“Does she live on base?”
Cardarelli shook his head. “No. She has an off-base town home.”
“I’ll need that address.”
Cardarelli gave it to Puller. As he rose, Puller said, “Any developments on the device that made the gun and explosion sounds in pod three that night?”
“None that I’ve heard of. It was the damnedest thing.”
“Yeah,” said Puller. “The damnedest thing.”
A few minutes later he hurried back to his car and accessed a military database on his laptop.
Lenora H. Macri’s photo and service record came up along with her personal history. Puller quickly read through it. Nothing struck him. She had a good record, no blemishes. When he flipped to the screens concerning her personal history, though, things became clearer, or more muddled, depending on how you looked at it.
Her parents were dead and she was an only child. So what were the family commitments that had changed?
And Macri had told him that she had not ordered a search of the guards for the noisemaking device. He had thought that peculiar and perhaps a professional gaffe. But by not conducting a search she had actually accomplished something. She had left available hundreds of suspects who could have smuggled such a device into the prison, and there was no way to prove now which of them might have done it. And by doing so, Macri, if she had been the one to bring the device into the prison, was also lost among a sea of potential suspects. And she might have had enough skill and access to override the security system at the prison, resulting in the cell doors opening rather than locking when the power went out.
He started the car and piloted it toward the address the officer had given him. He had strongly cautioned Cardarelli against phoning Macri and discussing anything that they had talked about. The real reason for the admonition was to ensure that Macri not be forewarned and possibly try to make a run for it.
Energized by perhaps finally having a lead in the case, he gunned the engine and made it to the subdivision on the outskirts of Leavenworth in record time. He parked in a spot where he could see her end-unit town home. He killed the engine and waited. There was a car parked in front of her place. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from his duffel and trained them on the car. Sure enough, hanging from the rearview mirror was a parking tag for the DB. This was her ride, a late-model silver Honda Civic.
His plan was to give it some time and see if she came out, and then he would follow her. If she didn’t come out he was going to conduct another interview with the woman with the goal of making her as uncomfortable as possible.
He waited an hour, but Macri did not leave her unit. He was about to get out of the car when another vehicle pulled in and parked next to Macri’s ride.
Puller’s eyes widened when he saw the person get out of the car and head up the steps to Macri’s home.
Veronica Knox was obviously no longer cooling her heels at the cemetery.
CHAPTER
29
PULLER WATCHED AS KNOX rapped on the door and then rang the bell when no one answered. She looked around and Puller saw her hand dip into her jacket. She withdrew something he couldn’t see but assumed it was a lock pick. Her hands moved around the knob for a few seconds and then she opened the door and stepped in.
As soon as the door closed behind her Puller was out of his car and hustling down the street. He passed by the side of Macri’s house and went around to the back. It was a three-level structure with a deck above and a walk-out basement door below. The door was a slider. There were no curtains on it so Puller could see right inside. It was not built out; concrete foundation walls stared back at him along with stacked cardboard boxes.
The lock on the slider was a simple one and Puller was through the opening and over to the bottom of the stairs in a few seconds. He could hear footsteps above him, probably Knox looking around. And where was Macri? Her car was out front. But she had’t answered the door. Was she here or not?
The familiar firecracker pops signifying gunshots caused Puller to pull his M11, crouch down, and pause, listening. There had been two shots, along with other sounds. He had heard the first shot, then a crash of something hitting something, then the second shot, then a scream and finally a thud. Someone had gone down. Was it Knox? Or Macri, if she was even here?
He took the steps three at a time. There was a door at the top of the stairs. Puller eased it open and did a turkey peek.
He saw no one. He sight-cleared the room behind him and then headed forward. He eased around the corner, his gun straight ahead.
Then he stopped.
Knox was kneeling over Macri, who was sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from a wound in her chest.
Knox still held her gun in her right hand.
“Don’t move, Knox,” Puller called out, but he was prepared for her to move fast, turn, and fire at him.
Instead she held her gun up, her finger clearly off the trigger, the muzzle pointed down. She was surrendering.
“Put it down on the floor and kick it toward me,” ordered Puller.
“She needs an ambulance.”
“I’m sure she does. Kick the gun to me and then I’ll call one.”
Knox did as he instructed. He picked the gun up by the muzzle and laid it on the hall table. He punched in 911 on his phone and ordered an ambulance.
“Step away from her,” he said. “Lie down on the floor, hands behind your head and your legs splayed.”
“Puller, she tried to kill me!”
“I’m sure we’ll sort it all out. But for now, just do as I say.”
Knox got on the floor with her hands behind her head and her legs spread wide.
Puller. I have a job to do.”
“So you just walked in here and she took a shot at you. She had the element of surprise. She was a soldier. How’d she miss you at this range?”
“Because I saw her a split second before she fired. I kicked that chair at her, hit the floor, and fired from there. When they do the post they’ll confirm the trajectory.”
Puller looked at the overturned chair lying next to Macri’s body.
In the distance they could both hear the sirens coming.