“I’m sending ar
ound a fact sheet,” Ridge said, handing half a stack in each direction. “The subject’s name is Constantine Bowie, aka Connie Bowie, aka Zeus. Most of you know this already, but Bowie was an agent with the Service from 1988 to 2002.”
Nobody flinched but me—and maybe Sampson. It was like a whole new map of this thing had just been unfolded in front of us.
I put up my hand. “Alex Cross, MPD. I’m just catching up here, but what’s the known relationship, if any, with Remy Williams? Other than the fact that they’re both supposed to be former agents.”
“Detective Cross, glad to have you here,” Ridge said, and a few more heads turned my way. “The focus of this operation is former agent Bowie. Everything else is on a need-to-know basis for the time being.”
“I’m only asking because—”
“We appreciate MPD’s participation, as always. This is all obviously a little sensitive, but we’re not going to start unpacking it here. Moving on.”
I gave Ridge the benefit of the doubt, for the moment at least. It wasn’t a bridge I had to cross yet. Or burn.
An image of Bowie’s 2002 credentials came up on one of the screens. He looked like a million other agents to me—Waspy, square jaw, brown hair combed back. Everything but the dark shades.
“Bowie’s been implicated in the murder of at least three women,” Ridge went on, “all of them known employees of the so-called gentlemen’s club in Culpeper County. Those women are Caroline Cross, Katherine Tennancour, Renata Cruz…” Surveillance photos that I’d seen before went by in a slide show. “And this is Sally Anne Perry.”
A video started up, and right away I recognized the recording I’d handed over to Cormorant just the other day. Like Ridge had said, the Secret Service appreciated MPD’s participation.
“There’s nothing pleasant about having to watch this,” Ridge said, “but you should know who we’re going after. The man about to come into the bedroom is Constantine Bowie. And he is about to commit murder.”
Chapter 100
EVERYONE HELD THEIR professional cool as the video played out, and Agent Ridge kept talking as it did.
“A little history here. Bowie was recruited from Philadelphia PD into the Service in 1988. For thirteen years, there’s not much to tell, but shortly after 9/11, his performance started to slip.
“Then in February of 2002, after an improper firearm discharge, which I’m not going to detail this morning, Bowie was removed from the Service without benefits.”
Cormorant took it from there and brought up a slide of a generic-looking office building.
“In 2005, he opened Galveston Security here in DC—”
“Galveston?” someone asked.
“His hometown,” Cormorant said. “Today, he’s got satellite offices in Philadelphia and Dallas, with a personal net worth of seven million, give or take. The Philly ties don’t prove anything, but it’s worth noting that at least some contract work with the Martino crime family out of Philadelphia has been part of this whole picture as well.”
Cormorant’s eyes traveled over to me before he went on. “One other thing we can tell you is that phone records show two calls from Bowie’s cell to the one found in Remy Williams’s cabin today. One of those calls was made two months ago, and the other was four days ago.”
“Where’s Bowie now?” one of the agents asked.
“Surveillance puts him at home, as of twenty-three hundred hours last night. We have half a dozen agents watching his house.”
“How soon can we move on this?” someone else asked. You could feel the impatience in the room. No one wanted to tackle the operation, I think, so much as they wanted to get it over with.
Agent Ridge looked at his watch. “We go as soon as you’re ready,” he said, and everyone started to stand up.
Chapter 101
IT WAS EERILY quiet when we pulled up to a row of flat-topped brick town houses on Winfield Lane in Northwest. One pair of tennis players was at it on the Georgetown courts across the road, and the playing fields were still wet. If Nana were home, I thought, she’d just be getting up and ready for church.
We had four SWAT officers posted in back, with MPD cruisers at either end of the block and EMS on standby. The rest of us emerged onto the street several doors away from Bowie’s place, where a single white van was just coming to a stop.
Once Ridge gave the go, an entry team of five men in ballistic gear exited the van and snaked up the front steps of Bowie’s town house in a line. It was a silent operation; they pried the door and then disappeared inside.
After that, it was ten long minutes of waiting while they leapfrogged through the house, clearing one space after another. Ridge kept his head down and a hand over his earpiece as the SWAT commander whispered their progress to him. He held up two fingers to indicate they’d reached the second floor, and a few minutes later, three fingers.