Read No Time for Heroes for Free Online

of exhibitions and art events that wouldn’t be on any State Department sheet. They’ll all need to be checked out. According to our files, he enjoyed the party scene.’ He could probably shorten the search by going over the Bureau monitoring log, even though Serov wasn’t on any Watch rota: it was still automatic to flag the attendance of a Russian if one were identified.
    â€˜Why bother!’ demanded Johannsen. ‘Those guys don’t give a shit about catching whoever did it. Why should we bust our asses?’
    â€˜I don’t envy you guys,’ said Brierly.
    â€˜I don’t envy us either,’ said Johannsen, with feeling.
    They drove directly from the mortuary to the scene of the murder. As they turned off M Street on to Wisconsin, towards the river, Johannsen began identifying the unmarked cars of the detectives carrying out the house-to-house enquiries.
    â€˜Are they going to be pissed off, having to wait around long into the evening!’
    â€˜I wish there was another way,’ said Cowley, meaning it.
    Because the bottom of Wisconsin Avenue was sealed off, he parked against the tape and the stripped trestles. Cowley showed his shield and Johannsen automatically attached his badge to the top pocket of his jacket. There was a hard core of onlookers with a new street entertainment and some waiting-just-in-case journalists and photographers and two television crews. Cowley and Johannsen were through the barriers before they were spotted: they ignored the yells to attract their attention, and the one TV light that flared on.
    An area about twelve square yards around where the body had been found was completely enclosed in protective polythene, creating a tent that concealed them from the media, occupied by about ten technicians, either in white or in light blue protective cover-alls. Two were manhandling a huge, generator-powered vacuum machine, sucking everything from the ground behind a squad carrying out an inch by inch visual search ahead of them. After the vacuum, more men were designating the area already scoured with rectangles of tape, like an archaeological dig. Cowley supposed in many ways it was. The chalked outline showing the position in which Serov’s body had been found was unnecessary: a good half of the shape of the torso was marked with thick gouts of blood.
    To one technician who appeared temporarily to be doing nothing Cowley said: ‘Anything?’
    The man indicated the vacuum. ‘It’ll take days to go through that. But we did find a shell casing, quite early this morning. That’s already back at headquarters; Harry Robertson took it himself. You know him?’
    Cowley nodded. ‘Nothing else?’
    â€˜DC forensic retrieved a slug last night, under what was left of the poor bastard’s head. Flat as a dime was the word.’
    â€˜Any tyre marks?’
    The man gestured generally. ‘Take your pick. At night this place is a goddamned parking lot. We’ve got more casts than General Motors.’
    At the entrance to the makeshift tent Cowley hesitated, looking back to where the body had been, relating it to the nearest buildings. Overhead there was the constant thunder of cars along the freeway. A lot of detectives were going to waste their time long into the night, trying to locate anyone who might have heard anything.
    A media reception committee was waiting immediately beyond the barrier. There were flashgun bursts and television lights and a babble of questions, to all of which Cowley and Johannsen shook their heads as they waded through. One reporter said to Cowley: ‘Hey, don’t I recognise you?’ Cowley shook his head to that, as well.
    It was awkward for Cowley to back and turn the car the way he had parked, and there were a lot more photographs before he could regain M Street. Before they reached the traffic lights Johannsen said: ‘What about a drink? We’ve been six hours on the go and missed