Cross Fire

profile” means “high pressure” in DC, and you could all but cut with a knife the mounting tension inside that yellow perimeter tape.
    We found another of our own, Mark Grieco from Third District, and he briefed us. Given all the noise in the street, we had to shout just to hear one another.
    “How many witnesses do we have?” Sampson asked.
    “At least a dozen,” Grieco told us. “We’ve got them all corralled inside, each one more freaked out than the last. No visual on the shooter, though.”
    “What about the shots?” I asked in Grieco’s ear. “We know where they came from?”
    He pointed over my shoulder, up Eighteenth Street. “Way over there — if you can believe it. They’re securing the building now.”
    On the north corner of K Street, a couple of blocks away, there was a building under some kind of renovation. Every floor was dark except for the top one, where I could just make out people moving around.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “How far is that?”
    “Two hundred fifty yards — maybe more,” Grieco guessed. The three of us started jogging in that direction.
    “You said these were head shots?” I asked as we went. “That’s right?”
    “Yeah,” Grieco answered grimly. “Dead on, pardon my pun. Someone knew what the hell he was doing. Hope he’s not still around somewhere, watching us.”
    “Someone with the right equipment, too,” I said. “Considering the distance.” With a suppressor, the shooter could have gone completely unnoticed.
    I heard Sampson say under his breath, “Damn, I hate this thing already.”
    I looked back over my shoulder. From this level, I couldn’t even see the restaurant anymore — except for the red-and-blue lights flashing off the buildings around it.
    This whole MO — the distance of the shot, the impossible angle, the murders themselves (not one perfect hit, but two in a crowded environment) — was completely audacious. I think we were meant to be impressed — in a strictly professional capacity, I was a little stunned.
    But I also had a sinking dread in the pit of my stomach. That ton of bricks I’d been wondering about — it had just fallen.

Chapter 8

    BACK AT HOME, I high-stepped over the second and third porch steps, avoiding the squeak with my long legs. It was just after one thirty in the morning, but the kitchen still smelled like chocolate chip cookies when I came in. They were for Jannie, who had some kind of school function. I gave myself half credit for knowing she had a function but points off for not knowing what it was.
    I stole one cookie — delicious, with a hint of cinnamon in the chocolate — and took off my shoes before I snuck upstairs.
    In the hall, I could see Ali’s light was still on, and when I looked in, Bree was sleeping next to the bed. He’d been running a slight fever before, and she had dragged in the ancient leather armchair, aka laundry stand, from our room.
    A library copy of
The Mouse and the Motorcycle
was open across her lap.
    Ali’s forehead was cool, but he’d kicked off the blankets in the night. His bear, named Truck, was upside down on the floor. I tucked both of them back in.
    When I tried to take the book from Bree, her hand tightened around it.
    “And they all lived happily ever after,” I whispered in her ear.
    She smiled but didn’t wake up, as if I’d worked my way into a dream of hers. That was a nice place to be, so I slipped my hands under her knees and arms and carried her back to bed with me.
    It was tempting to help her out of her pajama bottoms and T-shirt, and everything else while I was at it, but she looked so beautiful and peaceful like that, I didn’t have the heart to change a thing. Instead, I lay down and just watched her sleep for a while. Very nice.
    Inevitably, though, my thoughts returned to the case, to what I’d just seen.
    It was impossible not to think about those dark days in 2002, the last time we’d witnessed anything like this. The word “sniper” still strikes a bad chord with a lot of people in Washington, myself included. At the same time, there were some scary differences here, considering the skill of this shooter. It all felt more calculated to me, too. And then, thank God, I was asleep. Counting bodies instead of sheep, though.

Chapter 9

    NANA MAMA ALREADY had the
Washington Post
spread out on the kitchen table when I came down at 5:30. The case was right there on page one, above the fold: “Sniper Murder Downtown