“Pure shooting is only part of what a sniper does, for we must also master the arts of sneaking into an area, hiding, deception, and hunting.”
—Gunnery Sergeant Jack Coughlin, USMC
It was going to be a lousy morning. Public hysteria had reached an all-time peak and everyone was screaming for someone’s head on a platter. Captain Dysart called and ordered Houston and Anne to be in his office first thing. Houston knew that the purpose of the meeting was not to tell them what a fantastic job they were doing. They were barely in their seats when Dysart went on the attack.
“What in hell are you two doing? I got the mayor on my ass as well as the commissioner! In the three days you’ve been on this case, we’ve had a body count higher than Kandahar. Now, you go and get a potential witness shot.”
“Come on, Captain,” Houston protested, “Northrup wasn’t a potential witness—if anything, he was an accomplice. The sniper knew we were after him and somehow or another got there in time to make sure we couldn’t learn anything from him.”
“Regardless, the top cop is tired of the media making us look like a bunch of bumbling fools, while the body count keeps going up. Now, we even got mobs stomping the shit out of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught driving a white van.”
Houston knew Dysart was right. Having vented his frustration, Dysart walked to his office’s sole window and lit a cigarette. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke through the open window. “It’s a stupid goddamned law that won’t let a man smoke in his own office.” He tossed the cigarette out the window and stared after it. Houston would have thought Dysart was watching a close friend fall to his death. “Almost ten bucks a pack and I take two drags and throw it out.” Dysart flopped into his chair. “All right, tell me what you got.”
Anne deferred to Houston. “Tell him. After all, this seems to be about you.”
“What?” Dysart leaned forward, his face inches from Houston’s face. “What in the hell is she talking about?”
“Unfortunately, we believe the sniper is linked to my past. Our best suspect is a guy named Edwin Rosa.”
“Okay. So what’s being done to find him?”
“That’s where we have a bit of a dilemma . . . Rosa has been listed as MIA for over fifteen years. One thing is certain though: whoever this perp is, he wants to go one-on-one with me.”
“Look into it . . . don’t overlook any lead, no matter how unlikely you may think it is.”
“No one will be more surprised than me if Rosa turns out to be the shooter. However, we can’t ignore the fact that two of the victims had history with me—Danny Drews and my ex-wife, Pam. And the victims near the Marriott were witnesses we’d interrogated just hours before they were shot. Then there’s the fact that he’s been calling me.”
“This bastard has been calling you and you didn’t report it?” Dysart looked at Anne. “I want a tap on his phone—now.”
Anne stood but she stopped when Houston touched her arm.
“It won’t do any good, Cap,” Houston said. “He doesn’t stay on the line longer than a few seconds and I’m sure he’s using some type of untraceable phone—probably a disposable cell or pay phone.”
“Like I could give a shit—I still want a tap on your phone.”
“I think it’s a waste of time and effort . . . ”
“Since when does what you think matter? What’s goin’ on, Mike? Is your social life so busy that you don’t want us listening in?”
Dysart cast a quick glance at Anne. Houston noted that there was the slightest suggestion of a blush on her cheeks.
“Then the tap goes on,” Dysart said. “Now tell me what you got and don’t leave anything out. I got to give the higher-ups something . . . ”
Houston shuffled his feet.
Dysart saw that something was on Houston’s mind. “Why do I feel that you’re about to make my day even shittier?”
“Well,” Houston said, “the shooter seems to show up everywhere we go. Some way or another he is keeping tabs on us.”
“That may give us a chance,” Dysart said. “I’m going to have our people on you two every minute of the day . . . maybe that will flush him out.”
“On the other hand,” Houston replied, “if he spots our people, he’ll have more targets of opportunity.”
Dysart flopped into his chair and a pensive look came over his face. “There is one other possibility,” he said.
“We’re listening,” Houston said.
“A scanner—he’s got a friggin’ scanner and is listening in every time you update dispatch with your whereabouts or your next destination. As of right now, you stop using your radio when you go somewhere. I’d even be careful what you say on a cell phone, those calls can be picked up too.”
As if on cue, Anne’s cell phone chirped. Rather than upset Dysart any further, she ignored it.
The phone chirped again.
“Well,” Dysart said, “answer the goddamn thing.”
Anne flipped the phone open. “Bouchard . . . ”
She listened quietly for a few seconds. “That’s great, thanks.” She closed the phone.
Houston and Dysart looked at her.
“We got an address for his Mattapan crib . . . ”
The house in Mattapan was a wreck, located on yet another narrow street in another lower-class neighborhood. Houston would not have been surprised to learn that the city had condemned it. The outside hadn’t been painted in years, the windows were so weathered it looked as if the slightest vibration would knock the glass out of its panes. The yard was so full of litter that it could have passed for a garbage dump. What little vegetation there was on the lawn resembled tufts of hair on a chemo patient’s head. Houston and Anne stood beside their car about a half block away, drinking coffee.
“I don’t see a van,” Anne said.
“He’s too smart to leave it out where we’d see it. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the son of a bitch didn’t have several places to flop. If I were him, I’d have at least a couple of places.”
The two-way radio in their car crackled and they heard a voice say, “SWAT three in place.”
Houston cursed. “Goddamn it, we told them no radio traffic. If he’s got a scanner he knows we’re here. We’d better move.”
He opened the trunk, handed Anne a Kevlar vest and put his on. “These won’t do us much good.”
“Oh?” Anne said.
“If he’s in there, he’s going to figure we’ll be wearing armor and will go for head shots.”
“You always were a cheerful SOB, Mike.”
“I’m a realist—I’ve always believed in Murphy’s law.”
They saw several cops walking toward the tenement and went to meet them. Houston stopped beside Corso and Bullard, two of his fellow detectives, and nodded.
“We figured you two might need some help,” Bullard said.
“Right, so how we going to do this?”
“It’s your show. You call it,” Corso said. He checked his pistol, reseating the magazine, and flipped the safety off.
“SWAT will go in first and we’ll go with them,” Houston said. “You two circle around and watch the rear.”
“Well,” Bullard said, “let’s get to it. I don’t want to be late for lunch.”
Houston glanced at the detective’s large stomach. “You haven’t missed a meal in years, Elwood.”
“Don’t intend to either.”
Houston and Anne followed two SWAT members into the dark building and up to the second floor. They positioned themselves on either side of the door to apartment 3. Houston waited for the SWAT team to indicate they were ready and then shouted, “Police, open up!”
There was no response. The SWAT team used a ram to bust the door open. It slammed against the wall and rebounded back. A SWAT cop pushed the door with his shoulder and they rushed in. Cops moved cautiously through the apartment shouting “Kitchen clear,” “Bedroom clear,” until they had checked the entire apartment. The SWAT team commander turned to Houston and then jabbed his pistol into its holster. “Looks like he got wind of us.”
“More likely he’s got a number of burrows.” Houston walked into the living room and saw a sheet of paper taped to the TV screen. He bent down, without touching it, and read Hey, Mikey. Sorry I missed you, but we’ll get together yet.
“Crime Scene Unit is on the way,” Anne said.
“Probably a waste of time. I doubt they’ll find anything.”
“This guy seems to be charmed.”
“I think he’s good. Stealth is a sniper’s greatest weapon . . . they must stay concealed if they’re going to survive. He’s probably got a number of hides and rotates where he sleeps—never in the same place two nights in a row.”
From a safe distance, the sniper half-listened to the static squawk of his portable scanner and observed the activity around the old triple-decker. He watched cops scurry around the apartment building like roaches on a dirty plate. The police were getting closer. It was only a matter of time before they found his other warrens. It was time to escalate his plan. He moved the gearshift into drive and drove away. He turned the corner, making sure he used his turn signal. The last thing he needed was for some overzealous cop to pull him over for violating a traffic law.
Houston and Anne spent the day at the Mattapan hideout, then went to his apartment. They spent the evening going over their files and notes on the killings. Somewhere, in the list of names and addresses Drews had provided, was a link and if they had to, they would visit and revisit every name in that file.
Houston was studying the files when Anne flopped down beside him on the couch. “Mike, what are you going to do about Susie?”
“That isn’t up to me. I want nothing more than a decent relationship with her. However, I have no control over the situation. Susie has it all.”
“Well, you need to control what you do. You need to start getting involved in her life. I’m certain of one thing—she needs you as much as you need her. Besides, I’m going to nag at you until you do it.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I can.”
“Pam’s funeral is tomorrow . . . seems to me that may be a good place to start.”