“I’ll take this part,” Bram said. “After the shot, I surveilled the area and saw a guy in the woods behind the lot where Angie parked. He was breaking down a rifle and tripod and packing out. From his clothes, I’d say he was unprepared for the climate. I made my way on foot to his vantage point. One thing’s for sure, he was a pro. Scuffed out any boot prints and even the tripod feet where they rested in the snow. He had a car waiting on the road you took in, Angie. I couldn’t get there fast enough, but I did make the license plates with my long-range binos.”
“Binos?” Bobbie asked.
“Sorry. Binoculars. So then I circled back to my snowmobile and made it to the truck minutes before you got there. We all met in Johnson Creek. From there, it’s Spider’s story.”
“The plates Bram got off the car were Illinois. Rental, under the name Frederick Priest. I traced it back to a hit man who works for the South Philly Mob.”
“That confirms our supposition then,” Bram said evenly.
Spider slammed his mug down on the table, splashing coffee on the wooden top. “We should’ve anticipated him.” His voice was ice. “That was sloppy work.”
Bram responded in a low, almost soothing tone. “No denying it, Spider. Now we put it behind us and decide how to proceed. What were his movements after he left Holy Hill?”
Spider retrieved his tablet from a small desk in the kitchen and began to tap. “He returned the rental car to the agency and booked a flight to Curaçao. Rented a luxury villa near one of the casinos. Seems he likes to gamble. Assassination must pay well.” He gave me a long, even look. “In the old days, we’d go after him. Can’t let the opposition prevail.”
I could sense he was waiting for a decision from me. The idea of sending a team to Venezuela to take down a sniper was surreal, like something from Tom Clancy. “No,” I said, keeping my voice firm. “We need to focus on the mission that’s right here in front of us.” I counted off the items in my to-be-uncovered list. “One, was Hank the only target? Two, will they leave his family alone? And three, how the hell did they know I was involved?” My voice rose with each question. I took a calming breath. “Until we find out, I want a twenty-four hour protection detail for Marcy and the kids.”
Bram nodded. “Already done. Malone’s back in town. He’ll be there tonight, with Tim. She’ll have two-man coverage until this is resolved. Don’t worry. We won’t let anything happen to them.”
Like you didn’t let anything happen to Hank? I thought. But that was unfair. Their mission was to protect me this morning, not Hank. I finished my coffee and headed for home and a hot steam shower. It could cleanse the physical debris of the day from my body, but I knew the image of Hank, his red blood marring the white snow, would not wash away so easily.
Chapter 28
What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you. — Richard Wilbur
The next morning, I kept one eye on the local TV news while I selected clothes. I wanted to look professional, but appealing, so that Wukowski would feel a sense of pride in our relationship. A charcoal grey skirted suit, with a drapey fuchsia blouse underneath, nude stockings and black peep-toed pumps fit the bill. Hoping for a rendezvous later, I sported a magenta lace demi-bra and rio-style thong with attached garters underneath.
Although the newscaster tried to amplify the events with shots of Holy Hill and references to sacrilege on sacred ground, the gist of the report simply stated that an unidentified man was shot and killed near the first Station of the Cross. There was no mention of me, which simplified my agenda for the day.
First, I would meet Bart at Homicide and make a statement. Then I would claim some time with Wukowski. He owed me an explanation for hiding the police harassment over his being with me. Lastly, I would head to Papa’s, to tell him about the assassination and seek information about the shooter. My gut clenched at his anger and the thought of an argument, but I pushed it down. One thing at a time, I told myself.
Bart waited for me inside MPD headquarters. He suggested that if Marcy agreed to hire him, and he contracted with me, I would be covered under attorney-client privilege as his representative. A quick call to Marcy and the matter was done before Art Penske came down to sign for us and escort us upstairs to the Homicide bullpen. There, I surreptitiously glanced around, but Wukowski was nowhere in sight.
Art ushered us into a conference room, which was distinctly more comfortable than yesterday’s utilitarian interview room. Apparently, having Bart along qualified for an upgrade.
A forty-something man rose as we entered. “This here’s Lieutenant Reese,” Art said.
“Of what department?” Bart asked.
“Organized Crime Division,” Reese said, extending his hand. “The deceased had a, shall we say, notorious past. We’d appreciate whatever help you can provide.”
“Of course, we’re happy to cooperate with the police in this matter, but my primary concern is to protect my client, Mrs.
