the pushers. Like the case Tom and Em were working, and they wanted to see about this Kelly guy, and he was a white guy with a big white boat who lived not far from the lab. That was too much of a coincidence.
About the only good news was that he could call Henry in safety. He knew every drug-related wiretap in the area, and not one was targeted on Tucker's operation.
'Yeah?'
'Burt and his friends are dead,' Charon announced.
'What's that?' said a voice that was fully waking up.
'You heard me. The State Police in Somerset have them bagged. Angelo, too, what's left of him. The lab is gone, Henry. The drugs are gone, and they have Xantha in custody.' There was actually some satisfaction in this. Charon was still enough of a cop that the demise of a criminal operation was not yet a matter of grief for him.
'What the fuck is going on?' a shrill voice inquired.
'I think I can tell you that, too. We need to meet.'
Kelly took another look at his perch, just driving by in his rented Beetle, before beading hack to his apartment. He was tired, though sated from the fine dinner. His afternoon nap had been enough to keep him going after a long day, but mainly the reason was to work off the anger, which driving often did for him. He'd seen the man now. The one who had finished the process of killing Pamela, with a shoestring. It would have been so easy to take care of him there. Kelly had never killed anyone barehanded, but he knew how. A lot of skilled people had spent a lot of time at Coronado, California, teaching him the finer points until whenever he looked at any person his mind applied something like a sheet of graph paper, this place for this move, that place for that one - and seeing he'd known that, yes, it was all worth it. It was worth the danger, and it was worth the consequences... but that didn't mean that he had to embrace them, as risk of life didn't mean throwing it away. That was the other side of it.
But he could see the end now, and he had to start planning beyond the end. He had to be even more careful. Okay, so the cops knew who he was, but he was certain that they had nothing. Even if the girl, Xantha, someday decided to talk to the cops, she'd never seen his face - the camouflage paint took care of that. About the only danger was that she'd seen the registration number on his boat as he'd backed away from that dock, but that didn't seem to be much of a worry. Without physical evidence they had nothing they could use in front of a court of law. So thiey knew he disliked some people - fine. So they might even know what his training was - fine. The game he played was in accordance with one set of rules. The game they played had another. On balance, the rules worked in his favor, not theirs.
He looked out the car window, measuring angle and distance, making a preliminary plan and working in several variations. They'd picked a spot where there were few police patrols and lots of open ground. No one could approach them easily without being seen... probably so that they could destroy whatever they had in there if it became necessary. It was a logical approach to their tactical problem, except for one thing. They hadn't considered a different set of tactical rules.
Notmy problem, Kelly thought, beading back to his apartment.
'God almighty...' Roger MacKenzie was pale and suddenly nauseous. They were standing on the breakfast porch of his house in northwest Washington. His wife and daughter were shopping in New York for the fall season. Ritter had arrived unannounced at six-fifteen, fully dressed and grim, a discordant note for the cool, pleasant morning breezes. 'I've known his father for thirty years.'
Ritter sipped his orange juice, though the acid in it didn't exactly do his stomach any good either. This was treason of the worst sort. Hicks had known what he did would hurt fellow citizens, one of whom he knew by name. Ritter had already made his mind up on the matter, but Roger had to have his time to rattle on.
'We went through Randolph together, we were in the same Bomb Group,' MacKenzie was saying. Ritter decided to let him get it all out, even though it would take a little time. 'We've done deals together...' the man finished, looking down at his untouched breakfast.
'I can't fault you for taking him into your office, Roger, but the boy's guilty of espionage.'
'What do you want to do?'
'It's a criminal offense, Roger,' Ritter pointed out.
'I'm going to be leaving soon. They want me on the reelection team, running the whole Northeast.'
'This early?'
'Jeff Hicks will be running the campaign in Massachusetts, Bob. I'll be working directly with him.' MacKenzie looked across the table, speaking in barely connected bursts. 'Bob, an espionage investigation in our office - it could ruin things. If what we did - if your operation became public -I mean, the way it happened and what went wrong -'
'I'm sorry about that, Roger, but this little bastard betrayed his country.'
'I could pull his security clearance, kick him out -'
'Not good enough,' Ritter said coldly. 'People may die because of him. He is not going to walk away from it.'
'We could order you to -'
'To obstruct justice, Roger?' Ritter observed. 'Because that's what it is. That's a felony.'
'Your tap was illegal.'
'National-security investigation - there's a war going on, remember? - slightly different rules, and besides, all that has to happen is let him hear it and he'll split open.' Ritter was sure of that.
'And run the risk of bringing down the President? Now? At this time? Do you think that'll do the country any good? What about our relations with the Russians? This is a crucial time, Bob.' Butthen, it always is, isn't It? Ritter wanted to add, but didn't.
'Well, I'm coming to you for guidance,' Ritter said, and then he got it, after a fashion.
'We can't afford an investigation that leads to a public trial. That is politically unacceptable.' MacKenzie hoped that would be enough.
Ritter nodded and stood. The drive back to his office at Langley was not all that comfortable. Though it was satisfying to have a free hand, Ritter was now faced with something that, however desirable, he did not want to become a habit. The first order of business was to pull the wiretap. In one big hurry.
After everything that had happened, it was the newspaper that broke things loose. The four-column head, below the fold, announced a drug-related triple murder in sleepy Somerset County. Ryan devoured the story, never getting to the sports page that usually occupied fifteen minutes of his morning routine.
It'sgot to be him, the lieutenant thought. Who else wouldleave 'a large quantity' of drugs behind, along with three bodies? He left the house forty minutes early that morning, surprising his wife.
'Mrs O''Toole?' Sandy had just finished her first set of morning rounds, and was checking off some forms when the phone rang.
'Yes?'
'This is James Greer. You've spoken to my secretary, Barbara, I believe.'
'Yes, I have. Can I help you?'
'I hate to bother you, but we're trying to track John down. He's not at home.'
'Yes, I think he's in town, but I don't know where exactly.'
'If you hear from him, could you please ask him to call me? He has my number. Please forgive me for asking this,' the man said politely.
'I'll be glad to.' And what's that about? she wondered.
It was getting to her. The police were after John, and she'd told him, and he hadn't seemed to care. Now somebody else was trying to get hold of him. Why? Then she saw a copy of the morning paper sitting on the table in the lounge area. The brother of one of her patients was reading something or other, but right there on the lower- right side of the front page was the headline: drug MURDER IN SOMERSET.
'Everybody's interested in that guy,' Frank Allen observed.
'What do you mean?' Charon had come into Western District on the pretense of checking up on the administrative investigation of the Morello shooting. He'd talked Allen into allowing him to review the statements of the other officers and three civilian witnesses. Since he'd graciously waived his right to counsel, and since the shooting looked squeaky clean. Allen hadn't seen any harm in the matter, so long as it was done in front of him.
'I mean, right after the call from Pittsburgh, that Brown girl who got whacked, Em called here about him. Now you. How come?'
