The last twelve hours or so have passed by surprisingly fast. We’d all left the bar last night and headed by to the FBI field office. From there, people took it in turns sleeping and running around getting stressed. It didn’t take long for me to feel out of place and useless, so I resigned myself to trying to get some sleep and sorting everything out in my head.
Chambers insisted I stay by her side as much as possible, but for the most part, I stayed in the conference room while she moved around the office. She must be running on fumes by now, but she hasn’t skipped a beat.
Johnson and Wallis had worked hard through the night and turned up some good information. I’m sitting opposite Chambers now, reviewing what they've managed to turn up so far.
Johnson had been working with the crime scene investigators and the forensic reports to piece together details of the scene. One of their tech guys has generated a 3D computer model of the area using reports and video surveillance footage of the surrounding area at the time.
The computer model is on the big screen at the far end of the room, and Chambers is working the keyboard and mouse, navigating it. I’m the first to admit that high-end technology is beyond my mental capabilities. The whole thing looks like a scene out of Tron. And I don’t mean that recent disaster of a movie either. I mean the classic from 1982 that starred Jeff Bridges.
Given the trajectory of the bullets as they hit Josh, and the distance we were working on based on my estimations about the bullet and the weapon, they’ve managed to pinpoint roughly where Pellaggio was standing as the nightmare unfolded.
If Josh were here, he’d be having a geekgasm all over the place…
“See here,” she says, pointing to an area on the topographical layout that’s north and east of the Academy. “He must have been on the roof of one of these buildings on Balboa Street to have line of sight to what was happening, and to make the shot.”
I look at the screen and imagine myself in Pellaggio’s shoes, carrying out the hit. It’s easily nine hundred meters away, if not further. Taking into account the wind and position of the sun, not to mention trajectory, the fact he hit Josh exactly where he wanted to, twice, is worryingly impressive. Which is a major cause for concern…
“It’s a helluva shot,” I say.
She goes to say something but hesitates and decides against it. I give her a minute to change her mind, but she doesn’t.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sighs, as if in defeat. “Could you have made that shot?” she asks.
She sounds almost timid — nothing like the woman I’d come to know over the last thirty-six hours. Since leaving the hospital, I wouldn’t say she’s been frosty with me, but she’s certainly kept conversation to a minimum. Looking at her, now she’s calmed down, I can see it’s left her with questions.
I think about it for a moment. I might as well be honest…
“Yes. Quite easily,” I reply.
“I don’t get you,” she says, pushing the keyboard away from her and clasping her hands in front of her on the desk. “You’re the strangest person I think I’ve ever met.”
“Not the worst thing a woman’s ever said to me,” I say, laughing.
“Everyone kind of knows who you are and what you do, but you openly admitted it to us surrounded by police. You’re obviously a lot more intelligent than you act, and you have a curiously adorable arrogance about you. Yet you seem so concerned with doing the right thing all the time, it's like you forget you commit murder on a regular basis.”
“I wanna say it’s because I’m mysterious, or because I’m trying to keep this enigma about myself to attract women, or something equally smart and cool. But that would be bullshit, and I won’t ever bullshit you, Grace. I don’t try to fit into a particular category. I don’t live to anyone else’s standards. I have my own opinion on what’s morally right and wrong, and I’m paid very well to kill people who I believe have done bad things in this world. That’s all.”
“I don’t get how you can make what you do sound almost noble,” she says, smiling reluctantly.
“Years of practice,” I reply, returning the smile
“I’m trying so hard to fight every natural urge I have right now to arrest you, you know that, right?”
“I do, and don’t think it’s not appreciated.”
She regards me a moment longer, then retrieves the keyboard and continues navigating her way around the computer model of the events from yesterday.
We study the screen in silence for a few minutes. A knock on the door disturbs us. We both look up to see Agent Wallis standing there, holding a file and looking pleased with himself.
“Wallis, what’ve you got?” asks Chambers, gesturing for him to sit down.
“I’ve got the ballistics back from the bullets that we removed from Josh,” he says, taking a seat at the head of the table between us.
I sit up in my chair. My jaw muscles tense when he mentions Josh by name.
“And?” I say, eagerly.
“You were right,” he says, placing the file in front of him on the table and opening it. “The bullets were indeed fired from a Remington XM2010 sniper rifle.”
“Any idea where he got the hardware from?” asked Chambers.
‘I did some digging around through old and existing cases, and managed to narrow down the search for who might have sold it to Pellaggio to two individuals. Both are known arms dealers operating within the city. One of them is small time, so I ruled him out on the basis that we’ve got no evidence to suggest he’ll have the ability to supply this kind of weaponry. Which leaves us with this guy…”
He turns the page in his file and spins it round to face Chambers, who takes a quick glance and immediately has an ‘I knew it’ look on her face. She turns the file so it faces me.
In front of me is an eight-by-ten black and white mug shot. It’s of a man who looks about my age, with long, spiked hair and piercing, evil eyes. He’s clean-shaven, with a network of scars running across his face.
“Joseph Turner,” says Chambers. “Known locally as Jo-Jo. He’s the only real player in black market weaponry in the city, having murdered or partnered up with anyone who could be classed as a rival.”
“We’ve never been able to make anything against him stick,” adds Wallis. “But the guy’s a real piece of work. It has to be him that sold the rifle to Pellaggio.”
I take another look at Joseph Turner. As far as I’m concerned, he put the gun in Pellaggio’s hands, so he may as well have pulled the trigger himself…
My jaw muscles tense again and a wave of anger washes over me. I push the file away and look up at Chambers.
“Where do I find him?” I ask.
“Easy,” she says. “You can’t just walk in the front door and confront someone like him. We need to play this smart. We need to build evidence and get a warrant and some major back-up before we go after him.”
“And how long’s that going to take?” I ask. “End of the day, this piece of shit is our only lead to finding Pellaggio. The longer you take to get permission to go after the guy, the less chance we have of stopping Pellaggio before it’s too late.”
“Welcome to our world,” she says, abruptly. “But that’s what happens in real life, Adrian. You don’t get to just walk up to someone and shoot them because it’s easier.”
“I would’ve interrogated him first…”
“There’s something else you need to know about him,” says Wallis, tentatively interrupting.
We both look at him expectantly.
“He’s the biggest arms dealer in the city, and as such has ties to local criminal organizations… including the Triads.”
He lets the words hang there for a moment before continuing.