“Yes.”
“I promised-”
“That was before he led a sniper to you.”
“There’s no reason-”
“Maybe not on purpose, but there’s no other explanation. No one knew we were coming here, except my boss and your boss. And I didn’t tell Bob we were going to be in the dugout. I told him the stadium.”
“I didn’t tell Toni anything other than I was meeting him.”
“I don’t think I’m the best person to interrogate him. I can’t be impartial.” Dean ran his hand up and down Sonia’s arm. “Not after what he did to you. But I thought Callahan and your partner, Trace Anderson, could take it on. Cammarata has information about tomorrow night, I feel it in my gut.”
“I agree.”
Dean was relieved they were on the same page.
“There is one other possible explanation.”
“What’s that?”
“Craig Gleason. I got the call from Charlie when we were in his office. What if he eavesdropped on us?”
“Gleason was never in the military. He has no fire arms training in his background and, frankly, I don’t see him having the balls to kill.”
“He could have called someone.”
Dean agreed. “I can see him giving out information. The time line is so close, though. To put all this together in less than thirty minutes-from the time you got the call to execution? They had to know exactly where you would be. Cammarata called you, he decided on the venue, right down to the dugout. It has to be him.”
“There’s no reason he would want me dead.”
“Maybe he planned on saving your life and getting into your good graces again.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s stretching it.”
“But it’s in his personality. To play the hero, the great savior.” He couldn’t see Charlie Cammarata caring about anyone but himself.
“It’s not Charlie,” Sonia said, but in her tone Dean heard doubt. “I’m putting my money on Gleason.”
“Then let’s get over there and push hard,” Dean said. He stood and held out his hand to Sonia.
She took it.
“You’re filthy,” he said.
“So are you,” she said as he pulled her to her feet. “Nothing that sun and the clear blue sky can’t fix.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When Dean and Sonia arrived downtown to visit Gleason at XCJ Consulting in the Senator Hotel, less than two miles from Raley Field, they couldn’t get anywhere near the entrance.
Sonia glanced at Dean. He looked disheveled, his normally neat hair hanging loose across his forehead, and they were both covered in dirt and grass stains. Her elbows were scraped from where she’d cowered in the corner against the cement in the dugout. The panic was so far behind her now that she almost didn’t believe it had happened, except for residual embarrassment.
Dean walked to the tape and flashed his badge, then went under. He was stopped.
“Sir, can I see that identification again?” the female cop asked.
“We don’t look like federal cops,” Sonia told Dean. She recognized the cop from Sac P.D. “Sheila, right? I’m Sonia Knight, Riley’s sister. With ICE.”
“Sonia. Right. You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
“We both have,” Sonia said. “This is Agent Hooper with the FBI. What happened?”
“Guy killed on the fourth floor.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago. Call came in at two fifty-three P.M.”
She looked at Dean. “That’s right after we left,” she said. “Not ten minutes.”
“Excuse me?” Sheila said.
“Who’s the victim?”
“I don’t have a name, I’m just holding the masses back.”
“We need to get in. We were interviewing a potential suspect in a multijurisdictional murder investigation on the fourth floor this afternoon.”
“Go right ahead. But tell the detective in charge you’re here.”
“Who is it?”
“Detective John Black. And I heard Riley is out of the hospital. That’s great news.”
“It is,” Sonia agreed, and she and Dean went to the fourth floor.
Black was standing in the hall talking to two uniformed officers. When he saw them, he said, “I thought I’d be seeing one or both of you as soon as I found out the murder was at XCJ Consulting.”
“Gleason?” Dean asked.
“Bingo.”
“Murder?”
“Right again. Want to go for a grand slam?”
Dean frowned.
“Never mind. It’s been a long week. Come in and see for yourself. They haven’t moved the body. The crime scene techs are still working the scene.”
“Simone?”
“No, but they’re still good.”
Gleason had been shot in his office at his desk. His brains and half his scalp were plastered on the window behind him.
“The bullet went out the window?” Dean asked.
“Almost,” Black said, “but it’s actually in the window. It looks like a forty-five slug.”
“One shot?”
“It did the job.”
Sonia looked at the angle of the body and the blood spatter on the wall and window. “He was standing when he was shot. The impact pushed him back into his chair.”
“Good call. That’s what I was thinking, too. I think the killer was looking for something.”
“After shooting Gleason? How do you know?”
“Our shooter was interrupted by one of the other lobbyists coming into the office. I was about to interview him, he had an interesting story to tell the responding officer.”
“Where was the killer searching?”
“The conference room.”
“Did he find anything?” Dean asked.
“We don’t know. The lobbyist doesn’t think so. I have a team going over it carefully, but we don’t know what we’re looking for. There’s really nothing in the conference room.”
“Let’s talk to the lobbyist,” Sonia said.
Black led them out of XCJ offices and down the hall. “I have him settled into another office. I didn’t want to let him go; he might be the only one who can identify the killer.”
Rich Mercer was a tall, slender thirty-something with a hairline just beginning to recede and silver wirerimmed glasses. He sat on the leather couch of the office-a political consulting office, according to the door plaque-and jumped when they walked in.
“Mr. Mercer,” Black said, “Dean Hooper with the FBI and Sonia Knight with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. We’d like to follow up with your statement to the responding officer, while it’s still fresh in your mind.”
“Absolutely, Detective,” Mercer said in a voice stronger than his appearance. “Anything to help.”
