250-grain bullet downrange at a thousand meters per second.
“Looks to have some custom work done on it,” the young OSI agent said. “But nothing outside the realm of what a neighborhood gunsmith could do.”
“I’m sure you won’t find any prints,” Quinn said. “It takes a professional to make a shot like that.”
“My thoughts exactly,” DeKirk said, finally calm enough to join the conversation. “We interviewed a bunch of German tourists at the Visitors Center who said they saw an Asian woman walk down the trail from the woods near where we found the sniper rifle. They describe her as small but strong looking, maybe in her mid-twenties. One guy said she had”—he consulted his notebook—“ den bösen Blick .”
Torrance nodded. “I did a Google search. It means ‘evil eye.’ Anyway, a quick review of the security tapes looks like she knew where the cameras were. We have her walking down the trail and through the Visitors Center lot, but she never lets us get a view of her face. She must have parked in a spot without a camera, because we lose track of her after that.”
“What about cameras at the exits?” Quinn asked.
Torrance smiled. “That’s where we got something. Seven minutes after Major Moore called in the shooting, a white Hyundai Santa Fe left through the North Gate with an Asian female behind the wheel. She had a ball cap pulled down low so we didn’t get much of a shot of her face, but the LP comes back to a rental company out of Colorado Springs. The clerk there says it was rented by someone named”—he consulted his notes—“Roku Yamamoto.”
“Hmmph.” Thibodaux scoffed. “That’s fittin’. Isoroku Yamamoto planned the attack on Pearl Harbor.”
“Anyway,” DeKirk said, unimpressed by the Cajun’s knowledge of history. “I put a BOLO out on the car. I have Colorado State Patrol scouring the highways north and south of here. Denver and Cheyenne airports are on alert as well. But I gotta tell you, trying to locate someone when our only description is ‘Asian female’ gives us pretty grim odds.” He narrowed his eyes at Quinn. “So, what I really hope is that you can give me something else to go on. You know of any Japanese women who’d want to hurt you?”
Quinn shook his head. “No,” he said honestly, but stopped there.
“Look,” DeKirk forced a tight smile. “Believe me, I understand the whole ‘need to know’ thing. Hell, I’m with the FBI. The Bureau practically invented the shutout. But I’m not one of the counterintel spooks. Someone attempts to assassinate a civilian on a military installation, so it falls to me to investigate. I happen to be a damn good investigator—and all I want to do is catch this person. Here’s my card. If you find yourself in a spot where you can help me do it, give me a call. Otherwise . . . these guys can fill you in on the damn little we know.” He shrugged. “I hope your ex gets better soon.”
Torrance gave Quinn his card as well, noting his cell number written on the back. “Call if you need anything, sir. I’ll have my reports in I2MS today, so you’ll have access to everything I do.”
Quinn shook hands with both men. They were just doing their jobs. DeKirk, keeping up the FBI tradition of trying to run the entire show, and Torrance, the dutiful subordinate.
Quinn turned to Garcia and Thibodaux after the elevator doors closed on the other two agents. The Marine’s dark uniform hid most of his stains, but Garcia’s sunshine yellow dress showed broad swatches of red, like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Quinn closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. “What else did you see out there?”
“No tracks good enough to follow,” Thibodaux said, shooting a glance at Garcia. “The kid here noticed something, though.”
“It’s probably nothing.” Ronnie shrugged. “But I could have sworn I smelled peppermint around the tree where the shooter left the rifle.”
“Peppermint,” Quinn mused,
“Looks to have some custom work done on it,” the young OSI agent said. “But nothing outside the realm of what a neighborhood gunsmith could do.”
“I’m sure you won’t find any prints,” Quinn said. “It takes a professional to make a shot like that.”
“My thoughts exactly,” DeKirk said, finally calm enough to join the conversation. “We interviewed a bunch of German tourists at the Visitors Center who said they saw an Asian woman walk down the trail from the woods near where we found the sniper rifle. They describe her as small but strong looking, maybe in her mid-twenties. One guy said she had”—he consulted his notebook—“ den bösen Blick .”
Torrance nodded. “I did a Google search. It means ‘evil eye.’ Anyway, a quick review of the security tapes looks like she knew where the cameras were. We have her walking down the trail and through the Visitors Center lot, but she never lets us get a view of her face. She must have parked in a spot without a camera, because we lose track of her after that.”
“What about cameras at the exits?” Quinn asked.
Torrance smiled. “That’s where we got something. Seven minutes after Major Moore called in the shooting, a white Hyundai Santa Fe left through the North Gate with an Asian female behind the wheel. She had a ball cap pulled down low so we didn’t get much of a shot of her face, but the LP comes back to a rental company out of Colorado Springs. The clerk there says it was rented by someone named”—he consulted his notes—“Roku Yamamoto.”
“Hmmph.” Thibodaux scoffed. “That’s fittin’. Isoroku Yamamoto planned the attack on Pearl Harbor.”
“Anyway,” DeKirk said, unimpressed by the Cajun’s knowledge of history. “I put a BOLO out on the car. I have Colorado State Patrol scouring the highways north and south of here. Denver and Cheyenne airports are on alert as well. But I gotta tell you, trying to locate someone when our only description is ‘Asian female’ gives us pretty grim odds.” He narrowed his eyes at Quinn. “So, what I really hope is that you can give me something else to go on. You know of any Japanese women who’d want to hurt you?”
Quinn shook his head. “No,” he said honestly, but stopped there.
“Look,” DeKirk forced a tight smile. “Believe me, I understand the whole ‘need to know’ thing. Hell, I’m with the FBI. The Bureau practically invented the shutout. But I’m not one of the counterintel spooks. Someone attempts to assassinate a civilian on a military installation, so it falls to me to investigate. I happen to be a damn good investigator—and all I want to do is catch this person. Here’s my card. If you find yourself in a spot where you can help me do it, give me a call. Otherwise . . . these guys can fill you in on the damn little we know.” He shrugged. “I hope your ex gets better soon.”
Torrance gave Quinn his card as well, noting his cell number written on the back. “Call if you need anything, sir. I’ll have my reports in I2MS today, so you’ll have access to everything I do.”
Quinn shook hands with both men. They were just doing their jobs. DeKirk, keeping up the FBI tradition of trying to run the entire show, and Torrance, the dutiful subordinate.
Quinn turned to Garcia and Thibodaux after the elevator doors closed on the other two agents. The Marine’s dark uniform hid most of his stains, but Garcia’s sunshine yellow dress showed broad swatches of red, like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Quinn closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. “What else did you see out there?”
“No tracks good enough to follow,” Thibodaux said, shooting a glance at Garcia. “The kid here noticed something, though.”
“It’s probably nothing.” Ronnie shrugged. “But I could have sworn I smelled peppermint around the tree where the shooter left the rifle.”
“Peppermint,” Quinn mused,
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