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“Yes, thanks,” Olivia smiled back. “It’s going to feel really good. Just have to get the signatures on the paperwork.”
Steph lifted her chin. “You look like crap, by the way.”
“Fair,” Olivia said, brushing a hand through her hair. “I haven’t been sleeping at all.” And looking like crap was how she met Nutsbe? Wonderful.
“Serious,” Steph had been a friend for many years, and the concern on her face was genuine, “is the upcoming divorce trial keeping you up?”
“No, it’s motorcycles,” Olivia said, fatigue weighted her voice.
“More?”
“Every night for what—more than a week now? These motorcycles have started up around midnight. Super loud. Super obnoxious.”
“At your house?”
“Not my house,” Olivia sank deeper into the chair. “They’re going around the various roads in my subdivision.”
“Isn’t that a noise ordinance issue?”
“Could be. I don’t know. With the carjackings going on in the city, do I want to pull cops off their patrols to stake out motorcycle noises?”
Steph had that glassy-eyed stare she got when she reached back into a fold of her gray matter to pull out some factoid. “Hmm. Probably, I just have the grand jury on the brain.”
“I’m getting some water. Do you want some?” Olivia stood. “What were you just thinking about?”
“Yes, to the water, thanks.” As Olivia bent over the minifridge to grab two bottles, Steph said, “I was thinking about things with the Middle East and motorcycles—but it’s a CIA story.”
Olivia twisted the cap off and handed Steph the water. “Let’s hear it.” she sat down and took a sip from her own bottle.
“Mmmm, hang on.” Steph pulled out her phone and tapped the keyboard. “Yup, here we go. On August 7th, a terrorist—number two in his organization—was gunned down in his car. He and his niece died instantly. Let’s see here. The assassination took place on the anniversary of the African twin attacks on the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania.”
“Where are you reading this?” Olivia asked. “I haven’t seen anything in the papers. What has this got to do with motorcycles?”
“I follow intelligence folks on social media,” Steph put her phone on the desk. “I want to know right away if they are picking up anything to do with our case.”
Olivia leaned forward. “Are they?”
“They know our case is moving forward. Nothing interesting or new. But about the attack on the seventh, the I.C.—Intelligence Community—has been low-key talking about how the CIA was the one who committed the assassinations. They said the CIA had hoped to keep it super-secret, but somebody’s ego got the best of them, and they spilled to a reporter.”
“They said they were CIA?” Olivia swiveled in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.
“No, they said they,” she used finger quotes, “‘happened’ to be there and had witnessed the event.” Steph reached into her bag of chips and popped one into her mouth. Then pushed the bag toward Olivia. “Help yourself.”
Olivia lifted a no-thank-you hand.
“According to the I.C., the witness described what happened with details that the average citizen walking down the street would not have in their vocabulary, like that they ‘clocked the shooter.’”
“What does that mean. That’s not in my vocabulary either.”
“Apparently, standing looking forward is twelve o’clock. He clocked this person at his two.” She held out her arm like she was the hand on a clock and then turned her head to line up her view. “That’s my take, anyway. Five shots fired from a gun fitted with a silencer.”
“How would they hear shots if the gun had a silencer?”
“It doesn’t silence,” Steph explained. “That’s a misnomer. It just makes the shot quieter. Suppressor’s a better term.”
“Huh,” Olivia changed her mind and reached for some chips. “I’ve never had that come up at trial, but if I do, I know to do more research. Seems like that was someone who knew what they were doing. I don’t think I’d be counting shots as much as ducking and running.”
“And they knew to follow their trajectory. The witness told the reporter that four went into the car, killing the two people, and a fifth hit a nearby vehicle that was empty.”
