Edge

makes good grades and is in three advanced placement programs. History, English and French. She’s on the yearbook. She volunteers a lot.” I’d wondered if some of the organizations were hospitals or devoted to health care because of her mother’s death. DuBois had continued, “And she plays basketball. That was my sport. You wouldn’t think it. But you don’t have to be that tall. Really. The thing is you have to be willing to bump. Hard.”
    Ryan now said, “Look, I’m just a cop handling some routine nonviolent cases. No terrorists, no Mafia, no conspiracies.” He sipped more of the coffee, snuck a look at the doorway and added twomore sugars, stirring quickly. “Agent Fredericks said this guy needed the information, whatever it is, by Monday night? There’s nothing I’m working on that has a deadline like that. In fact, I’m in a down period now. For the past week or so, I’m mostly on some departmental administrative assignment. Budget. That’s all. If I thought there was something to it, I’d let you know. But there just isn’t. A mistake,” he repeated.
    “I had a principal last year I was protecting.” He hadn’t invited me to sit but I did anyway, on one of the swivel stools. He remained standing. “I spent five days playing cat and mouse with a hitter—a professional killer—who’d been hired to take him out. It was all a complete mistake. The hitter had been given the wrong name. But he would have killed my principal just the same. In this case, it isn’t a hitter who’s after you, it’s a lifter. You ever heard that term?”
    “I think. An interrogator, right? A pro.”
    Close enough. I nodded. “Now, a hitter’s one thing. Mistake or not, you’d be the only one at risk. But a lifter . . . he’ll target your family, anything to get an edge on you—some leverage to force you to tell him what he wants. By the time he realizes it’s a mistake, someone close to you could be seriously hurt. Or worse.”
    Considering my words. “Who is he?”
    “His name’s Henry Loving.”
    “Former military? Special ops?”
    “No. Civilian.”
    “In a gang? Organized crime?”
    “Not that we could find.”
    In fact, we didn’t know much about Henry Loving, other than he’d been born in northern Virginia,left home in his late teens and had maintained little contact with most of his family. His school records were missing. The last time he’d been arrested was when the sentence involved juvenile detention. A week after he was released the magistrate in the case quit the bench for reasons unknown and left the area. It might have been a coincidence. But I, for one, didn’t think so. Loving’s court and police files vanished at the same time. He worked hard to hide his roots and protect his anonymity.
    I looked out the window once more. Then, after a brief conspiratorial pause and a glance into the still-empty hall, I continued, speaking even more softly, “But there’s something else I have to say. This is completely between us?”
    He gripped the coffee he’d lost his taste for.
    I continued, “Henry Loving has successfully kidnapped at least a dozen principals to interrogate them. Those are just the cases we know about. He’s responsible for the deaths of a half dozen bystanders too. He’s killed or seriously injured federal agents and local cops.”
    Ryan gave a brief wince.
    “I’ve been trying . . . our organization and the Bureau have been trying for years to collar him. So, okay, I’m admitting it: Yes, we’re here to protect you and your family. But you’re a godsend to us, Detective. You’re a decorated cop, somebody who’s familiar with tactical response, with weapons.”
    “Well, it’s been a few years.”
    “Those skills never go away. Don’t you think? Like riding a bicycle.”
    A modest glance downward. “I do get out to the range every week.”
    “There you go.” I could see a change in his dark eyes. A bit of fire in them. “I’m asking for your help in getting this guy. But we can’t do it here. Not in this house. Too dangerous for you and your family, too dangerous for your neighbors.”
    He tapped his pistol. “I’m loaded with Glasers.”
    Safety bullets. Powerful rounds that can kill, but they won’t penetrate Sheetrock and injure bystanders. They’re called suburb slugs.
    “But Loving won’t be. He’ll come in with M4s or MP-5s. It’ll be carnage. There will be collateral damage.”
    He was considering all that I’d said.