CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher

The song was right. Waiting was the hardest part.

Fletcher sat in silence with Sam and Ginger, Hart’s wife, plus a host of other officers in and out of uniform, waiting to hear how Hart was doing. He’d been in surgery for an hour. Fletcher was worried, but Sam had assured him it would all be fine. He sipped his coffee and said prayers to a God he hadn’t talked to in years: prayers of thanks, prayers of forgiveness and prayers of revenge. He couldn’t help himself on that last, it just slipped out among all the other holy speak and thank-yous, and he knew better than to try and take it back. He was a realist. He figured God would punish him more for being a hypocritical liar than speaking from his heart.

He and Sam had been interviewed multiple times by the investigating detectives, around and around the mulberry bush. He gave them everything he could think of, which wasn’t much. Sam had even less; she’d been hidden in the car for the majority of the shooting, only feeling the terror build instead of facing it down. At least he’d been doing something.

Fletcher’s arm ached. It had gone through so many different sensations tonight he wasn’t sure where to start. Hot, cold, numb, on fire. The bullet had torn through the fleshy part just below his biceps, thankfully missing bone and artery, just hollowing out a furrow through the thin flesh. He’d never been shot before. It hurt. A lot. It was not something he highly recommended.

Thank God it was his left arm and not his right. They’d cleaned, sewn, bandaged and slinged the arm, and it was utterly useless. If it had been his right, he’d be in a damn sight of trouble.

He was in trouble, anyway. Roosevelt was furious with him. He didn’t blame the man. He’d fucked up. They should have just charged in and arrested Taranto, made a scene, but the subtle approach seemed like a better idea. He’d gone and talked to Culpepper again, looked at some more files on employees, looked at the visitor logs. Nada. Culpepper was genuinely torn to pieces about his former men’s deaths. The day had taken its toll. The awe-inspiring Patton-esque man Fletcher had met was gone. When he’d spoken at Donovan’s funeral, he was still the commander, a forceful presence for his troops, but outside of the spotlight he’d finally broken down, turned into a brokenhearted buttercup. A brokenhearted buttercup who had the paperwork to prove he was in Iraq when both Donovan and Croswell were shot, officially taking him off the suspect list. After Fletcher’s third fail out at the Raptor headquarters, Taranto seemed like the only viable lead.

He had told Fletcher a little bit about Whitfield, though. Enough that Fletcher had formed a plan of attack. He needed to squeeze everything he could out of Taranto, then head to western Maryland and see if they could put eyes, and hopefully hands, on Alexander Whitfield.

But Taranto refused to speak to them. He wanted to talk to Sam. As did Whitfield. Everyone wanted a piece of Sam Owens. And bless her, she’d been more than willing to help.

Now look at them. Bloodied, beaten, raked over the coals and impatiently waiting to hear if Hart would live or die.

Ginger caught his eye and smiled, hopeful, grateful. He didn’t deserve her gratitude. Jesus, she should have pummeled him with her fists, cursed him with her tongue, shot daggers from her eyes. Instead, when she got to the hospital, the first thing she did was envelop him in a hug so big he felt lost in her arms, and told him how much she loved him, and how much Lonnie loved him, too.

It was fucking sloppy police work that had gotten Hart shot. Sloppy, shoddy and ridiculously off the book. Fletcher was going to take a major hit. Part of him was glad. Maybe now he’d get off homicide. He hadn’t done enough to be relieved of duty altogether, but he might be forced to ride a desk until retirement.

He’d do it. He’d do it without raising a stink.

Just as soon as he figured out who killed Edward Donovan and Harold Croswell, and scared William Everett into shooting his mother and killing himself.

Though his mind was a bit blurry from the painkillers they’d given him while they patched him up, he ran through their remaining suspects again.

Alexander Whitfield should be at the top of the list. He had the skills, means and opportunity to pull all of this off. You don’t get to be a sniper in the Rangers without a dead eye, and Whitfield had operated overseas long enough to know a few tricks when it came to communication.

But Whitfield seemed to be trying to help, not hurt. Fletcher needed to find the man and talk to him before he could cross him off the list.

The second was Maggie Lyons. According to Taranto, Maggie had a child with Perry Fisher. That would be an easier claim to prove, if she hadn’t scooted out with her kids in tow. There had been no activity on her credit cards, no phone calls to her parents or ex-husband, nothing to the schools. She just went poof. She, too, was weapons trained, fully capable of killing a man. According to her jacket, she’d done that once already, in an ambush outside Fallujah, when she laid down suppressive cover fire while Donovan and Fisher pulled a few troops to safety. She had three kills to her name, and a Bronze Star for bravery she probably kept hidden away, where no one could be reminded of its impetus.

The third was Karen Fisher. A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. From what Taranto said, she was upset about the infidelity, and had found out her husband might have been killed by friendly fire. Now that they had Taranto’s information, Fletcher really wanted to sit down with Culpepper again, but it would have to wait seventeen hours minimum—the man was back on a plane heading to the desert. Croswell had been cremated, and the inurnment in Arlington National Cemetery’s Columbarium wouldn’t be for another week. Culpepper was coming back for that ceremony, but Fletcher believed in his heart this case was getting close to a finale. A week would be too long.

Fletcher rested his head back against the wall. He was still missing something. The pages from Donovan’s diary sure would be a help. And now he had a broken wing to hinder him further.

Roosevelt came into the waiting room. He was always a stern-looking man, but right now he looked downright forbidding. Fletcher caught himself swallowing, hoping his boss didn’t hear the audible gulp. This wasn’t good news. Fletcher straightened.

“Hart?”

“He’s fine. Miss Ginger, they’re asking for you down the hall.”

“Oh, thank God,” the woman exhaled, practically flying out the door. Fletcher felt the wind leave his body. Sam reached over and touched him on his good hand, and he tossed one last bit of thanks upward before facing his boss.

Roosevelt sat across from them and eyed Fletcher and Sam.

“That reporter you were talking to? Gino Taranto? Just fished him out of the Potomac, with a third eye.”

“Oh, my God,” Sam said.

Fletcher just asked, “Where’d he go in?”

“No idea. But he didn’t last long outside your meeting with him.” He turned his focus onto Sam. “We need to go over it again. Every little last detail.”

Fletcher smiled for the first time all evening. “We can do you one better. We have it all on tape.”

A rotund nurse with a crew cut and jangling gold earrings came into the waiting room.

“Is there a Detective Fletcher here?”

“That’s me,” Fletch said, standing.

“Your partner is asking for you.”

“Go on, then,” Roosevelt said. “We’ll handle this in a minute.”

Fletcher gave Sam an apologetic look and went with the nurse. Hart was four doors down, in a private room. Everything smelled oddly clean, antiseptic. A machine hissed air into his lungs. Hart was pale, but at least his eyes were open. Ginger moved from her vigil at his bedside and let Fletcher take her place.

“Fletch.” Hart mouthed the words. The doctors had done a temporary tracheotomy; they had a hard time intubating him with the trauma to his throat. He couldn’t make sounds, but could make himself understood.

“Dude, you gave me a scare,” Fletcher said. “Did you see who shot us?”

Hart shook his head, a tiny movement. “You okay?” he mouthed.

“Yeah. ‘Tis but a flesh wound.”

His Monty Python impression worked, Hart smiled.

“Really, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. You just heal up. I’m gonna get whoever did this to you. I promise.”

Hart just closed his eyes. Fletcher gave his hand one more squeeze and stepped away. Ginger gave him another hug.

“Be careful, Fletch.”

“I will. Call me if anything changes, okay?”

“Of course. Be good.”

Good.

If he found the man who shot them, and the opportunity arose, he would kill him.