Fate of the Union

Nine

The morning was cold and dreary and overcast, which seemed about right to Evan Carpenter, the way his week was going.

In parka, jeans, and work boots, his close-clipped blond hair under a shaggy black wig, blue eyes concealed by sunglasses, Carpenter walked along at an easy pace. He passed a few other strip mall shoppers pausing for a momentary gawk at the crime-scene-taped-off Bryson Security storefront. Cops and CSIs long gone now.

Finally, a break. Otherwise, you could have this goddamn born-under-a-bad-sign week, as far as he was concerned. From the moment Carpenter and his boys figured Bryson was onto them, the son of a bitch seemed to know he was blown, and blew. At least the bastard had been easy enough to track down, easier still to deal with. Tough guy in his time, but his time was up.

Carpenter alone had been dispatched to deal with the wife — first, to see what she knew and if she had anything of her late husband’s that might lead back to his employers. Then the grieving widow would become a second tragic suicide.

Only the wife had company. Her son was with her, though that might be expected; wait for sonny to head home, and then Carpenter would call on mom. But the son wasn’t the visitor that concerned him — it was the guy he’d seen being let into the house, who belonged to the candy-ass Prius in the drive.

The mercenary made a call, ran the plate, and goddamnit! The guy paying a visit wasn’t just anybody, but Joe fucking Reeder himself.

Reeder, the ex — Secret Service guy who was a national hero these days. Just one man, yes, but a guy who could handle himself, despite the years he had on him, and whose death would ring bells all the way to the White House.

So his visit to the mourning family would have to be postponed.

In the meantime, he’d gone on to Bryson Security, figuring to come back later, after Reeder had gone, and tie up the loose ends that were the dead man’s family.

At the security office, his key would work in either front or rear door; but with the strip mall so after-hours dead — his rental Nissan the only car in the small lot — he said what the hell, and went in the front.

If picking the lock had been necessary, he’d have gone in the back way; dressed all in black as he was, people driving or walking by just might get suspicious, seeing some ninja-wannabe asshole hunkered over a lock — even if only for the thirty seconds or so picking the thing would take.

He knew of no other key to the office, other than the one on Bryson’s key ring, which would likely be in police custody. The key Carpenter used was courtesy of laser etchings one of his guys had made while their target dangled and died from that industrial-strength shower rod.

They’d taken the dead prick’s laptop but the crew’s computer guy hadn’t come up with a goddamn thing. So last night, the mercenary meant to check that office and see if Bryson had left behind anything that could incriminate their employers.

But just a couple of minutes after Carpenter got inside, barely starting his search, some asshole came in on him. Either he had a key or Carpenter had screwed up and not shut the door tight.

And not just any asshole, but Reeder, who for an old fart put up one hell of a fight, rough enough that Carpenter had cut out soon as he got the chance.

From a vantage point half a block away, the merc had watched the cops show up for a search, and then Reeder and some woman joined in. He’d kept watch a long time, even after the CSIs showed up, after which a plainclothes cop, Reeder, and the female had gone off together. He’d used binoculars and was pretty sure he didn’t see any evidence bags troop out of there into the crime lab van.

But he couldn’t be sure.

And if something, anything, had been taken out of there, he had no way to know it. A thorough search would likely be pointless now. That left only one alternative — cleanse the place. If something was still in there, make it be gone.

He would come back and do that when the joint wasn’t crawling with cops and CSIs.

At that point, he’d driven back to the Bryson residence, and shit! They were in the wind, Mommy and Baby Boy both, apparently having driven off in the dead dad’s BMW. Now the Brysons were more than loose ends: they were a likely threat. The wife and/or son must know something.

Otherwise, why run?

Now, as sunshine peeked past dreary clouds, Carpenter strolled around the far corner of the strip mall sidewalk, on Bryson’s end of the building, and circled around behind, in that not fast, not slow manner that said he belonged here.

He ambled into the alley, lighting up a cigarette, since an alley was one place in this damn restriction-happy country where a man could still catch a smoke. But catching a smoke wasn’t what he was doing: he wanted to have a reason for being back here, should somebody ask. Plan was to lean against the wall and puff away till he had the alley to himself.

But he already did.

So he went directly to the Bryson Security back door stenciled PRIVATE — NO ENTRY. He used the key and went in. Last night, he’d been lazy and sloppy, leaving that front door unlocked. This time he threw the deadbolt.

The door opened directly onto Bryson’s inner office. Carpenter briefly reconsidered searching the place, but then stuck to the plan. He removed the batteries from the smoke alarms in both inner and outer offices — the latter required caution and care, as the big window, tinted though it was, remained a hazard — then he disabled the sprinkler system.

He hadn’t bothered acquiring an accelerant, because he’d seen one in the office last night, when he started his search by looking in the file cabinet. Bryson must have been a lush because the guy kept a bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer.

That would do fine.

And with all the flammable stuff in here anyway, sprinkler system and smoke alarms down, it’d be tinderbox time.

Back in Bryson’s inner office, he filled the wastebasket with paper, which he then doused with bourbon. He went to the desk and opened drawers and sprinkled bourbon on everything. Same for the desktop. He noticed something a little out of place — an insulated coffee mug with the Metro DC police badge logo. Probably left behind by that cop on guard last night.

In the outer office, keeping down low — that big window again — he filled that wastebasket, too. He splashed that with bourbon, as well as a stack of magazines on a little end table by the waiting-area chairs.

Returning to Bryson’s inner office, he splashed what was left of the bourbon onto a wall. Then he pulled out his Air America lighter and went around lighting little fires, wastebasket, desktop, top drawer. He was heading toward the door to the outer office when the uniformed cop came through.

Not fucking again!

No weapon in his hands. He was bundled up for the cold and his eyes had gone immediately to the desk, and Carpenter knew. Last night’s cop on the door — he’d left his coffee cup here, all right. Probably in his thirties, kind of heavy, cheeks rosy from the cold but maybe rosy anyway. His hand went toward his holstered weapon and Carpenter hurled the coffee cup at him, hitting him in the forehead. The cop winced and by then Carpenter had his .45 out of his parka pocket.

“Hands where I can see them,” Carpenter said.

Around them the little fires crackled and smoked and popped.

The cop held up his hands, swallowed. “What is this, anyway?”

“This is where you turn around and face that wall. Do it.”

Like a big blundering beast, the heavily winterized cop turned to the wall. Smoke was getting thick now, each little fire sending its fumes to meet other fumes. The desktop was entirely consumed by dancing orange and blue.

“I don’t care about you,” the cop said. “All I want is to get the fire department out here, protect the people in these stores. There’s a back door. Use it. Go!”

Carpenter was holding his breath, smoke thickening.

But he let some breath out as he said, “I don’t care about you, either.”

And put two holes in the back of the cop’s head.