THEY WERE STILL LAUGHING when they got back to Denny’s ancient Suburban, parked in Lot 9 by Lauinger Library on the Georgetown campus.
“That was awesome!” Mitch’s doughy face was shiny with sweat, but he wasn’t even out of breath. He was the type whose muscles looked a lot like fat. “‘What are you going to do?’” he parroted. “‘Shoot a homeless vet in the middle of traffic?’”
“True Press, one dollar,” Denny said. “Lunch at Taco Bell, three dollars. The look on po-po’s face when he knows you got him? Priceless. Wish I had a picture.”
He plucked a bright-orange envelope from under his wiper blade and got in on the driver’s side. The car still smelled of chain-smoked cigarettes and burritos from the night before. Pillows and blankets were bunched up in a ball on one half of the backseat, next to a lawn-and-leaf bag full of returnable cans.
Behind that, under a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes, a few old carpet remnants, and a false plywood bottom, were two Walther PPS nine-millimeter pistols, a semiautomatic M21, and a military-grade M110 sniper rifle. Also a long-range thermal-optical site, a spotting scope, a cleaning kit for the rifles, and several boxes of ammunition, all wrapped up in a large plastic tarp and bundled with several bungee cords.
“You did good back there, Mitchie,” Denny told him. “Real good. Didn’t lose your cool for a second.”
“Nah,” Mitch said, emptying his pockets onto the plastic lunch tray between them. “I won’t lose my cool, Denny. I’m like one of them whatchamacallits. Cucumbers.”
Denny counted out the day’s take. Forty-five — not bad for a short shift. He gave Mitch ten singles and a handful of quarters.
“So what do you think, Denny? Am I ready or what? I think I’m ready.”
Denny sat back and lit one of the half-smoked butts in the ashtray. He handed it to Mitch and then lit another for himself. While he was at it, he lit the orange envelope with the parking ticket inside and dropped it, burning, onto the cement.
“Yeah, Mitch, I think maybe you are ready. The question is, are they ready for us?”
Mitch’s knees started to jackhammer up and down. “When do we start? Tonight? What about tonight? What about it, huh, Denny?”
Denny shrugged and leaned back. “Just enjoy the peace and quiet while you can, ’cause you’re going to be famous as shit soon enough.” He blew a smoke ring, then another, which passed right through the first. “You ready to be famous?”
Mitch was looking out the window at a couple of cute, short-skirted coeds crossing the parking lot. His knees were still bouncing. “I’m ready to start this thing, that’s what.”
“Good boy. And what’s the mission, Mitchie?”
“Clean up this mess in Washington, just like the politicians always say.”
“That’s right. They talk about it —”
“But we gonna do something about it. No doubt. No doubt.”
Denny extended his fist for a bump, then started up the car. He backed out the long way to get a good look at the ladies from behind.
“Speaking of tacos,” he said, and Mitch laughed. “Where you want to eat? We’ve got paper to burn today.”
“Taco Bell, man,” Mitch said without even having to think.
Denny pulled hard on the gearshift to get it into drive and took off. “Why am I not surprised?”
Chapter 3
THE LEAD STORY in my life these days was Bree — Brianna Stone, known as the Rock at Metro Police. And, yes, she was all of that — solid, profound, lovely. She’d become a part of my life to the point where I couldn’t imagine it without her anymore. Things hadn’t been this sane and balanced for me in years.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that Homicide at Metro was so quiet lately. As a cop, you can’t help but wonder when that next ton of bricks is going to fall, but in the meantime, Bree and I had an unheard-of two-hour lunch that Thursday afternoon. Usually the only way we see each other during the day is if we’re working the same murder case.
We sat in the back at Ben’s Chili Bowl, under all the signed celeb photos. Ben’s isn’t exactly the world capital of romance, but it is an institution in Washington. The half-smokes alone are worth the trip.
“So you know what they’re calling us around the office these days?” Bree said, halfway through a coffee milk shake. “Breelex.”
“Breelex? Like Brad and Angelina? That’s awful.”
She laughed; she couldn’t even keep a straight face at that. “I’m telling you, cops have no imagination.”
“Hmm.” I put a hand lightly on her leg under the table. “With exceptions, of course.”