“He knew,” I say.
“He couldn’t have known.”
“Not about this raid. But he knew you’d be coming eventually. And he prepared for it.”
One of the nerds says, “Tell them to check the front door, chief. Look for an alarm. Trip wire. Something.”
Baxter turns back to the screens but issues no orders. There’s no point until the tragic opera on the video bank is brought under control. HRT commandos crouch over their prostrate comrades, giving what help they can from first aid kits. The radio chatter focuses on the danger of fire until some Dallas SWAT officers go in with extinguishers and hose down the apartment’s interior with chemical foam. The mood in the trailer reminds me of the hotel lobby I was in when I saw the
“He’s gone.”
The radio chatter stutters, dies. On-screen, a crouching FBI agent wipes a hand across his eyes, then removes his coat and lays it over the face of a man on the ground.
“God in heaven,” Baxter murmurs.
As the paramedics arrive and load the casualties into ambulance bays, a black-suited commando with bloody hands and a scorched black face steps up to one of the static cameras. The whites of his eyes seem to give off their own light.
“Dan?” he says, panting like a man who has run five miles.
“Right here, Joe. What can I do?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“What’s the status of your men?”
“Four took shrapnel. We got everybody out, but Pete Carelli died on the ground. If it hadn’t been for the body armor, we would’ve had four KIA.”
“What about you, Joe?”
“I was outside the bedroom. I caught some stuff in my arms and hands. Nothing to write home about.”
“Any way you can get in there to check some things?”
Payne nods wearily, then turns and hustles five men together using hand signals.
Baxter says, “We’re looking for trip wires, alarms, you know the drill.”
Payne grunts into his mike. There is no mobile camera this time, but seconds later we hear him and his men and tearing through the apartment.
“Son of a bitch!” cries a young voice. “I’ve got it! Photoelectric beam. Standard alarm kit.”
“We’re following the wire,” says Payne. “Runs along a baseboard.”
“Got another beam on the bedroom door,” calls out another voice.
“Window too,” says a third.
“Okay, Dan,” says Payne. “We got a rectangular black box in the closet of the adjoining bedroom.”
“Good work, Joe. Gimme a sec.” Baxter turns back to his techs. “Somebody lay it out for me.”
No one offers anything.
I guess I have the least to lose here. “That apartment’s nothing but a wire with tin cans tied to it,” I tell him. “A perimeter. Payne’s team broke the beam and the black box alerted the computer. The computer sent out a message to Strobekker, wherever he really is-that’s why it didn’t blow immediately-and then it self-destructed. He knows you’re after him now, Mr. Baxter. Or he will soon.”
“But how could he not be there? We traced the call to that apartment. He was somewhere else the whole time?”
“You said the apartment next door is empty, right?”
Baxter’s eyes narrow. “Joe, did Dallas SWAT check the apartment next door?”
“Negative. The manager said no one lived there, so I issued orders from the plane. Do not approach under any circumstances. Didn’t want to risk the UNSUB seeing or hearing anything.”
“Check it now. But for God’s sake be careful.”
“You heard him,” says Payne.
We wait in a distinctly uncomfortable silence. Lenz stands sipping his Evian water about five feet from the crowd. When he notices me watching, he gives me a mock salute.
“Goddamn it!” says a voice over the speaker. “There’s another phone over here! By the wall adjoining the target apartment. The thing’s blasted to hell, but it’s a phone. There’s a modem too, and some other kind of gray box. Looks homemade.”
“I will have someone’s ass,” says Baxter. “Where’s the manager of the complex?”
“Outside, Alpha,” says a different voice.
“Put that son of a bitch on camera.”
A command is barked. Then two Dallas SWAT officers pull a middle-aged man with dark skin and black hair into view. He looks like an Arab.
“Arrest and Mirandize him,” says Baxter.
I stare as a Dallas police officer arrests the terrified apartment manager and reads his Miranda rights.
“Put a headset on him,” Baxter orders. When this is done, he asks, “What’s your name?”
The man swallows and says, “Patel. Mohandas Patel.”
I close my eyes in disbelief. An Indian.
“You manage these apartments, Mr. Patel?”
“I own them. With my brother, resident of Houston.”
“One of the murders was in Houston,” says one of the nerds.
Baxter asks, “Why did you tell the police that apartment was empty, Mr. Patel?”
“I did not say that. I said no one lived there.”
“There’s a telephone inside that apartment, sir. Someone must have put it there. Someone who rented the apartment.”
Patel’s eyes brighten. “Ah, yes, apartment was
Baxter expels air, trying to suppress a fury I can only guess at. “Who rented that apartment, Mr. Patel?”
“Nice lady,” he says. “A lady from my own country.”
“An Indian woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
A sigh of satisfaction from Dr. Lenz’s direction.
“How old was she?” asks Baxter.
Patel rocks his head from left to right, estimating from memory. “Between forty and fifty. Hard to tell these days. Well-spoken lady. Very lovely.”
“Who rented the other apartment?”
“Mr. Strobekker. Almost a year ago.”
“What did he look like?”
“I already described him for the police.”
“Describe him again.”
Patel hesitates, then looks at each of the officers holding his arms. Both are at least a foot taller than he is. “I believe I would like to call my brother,” he says in a shaky voice.
“At least he didn’t ask for a lawyer,” murmurs a voice behind me.
“My brother is an attorney,” adds Patel, driving the final nail into Baxter’s interrogation.
“Alpha, this is Bravo Leader,” says Payne, his voice cool and professional again. “Dallas police advise they do a lot of business at this complex. High-dollar call girls, drug busts, you name it. The rent is high but it buys privacy.”
Someone pulls the headset off Patel. “What you want us to do with him?” asks a heavy Texas accent. The voice of a cowboy.
“Book him,” says Baxter. “Let him call his brother, then sweat them both. Threaten them with RICO,
