Wild Card (Stone Barrington #49)(71)

Tigner took one more look around, then rested the rifle on the parapet, pulled back on the slide to move the first round into the chamber, and trained the sight’s crosshairs on the plate-glass window.

Senator Box entered the office with two other people, one of whom closed the door behind them. Box sat down at the desk.

“Perfect,” Tigner said, squeezing off the round. Box collapsed behind his desk. Tigner then disassembled the weapon, wiped it clean, and dropped it into the bag with the sweater, the ski mask, and, finally, the long latex gloves. Taking care not to touch anything but the handles, he trotted over to the ventilator, dropped it down the shaft, and turned toward the fire escape. He decided the box he had left there was too obvious, so he kicked it away a few feet, stood back, and ran at the parapet.

He got a foot on the parapet, then jumped for the fire escape. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and ran down the stairs to his floor, down the hall, and let himself into his room. His dinner rested on the coffee table.

He hung his clothes in the closet, got into the shower, and scrubbed his hands and body to remove any residue from the shots fired, then toweled down, got into a terrycloth robe, and went back into the living room. The TV was still on, and a news announcer was reporting, over a breaking news banner, that the presidential candidate, Senator Joseph Box, had been shot at his campaign headquarters; no word on his condition.

Tigner left it on and began to eat his steak and drink some of the wine. He was still eating his steak when there was a hammering on the door. “Police!” somebody shouted.





55


Ari and Annie met Senator Box as he came into the headquarters. “Let me shake some hands, and I’ll be right with you,” the senator said.

They watched him work the room, not missing a soul, and finally, he beckoned them to follow him up the stairs to his mezzanine office.

“You kids are doing a marvelous job!” Box enthused, waving them to seats and walking around the desk. “In fact, my private polling tells me—”

A loud noise and the sound of breaking glass interrupted the senator. He convulsed, and a spray of blood emanated from the back of his neck, then he collapsed like a felled ox behind the desk.

Annie dove for the floor, but Ari just stared at the bloody wall behind where the man had stood. He helped Annie to her feet. “There’s the phone,” he said, pointing to the desk. “Call nine-one-one.” He calmly walked around the desk to where Senator Box lay facedown, bleeding copiously from the back of his neck. He turned, grabbed Annie by her shirtfront, and yanked it open, revealing a T-top. He turned her around, stripped her of the shirt, folded it, pressed it tightly to Box’s neck, then sat down on the floor, holding firm pressure on the wound. “This is all we can do until emergency services arrive. You might put on your jacket.”

Annie had already hung up the phone and just stood there, staring at Ari. “Now I know,” she said, “that you are calm under every possible situation, or have I missed one?”

“I don’t think so,” Ari said. “Lock the office door until the EMTs arrive.”

She did so, just in time to stop a half dozen people who had run up the stairs.



* * *



? ? ?

Tigner had halfway finished his steak when the hammering on his door began. He picked up his wineglass and, still chewing, opened it. Two plainclothes officers holding badges entered the room. “Let’s see some ID,” one of them barked.

Tigner took a sip of his wine, swallowed, set his glass on the coffee table, and went to the closet. He came back with his wallet and passport.

A cop read his documents. “What’s your name?”

“Timothy Tigner,” he replied. “I’m a correspondent for a Paris magazine. You have my press pass, there in my wallet.”

“Where have you been for the past hour?” the cop asked.

“Here. I ordered some dinner—I missed lunch—and took a shower.” He was still in his bathrobe, and his hair was wet.

“Has anyone else been in your room?”

“Just the room service waiter,” he replied. “What’s going on?”

The cop gestured at the TV, which was on, but with the volume turned down. A breaking-news banner and an alarmed-looking young news reader, moving his lips silently, were on-screen.

“Why are you in Kansas City?” the cop asked.

“I’m covering Senator Box’s campaign for my magazine. I have a six-forty-five appointment with him for an interview.”

“Well,” the cop said, “he isn’t going to make it.”

“Why not?” Tigner asked.

“He’s going into surgery, last we heard,” the second cop said. “Gunshot wound. Mike, call over to campaign HQ and check this guy out.” Then he turned back to Tigner. “Do you have any weapons in the room?”

Tigner pointed at the coffee table. “Just a steak knife.”

“No firearms?”

“No.”

The other cop hung up his phone. “He checks out,” he said to his partner. “He’s on Box’s schedule for six-forty-five.”

The first cop handed Tigner back his ID. “Don’t leave town for the next twelve hours,” he said.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Tigner replied. “I have a different kind of story to cover now. What hospital is he in?”