Lena could feel the fresh charge of nervous energy in her chest and gazed at the building as she crossed the street. The modern design stood out from the rest. It was twelve stories high with balconies on all four corners and a gated parking garage underneath. She guessed that it had been built within the last twenty-five years and that rents were high because the place was clean and well maintained.
They reached the lobby and found the building manager waiting for them at the door. He seemed just as anxious as they were, only he was showing it. He introduced himself as Chess Washington. Dressed in khakis, an oxford shirt, and a light down vest, Washington was a thin man in his late fifties with a dark complexion and bright green eyes.
“Do you live here?” Rhodes asked.
Washington pointed to apartment 101. “Right there,” he said.
“What about Poole’s? What’s the layout like?”
“Same as mine, twelve floors up.”
“Would you mind if we had a look at your place?”
Washington shrugged. “No problem at all.”
Lena realized that Rhodes was anticipating trouble. He wouldn’t have made the request otherwise. Poole was obviously lethal-someone living on the edge who hadn’t just murdered Jennifer McBride, but cut her up. Mapping the layout of his place before they got there was the smart move. They entered Washington’s apartment and stepped into a small foyer. To the left was the living room, to the right, a long hallway to what looked like a den. Rhodes held the door open, blocking the view down the hall and turned to Lena.
“The door hinges on the right and opens in,” he said.
Lena got it. Doorways were called vertical coffins for good reason. That’s where you were most vulnerable. That’s were the highest risk was. Passing through them.
“He’ll be in the den,” she said. “Behind the front door.”
Rhodes met her eyes and nodded. When he turned to Washington, his voice was calm and easy and didn’t betray his emotions.
“You said you talk to Poole once in a while. You were in Vietnam, right? You trade stories.”
“Not very often, but once in a while, yes.”
“Do you know if he owns a gun?”
“As a matter of fact, he’s got several. So do I. But I think you guys got it wrong. Albert’s a war hero. And he’s the quiet type. Doesn’t bother people and keeps to himself.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Lena said. “What kind of guns does he keep, and how many are there?”
“He’s only shown me three or four, ma’am.”
“What kind?”
“He’s got a Spencer Repeating Carbine and a flintlock pistol, but both of them are mounted on the wall and behind glass.”
Lena met the man’s eyes. “What else?”
“A Mossberg shotgun and a Glock.40 pistol with a fifteen-round magazine. The shotgun’s an autoloader. I think he keeps it underneath his bed. The Glock’s in a drawer by the front door.”
“That’s it?” Rhodes asked.
“He collects knives. Mostly from the Civil War. He’s got a lot of them.”
Lena and Rhodes traded looks, then made a sweep through the rest of Washington’s apartment. The hall to the right led to a den, then turned left. They passed two bedrooms on their right before the hall made another left, feeding them into the dining area and kitchen, then returning to the living room, foyer and front door. The floor plan was essentially a loop. The only other way in or out was the slider leading to the balcony off the living room.
“How’s his furniture set?” Lena asked.
“Same as mine and everybody else’s,” Washington said. “The place is built so it only really fits one way.”
Lena glanced at the couch and chairs, noting the walking lanes. Then Rhodes ran out to the car and brought back two vests.
They followed Washington into the elevator. When they reached the twelfth floor, the building manager pointed at apartment 1201 and stepped back around the corner. Lena and Rhodes approached and took each side of the door. They drew their guns and looked at each other. She could see the fire in his eyes. The life in his face. Through the door she could hear Poole talking with the TV going in the background. It sounded like he was on the phone. His voice was high-pitched, his cadence awkward and crazy. As she readied herself, she felt the rush of adrenaline swell through her body and bit her lip.
On Rhodes signal, she knocked on the door.
Poole immediately stopped talking. She could hear the patter of bare feet moving toward the door. She kept her eyes on the light feeding through the peephole, then looked back at Rhodes after it went dark.
“Who is it?” Poole shouted. “Show yourself. Why are you hiding out there?”
He sounded frightened and pounded on the door.
“Police,” Lena said. “We’d like to speak with you, Albert.”
He didn’t set the phone down. He dropped it on the floor. Then Lena heard him pull open a drawer, followed by the unmistakable sound of the man jacking the slide on his Glock.
“About what?” he screamed. “Why me? Why are you fucking with me?”
It wasn’t going well. Lena watched Rhodes turn back to the building manager peeking around the corner.
“Something’s wrong with him,” Washington said. “That’s not the way he usually sounds.”
Rhodes grimaced. “Toss over the keys. Then go downstairs and call nine-one-one. Don’t come back.”
Washington dug a key ring out of his pocket, removed two and slid them across the floor. When they heard the elevator doors shut, Rhodes spoke up.
“Come on, Poole. Calm down. All we want to do is talk.”
Poole slammed another fist into the door. “How many of you are out there? Why are you whispering? How will I know who you are? Show me your ID.”
“I’m gonna do it, Poole. I’m gonna do it right now. Are you looking through the peephole?”
“Show me your ID.”
Rhodes stayed to the side of the door and didn’t move. “Here I go.”
Lena zeroed in on that peephole, saw the light come back, and heard the sound of the Glock firing. Three rounds burst through the wood, ripping through the wall into the elevator shaft behind them. She could hear Poole screaming at them and running away.
She grabbed the keys and hit the locks. Still on his knees, Rhodes inched the door open with his gun. Then three more shots rang out, drilling through the wood at chest level into the living room wall. Rhodes gave her a look and took a deep breath, then scurried into the foyer on his knees. When Lena followed, she slammed the door behind her and caught a glimpse of Poole rushing out of the den toward the bedrooms. It was more of blur than anything else. And the man was still screaming, still out of his skin.
They raised their guns and started down the hall, pausing at the corner. The two bedrooms were on the right. He could be in either one, or he could have run around the loop, hoping to hit them from behind. Lena slipped into the den, spotted Poole in the second doorway, and fired two rounds into the near wall, knowing that her.45 would punch out the other side at head level. The sound of her.45 was louder than the Glock. More menacing and primitive. She met Rhodes’s eyes and waited a beat. If Poole hadn’t moved before she fired, he was dead.
“You there?” Rhodes called out. “You still with us, Poole?”
Poole lunged out of the bedroom doorway, his pistol flashing as he zigzagged down the hall and around the corner. He was laughing now. Cackling. Lena bolted down the hallway, ducking into the bedroom. As she looked around and turned back to the door, Rhodes slid into the bathroom across the hall. She heard Poole slam another mag into his gun as her eyes flicked around the bedroom. She had seen something when she first entered, but it hadn’t registered. She found it on the bed. A bag from a pharmacy. She opened it and dumped out the contents, revealing too many meds to count.
She turned back, eased into the hallway and peeked around the corner. She didn’t see Poole, and figured that he might be hiding in the kitchen. But when she looked behind Rhodes toward the den, she saw the light change on the wall and ran back down the hall. He was coming in from behind, ready with a full load. Lena started firing before she even turned the corner. Punching out the plaster in the wall, rounding the bend, holding up.