Chapter 100
EVERYONE HELD THEIR professional cool as the video played out, and Agent Ridge kept talking as it did.
“A little history here. Bowie was recruited from Philadelphia PD into the Service in 1988. For thirteen years, there’s not much to tell, but shortly after 9/11, his performance started to slip.
“Then in February of 2002, after an improper firearm discharge, which I’m not going to detail this morning, Bowie was removed from the Service without benefits.”
Cormorant took it from there and brought up a slide of a generic-looking office building.
“In 2005, he opened Galveston Security here in DC—”
“Galveston?” someone asked.
“His hometown,” Cormorant said. “Today, he’s got satellite offices in Philadelphia and Dallas, with a personal net worth of seven million, give or take. The Philly ties don’t prove anything, but it’s worth noting that at least some contract work with the Martino crime family out of Philadelphia has been part of this whole picture as well.”
Cormorant’s eyes traveled over to me before he went on. “One other thing we can tell you is that phone records show two calls from Bowie’s cell to the one found in Remy Williams’s cabin today. One of those calls was made two months ago, and the other was four days ago.”
“Where’s Bowie now?” one of the agents asked.
“Surveillance puts him at home, as of twenty-three hundred hours last night. We have half a dozen agents watching his house.”
“How soon can we move on this?” someone else asked. You could feel the impatience in the room. No one wanted to tackle the operation, I think, so much as they wanted to get it over with.
Agent Ridge looked at his watch. “We go as soon as you’re ready,” he said, and everyone started to stand up.
Chapter 101
IT WAS EERILY quiet when we pulled up to a row of flat-topped brick town houses on Winfield Lane in Northwest. One pair of tennis players was at it on the Georgetown courts across the road, and the playing fields were still wet. If Nana were home, I thought, she’d just be getting up and ready for church.
We had four SWAT officers posted in back, with MPD cruisers at either end of the block and EMS on standby. The rest of us emerged onto the street several doors away from Bowie’s place, where a single white van was just coming to a stop.
Once Ridge gave the go, an entry team of five men in ballistic gear exited the van and snaked up the front steps of Bowie’s town house in a line. It was a silent operation; they pried the door and then disappeared inside.
After that, it was ten long minutes of waiting while they leapfrogged through the house, clearing one space after another. Ridge kept his head down and a hand over his earpiece as the SWAT commander whispered their progress to him. He held up two fingers to indicate they’d reached the second floor, and a few minutes later, three fingers.
Then he straightened up suddenly. I could hear shouting coming from the house.
“They’ve got him!” Ridge said—but then, “Wait.”
There was some fast back-and-forth now, with Ridge blurting communications. “Yes? I hear you. Do not stand down.” Eventually he said, “Okay, give me one second,” and turned to address the rest of us.
“We’ve got a standoff situation inside,” he said. “Bowie’s armed and belligerent. Says he won’t talk to Secret Service.”
I didn’t have to think about this. “Let me talk to him,” I said.
Ridge held up a finger and went back to the mic in his cuff. “Peters, I’m going to send in a throw phone—”
“No,” I said. “Face-to-face. All he’s looking at in there is five armed officers. We’re not window dressing, Ridge. You brought us here for a reason, and now we know what it is.”
There was another long stretch of back-and-forth after that, relayed among Ridge, SWAT, and Constantine Bowie inside. Eventually, an agreement was reached. Bowie would let them check the rest of the house to make sure no one else was there, and then I’d go in. All of a sudden, someone was handing me a vest and Ridge was giving me the rundown.
“Keep SWAT between you and Bowie at all times. If you can get him to stand down, do it, and if not, leave. Don’t drag it out.” He checked his watch again. “Fifteen minutes. That’s it. Then I’m going to pull you out myself.”
Chapter 102
THE PROFILER IN me was working overtime as I entered the alcove of Bowie’s town house by myself. The place was airy and well-appointed inside. A large amount of cash had gone into Early American antiques and art. It was also extremely neat; not a loose magazine, newspaper, or stray knickknack in sight. I saw a lot of control at work in this house. Was this where Zeus lived? Had he murdered here as well?
The master bedroom was at the top of the stairs on the third floor.
Two SWAT officers in the hall nodded at me as I came up, but they didn’t say anything. I could also see two of the three who were inside the bedroom, covering Bowie from different angles with their MP5s. I called out to Bowie.
“Bowie, my name’s Alex Cross. I’m with MPD and I’m coming in, okay?”
There was a pause, and then a strained voice. “Come in. Let me see a shield.”
He was sitting flat on the floor, wearing just boxers, sweating profusely. The king-size bed had obviously been slept in, and the nightstand drawer was hanging open.
He’d cornered himself under a window, between the bed and one of the two closets. His arms were locked out in front of him, with a .357 SIG Sauer pointed at the nearest officer.
The other thing I noticed was the signet ring on his right hand—gold with a red stone, just like the one in the video we’d all seen by now. Man, he was making this too easy. Why? Was he Zeus?
I kept my own hands in front of me with my badge showing, and only came as far as the doorway. Everyone else stayed still as statues.
“Nice house,” I said right off. “How long have you lived here?”
“What?” Bowie’s eyes took me in for half a second, then went back to his target.
“I was wondering how long you’ve lived here. That’s all. Breaking the ice.”
He scoffed. “Checking my mental acuity?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been here two years. The president of the United States is Margaret Vance. Seven times eight is fifty-six, okay?”
“So I guess you understand the gravity of what you’re doing,” I told him.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “I have no fucking clue what’s going on here.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you. I’ll try to, anyway. Technically, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sally Anne Perry.”
His eyes flashed anger without actually moving. “Fuck that! They’ve been gunning for me ever since I got pushed out.”
“Who has?”
“The Service. The Feds. Goddamn President Vance for all I know.”
I stopped and took a breath, hoping he’d do the same. “You’re giving me mixed signals here, Bowie,” I said. “One second you seem lucid and the next—”
“Yeah, well, just ’cause I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me, right?”
Oddly enough, I couldn’t argue with that, so I moved on.
“Why don’t you tell me what you need to hear before you lower that weapon?”
He chinned at the officer closest to him. “They put theirs down first.”
“Come on, Constantine. That’s not going to happen, and you know it isn’t. Work with me here. If you really are innocent, then I’m on your side. Where did you get that ring?”
“Stop with the questions. Just stop.”
“Okay.”
His arms were all muscle, but after at least twenty minutes outstretched, they were starting to shake. And in fact, he moved to adjust himself, up onto one knee with the shooting arm resting on top.
“Bowie, I—”
A tinkle of glass sounded. That was all it was. One of the small
windowpanes behind him split into shards, and Bowie fell facedown onto the carpet, a small dark hole in the back of his head.
I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Immediately SWAT flew into action. Someone pulled me backward into the hall while the rest closed in around Bowie.
“One round fired—subject is down! We need medical up here right away!”
A few seconds later, I’d pushed my way back into the room. My body was shaking with rage. Why had they fired on him? Why now? I had him talking. Bowie was splayed on the ground, arms out at his sides. Through the broken window, I could see another officer on the opposite roof, standing down with his rifle.
“Scratch that, medical,” the commander was saying. “We’ll meet you downstairs and bring you up.”
And then two of them were walking me out the door and down the stairs, in no uncertain terms. My usefulness had obviously played itself out here.
When we got to the front stoop, the EMTs were waiting. It was protocol to call them in, but at this point, that’s all it was. I’d already seen enough to know that Constantine Bowie was as dead as he was going to get.
And that I’d just been bait in the whole damn thing. They had meant to kill him all along.
Whoever they were.
Chapter 103
IT ALL SEEMED too neat, too easy, but that didn’t mean Constantine Bowie wasn’t the killer, did it? The next few days were all about paperwork, lots and lots of it. I don’t think most people have any idea how much ink it takes to put a murder case in the drawer, especially one of this magnitude.
Not even when the FBI and the Secret Service are both arguing that justice has been done.
There were endless meetings to come, and after that, public hearings. A full congressional investigation had already been promised, amid all kinds of unchecked speculation on the Hill and in the media. The country was buzzing: about Tony Nicholson’s client list, about the involvement of Secret Service, and even about who else might still be out there as part of Bowie’s murder spree.
Once the paperwork was behind me, I put in for the rest of the week off. I left the office late on Wednesday and went straight to the hospital. Nana was looking a lot more peaceful these days, like an angel, which was kind of nice and also hard to take. I stayed awake most of that night, just watching her.
Then Aunt Tia spelled me early on Thursday, and I managed to catch Bree still in bed when I finally, finally got home. She was just starting to stir as I spooned up next to her.
“Do whatever you want,” she whispered softly. “Just don’t wake me up.”
But then she laughed and turned over to kiss me good morning. Her feet and legs stayed tangled up with mine under the covers.
“All right, then, just do whatever you want to me,” she said.
“This is nice. Remember this?” I said.
She nodded with her forehead against mine, and I was thinking maybe I never had to be anywhere else but here. Ever again.
Then the bedroom door opened. Of course it did. “Daddy, you home?” Ali poked his head around the corner and jumped up onto the bed before we could tell him to go away.
“Little man, how many times have I told you to knock first?” I asked him.
“About a million,” he said, and he laughed and wormed in between us anyway.
Not to be outdone, Jannie was there soon enough, and the two of them started chattering at us like maybe it wasn’t six thirty in the morning. Even so, it was kind of nice to be all together again.
By seven, I was frying up a batch of bacon, egg, and tomato sandwiches while Bree made coffee and poured the orange juice. Jannie and Ali were scanning the morning paper for my name, and I even had a little Gershwin playing in the living room. Not the bedroom with Bree, but not too shabby either.
Just as I was flipping my breakfast creations out of the pan, a phone chirped from upstairs, loud enough to be heard over the music.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me, standing there with my greasy spatula in hand.
“What?” I said, all wide-eyed and innocent. “I don’t hear anything.”
That got me a chorus of cheers all around the table, and even a little pat on the butt from Bree.
Whoever it was, they had the good sense not to call again.
Chapter 104
A FEW HOURS later, Bree and I were back from walking the kids to school and running a few necessary errands to the drug- and food stores. “Upstairs,” I told her before the front door had even closed behind us. “We’ve got some unfinished business, you and I.”
She took the grocery bag out of my hands with a kiss. “I’ll be right there. Don’t start without me.”
I was halfway up the stairs when she called me back from the kitchen.
“Alex!” Her voice was tense. What was it now? “Company.”
When I came down, she was standing at the pass-through to the sunporch, looking out.
“Guess who’s here?” she said.
I stepped up next to her and saw Ned Mahoney sitting in our backyard, drumming his fingers on the picnic table.
“God damn it,” I said.
He stayed where he was as I came out onto the porch and then down into the yard to see what was happening.
“Was that you who called earlier?” I asked. Ned nodded, and before he even said a word, I realized the case wasn’t over. “You want to come in?”
“Let’s talk out here,” he said.
I grabbed a jacket and two cups of coffee from inside, and then came back out to the picnic table.
Ned gulped the coffee as I sat down. He looked exhausted. All his usual effusiveness seemed to be gone—or at least depleted.
“You okay?” I asked him.
“Just a little tired,” he said. “I haven’t let go of this thing, Alex. I’ve used up all my personal days, all my vacation. Kathy’s ready to kill me.”
I nodded. “So is Bree. And she has a gun.”
“Still, it’s paid off. Boy, has it ever. I’ve got somebody I want you to meet. His name is Aubrey Lee Johnson. He lives down in Alabama, but he’s got a custom fly reel business that brings him up to Virginia a lot.”
Ned downed the last of his coffee, and I slid mine over to his side of the table. Some of the usual rev was coming back into him already. “This guy’s got a story he thinks might be important. And guess what, Alex. It is.”
Chapter 105
THERE WAS NO way Mahoney could get travel status for this. Even if it were his case, which it wasn’t, the Bureau watches out for our tax dollars by requiring agents to use the local field offices for out-of-state interviews. Ned had already traded a few electronic communications with the Mobile office, but in the end, we decided to fly to Alabama on our own nickel.
We arrived at Mobile Regional Airport late the next morning and rented a car from there.
Aubrey Johnson lived on Dauphin Island, about an hour south. It was a sleepy little village, at least this time of year, and we had no trouble finding his store—Big Daddy’s Fishing Tackle, on Cadillac Avenue.
“This is why we’re here? Big Daddy’s Fishing Tackle?” I said to Ned.
“Odd as it may seem, this is it, the end of the road. The conspiracy gets tripped up here. If we’re lucky, that is.”
“So let’s start getting lucky.”
Johnson was a tall, gregarious guy in his midfifties, and he ushered us in like a couple of old friends, just before he double-locked up behind us.
Ned had already questioned him on the phone, but Johnson repeated his story for me—how he’d been driving late one night on Route 33 in Virginia about a month ago, when a beautiful girl in a negligee stumbled out of the woods in front of his truck.
“Truth be told, I thought it was my lucky night,” he said, “until I saw what kind of terrible shape she was in. Any bigger caliber on that slug in her back and she would have been dead.”
Even so, the girl had insisted that Johnson keep driving, at least unti
l they were across the state line. He finally got her to an ER just outside Winston-Salem.
“Still, Annie wasn’t hanging around for any cops to show up,” he went on. “She told me she was either leaving there on foot or in my truck, so I drove her. Probably shouldn’t have, but what’s done is done. My wife and I have been looking after her ever since.”
“Her name is Annie?” I asked.
“I’ll get to that part,” Johnson said.
“Why did she come forward when she did?” I asked them. All I knew was that the contact between Mr. Johnson and Mahoney had started before the names Constantine Bowie and Zeus had ever made it into the headlines.
“That’s a little complicated,” he said. “She still hasn’t told us everything. We don’t even know her real name; we just call her Annie to keep things simple. When I tried putting out some feelers, there wasn’t much I could say, so I don’t think people took me too seriously. At least, not until Agent Mahoney here called me back. He was following up on a call I’d made to the FBI field office in Mobile.”
“And where is she now, Aubrey?” Ned asked.
“Not far.” Johnson took a set of keys off the counter. “I’ll let her speak for herself, but I will tell you this much. That fellow they’re calling Zeus on the news? She says you all got the wrong man. She isn’t Annie, and he isn’t Zeus.”
Chapter 106
JOHNSON LED US back through the village in his truck, almost to the mainland bridge.
Then he turned off and parked at the Dauphin Island Marina. Fewer than half of the slips were occupied, and the office and snack shack on the waterfront both looked closed and shuttered for the season.
We followed him up one of the three long docks to a sport fishing boat called the May. A heavyset woman, presumably Mrs. Johnson, was waiting on the deck. She looked at us a lot more skeptically than her husband had.