoner, then consulted his watch. “We should get started.” He took another set of handcuffs and affixed them to Washington’s ankles, locked them down tight. He then grabbed a coiled rope from a rack on the far wall, strung it around an overhead pipe and tied it to the handcuffs behind Washington’s back. He gave a yank and, using the pipe as a fulcrum, began to lift the man’s wrists.

  “Fuck!” Washington cried. “That hurts!”

  “I’ll bet it does.”

  Croft turned away.

  Diemond noticed. “You got a problem?”

  Croft shook his head. “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “No problem.”

  “Please,” Washington said, now in a partially standing position, his buttocks off the chair and his knees straining to keep himself erect and lessen the pull on his arms and shoulders.

  “I don’t got a beef with you, LeRoy. But I do got a job to do and I’m doing it.”

  “This ain’t right,” Washington managed to say, his thighs now shaking, no doubt from the strain of supporting his weight in this awkward position.

  “Trying to kill Milo Stoneham wasn’t right either. A real bad decision, too. You saw what his daddy did for him at the trial.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Washington said through clenched teeth. “I saw what his daddy did. What his lawyers did. What his goddamn money did.”

  “Now now, LeRoy,” Diemond said in a mockingly moralistic tone. “It was a fair trial. A jury of twelve said Milo was innocent.”

  “He raped and killed my Michelle. You know that. You know he did it.”

  “The jury said—”

  “Fuck the jury!” Washington spit, saliva spilling from his chapped lips. His legs were now trembling furiously and he was moving his feet as much as the restraints would allow, trying to shift his weight.

  “Well, see, that’s where there’s a problem. The jury system is what we have in this country. Justice was done. And that means Milo was free to go. For you to take the law into your own hands…well, that’s just not right.”

  “And this?” he screamed. “This is right?”

  Diemond pursed his lips and thought about that one. “You’ve got a point there, LeRoy. I guess it’s right because Harrison Stoneham says it’s right. And he’s got the money, you hear what I’m saying?”

  “He’s paying you,” Washington said. “Dude’s paying you to do this.”

  Diemond folded his arms. “I’ve been a cop for twenty years, and they pay me crap. Got promoted, made detective, and I still don’t get paid what I’m worth. I put my life on the line every goddamn day. You think anyone gives a shit?”

  Pain-induced perspiration sprung from eve
ry pore on LeRoy Washington’s face. “I served in the military…risked my life…you think they paid me good? You think anyone cares what I done for my country?”

  “You got a point there, too, LeRoy. So we share some agony. But it doesn’t change anything.”

  Washington hung his head, then shook it in resigned frustration. “I just wanted…I wanted justice for my daughter. Milo Stoneham is scum. He picked up my daughter at a party, took her to his house and drugged her. Then he raped her. And then he murdered her. You hear me? She was my daughter, man. You gots to understand—”

  Noise in the stairwell. Croft drew his gun and spun. Diemond held up a hand. “It’s okay, we’re good.”

  A tall, trim man dressed in a dark suit and red tie descended the basement steps.

  “Mr. Stoneham,” Diemond said, straightening up. “Ray, this is Harrison Stoneham.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Diemond pursed his lips, as if it was self-evident. “Man’s paying the bills, he’s entitled to see what he’s paying for, no?”

  “Well put, Detective,” Harrison Stoneham said. He turned to LeRoy Washington, looked him up and down, appraising the man’s pained expression. “That can’t be comfortable.” He turned to Diemond. “Cut him down.”

  Diemond pulled a folding knife from his pocket and sawed through the rope. Washington dropped hard into the chair. Tears and sweat streamed down his cheeks. He looked up at Stoneham, eyes narrow. Pure hatred stamped on his face. “Your son killed my girl. For nothin’.”

  Stoneham twisted his face into a one-sided squint. “I treat you nice by making you more comfortable, and this is how you return that favor? Who do you think you are?”

  “A father. Out for justice.” Spittle foamed over his bottom lip, anger flushed his ebony skin.

  “Very admirable. But you think you have the right to just kill my son? That’s not how our justice system works. My son had his day in court and he was acquitted.”

  “He killed my daughter. That’s the truth. But your lawyers, they confused the jury and you paid people off.”