Now she had one more favor to call in before she was done with this piece of evidence. Thirty minutes after visiting this last stop and getting some free service from yet another old “friend,” she headed back to Roy’s office after placing the key in a plastic baggie to protect the prints. She left the key with Roy and instructed him to turn it over to the police with the explanation of how he’d gotten it. As she was walking across the lobby to leave the building she noticed Ned staring at her. Mace changed direction and headed toward him.
“You’re Ned, right?”
“That’s right. I saw you and Roy Kingman ride off on your motorcycle yesterday.”
“What an eagle eye you have. I bet you see everything that goes on around here.”
His chest puffed up. “Not much that I miss. That’s why I do what I do.”
“Security, you mean?”
“That’s right. Thinking about joining the police force, though. Kicking bad guys’ asses. You know.”
Mace ran her gaze over Ned’s fat frame, perhaps a little too obviously because he hastily added, “Gotta drop a few pounds before I do, but it doesn’t take me too long to get back in shape. I played ball in school.”
“Really, what college?”
“I meant high school,” Ned mumbled.
“Good for you.”
“Hey, weren’t you in here with the cops yesterday?”
“Yes, I was.” Before he could ask whether she actually was a cop she said, “So do you have a theory on what happened?”
He nodded, leaned toward her, and said in a hushed tone, “Serial killer.”
“Really? But wouldn’t that involve more than one murder?”
“Hey, even Hannibal Lecter had to start somewhere.”
“He was a fictional character. You know that, right?”
Ned nodded a little uncertainly. “Cool movie.”
“So why a serial killer?”
“His M.O.,” Ned said confidently.
“M.O.?”
“Modus operandi.”
“Yeah, I know what the term means. I was referring to how you were using it in this situation.”
“Stuffed his victims in a fridge, right? That’s pretty original shit. I bet any day now we’re gonna be reading about folks crammed in freezers, or meat lockers, or you know, like… um…”
“Other cold places?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe small people in under-the-counter fridges.”
Ned laughed. “Like Popsicle Mini-Me’s. Hey, maybe he’ll call himself the Stone Cold Killer. Get it?”
“Yeah, that’s real clever.”
He leaned over the counter and assumed what he no doubt considered was an ultra-cool expression. “Hey, you ever go out for a drink?”
“Oh, lots of times. I’m one party girl.”
“Well, maybe sometime we should do it together, party girl.”
“Maybe we should.”
He pointed a finger at her and pulled an imaginary trigger with his thumb and made a clicking sound with his mouth. At the same time he winked.
These were the moments when Mace so desperately missed her Glock 37 that chambered.45 G.A.P. “one-shot-and-you-drop” cartridges. The standard issue for MPD was the Glock 17 nine-millimeter, and undercover officers usually got the Glock 26 nine-millimeter, which regular officers routinely carried as their off-duty weapon of choice. Mace had dutifully carried the 17 as a cop, but her off-duty and undercover sidearm had been the 37, a gun she wasn’t supposed to have. But she had never been that great at following rules, and the 37’s superior.45 stopping power had saved her life on two occasions. Now, of course, she could carry no gun at all.
“Hey, Ned, piece of advice, when pointing even a pretend gun at someone, be prepared to duck or you might end up taking a double tap right here.” She twice poked a spot dead center of his forehead.
He looked confused. “Huh?”
She merely winked and started to walk away.
“Hey, babe, I don’t even know your name.”
She turned back. “Mace.”
“Mace?”
“Yeah, like the fire-hot spray in the eyes.”
“You got my interest, babe.”
“I knew I would.”
CHAPTER 32
THE PLACE Beth had chosen for dinner was Café Milano, one of D.C.’s most chic restaurants, where folks loved to go see and be seen, in a Hollywood-esque sort of way. It had a wall of windows looking out onto a quiet street, although tonight there was a string of Carey cars and black government SUVs parked up and down its narrow confines.
The bar emptied out into the dining area so it was a little noisy, but Beth’s high-ranking position garnered her a table in what was probably the quietest corner in the place. She had changed out of her uniform and was dressed in a knee-length skirt and a white blouse open at the neck, her blond hair splayed over her shoulders. Her work shoes had been replaced with black heels. The bulk of her security detail waited outside, although two armed plainclothes were at the bar enjoying multiple glasses of ginger ale.
Mace roared up in her Ducati, shook off her helmet, and slipped inside, dodging past a party of suited men and their rental dates, all of whom would have failed a breathalyzer test in any state in the country. Her cop’s eyes watched them until they climbed into a white stretch Hummer driven by a sober driver in a black suit.
Mace scanned the room and saw her sister waving. She sat down and slid her bike helmet under the table. The tablecloth was white and starched, the aromas wafting from the kitchen pleasing, the crowd an interesting mix of young, middle-aged, and old, variously dressed in suits, jeans, sneakers, and spike heels.
“You clean up nice, sis,” she said.
Beth smiled and gazed at Mace’s clothes. Black slacks, low-cut gray clingy sweater, and high strap heels. “Did you do some shopping today?”
“Yep. Like you said, I’ve lost some weight.”
“How were the stilettos on the Ducati’s gear shifter?”
“No problem. I just skipped over the even ones.”
The waiter came over and Beth ordered them two glasses of wine. After he left she said, “Since you’re paying, and driving, let’s go easy on the vino. And the list here can get pretty expensive.”
“Sounds good. I guess you’re not packing tonight.”
“Not while drinking alcohol; that’s still department policy.”
“Is your off-duty carry still the.40 caliber or the Glock 26?”
“Twenty-six, same one I carry on duty.”
“Must be nice.”
“Nothing nice about having to carry a gun, Mace. It’s a necessity in our line of work.”
“In your line of work.”
“Well, tonight, we’re both out of bullets.”
When the wine came they clinked glasses and Beth said, “Here’s to many more decades of the Perry sisters hanging together.”
Mace had regained her good humor. “Now that’s something I can drink to.”
Beth stared over her wineglass. “So your buddy Kingman found a key in a book that Tolliver sent him.”
Mace munched on a hard olive roll and tried to look surprised. “Really? Key to what?”
“We don’t know.”
“Prints?”
“Yes.”
“Tolliver’s?”
“Yes again, how’d you know?”
“Assumed if she sent it, she had to touch it.”
“Why did you go and see that sleazeball Binder today?”
Mace took a long slurp of wine before setting her glass down. “Are you having me followed, Beth?”
“I would not call it followed, no.”
“Then what the hell would you call it?”
“I’m having you hovered.”
“Hovered? Has the world changed so much in two years that I’m supposed to know what that means?”
“Beth!”
They both turned to see the mayor standing there, his entourage columned behind him. He was young and good-looking and had by most accounts done a good job for the city. Yet he was a cagey politician, meaning that the person he looked out for the most stared back at him in the mirror every morning.
“Hello, Mayor, you remember my sister?”
They shook hands. He leaned down and said in a low voice, “Good to see you. Let me know if I can be of any assistance. Right. Take care. Stay out of trouble.”