“Yeah, I think I will,” I tell him as the red Mustang pulls next to a gas pump under the well-lit overhang. “This shouldn’t take long.”
I walk over to Garrett as he swipes his credit card in the pump. It takes him a couple of tries to get it right. Apparently following simple instructions on how to pay for your gas is not a prerequisite for becoming a director over at the DIA.
“What do you have for me?”
“I heard Colby Washington officially got canned,” I answer, determined not to let him control the conversation for once.
“He cleared out his office this morning and then left the building. I’m moving in tomorrow,” he relays to me as he inserts the nozzle into the throat of the tank and starts to fuel car.
“I guess congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you. Now I just need to wrap this mole hunt up. So, back to my original question. What do you have for me?”
“How well do you know your old boss?”I ask him as I watch the light traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue pass by the service station.
“You’re testing my patience, Zach,” Garrett warns.
“This will go much faster if you quit jousting with me and answer my question,” I reply with equal seriousness.
“I’ve worked with him for years, so pretty well. Why is it relevant?”
“Do you know Gina Attison?” Garrett immediately clams up.
“Not personally. I know she’s Hollinger’s fiancée. Why?”
“So you’ve never met her?” I continue to probe.
“No. Where are you going with this?”
Garrett is lying through his teeth. It’s easy to play someone when they are on the outside looking in, but he miscalculated one key thing after the explosion outside of the doctor’s house. The byproduct of making sure I was assigned to the investigation was me having access to all the files associated with it. Grimman and I might not be best friends right now, but it doesn’t mean we don’t share information on the case. Gina told him that a source told her about Hollinger being targeted by Colby. I’m wondering if that source was actually Turner, and who really has the ax to grind against the man I’m chasing down.
“What about Colby Washington? Does he know Senator Ludwick personally?”
“Not to my knowledge. I’m done with your questions. Now you get to answer mine. What have you found?”
“Hollinger is off the grid. He isn’t using his phone or credit cards, nor has he been to an ATM.”
“So you have nothing,” Garrett concludes.
“We identified the car they left Ivy City in. It was a late eighties model Mercury Sable stolen from an auto reclamation shop. We have a BOLO out for it now.”
“That shouldn’t be hard to find, assuming he hasn’t switched cars. Is that it?”
“No. The four of them are getting help from someone. It could be a friend of Williams, or maybe one of Rilleux’s patrons, and it could even be someone Doctor Winters knows. I think it’s Gina Attison.”
“I doubt it. You should focus on the criminal … Rilleux or whatever his name is.”
Garrett’s phone rings again and he stops filling his huge tank to fish the device out of his suit jacket. He’s on that thing every time I see him. I’m surprised he doesn’t walk around with a Bluetooth device glued to his ear.
“I’m surprised to hear from you,” he says into the phone without any greeting whatsoever. “Hold on one second. Let me take this, Zach. I’ll get back with you later.”
“You shouldn’t use that thing while fueling up,” I advise, pointing to the warning placard sticker on the pump.
He waves a dismissive hand. I hate being blown off, but Garrett will use any excuse to dodge my questions. He’s hiding something, and I want to know what almost as bad as I want to find Hollinger. I turn and walk away at a slow, leisurely pace as I strain to hear what he’s saying.
“Our business is done. I sat across from you at your desk and told you everything you needed to know. You didn’t act on it. Now it’s costing you,” he tells the person on the other end of the line and then pauses.
“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it? Hollinger―”
Garrett must have got interrupted, but now I’m too far away to hear the conversation anymore. I walk over to where my partner is leaning against the trunk of our car and he hands me a coffee.
“Get what you needed?” Remsen asks.
“Only more questions. We’re still missing too many pieces to the puzzle. The deeper I dig, the more complicated this whole affair becomes.”
“What’s the next move?”
“We need to find Hollinger. This whole thing still revolves around him, but I also need you to do something,” I tell my longtime colleague and friend.
“What’s that?”
“Contact your friends at the NSA and find out who just called Garrett.”
“Without a warrant?”
“Yeah, but first you need to get donuts.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
“Okay, but don’t blame the love handles you end up getting on me,” he laughs, walking back towards the door of the shop.
I turn my attention back to Garrett. He’s still on the phone as he hangs the pump handle back up and turns to tighten his gas cap. I hear another ring that sounds like a phone come from his direction. I see him bend down toward the rear of the car. He must hear it―
The world erupts before my eyes and the force propels me through the air. I hit … something … hard and get the wind knocked out of me. I struggle to breathe. I can feel the hard ground beneath me. The heat is almost blistering as I shield my eyes from the blinding light and debris. I don’t dare move. I’m not sure I can anyway.
Another deafening sound … my head pounds as I try to use my arms to protect my ears and eyes as best I can. The air fills with an acrid smoke and I begin to choke. Every bone in my body hurts. My head throbs as the aftereffects of the overpressure wave take their toll.
After a moment, the roar of noise around me subsides. Sensing the worst is over, I inch my arms away from my head and strain to gaze back in the direction of the inferno. My blurred vision begins to clear. The fluorescent lights illuminating the pumps have been replaced with a bright orange glow of flames. People are running everywhere. Some are running towards us and others are fleeing the inferno in panic. The explosion ruptured the gas pumps, which are now feeding enormous sheets of flame. In the middle of the conflagration is what is left of a Ford Mustang, and presumably what is left of its driver.
.
~ CHapter 47 ~
Eric “maryland” williams
It only takes a few loud bangs on the door for Tara to finally answer it. I assume that Boston and Louisiana figured that if it was the police calling, a woman answering would give them a short moment of pause before they barge in. It doesn’t have that effect on me.
“It’s only Maryland,” she announces as I brush past her into the living room. “And he’s alone.”
I’m sure they wanted her to confirm I didn’t bring a posse of federal agents and police with me. The local news on the big-screen television in the living room is covering the same story that prompted me to come here in the first place. An explosion of that size in any city would result in a media obsession over it and prompt the networks to break into their regularly scheduled programs.
“What the hell did you do?” I demand from Louisiana as he enters from the kitchen with Boston in tow.
“What are you even doing here, bro?”
“To get some answers,” I seethe.
“How did you get here?” Boston asks calmly.
“Who gives a damn how I got here?”
“We do. If you want answers to whatever questions you have, you’re going to tell us what we need to know first.”
“How did you get back here, bro?” Louisiana continues to prod. “Your car is in the FBI impound by now.”
“I took an Uber car.”
<
br /> “With what app?”
Uber is a new age form of taxi service that doesn’t require a fare to call a dispatcher or hail on the street. With an account and a downloadable app to a smartphone, you can request a ride with the push of a button. It’s actually a reasonable question since my phone has undoubtedly become a pulverized mess in the middle of New York Avenue since I threw it out the window when we fled Tara’s place.
“I had a waitress at a diner do it for me. Now if you’re satisfied, it’s my turn, because you just murdered someone.” I assert, pointing to the destruction at the gas station playing on the television. They are watching their handiwork.
“You’d better check yourself, bro. I didn’t murder nobody. Why would I blow up another car?”
“It’s what you do!”
“It’s what I did because I needed to. I didn’t need to do that,” he claims, joining me in pointing at the television. “Beside, I’ve been here all day. Ask them!”
I glance over at Tara and she nods. I don’t exactly trust her, but she’s more believable and innocent than my two friends are right now. Standing nearly chest to chest with Louisiana, I only now realize how tight my fists are clenched.
“And where have you been, bro? Police station? FBI?”
“I was hanging out in the city.”
“You didn’t go home?” Boston asks, more out of surprise than as an actual question.
“Well, that wouldn’t be the smartest of ideas, would it?”
“You won’t ever accuse me of callin’ you smart,” Louisiana deadpans. He’s pushing my buttons, and he’s doing it on purpose.
“Shut up, you psycho,” I blurt out.
“Psycho?”
“Yeah, psycho. Are you deaf or just plain dumb? You killed Garrett. Don’t even try to convince me you didn’t.”
“What?” The look of incredulous disbelief on Boston’s face would be nearly impossible to duplicate even from an Oscar-winning actor. He legitimately didn’t know.
“Boston, the man killed in the inferno at the gas station,” I say, turning to face the television, “was Garrett Turner.”
“Whoa,” he replies, stunned. He sits down on the sofa with his head in his hands.
“How do you know that?” Louisiana challenges, recognizing the name from the night we talked after he arrived in town.
“I called the office. They told me. News travels pretty fast when a director gets incinerated.”
“You called the office? Why?” Boston shouts.
“I was going to arrange to turn myself in to the FBI agents from counterintelligence there. When they let it slip that Turner was dead, I changed my mind and came here instead.”
“Bos, he’s lying, bro. He did turn himself in. The cops sent him here.”
“If that were true, you’d all be on the floor in cuffs right now,” I refute.
“Deputy director,” Boston mutters.
“What?”
“You said Director Turner. You meant to say deputy director,” Boston erroneously corrects after a moment of thought.
“No, I meant director. Colby Washington was relieved of his duties. Garrett was promoted to take over the department.”
“Jesus,” Boston mumbles under his breath.
“It didn’t take long to figure out that Louisiana took care of him since there was no love lost between the two of you,” I continue.
“Bro, I’m only goin’ to say this one more time. I didn’t blow up any car today.”
“Yeah, sure, then it must have been one of the other lunatics running around this city with plastic explosives.”
I say it for effect, but I’m beginning to doubt my original conclusion. Boston definitely had no knowledge of it, and I don’t think Tara would lie about Louisiana being here all day if he wasn’t. She hates violence, and I doubt would ever condone their involvement in a murder.
“Maybe there’s another lunatic out there. One who knows about what happened last night and is using it to set us up.”
“You can’t be serious?” This ranks at the top of my list of lamest excuses I have ever heard.
“The dream you had,” Tara chimes in from across the room. She moved there to steer clear of the carnage in case our little kerfuffle turned into something far more physical. “The one from this afternoon with the red car.”
“It made no sense at the time. Now that I have context …” Boston clarifies. “It explains how I saw it. I know whoever killed him.”
I’ve heard enough. Boston’s dreams, or memories, have become the bane of my existence. Whether he saw what happened is irrelevant. It means he knows the bomber, and it’s still probably the man in front of me. The police need to hear this before something else tragic happens. If they won’t turn themselves in, I’ll do it for them. My decision made, I head for the door.
“You’re all ridiculous! I don’t want to hear about your damn dreams again,” I declare, heading for the door while experiencing some serious déjà vu.
“Oh look, he’s leaving again. Shocker.”
“Where are you going, Maryland?”
“To do what I should have done a long time ago. I’m going to the police―”
“You can’t do that,” Boston states.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me in the back as I leave?”
“Give me the gun, Boston. I’ll do it,” Louisiana offers eagerly.
“Nobody is shooting anybody. Everyone calm down,” Tara interjects, now sincerely worried that this could escalate into something she doesn’t want to be a part of.
“Maryland, I asked you once if you were with me or against me. I gave you a choice and you decided to come along for the ride. Is this how you want it to end?”
Appealing to my sense of friendship is a dirty trick. Boston and I have served together, bled together, and recovered together. Then we chose to stay in the same occupation and have worked together since. But I can’t go along with this anymore. It has to end before we all end up in prison.
“We’ve gone way past that original deal, Boston.”
“You know, screw this, I have a tranquilizer gun somewhere in this bag,” Louisiana informs us as he starts digging through his black duffle bag of goodies.
“We’re not going to drug him,” Boston soothes.
“Damn.”
“Maryland, if you don’t want to be a part of this, fine. I get it. I should have never involved you in this. I know that now, but I need one last favor from you. Give me a twenty-four-hour head start. Then do what you need to do. That’s it.”
A big part of me wants to tell him to go pound sand. I don’t owe him anything for what he’s dragged me into. I could be facing prison time or worse because of Louisiana’s stunt. The sooner I get to the police, the sooner I get out of this ordeal and can go home. As much as I want to say all of that, I can’t bring myself to do it.
“I’ll give you twelve,” I tell him as I hustle out the door, still not trusting Louisiana not to hit me with a dart full of valium as I walk out.
.
~ Chapter 48 ~
Gina Attison
There is nothing more disconcerting to the average person than a run-in with law enforcement. It’s no different for me. Considering that the most egregious offense I’ve ever been accused of was going fifty-five in a forty when I first got my driver’s license, coming home to see black sedans with flashing blue lights in the driveway has relocated my heart into my throat.
I park my Audi in front of a house up the street, since it’s the only spot available. The home I share with Boston is small and, like our neighbors, doesn’t have a garage or driveway. All the parking in this section of Oxon Hill is on the street. Each day, we start and end our commute with a trek up and down the long sidewalk that runs from the street to the front door.
I try to quash the nervousness I feel as I make that trip now. When I reach the house, I’m met by a man in a windbreaker with “FBI” emblazoned on it in gold lettering. He’s about to s
peak when I beat him to the punch.
“What the hell do you think you all are doing?”
“Gina Attison? You need to speak to the agent-in-charge. Follow me, ma’am,” he says politely.
I don’t have to go far. Sitting on our living room couch in his cheap suit is the man I met in my office only yesterday. At this point, with all that’s happened, it feels like a month ago.
“Do you remember me, Miss Attison?”
“Special Agent Grimman. Fancy meeting you here in my living room as your agents ransack my house.”
“Good, then there’s no need for introductions. And we’re not ransacking anything. We’re executing a warrant to search these premises for information on a fugitive who is about to graduate to the FBI’s ten most wanted list,” he explains, handing me a folded document I don’t bother to read. “I think you know him. He bought the ring on your finger.”
The remark causes me to reach over with my right hand and twist the diamond engagement ring. When I realize I’m doing it, I clasp my hands together and look around the room.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Miss Attison, so we can talk about where your fiancé is.”
“I have no idea where he is,” I confess to him as I sit on the sofa. Suddenly, I’m glad Boston kept that to himself. Grimman takes a seat in an upholstered chair across from me while two other agents move in around us.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“He called to tell me what happened right afterwards. I haven’t talked to him since.” Okay, that was a half truth.
“You want me to believe you haven’t spoken to him in the last eighteen hours?”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe,” I announce in an exasperated voice.
“You told me you are the special projects manager for Senator Ludwick, is that correct?”
“It was true when I told you, but it’s not anymore. I got fired today.”
“Why did you get fired?”
“Politics.”
It’s always about politics in this town. Representatives who are supposed to be the servants of the people are nothing more than power-hungry egomaniacs whose concern for their constituents only extends to ensuring their support in the next election. They use the system to enrich themselves, and they use the people to protect that system by convincing them they’re doing their patriotic duty.
The Eyes of Others Page 21