seat, Lieutenant; you’re late.’
‘Traffic was bad out of Maryland. Sorry for the delay.’
‘Traffic’s bad everywhere. A guy your age should have learned that by now.’ His dark eyes tip to a document in his manicured hands. ‘HRU – that’s Historic Religious and Unsolved, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What the hell they doing asking about one of our cases?’ He holds up the paper.
Irish stares at the FBI badge and realizes one of the top brass there must have written to him. ‘I asked them, sir. Given this has since kicked up into a double homicide I thought it it might be wise.’
‘No, Lieutenant.
Wise
would be asking me first.
Really wise
would have been solving the case already.’ He screws up the paper and throws the ball at him. ‘You’re an idiot, Fitzgerald. Just in case you’re in any doubt, idiots are at the opposite end of the spectrum to the wise.’
‘Captain, this crime is linked to some old cross that’s probably a valuable artefact. The HRU has the infrastructure to help us work all that out and find the kind of unsub prepared to kill for that kind of thing.’
‘Me. I’m prepared to kill. And guess who my victim’s likely to be? Now get outta here. I want a full report on my desk by seven in the morning, so don’t get too wasted tonight.’
Irish hauls his injured pride out of the captain’s office and back to his desk.
He pulls open the bottom drawer and grabs a box of tissues. The cold Sophie Hudson passed on still has him honking snot and blood. He sticks a wad of tissues in his pocket and pulls out the second thing he’s after.
Scotch.
He unscrews the top of his emergency bottle and takes a long swallow of the cheap whisky. Doesn’t stop until he feels its hot fingers choking his throat. Then he screws the top back, drops the bottle in his drawer and kicks it shut.
The office is deserted. A gap between shifts. He powers up the computer and finds what he hoped for in his mailbox.
A message from Traffic.
He’d told his old friend Billy Puller about the murder he was working was in woods off the south end of Rock Creek Trail, close to where the east-west Capital Beltway crosses Connecticut Avenue. He said he was interested in any brown SUVs and silver saloons that hit that intersection from ten p.m. onwards on Friday night. Ten being the earliest time the ME thought Amir Goldman could have died.
By the time he’s read the first line of Bill’s mail, his heart’s already flipping.
Irish – we searched traffic cams and found a brown Cadillac Escalade hybrid heading south to Washington, followed a few cars back by a silver Lincoln. They were timed joining the southbound interstate at 11.04.32 and 11.04.47 respectively.
Vid tech has strung together some clips for you (see attachment). Both vehicles come off north of Dupont Circle and then we lose them.
Couldn’t make out the plate on the Lincoln. The Escalade has a cloned registration – rightful owner is in Annandale. Call me – I’ll give you full details.
Hope it helps,
BP
Irish opens the attachment and presses play.
The footage is good quality. An Escalade heads down a slip road. The overhead camera shows the driver. He’s alone. Late-thirties, maybe early-forties. Clean-shaven. Broad. Light hair.
Five cars back, a Lincoln pulls out to the middle lane, stays there and doesn’t zip on by. The kind of thing you do when you’re following someone and don’t want to be noticed.
Irish studies the traffic. The Escalade is doing about sixty. So is the Lincoln. He sure as hell is tagging him.
No sooner do the Dupont signs come on screen, than they both indicate and take their wagon train off the interstate and out of view.
Irish digs out the Scotch for a celebratory belt then rewinds the footage and plays it from the top. This time he sees the small stuff. The Escalade is badged as a hybrid and the Lincoln has a panoramic glass roof. Both vehicles fit with the descriptions Sarah Cohen gave him but
‘Traffic was bad out of Maryland. Sorry for the delay.’
‘Traffic’s bad everywhere. A guy your age should have learned that by now.’ His dark eyes tip to a document in his manicured hands. ‘HRU – that’s Historic Religious and Unsolved, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What the hell they doing asking about one of our cases?’ He holds up the paper.
Irish stares at the FBI badge and realizes one of the top brass there must have written to him. ‘I asked them, sir. Given this has since kicked up into a double homicide I thought it it might be wise.’
‘No, Lieutenant.
Wise
would be asking me first.
Really wise
would have been solving the case already.’ He screws up the paper and throws the ball at him. ‘You’re an idiot, Fitzgerald. Just in case you’re in any doubt, idiots are at the opposite end of the spectrum to the wise.’
‘Captain, this crime is linked to some old cross that’s probably a valuable artefact. The HRU has the infrastructure to help us work all that out and find the kind of unsub prepared to kill for that kind of thing.’
‘Me. I’m prepared to kill. And guess who my victim’s likely to be? Now get outta here. I want a full report on my desk by seven in the morning, so don’t get too wasted tonight.’
Irish hauls his injured pride out of the captain’s office and back to his desk.
He pulls open the bottom drawer and grabs a box of tissues. The cold Sophie Hudson passed on still has him honking snot and blood. He sticks a wad of tissues in his pocket and pulls out the second thing he’s after.
Scotch.
He unscrews the top of his emergency bottle and takes a long swallow of the cheap whisky. Doesn’t stop until he feels its hot fingers choking his throat. Then he screws the top back, drops the bottle in his drawer and kicks it shut.
The office is deserted. A gap between shifts. He powers up the computer and finds what he hoped for in his mailbox.
A message from Traffic.
He’d told his old friend Billy Puller about the murder he was working was in woods off the south end of Rock Creek Trail, close to where the east-west Capital Beltway crosses Connecticut Avenue. He said he was interested in any brown SUVs and silver saloons that hit that intersection from ten p.m. onwards on Friday night. Ten being the earliest time the ME thought Amir Goldman could have died.
By the time he’s read the first line of Bill’s mail, his heart’s already flipping.
Irish – we searched traffic cams and found a brown Cadillac Escalade hybrid heading south to Washington, followed a few cars back by a silver Lincoln. They were timed joining the southbound interstate at 11.04.32 and 11.04.47 respectively.
Vid tech has strung together some clips for you (see attachment). Both vehicles come off north of Dupont Circle and then we lose them.
Couldn’t make out the plate on the Lincoln. The Escalade has a cloned registration – rightful owner is in Annandale. Call me – I’ll give you full details.
Hope it helps,
BP
Irish opens the attachment and presses play.
The footage is good quality. An Escalade heads down a slip road. The overhead camera shows the driver. He’s alone. Late-thirties, maybe early-forties. Clean-shaven. Broad. Light hair.
Five cars back, a Lincoln pulls out to the middle lane, stays there and doesn’t zip on by. The kind of thing you do when you’re following someone and don’t want to be noticed.
Irish studies the traffic. The Escalade is doing about sixty. So is the Lincoln. He sure as hell is tagging him.
No sooner do the Dupont signs come on screen, than they both indicate and take their wagon train off the interstate and out of view.
Irish digs out the Scotch for a celebratory belt then rewinds the footage and plays it from the top. This time he sees the small stuff. The Escalade is badged as a hybrid and the Lincoln has a panoramic glass roof. Both vehicles fit with the descriptions Sarah Cohen gave him but
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