Page 75 of Return of the Spider
“Only way I can go back on duty,” I said. I kissed her foreheadand then Damon’s. He was sucking his thumb, a habit he’d gone back to after the terror of the shooting outside the church.
Maria hugged me tight. “When you’re done making statements, will you please come get me at work? I’ve got enough overtime I can leave when I want.”
“I promise,” I said and kissed her again before leaving.
It was drizzling and I didn’t feel like driving or taking the Metro, so I hailed a taxi on Independence Avenue. At headquarters, a phalanx of satellite trucks and reporters was already gathered in response to the gunfight in Davidsonville. I’d known it was going to be a zoo, so I’d told the driver to take me to the garage entrance.
I was under orders not to talk, and I understood why.
The story had made all the network morning shows and dominated the local papers and news programs, though they had few angles other than what chief of detectives George Pittman had fed them at an impromptu midnight press conference near the entrance to Patrice Prince’s property. I had to admit that Pittman was a master of communication—he dispensed only the information he wanted them to have and locked down the rest.
As of now, all the media knew was that a gun battle had taken place between LMC 51 and Los Lobos Rojos and gone on to involve an interdepartmental law enforcement detail assigned to round up members of the Haitian gang for interrogation.
The media had also been informed that twenty-one men had died, eleven had been wounded, and seven others were in custody.
They did not know, however, that there had been an undercover officer trying to infiltrate the Haitian gang or that she had been taken hostage. And they had zero inkling of Guillermo Costa’s vengeful motivation for the attack or of his role in OfficerNancy Donovan’s rescue—and mine and Sampson’s, for that matter.
But that would change. These things would come out in court.
I knocked on Pittman’s doorjamb, and he told me to come in. “Costa and the others arrested at the scene will be arraigned later this morning after their transfer to federal court,” Chief Pittman said, tossing a pen on his desk in frustration.
“Why federal?”
“Because kidnapping Donovan and bringing her across state and District lines immediately makes it FBI,” Pittman grumbled. “The nature and number of weapons involved brings in the ATF. And the gangs attract Immigration like flies. The feds have got their claws in this now. We’re there to assist and nothing more. It’s been taken out of our hands, even thoughwewere the ones who decided to lean on LMC in the first place.”
I could see it was gnawing at Pittman that he’d lost control of the investigation and the story of the battle. An event of this magnitude should have had him in front of the cameras for the next three news cycles at least.
He sighed. “At least Donovan’s okay. They’ve got her at GW running tests, but other than the trauma of being held hostage, it seems like she’s going to be okay. And you and Sampson are good. So, you know what? I’m good.”
I realized that I’d been a bit cynical in my thinking about Pittman. The chief clearly liked the attention, but I could tell that he actually cared about us. I saw it in the way his eyes glazed with emotion as he swiveled to get a folder from the credenza behind him.
“There are a few things that are not entirely out of our hands, Chief,” I said.
Pittman turned back. “Like what?”
“Even though it all came out under extreme duress, we now know that it was Patrice Prince and Valentine Rodolpho who killed Tony Miller and Shay Mansion, and we know why. The FBI can’t and won’t stop you from announcing that.”
He brightened. “That’s a very good idea.”
I smiled. “I do have good ideas now and then.”
Pittman studied me. “I was your biggest supporter and yet I still managed to underestimate you, Dr. Cross. And Detective Sampson.”
It was the first time he’d called me Dr. Cross without a hint of sarcasm, and I nodded. “We aim to please, Chief.”
“Go make your statements to the FBI and I’ll let you know when we’re going to talk to the mothers of Shay Mansion and Tony Miller. I want you and John there. You’ve both got three weeks paid leave coming your way until Internal Affairs and the department shrink say you’re good to go, so enjoy yourself. You earned it.”
CHAPTER
61
On thursday morning, whenGary Soneji left the Dupont Circle Metro station and headed to Georgetown and his first day at Washington Day School, he still felt like he’d been beaten to a pulp.
He was relatively athletic, but he’d never had to drag a dead body through the woods for almost two miles. Soneji had dug graves in the past, of course, but it was tough digging in the sand and shale soil he’d encountered trying to bury Bunny Maddox near Joyce Adams’s final resting place. The rain had made it worse, and so did his cut hands. It took him hours with a pick and shovel.
When the chore was finally done and he’d covered Bunny’s grave with forest duff, he returned to the cabin, took a long, hot shower, dressed his wounds, and went to sleep. He’d woken up nearly fourteen hours later.
All day Wednesday, Soneji had been focused on where else he might have been sloppy, his inner voice goading him about everything he had to do to be clean and confident.
