“Impressive,” says Rizzo. “He didn’t just pick that up at an army surplus store.” She’s right. The Claymore is one of the deadliest antipersonnel weapons ever devised. The curved plastic case contains shaped C-4 explosive and about seven hundred steel balls, each about an eighth of an inch in diameter. A perfect close-range killing device.
If the Claymore had gone off, the entry team and anybody within about fifty yards of the front of the device would have been shredded.
But it hadn’t gone off.
“Why didn’t it detonate?” asks Rizzo.
The tech picks up a nearly invisible length of fishing line. “It should have,” he says. “One end is tied to a triggering device. The other end was tied to that eye hook in the door. Either he didn’t have time to tie it off or the knot didn’t hold.”
I walk over to the bed, where two agents are standing.
Twisted under the covers are two electric blankets, radiating heat.
“Smart little bastard,” says Rizzo from behind me.
I holster my gun. “Right now, he’s smarter than us.”
CHAPTER 50
I STEP OUTSIDE THE room for some fresh air. FBI forensics techs are swarming over the pickup truck. I hear a roar from overhead. Another Black Hawk? Nope. It’s a news helicopter.
Somebody must have reported the bang or spotted all the black uniforms and called a tip line. I’m sure the news crew above us was expecting to see carnage. If it bleeds, it leads.
I step back into the motel room. Rizzo is talking shop with the bomb squad. I notice that the room’s walls are bare except for a white sheet tacked up behind the bed.
Mahoney nudges my elbow. “What’s that about?” he asks. “Movie screen?”
“Don’t touch it until the techs clear it,” says Rizzo. “It might be booby-trapped.”
“Sir?” an agent says from behind us. I turn around. Standingbeside the agent is a stout middle-aged woman in black stretch pants and an Epcot sweatshirt.
“Who’s this?” asks Mahoney.
“Margie Coffey,” the agent says. “She owns the motel.”
Mahoney holds up his ID. “Ned Mahoney, FBI.”
Coffey isn’t impressed. “What the hell just happened here?” she asks. From the sound of her voice, she’s a longtime smoker. “And who the hell is gonna pay for it?”
“Sorry, Ms. Coffey,” says Mahoney. “I apologize for the mess. This was an FBI and state police raid.”
“You couldn’t give me a heads-up, at least?”
“That’s not how we work. We’re searching for a criminal suspect and we couldn’t afford any tip-offs.” Mahoney pulls a folded printout from a side pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”
Coffey pulls a pair of glasses from her pocket and puts them on. She leans in toward the picture. “Sure,” she says. “That’s Aiden. Good guy. What did he do?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” says Mahoney.
I step up and introduce myself. “Ms. Coffey, I’m John Sampson, DC Metro Police. You said Phillips was a good guy? What do you mean by that? Good how?”
“Paid his bill every week,” says Coffey. “None of the usual bullshit about waiting for a paycheck to come in. He even paid me extra to leave him alone. Didn’t want anybody coming in and cleaning his room. He’d pick up clean towels and sheets at the office and bring the dirties back in a sack, nice and neat.”
“Any visitors while he was here?” Mahoney asks. “Deliveries? Dates?”
“Not that I saw,” says Coffey. “Like I said, he kept to himself,paid his bills, gave me extra every week.” She looks around the room and shakes her head. “Now, tell me again, who’s gonna pay for all this?”
“There’s a claims process with the government,” says Mahoney. “We’ll get you the forms.”
