Tried to catch my breath.
The exit door.
Don’t let them get away.
Before I could make a move, I needed to know where the suspects were, so I tilted one of the nearby mirrors to see down the corridor between the pieces of furniture.
No one.
Strategically they had the advantage. There were two of them, at least one was armed. They might be anywhere.
I pulled out my phone, called Doehring, whispered, hoarse, out of breath, “The perimeter. Is it up?”
“It should be.”
Should be.
The suspects could already be gone.
“The south side of the building,” I struggled to keep the pain out of my voice, “get officers there now. The suspects are armed. Proceed with extreme caution-there might be only one person; I’m not sure.”
End call.
You’re hit. They’re armed.
I ought to wait. I really ought Screw it.
I stood and leveled my gun, then spun around the cabinet, and trying to move my left arm as little as possible, headed toward the exit door watching for any movement as I raced through the room.
Saw nothing.
No one.
I arrived at the exit. Threw my body against the pressure bar, and the door flew open.
A quick visual sweep.
Just an alley, a dumpster.
No fleeing suspects.
No one.
I checked in and around the dumpster.
Clear.
Both streets lay about forty meters away, and I had no idea which direction the suspects might have fled.
Sirens, but no officers in sight.
Would the suspects split up? Go different directions?
Splitting up made sense, but obviously I could only check one street at a time. I chose the one to the right and ran toward it.
At the corner, here’s what I saw: a ponytailed jogger, typical DC traffic, a woman facing the crosswalk pushing a stroller, three young children straggling behind her. Across the intersection four businessmen were looking the other way waiting for a light to change.
No one who fit either Aria’s or the unidentified man’s build. No one who was acting suspicious or even looking in this direction.
No!
The other street. They went the other way through the alley.
With this much time elapsed since they’d left the building, I doubted it would do any good to check the other street, but I needed to be thorough. I started toward it.
But only seconds later two burly officers burst through the basement door and swept into the alley. “I’m Agent Bowers, FBI.” I pointed to one of the men. “Check the other street”-then to the other-“Get back in there and guard the exit. They might still be inside.”
The officers obeyed.
More sirens.
The streets were being sealed off.
Too late. It’s all too late!
Every time my heart beat, my arm throbbed. My vision blurred. I leaned my weight against the wall.
Another officer emerged from the door, and I had him radio dispatch to stop traffic and have officers detain and question everyone on the streets on both ends of the alley.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked.
“Go.”
When he left, I noticed that the woman with the young children was staring at me. She looked pale. I saw her swallow and then direct her children to follow her toward the pedestrian crosswalk.
The blood.
The blood on your arm.
Wait.
She hadn’t been facing the alley when I ran to the street, but there was a good chance one of her kids might have seen something.
I holstered my weapon and, pressing my right hand against the wound to hide the blood as much as possible, I approached the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to ask you a few questions.”
33
She didn’t give me her first name, just said that she was “Mrs. Rainey,” and then proceeded to tell me she hadn’t seen anyone leave the alley. “I’m sorry.” She was staring at my arm. “We were going the other way. Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?”
Probably.
I looked at her children. A sleeping baby in the stroller. Twin girls about three or four years old. A boy, maybe six. I knelt beside them. The twins eased back, grabbed the legs of their mother. One of them bit the corner of her lower lip and looked like she was about to cry. I couldn’t hide the blood completely, but I turned to the side to hide it as much as I could.
“I need to get them home,” Mrs. Rainey said.
“Just one moment. I won’t upset your children. I promise.” She looked at me uneasily, then at my arm, then at the alley where more officers had arrived, and then at the police cars screeching to a stop nearby. Though she was clearly reluctant, she must have realized the importance of my request, because at last she nodded. “Okay.”
“Listen,” I said to the kids. “Did you see anyone come out of this alley? Just a little while ago? It’s very important.”
None of them responded.
I held up the phone’s screen with the picture of Aria Petic that Ralph had sent me. “Did this woman come through here?”
The children just stared at me.
I showed them the man pushing the wheelchair. “Or him?”
Silence.
“Go on,” their mother said. “Did any of you see them come out from between those two buildings?”
The girls clung to her. The boy just looked at me suspiciously.
All right, this was going nowhere. I was feeling queasy from the pain, and I was only upsetting the children.
Normally, we’d detain potential witnesses a little longer, have another officer follow up, but I didn’t like it that the kids were here at a time like this.
“I really should go,” Mrs. Rainey said.
I took down her address and phone number so I could follow up, then I handed her one of my cards. “If any of your children remember anything, anything at all, call me.”
She accepted the card, and I headed unsteadily toward a park bench to sit down and catch my breath.
But I hadn’t made it more than three steps when I heard her voice: “Wait.”
I turned and saw one of her daughters pointing.
At a taxicab.
34
The driver, who astonishingly spoke English as his first language, told me he’d just made a drop off, but hadn’t picked up anyone from this curb for hours.
Mrs. Rainey asked her daughter again and found out she’d meant that she saw someone get into a taxicab, not that taxicab, which, of course made sense, but still, it frustrated me.
Another setback.
The streets were surrounded by officers. No other taxis in sight.
Margaret had arrived and was walking down the sidewalk toward me.
This day was just getting better and better.
I called to the officer I’d spoken to a few minutes ago and told him to get some men to check all the drop-offs and pickups of DC cab companies along this street over the last twenty minutes.
He eyed my arm. “Are you okay, sir?”
“I’m fine. Are you listening to me?”
He didn’t look away from the bloody sleeve. “Yes, sir.”
I described the suspects and explained that we didn’t know if they were traveling together or separately.
“If we find their cab and they’re in it, don’t let the driver stop until we can get some undercover officers there waiting for the suspects. Got it?”
“Yeah.” He was still looking at the blood.
“Go.”
He hesitated. “Is your arm-”
“Go on.”
He left.
I started for the bench again, but Margaret was catching up to me. “So you got shot?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
“I did.”
“Apprehend anyone?”
“No.”
“Shoot anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you see the suspects well enough to identify them?”
“No, Margaret.” I made it to the bench. “I did not.”
A small sigh. “Well, then, sit down before you collapse.”
“Good idea. Did we find Mollie?”