"I can mimic most accents pretty good, and hear them better than just about anybody in the Bureau. When I'm not undercover, I do some forensic linguistics stuff."
"Wow," Larry said.
"Don't let him fool you," Robbie said. "He's every bit as dumb as he looks."
"Thanks, Rob," Josh said. He knocked on the counter twice. "You guys want some breakfast? I'm starving."
Chapter 7
May 17th, 12:28 PM EST; Kendall Memorial Park; Washington, D.C.
Gene rolled his eyes and shoved Marty left-handed, careful not to burn him with the cigar. His brother pinwheeled his arms, lost his balance, and fell off the picnic table. He landed on his back in a spray of scotch and ice, his red plastic cup tumbling out of his hand on impact. Carl stopped the music, laughing. While Marty dusted himself off, Gene puffed on the cigar and stepped down. He walked up to Doug and wrapped him in a hug.
"I love you, man," Gene said. He pulled back and clapped Doug on the shoulders.
"You're drunk," Doug replied, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Gene nodded and took another puff. "You're a dad."
Doug grinned. "I am."
Gene looked at Maureen and the girls, who sat under the giant parasol that Sam had brought. Jerri and Sam fawned over the pink bassinettes. "Those are some beautiful girls you've got there. And Maureen looks great." Doug caught her eye, and she waved. Her eyes were all for the father of her children, but flickered to Gene and away before she turned her attention back to the babies.
"Yeah." Doug's tone turned serious. "Can we talk?"
"Sure, Doug. What about?"
They walked toward the swing sets as Carl re-started the music. Marty had poured himself another Glenmorangie and was back on the table, dancing badly. Doug looked out across the city. "It's been six months, Gene. No sign."
Gene groaned. "This is about work?" He looked wistfully back at the picnic.
Doug stopped in his tracks and looked Gene in the eye, forcing him to shift his attention back to the conversation. "No. This is about me. I'm quitting the team."
Gene blinked. "What?"
"After we nail D Street. Maureen wants me out, and I want…." He trailed off. He looked up at the sky, thinking. Gene waited. "I want her. And she can't handle this. It rips her up every time I leave, because she doesn't know if I'll be coming back."
Gene stared off into the distance. "What are you going to do?"
"Not sure. Maybe I'll be a stay-at-home dad."
Gene smiled. "You wouldn't last a week. Those girls will eat you alive."
Doug replied softly, "So you're okay with this?"
Gene puffed on his cigar. "I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. You've got different priorities now. Good for you. And if you want it, your job will always be here."
"Thanks, Gene."
They walked back to the group in silence.
* * *
June 22nd, 12:59 PM PST; Paul Renner's Apartment; Los Angeles, California.
Paul was at his computer when the phone rang. He put on his headphones and clicked "answer."
"Hello?" he said.
"Paul Renner?" asked a digitally scrambled voice.
The trace program confirmed the encrypted call came from a recently activated, prepaid cellular phone.
"Yes."
"Your standard fee is fifty thousand dollars American?" The fake Russian accent was pretty good. The way this client said "fifty thousand" never quite changed enough to disguise his identity.
Paul grunted in surprise. Business had dried up after the Larry Johnson fiasco. He never expected another contract from the same employer. Might as well play dumb, he thought. Fifty grand is fifty grand.
"Plus expenses," he said.
"And to where do I send the information?" He said it like "'info-mission." Definitely the same man.
"I'll send you a phone," Paul said, playing along. "You'll get a text with an e-mail account. You reply to that address, which will report that the message bounced. I'll retrieve it from there. I need an address."
The man gave him a P.O. Box at the main Postal hub in Baltimore, Maryland.
"One week."
Paul hung up the phone, frowning. In the past two years, this client had paid fifty large a pop to have seven people killed. He used different phones, different accents, and different accounts, but it was the same man. There were a lot of reasons why any given person would be willing to pay fifty grand to see another person dead. Jealousy, blackmail, cheating, irrational hatred. They all made sense, and Paul was happy to provide the service if the price was right. But so many people hated by one man?
A retired policeman, a nursing assistant, a second grade teacher, an unemployed derelict in public housing, the mother of a celebutante known for getting drunk and screaming at her entourage, a community college ombudsman, and a retired garbage man.