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The man poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter on the sideboard, sipping appreciatively before turning to look across the living room at the baseball game on the muted TV. The Nationals were up by two in the fourth. He watched the game for a moment, then crossed to the adjoining dining room. He had long ago turned his dining table into an office desk, and now he sat in front of his closed laptop with a sigh. Setting his drink next to the computer, he reached for his briefcase from the floor. He would get in another hour of work before he ordered dinner from the Chinese place on the corner and called it a night.
The man pulled out a stack of folders and dropped the bag back onto the floor. He flipped open the top one and skimmed through the report, then set it aside. He sorted through the folders until he found one in particular, then pushed the others away and opened it. He scanned through the fire marshal's report and flipped to the next page.
The silence in the room was broken a few moments later when he sucked in his breath and began flipping through the previous pages in the folder, scanning each one again. When he had finished shuffling through the entire contents of the file, he sat back in his chair with a scowl.
The fire report was exactly what he had been expecting. John Smithe's apartment had been torched with the use of an accelerant, which guaranteed that the fire would burn hot enough to destroy everything. That was no surprise. Neither was the list of the debris left behind. It was really quite amazing what the fire inspectors were able to piece together, but it wasn't much. Everything had been destroyed.
Just as he had instructed.
What bothered him now was the list of recovered, recognizable items. The remains of a plasma screen TV, three game consoles, and a stereo were from the living room. All the appliances in the kitchen were there, as well as remnants of a table, sofa and chairs. Each page listed everything he would expect to find in the single man's apartment, right down to a gun safe in the closet in the master bedroom. No surprises, save one. Not one of the sheets made any reference to a computer, laptop or hard-drive. He knew John Smithe had to have had at least one.
The man crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at his closed laptop, a heavy frown on his face. Where the hell was the computer? If its pieces weren't recovered in the rubble, it must not have been there. He knew for a fact that it wasn't with his personal effects at his office. Before Agent Walker had cleaned out her partner’s desk, he’d sent someone to go through it. There was nothing there, not even a spare cell phone.
After a long, brooding silence, the man sat forward and opened his laptop. The only logical conclusion was that someone had removed the computer before the apartment was torched. Only one person would have had the foresight to do that: Viper.
The man's lips tightened as he opened up a secure, classified database. It was well past time for the assassin to be taken care of, but he'd been trying to do just that for over a month now. The damn woman simply refused to die. Worse still, she more than likely had the one item in John's apartment that was the reason he had it torched!
He had to be sure, though. There was always the possibility that John had left his laptop somewhere before his accident; with a friend, perhaps. Even as the hopeful thought came into his mind, the man was already shaking his head. No. John Smithe was no fool. That laptop would have been in his apartment, or somewhere even safer. Personally, his vote was that Viper took it from his apartment before Kyle went to set it ablaze.
About half an hour later, he lifted his hands from the keyboard and sat back, the scowl back on his face. So John had a safe deposit box, did he? He doubted the FBI agent would have stored his entire laptop there, but safe deposit boxes were for things that were irreplaceable. Things like jewelry, bonds, and information that you didn't want to risk being destroyed or, worse, falling into the wrong hands. Information that could be stored on things like a flash drive, or an external hard-drive.
He rubbed a hand over his face and reached for the forgotten drink. Standing impatiently, he sipped the alcohol and wandered across the room. John had been poking around in matters way above his pay grade, things that he could never comprehend. When he’d contacted Jordan Murphy's sister, it had become apparent that he had to be stopped. The problem was that there was no way of knowing how much information the agent had put together before wandering onto his radar. John Smithe had been one hell of an investigator, and it was entirely possible that he managed to piece together enough to cause serious issues.
The man emptied his glass and returned to the table, setting it down and staring at his open laptop. The safe deposit box was the key.
And Agent Stephanie Walker had cleaned it out and closed it a week ago.
Viper glanced at her watch and opened the door to the diner, stepping into the glass enclosed alcove. It was just past eight in the morning, and the diner was moderately busy. She pulled open the second set of doors and stepped inside, instantly assaulted with the scent of fresh coffee and bacon.
She nodded to the older Greek gentleman manning the hostess booth and glanced to the back of the large diner. At the corner table sat four large men. Viper waved in their direction, and the Greek raised his eyebrows in startled surprise.
“You're sure?” he asked.
Viper smiled coldly and turned to stride toward the table in the back. Her black heeled boots echoed confidently along the tiled floor, and she made no attempt to muffle the sound. A few patrons glanced up as she passed, but no one paid any real attention to the blonde woman moving to the back of the restaurant.
One of the men seated with his back to the corner glanced up as she drew closer, and one thick eyebrow raised into his forehead in surprise. At the same time, the man to his right saw her bearing down on them. The underling frowned and said something to the one sitting with his back to her. As she came closer, that man turned and looked behind him. Seeing her advancing, he stood up, blocking her path and view of the table.
“This is a private section,” he said, stepping toward her. “Sit somewhere else.”
Viper eyed him coldly. “That's not very friendly.”
“Do I look like I give a shit?” he demanded, resting his hand on a bulge at his waistband threateningly.
Viper never broke stride. When she didn't stop, he raised his arms to grab her, and that was his mistake. By reaching both his arms towards her, he left his torso unprotected. Stepping inside his guard, she buried her fist directly into his solar plexus, driven by the full force of her lethal right hook. His face drained of color and he doubled over in agony, gasping for air. Pulling his gun from his waistband, she stepped to the side, driving her elbow into his temple. He crumpled to the floor, and she looked at the other three men at the table.
“Anyone else?” she asked pleasantly.
The man in the corner gently set down his knife and fork and sat back in his chair. He reached out and put a restraining hand on his companion's arm as that man reached for his own weapon.
“You could have simply asked to join us,” he said, his voice deep and filled with amusement.
Viper's lips curved. “He didn't give me the chance.”
“So I saw. Is he dead? Should I send flowers?”
“Not yet.”
The man nodded and glanced at the two men on either side of him.
“You two take Lou outside and bring him to,” he commanded.
“But boss—”
“Just do it.”
They nodded and pushed back their chairs, going over to the unconscious man. Alina ignored them and seated herself in Lou's vacant seat, laying his gun on the table and studying the man in the corner.
“It's good to see you, Frankie. You look well.”
Frankie Solitto nodded once in acknowledgment, studying her in return.
“I think I liked the red better,” he said after a brief pause. “Why blonde?”
“I wanted a change.”
He snorted and reached for the coffee pot on the table.
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Coffee?”
Alina smiled. “Thank you.”
Frankie looked up and motioned to the Greek man watching nervously from the front of the diner. He hurried down the aisle toward them.
“Yes?” he asked breathlessly, bustling up to the table.
“A clean coffee mug for my guest,” he told him, “and some more coffee.”
The man nodded and turned to grab a waiter, whispering instructions to him hurriedly. Frankie poured himself the last of the coffee and glanced at her.
“Nico has owned this diner for forty years,” he said conversationally. “My father used to bring me here when I was a boy. Nico watched me grow up. Last year, some punk thought he could force Nico to sell up so they could tear this place down and build a club.”
Alina smiled.
“I imagine that didn't end well for them.”
Frankie smiled back.
“Not very.”
He picked up his knife and fork and went back to his eggs as a waiter appeared at her elbow. He set down a clean mug and a fresh pot of coffee, then hastily disappeared back into the other half of the diner.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asked as she poured herself some coffee.
“I find myself in need of some assistance,” she said, setting down the pot and picking up the mug. She took a sip and nodded in approval. “Nico makes good coffee.”
Frankie chuckled. “I might have a hand in that. He keeps a special supply just for me.”
“I approve.”
“What kind of assistance?” he asked, reaching for a piece of toast.
“I understand you still have significant interests in Atlantic City,” said Alina slowly. “Is that accurate?”
Frankie looked up, surprised.
“Yes. The town is struggling, but I have a soft spot for it. I'm doing what I can to help get it back on its feet. All completely legit, you understand.”
“Of course,” she said agreeably. “I wonder if I can impose on your hospitality there for a night or two.”
Frankie considered her for a moment, then set down his utensils again.
“And if I say yes?” he asked softly.
Viper smiled faintly.
“Oh, it won't wipe that favor out completely, but it will be a start.” She raised a hand soothingly when fire leapt into his dark eyes. “This little extension of hospitality doesn't come close to matching what I did for you last month, trust me. But don't worry. I don't plan on holding that over your head indefinitely.”
Frankie frowned, his eyes boring into hers.
“I didn't expect you to come to me at all,” he said after a long moment. “I didn't think you were the type.”
“I'm not.” Viper set down her mug. “I wouldn't be here right now except I'm short on time and resources at the moment.”
He reached for his coffee.
“You know, I heard about Agent Smithe's funeral. I'm very sorry for your loss. It was disrespectful what happened there.”
Viper was silent, her face impassive.
“They say it was a botched hit,” Frankie continued, shooting her a look under his thick brows. “I never heard they caught the shooter. A person like that, out in the world, it makes you afraid to pay your respects in a church anymore.”
Something that might once have resembled a smile crossed her lips.
“Rest easy and pray in peace. The shooter has been dealt with.”
Frankie nodded.
“I thought as much.” He set his mug down and looked across the table at her. “That hair tells me he wasn't the last.”
Viper was silent, meeting his gaze steadily. He studied her for a long moment, then sighed.
“You've got guts. I consider you worth having on my side. Consider this a freebie and you can still call in that marker at another time. You have my hospitality in Atlantic City. What do you need?”
She smiled.
“A room.”
Detective Joseph Landeki watched as the elevator doors slid open, then stepped out into the cold, tiled corridor. Glancing at his watch, he strode down the hall to the last door on the left. He hadn't been at his desk for five minutes before his phone rang. The medical examiner had his initial report on Senator Robert Carmichael's autopsy.
“Morning Frank!” he greeted, striding into the lab's outer office that preceded the actual autopsy area. “You're at it bright and early.”
Frank looked up from his computer screen and grunted.
“I've got a full house,” he replied. “Not much choice. Is it a full moon?”
“It was last week,” Joe said cheerfully, sipping the large cup of coffee he had carried down with him.
“Well, that explains two of them, at any rate.” Frank sat back in his chair and stretched, then fished a folder out of the pile on his desk. “You're here for Carmichael?”
“Yep.”
“It was pretty straight-forward. He was stabbed with a six-inch blade. The knife entered below his sternum and angled up to pierce his heart.”
Joe's brows came together in a frown. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Because it is. Dominic DiBarcoli was killed the exact same way outside the Willard.”
Joe raised an eyebrow.
“Same killer?”
“No.” Frank stood up and went over to a water cooler in the corner to fill up his empty water bottle. “But someone went through some trouble to make us think it was. The wound was identical to the one on DiBarcoli.”
“They used the same knife?” Joe asked, surprised. “Then what makes you think it wasn't the same killer?”
“The person who stabbed DiBarcoli was left-handed. Carmichael’s killer was right-handed.” Frank finished at the cooler and turned to come back to his desk. “There was a slight adjustment in the angle at which the blade went into the body. Definitely not the same killer.”
Joe scowled.
“But definitely the same knife?”
“I'm waiting on confirmation from forensics, but yes, I believe so.” He sat down again and sipped his water. “I hate to say it, but it looks like you have a copycat.”
Joe shook his head, still frowning.
“No, not a copycat. At least, not in the true sense of the term,” he said slowly. “We never released the details on DiBarcoli, so there’s absolutely no way anyone could know exactly how he was killed.”
Frank stared at him.
“Then you're saying there are two killers out there who just happen to be using precisely the same method and the exact same knife?” he scoffed. “Joe, finish your coffee.”
“What I'm saying is that someone knows how DiBarcoli was killed, and tried to make us think the same person killed Carmichael.” Joe rubbed the back of his ear. “The question is how did they know, and why?”
Frank picked up the folder and handed it to him.
“And that, my friend, is your department. All I do is find the how. The why is all you.”
Joe nodded and took the folder. “Thanks.”
He turned to leave, the folder with Frank's report in one hand and his coffee in the other. He was still frowning thoughtfully when he dropped the folder onto his desk a few moments later. Sinking down into his chair, Joe finished his drink and tossed the empty cup into his trash can. He was just reaching for the folder when the phone on his desk rang again. He glanced at the extension and sighed. It was forensics.
“Landeki,” he answered, flipping open the folder.
“Joe, are you still working on that Willard stabbing?” a female voice asked.
Joe raised his eyes, his attention caught.
“Yes.”
“Then I have something here that might interest you. Want to stop by?”
“For you, April, anything.”
“That's what I like to hear.”
April hung up and Joe shook his head, flipping the folder closed again. Carmichael would have to wait.