The bad news concerned the two suits who had died with Adams and Giordano.
They weren’t carrying any IDs, but we got hits off their prints. Problem was, the hits were for two Army grunts who’d been killed in Iraq back in 2005.
Which was worrying on many levels.
It wasn’t that easy to swap people’s fingerprint files around, even in an age where everything was stored on servers and it could be done remotely. You had to know where to find them, and-keyboard wizards like my friend Kurt notwithstanding-there were all kinds of authorizations and firewalls that were very tough to get past. Also, these guys were packing Glocks and were chatting to the two detectives when they were gunned down-and it was at the scene of an active investigation. All of which only confirmed to me that something dirty was going on here, and that the players involved didn’t necessarily want us to know they had a hand in the game.
I’d need to look over my shoulder more often until this mess was put to bed.
I was back at my desk and trawling through the most recent NCIC entries on Mirminsky when Aparo came in looking uncharacteristically spooked.
“Ballistics came in from the shootings at the motel,” he said, holding up a file. “You ready for this?”
He had my attention. “What?”
“Same gun,” he said.
He wasn’t making sense. “What do you mean, same gun?”
“One gun. All seven vics.” He stared at me like he couldn’t believe it either. “It was one shooter, Sean. He took them all out on his own.”
I froze, right there.
One shooter?
I was still replaying what I’d seen in my mind’s eye and trying to imagine how it might have gone down when my phone beeped. I glanced at the caller ID. It was an unidentified caller. For a second, I considered ignoring it-then I remembered my pet hacker and his penchant for the cloak-and-dagger. I raised an index finger at Aparo in a hang-on gesture and picked up the call.
“Tell me, briefly,” I said.
“I’ve got something,” Kurt replied, his voice echoey and disembodied from the Skype call.
“Great. But I’ll need to call you back.”
“Not possible. Bat-phone’s outgoing only. I’ll call you back. Half an hour okay?”
“Perfect.” I hung up and parked my anticipation while I focused on Aparo again.
Fortunately, he seemed so mired in the ballistics conclusion that he didn’t bother asking who had just called.
“That’s… that’s some shooter,” I said.
“Yep.” His face furrowed even more. “We’re gonna need Kevlar balaclavas.”
I shrugged. “No point. I don’t think this guy would have much trouble putting his slugs through the eye sockets.”
“Well, that’s comforting.” Aparo shook his head slowly. “What if it was Sokolov?”
I wondered about that. Whoever it was, I couldn’t say I was looking forward to meeting him.
I WAS OUTSIDE THE building at the agreed-upon time when my phone rang.
“Can you talk now?” Kurt asked. The echo on the line was disconcerting.
“You’ll have to speak up, Mrs. Takahashi,” I told him. “The line’s terrible.”
His voice increased in volume and clarity. “I’m almost eating the microphone, so you’d better be able to hear me now. And konnichiwa to you, too.”
“You said you have something?”
“Do I ever,” he said proudly. “I’ve been on this nonstop since last night. I ran all the parameters as agreed. Cross-referenced several databases, including the Enrollment and Eligibility Reporting System and the RAPIDS credential issuing repository. Long story short, I’ve got seven names. All with the necessary clearance. All with disciplinary warnings. All company lifers. Two went through the internal alcohol-addiction program and have stayed clean. So far. One is currently on a course in London: ‘Global Security and China: The Paradox of Capitalism.’ Which sounds riveting. One was involved in a fatal car crash and now uses a wheelchair, so I suspect you don’t want to mess with him. Three were warned about sexual harassment, so I figured they all had potential, and one of them I really like, a guy by the name of Stan Kirby.”
“Tell me more.”
Kurt was clearly thrilled by this undertaking. “He’s in his mid-fifties. Decent-looking guy, not that I’m into that kind of thing. His mid-level diplomat parents sent him to Vassar, after which his act of rebellion was to get himself recruited by the CIA. He’s been there ever since-twenty-four years as of last November-and is currently a senior intelligence analyst with Level 2-B clearance. He’s got full benefits and is in line for the company’s top-tier pension package.”
I still couldn’t believe the information someone with Kurt’s skill set could dig up so fast. “So what’s the leverage?”
“Almost every Thursday night, going back over seven months, he hits the same cash point after work. Sevenish. Pulls out three hundred bucks.”
“Maybe he’s loading up on cash for the weekend?”
“Plausible, but here’s the thing. He works at Langley, his home’s in Arlington, and the cash point’s in Georgetown. He’s overshooting his house and going all that way to Georgetown to get some cash, then turning around and heading home? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe he’s spending it on something local.”
“My very thought. And I kinda doubt he’s handing it over to some homeless shelter. I think he’s up to no good. And here’s the kicker,” Kurt added. “Same night? Every week? His wife’s got an evening yoga class. Seven till nine.”
This made it sound a lot more promising.
“Okay, see if you can find out what he’s doing with the cash.”
“Already on it, my liege. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
Then something clicked. “Hang on, you said Thursday, right?”
“I sure did.”
Thursday. As in tomorrow. And from the way he said it, Kurt was clearly also on the same track.
“I’m on it,” he assured me. “Keep your phone handy.” Then he clicked off.
MIRMINSKY’S PLACE WAS CALLED Atmosphère, written the French way, with the accent, and pronounced “atmos-fair,” as befitted any self-respecting high-end nightclub in the Meatpacking District.
It was the Sledgehammer’s latest venture, the flagship of his burgeoning empire, and it was huge. Even during the day, with no pounding music or heaving bodies or dizzying light shows on display, you could easily feel what it must be like in full swing. The place was an opulent maze of black velvet, chrome, Swarovski crystals, and weird opaque glass that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. It was unbelievably flashy, although surprisingly tasteful. It had to be, given the globotrashy clientele Mirminsky was after, the Aston Martin-driving European high-fliers and homegrown hedgies whose tabs ran to thousands of dollars a night and the models and Kate Middleton clones who orbited them.
A couple of Cro-Magnons in black suits and dark shirts led us to Mirminsky, and we found him seated at a large banquette, three associates around him. Judging by their furtive looks, I’m pretty sure they weren’t discussing the DJ’s playlist for the night. Mirminsky didn’t exactly light up when he saw us, and his comrades withdrew as we arrived, wisely.
The Sledgehammer was heavier than I’d imagined from the surveillance pictures I’d seen in his file. He’d clearly been feasting on the bounties of life in America in more ways than one. His beady eyes, which looked more reptilian than human, studied us unblinkingly as he invited us to sit down.