Page 59 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

Mahoney said, “Why do you think this Ibrahim killed Parks? I mean, is there a fifty-caliber machine gun missing here?”

“Maybe.”

That answer made me turn away from the wall.

“Maybe?” Ned said.

“You tell me,” Toof said and went to a device mounted on therear wall of the room. “It’s a retina-scan control for that.” She was pointing at the floor and a round galvanized steel lid, like the one that covered the corkscrew slide.

“I had to have welders come up and cut it open just the other day. I don’t know what all is down there. I took one look, saw what I saw, came straight out, and contacted the FBI and the U.S. attorney’s office overseeing the case.”

“Smart,” Mahoney said. He helped her push the hatch lid aside, revealing a straight steel ladder dropping into darkness.

Toof got on the ladder, climbed down several rungs, and reached under the lip of the hatch. She flipped a switch that lit up the space beneath her and climbed down to a concrete floor.

Mahoney went after her. I followed, with Agent Beaufort behind me.

The room was as large as the one above it but had a much lower ceiling and smelled faintly of gun oil and cleaning solvent. Most of the shelving was stocked with ammunition of various calibers. Hundreds of thousands of rounds.

By the time I’d gotten down the ladder, Mahoney was with Toof over at the base of the far wall. They were looking into an open, weathered wood crate some six feet long, four feet deep, and three wide. The lid lay beside it.

“Could that hold a big machine gun?” Toof said.

“You’ve touched it?” Mahoney asked.

She shook her head. “I saw it. I backed out. I called.”

With gloved hands, Mahoney lifted the lid and turned it over. Something that looked like a serial code was stenciled on the wood. There was nothing on any of the sides of the crate, so he had me help him turn it over.

“Damn,” I said. “There it is.”

Stenciled on the bottom of the crate was the same serial codealong with the blurredWORDS BROWNING ARMS CO., USA, .50 CAL. AUTO RIFLE, FEB.1967.

“This entire fortress is a crime scene,” Mahoney said.

“I knew it!” Detective Toof cried. “I knew it was him!”

Mahoney made for the ladder. “We need a forensics crew in here.”

“Agent Mahoney?” Agent Beaufort called from deeper into the room. She stood next to three olive-green boxes, one with an open lid. “You’re going to want to see this.”

Mahoney, Toof, and I walked over. The open box was empty except for what looked like a small rusted missile cradled in foam.

“That’s a Stinger,” Mahoney said. “One of ours.”

“Looks old,” I said. “Too old to work.”

“Maybe that’s why only the launcher’s missing,” Beaufort said.

Mahoney went to the two other boxes, lifted the lids, and went pale. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Son of a son of a bitch.”

In both boxes, shoulder-mounted rocket launchers lay in protective foam. But the rockets and their explosive tips were missing.

CHAPTER 54

JOHN SAMPSON RAPPED FORthe fifth time on the front door of Bowman’s around eleven that morning, a solid hour before the sports bar was due to open. Sampson figured the manager or someone would be around already, and he was right.

A big dude in a Washington Nationals T-shirt finally came to the inner door, shook his head, and yelled, “We’re closed! Still!”

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