Chapter 12

So far as the FBI and Matt Striker were concerned, my Rachael Adams ID was still ... okay. But I had created her myself and she’d been around for four years. I’d put her on the shelf for future consideration.

If I needed to travel incognito, I’d use a new, Quantico-supplied deck — Jennifer Hawthorne Matthews. A married gal of 25. Which I can easily pass for. Married and 25.

Sandra Fleming told me, “Solid credit history, stable work record, everything will hold up to scrutiny. But if anyone starts digging, we’ll know about it.”

“Sounds good. Smart. Unless it’s Wexler doing the scrutinizing.”

She gave me a hooded glance, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I am, Sandra. And not just because I don’t have much choice. He is after me. Maybe Hoffstatter is too. I’d rather be proactive than just ... you know.”

“I know.”

Solomon Grunwald didn’t seem that surprised to see me. More resigned than anything. “Not here, Dollface. Ver pub.”

I handed him a card with the Rachael Adams’ 800 number on it. “Allentown. Let me know when.”

Grunwald, like Matt had said, had been fairly easy for the FBI to track down. The police drawing from my description. The odd, accented speech patterns. Left handed. Nosing around the fringes of Kiryas Square.

I had ambushed Grunwald in the parking lot for Katz’s Deli near downtown Trenton, New Jersey. He was alone, vigorously implementing a toothpick. I was parked beside an old Buick he was driving today. Head-to-tail, our driver’s side windows next to each other. Like cops park.

He put the card in the front pocket of his dark suit jacket without looking at it. “Not this week, Blondie, full cal.”

“Let me know.” I drove off; under a minute for the encounter.

Dixie Wexler came for me at 8:07 Monday morning. I had parked my red F-150 in my usual spot in the private lot by the Exchange Building. Feeling a bit pleased with myself, virtuous, for arriving at work before 9. Coffee in my right hand, a white-bagged croissant and keys in my left. Croissant aroma mixed with melted butter wafted up toward me.

Not much pedestrian traffic in the Stockyards this early. I waved at an office neighbor entering the building half a block ahead of me. Noticed a guy in a rumpled suit, black, starting to cross Genessee at an angle that would take him toward the Exchange.

Some deep-seated association neurons transmitted very faint memory impulses into my subconscious. A faint warning signal — but not so faint that I ignored it. This was at a level below intuition — some sort of primitive survival mechanism was at work.

Then I flashed on it — Rumpled Suit’s slightly bowlegged gait. Wexler! I’d noticed it in Billings and somehow it registered here. I dropped everything and dove back toward my truck, drawing my Heckler & Koch without consciously thinking about it.

Wexler hadn’t been looking at me, on purpose, but he caught a flash of movement. My head and upper torso were now behind the driver’s side front wheel. I scooched my hips and legs out of sight. Using both hands to steady my aim, I forced myself to squeeze, not jerk.

Fuck! Safety. I aimed again at the now-fleeing cocksucker — he was tearing north on Genessee, then across the street, and east on 15th Street. My shot missed high and to the right; I’d led him too much.

I grabbed my keys off the sidewalk and fobbed the door open, calling 911 at the same time. I tore after Wexler; I’d bet a couple of tons against 180 pounds any day. I ignored the one-way signs, not much traffic this time of day, and screeched around 15th. Not on two wheels, I wasn’t about to wreck my ride, not with Wexler in the vicinity.

I heard one siren, then two, three as I started looping the blocks, desperate for even a glimpse of Wexler.

No luck.

The first patrol car swooped in and blocked me at an angle, I had to slam on the brakes. I hopped out and had two guns pointing at me from behind open doors. Fuck. Moving slowly, I laid my pistol on the hood and called out, “I’m FBI. There’s an armed fugitive out there somewhere. He ran away on foot.”

One cop, the passenger, the senior one of the pair, recognized me, “You’re Captain Jennings’ daughter.”

“I am. Can you get an APB out? Guy’s name is Dixie Wexler. Melvin Wexler. He’s in your database.”

“Being Dave’s daughter buys you something.”

“Thank you.”

“But not everything.”

“I know, I know. Just try to nab Wexler.” I started to tell them to set up a perimeter, then wisely shut the fuck up.

He took my gun, standard in a shots-fired incident. I called Daddy, he was on his way to 1300 Summit. He said, “I’ll alert Louise. And Sandra. We’ll dragnet the area.”

Unsaid, we hadn’t caught him in ... now eight minutes. Didn’t know what he was driving. Who, if anyone, was with him.

Later, Matt told me, “Good eyes, Winter. This’ll goose things a little at J. Edgar.”

“Do much good?”

“Can’t hurt. And his presence in Kansas City is another data point. Sandra and the cops will check security cams — particularly filling stations on major highways.”

“How far out?”

“Fifty miles or so. After that...”

“Too many options.”

Walker and Pilar were concerned. Of course. But unless they were masking it, I didn’t sense any panic. I slanted the family report; Wexler had never really been a threat, hadn’t even drawn his gun, not this time. “I should have nailed him. Almost did.”

Walker said, “Next time.”

“Next time.”

Vanessa’s understated observation was mild, “Busy on Genessee these days.”

One of the SOS sergeants, a senior guy, got a Wexler hit the next morning. A security camera at the Costco gas station just off Main. About twenty or so blocks from my office. Smart. He’d filled up the old Chevy an hour before he’d staked me out.

No white cowboy hat, but that same bandy-legged walk. However the headline was that Wexler was accompanied by a large, blonde man. The angle wasn’t good enough for a positive ID, but the FBI was convinced it was Karl Hoffstatter, back from Germany. Traveling under another name because ‘Hoffstatter’ would have triggered computer alerts in Customs.

Daddy said, “Hoffstatter was probably driving the Chevy.”

I nodded, “Wexler wants me himself.”

“What does Matt say?”

“We’re not going to rush into anything. This doesn’t change the plan.”

“Good.”

The Chevy had been boosted that same morning from a downtown parking garage near the Sprint Center on Grand. Chances were, it wouldn’t have been noticed until after work.

It was later abandoned that same morning — no surprise. On Armour in North Kansas City. Which could mean they’re heading north. Or it could just as easily have been a fake-out. The Chevy was found on a block with no outside security cameras; probably not a coincidence.

The fact that Hoffstatter was along for the hit meant that two of them are after me now.

Fuck.

One lead did emerge from the botched attempt on me. To fill up at Costco, you needed a membership card. Which meant inserting the card into a reader at the pump.

Not much of a lead — just another alias, Martin Williams. Same initials but I imagined it was more coincidence than vanity. Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler wasn’t the type to have monogramed shirts.

In any case, Costco was now on alert. In theory, if anyone used the Martin Williams card, it would trigger a call to Issaquah, Washington. And Costco security would call the Seattle FBI. We’ll see.

I flew back to DC the next morning. Rachael Adams had received a message at her 800 number. Allentown, Thursday morning, 10 AM. Mom’s Dutch Cooking.

Matt drove me directly from Reagan to FBI headquarters. Ash met us in a small conference room.

He said, “We’re learning a little bit more about Karl Hoffstatter. Someone in the Interpol office in Munich has a source in the Hamburg underbelly. Skinheads, Neo-Nazis. Nazis, I guess. Not sure Neo means much these days.”

Matt said, “Reliability?”

Ash shrugged, “The usual. Some nuggets, some guesses, some lies. But this mook attended a meeting where Hoffstatter spoke to a group of about thirty of Hamburg’s finest citizens.”

He looked at Matt, then at me. “We’re working closely with Interpol in Germany, France, Britain. It’s still rough but we’re developing a preliminary profile on Hoffstatter.”

Matt said, “Guns.”

Ash smiled, “Exactly. Our thinking is shifting. He may be a true believer and all that. Master race. But he really worships at the Church of Money. Hoffstatter is a mid-level arms dealer with a niche market.”

I said, “Haters.”

“Right. His target customers aren’t African warlords, Mideast terror cells. That’s a crowded field, a lot of competition, a lot of spotlight, a lot of risk.”

Matt said, “Nationalists, white supremacists, anti-globalists ... it’s a growth field.”

“And draws less international scrutiny. But here’s the deal — that Hamburg snitch said Hoffstatter wowed the crowd. They loved that repeating serial number.”

Matt said, “Aren’t there already tons of unregistered assault rifles in Europe — thanks to the breakup of the old Soviet bloc?”

“Yeah, but the European Union is starting to turn the screws on arms dealers in those Eastern bloc countries. And working from them to the buyers. So Hoffstatter’s timing is on the money.”

Matt said, “Sounds like Hoffstatter is above Wexler’s pay grade. What was he doing running a low-level errand in Kansas City?”

Ash smiled, “Low-level? Winter? Better watch it.”

I said, “Kiryas Square. That raid. That cut into Hoffstatter’s supply chain.”

Ash nodded, “And he knows, or believes, that you were involved. The Mildred Hawkins move probably helped accelerate their interest.”

Matt said, “Winter is meeting Solomon Grunwald Thursday morning.”

“Allentown again?”

“Yeah, same diner.”