"Yeah, OK." Officer One was listening and looking down again at the license. "I was in on that plane crash over at Executive Airport back in August. I was one of the first units responding and you interviewed me.
"Larry Jacobs," Officer One said and stuck out his hand.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Nick said, pretending he recognized the guy, but definitely remembering the crash. A small plane nosedived right after takeoff and went face first through the roof of a car repair shop. The pilot was thrown through the windshield and then the plane engine crushed him right in the center of the repair bay.
"Grisly scene, man," Officer Jacobs said.
"Larry, yo," Nick heard Officer Two say from behind with an impatient tone.
"OK, Mr. Mullins. You'll have to move the car, OK? We've got a cordon going up because the feds are doing some political dog-and-pony show a few blocks down and they're setting up security. OK?"
Nick looked around and said, "Yeah, sure. No problem. Probably why my guy is late. I'll just get him on the cell and, you know, reschedule or something. I didn't realize they were doing anything this far from the convention center."
"Well, they were keeping it under wraps," Jacobs said. "But I'm surprised you wouldn't know." The officer attempted a wink, but Nick's head had already gone elsewhere and he just waved as he got back in his car, took one more look at Walker's empty spot and drove away.
Two blocks away, Nick pulled over and parked in a coffee shop lot that was still empty and stared at his cell phone, thinking. I'm surprised you didn't know? The cops always figure reporters know everything. Not so. But photographers usually do. He dialed Susan's cell number and despite the hour, she picked up on the second ring.
"Hi, it's Susan."
"Well, good morning, early bird," Nick said pleasantly.
"My ass," she grumbled back.
Nick smiled. This was the stuff he'd miss.
"What's up, young lady?"
"Goddamn early assignment," she said. "But what's up with you, Nick? I heard you cleared out your desk. You get that job down in Miami?"
"No. No. I think I'm getting out of the business," Nick said.
"No shit! Good for you, Nicky," she said. "Man, I'm gonna be the oldest one on this beat before long."
"So what's going on this morning?" Nick said, getting to it.
"You know. Some gig that has to do with that OAS thing down at the convention center. It's all that hush-hush stuff. We have to meet them at the center and then they're going to drive us to some secret location to shoot some VIP hand-grab photos."
"Is it the Secretary of State?" Nick said, working.
"I gotta figure. That's the biggest face down here."
"Is it up north of the center? Like, by Tasker Street? 'Cause I got stopped up here by a bunch of security guys doing a sweep."
"Could be, Nick. They're not telling us anything yet," Susan said. "But why are you poking around if you quit?"
Nick didn't answer.
"Ha!" Susan laughed into the phone. "Can't get it out of your blood, eh, Nick? Not even for a day."
"You know everything, Susan," he chided back. "Have a great morning."
Nick's next call was to Hargrave.
There had to be a reason Walker hadn't shown for work. The son-of-a-bitch hadn't been late yet. It was part of his goddamn parole agreement. He was breaking his parole!
Nick fumbled while punching in Hargrave's number and got one of those high-pitched three-tone wailing sounds in his ear and cursed. Then he stopped, laid the phone in his lap, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Think it through, Nick, he told himself. So Walker's late. Lots of possibilities. What were you going to say to the guy anyway? Hey, duck, you're gonna get shot! Or maybe you were going to just sit there and watch him get shot? Watch the man who killed your wife and daughter bleed out on the street? If Redman is going to assassinate the guy because he has deluded himself into thinking you are his so-called spotter, why not let him? If he thinks he owes you by giving you this retribution, then maybe he's a better man than you are.
He opened his eyes, took another deep breath, dialed Hargrave's number and waited.
"Hargrave," the phone said.
"It's Nick, Detective."
Hargrave pulled the old no-question-no-answer routine that so many hardass cops seemed to work at and remained silent.
"I was calling to tell you that Walker didn't show up for work this morning at his usual time," Nick said. "Did you by chance warn him of the possibility that he could be a target after we talked last night?"
"A target? Well, I didn't really get that far," Hargrave said and Nick thought that was going to be it until he continued. "But I did get some intelligence that he left his house this morning in his truck at six."
"And where might this intelligence have come from?" Nick asked.
"I stopped him in his driveway," Hargrave said. "He is one ugly guy, by the way."
"Tell me something I don't know, Detective."
"I informed him that the Sheriff's Office had reason to believe that he may be in danger and told him maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to go to work today."
"And?" Nick said, feeling the heat of anger crawl up his neck.
"He asked for an explanation and as soon as I got to the part that had to do with you, he told me to fuck off and move my car out of his way."
Nick stayed quiet.
"Frankly, I don't need that shit," Hargrave finally said. "Even if you're right about Redman wanting to kill this son-of-a-bitch, I don't need it."
Nick wanted to say he agreed and just walk away. But somewhere in the last few days the story had changed for him. It was now more about saving Redman from himself than it was about saving his targets.
"Well, Walker never showed up here."
"I know," Hargrave said. "I'm watching his truck from four cars back. We're stopped at a roadblock to warehouse row, they're checking all I.D.s of people entering because of some federal action at a Cuban nursing home that's supposed to go off at nine."
"I heard," Nick said.
"Oh, really? Fitzgerald told us it was supposed to be a need-to-know deal, highly secretive."
"Yeah, well, what good is a photo opportunity like that if you don't tell the press?" Nick said.
"Yeah, well, if that info is floating around, Fitzgerald's not going to be a happy man," Hargrave said.
"You talked to him?"
"Right after I hung up with you last night I called Lieutenant Canfield. Then he patched together a conference call with Fitzgerald. The guy sounded hinky. He was under the gun because they got some kind of intel that this sniper they're looking for is definitely a foreigner and has been in the country doing one of those sleeper things, laying low, for a year.
"But that obit of yours with the National Guardsman's dad blaming the secretary for his kid's death might have creeped him out. They actually ran some kind of itinerary on Redman's movements over there and he might have spent time with the dead kid's unit. You didn't know that too, did you, Mullins?"
"No," Nick said. "But doesn't that say something to you, Detective?"
"Like too many coincidences?" Hargrave answered. "Yeah, it talks to me. But I get the feeling Fitzgerald is sticking with the foreigner-on-our-soil theory."
"But what do you think? Who's Redman's next target?"
"I already told you. I'm on Walker's ass right now," Hargrave said. "But you must be close by if you know he's not at work yet, Nick. So where exactly are you calling from? And what the hell are you doing?"
Chapter 33
Michael Redman lay with the hooded binoculars up to his face for forty-five minutes, but still his eyes were not tired. His eyes had never been tired. He could hold this position, prone on the roof, forever if he had to because if that's what had to be done, he would do it.
A week ago Redman had followed Mullins one morning and tracked him. He thought he might approach the reporter. Let him know what his stories had meant to him, how he'd planned this out for a year, how he was going to be the sword to Mullins's pen.