“This is hard for me,” Lowenstein said. “I feel betrayed. Phil and I came to this town together. Our careers dovetailed. I’m embarrassed I never saw through him and that I tried to get you to work with him. Your instincts were right on.”
“We’re all blinded by our loyalty and friendship,” Katz said. “It’s not unique to your relationship with him. It’s just something that happened.”
“Still,” the senator said.
Katz knew the score. Beneath it all, Lowenstein was just another politician whose number one priority was his own reputation. Two people were dead, an explosion rocked a luxury hotel in the heart of the city, a nefarious plot involving H-Pack backpacks was disrupted, and a van was blown sky-high at Roaches Run. Yet Lowenstein’s concern was whether his relationship with Landry might reflect poorly on his public image.
“If it’s any consolation,” Katz said, “Landry fooled a lot of people for a long time. You’re not alone in that category.”
“I appreciate your saying that.”
Katz didn’t respond. He hadn’t meant it as a compliment.
“I mean, even thinking of his statement about January 6, I think Landry wanted those bastards to wreck the Capitol.” Lowenstein hesitated. “Do you think I should do some press?
”Katz was surprised by the question. “Why? What for?”
“To distance myself. I could talk about what a bastard he was. Emphasize that I helped deep-six his plan for a Cabinet level position a couple of years ago.”
“I don’t know,” Katz replied carefully. As Katz remembered it, the senator had held fire until it was clear Landry was a lost cause.
“Maybe consult your public affairs folks,” Katz added.
“They’re all out of town for the weekend.” Lowenstein paused. “Actually, I don’t trust their instincts half the time. I pretty much follow my gut. Make a few calls to friends like you, and then adopt a course of action. Think I’ll call a couple of reporters who’ve given me favorable looks in the past. See if I can get some face time.”
“Good luck.”
“By the way, what’s the latest on the incident out at Roaches Run?” It was the first in a series of rapid-fire questions. “Did Landry play a role in the H-Pack backpack scare this morning? Do you think Landry was working with that ex-congressional aide to detonate a train bomb?”
Katz deflected the inquiries. “You’ll need to talk to someone in the know, like Sherry Stone.” He gave Lowenstein her number.
“If I can’t reach her, I’ll wing it,” Lowenstein said. “I’m the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. I know everything,” he added facetiously.
“More than me, that’s for sure,” Katz replied.
“I doubt it,” Lowenstein said wryly. He added, “By the way, in case you’re wondering, I just heard from Roscoe Page. It’s why I called you.”
“I figured.”
“He says you think that Landry might not be dead, that he might have faked the whole thing to create an elaborate escape.” “It’s possible. I’m working on a theory, senator. The only two people I’ve discussed it with are Roscoe and Stone. I’ll fill you in as soon as I figure it out.”
**
THE LOCKS of Page’s white hair curled over his collar. He ran his hand through them. He knocked twice. He was loathe to drop the envelope through the mail slot in the door, so when there was no answer, he turned and walked away as discreetly as he had approached. He was almost to the curb when the door opened.
Page turned around and walked back to the house. “I’m Roscoe Page,” he said, stifling the reflex to shake hands.
“I know who you are,” replied Mann, wearing a mask. “Your reputation precedes you.” Mann looked at the envelope tucked under Page’s arm. “Is that a present for me?”
“May I come inside?”
He opened the door wider and Page stepped inside. Classical music was playing in the background. Mann ushered Page from the foyer to the living room.
“I got my vaccination shots for COVID-19,” Page said. Mann removed his mask.
Papers were strewn about the floor, coffee table, and sofa. Mann was dressed casually in a T-shirt and khakis. “I’ve got a show this evening,” Mann explained, waving at the mess.
Page handed Mann the envelope.
“Tell me what I’m looking at,” Mann said as he sat down and pulled the contents out of the envelope. He flipped through the pages.
“It’s a copy of my firm’s investigation into the attack on Ruth Hammond several years ago in Crystal City,” Page said.
Mann looked up at Page. “Who?” His heart skipped a beat.
“Ruth Hammond. She did the preliminary research into Phil Landry’s scam in Alexandria Circuit Court. Her work led to the Pena Inquiry. You remember, don’t you?” Page held Mann’s stare. “A couple of years after the inquiry fell apart, Ms. Hammond was brutally attacked in a parking garage. The crime was never solved by the police. But I solved it, and my findings are in the report you’re holding.”
“Who asked you to give it to me?”
“Ari Hammond, her brother.”
“Why now?”
“You’ll know the answer to that question after you’ve reviewed the report.”
Page didn’t stick around and Mann didn’t waste any time reviewing the documents after the entrepreneur left. The report confirmed a suspicion that had resided in the pit of Mann’s stomach for years. He felt ill. But only for a moment. There was work to be done and a story to be told.
**
Tweet from #TheChronicle
Sen. Abe Lowenstein, a dear friend and a very smart guy, will offer insights and commentary this evening on Mann Up/Newsmakers Saturday Night. We’re on-air, online, on point, and right on! Join us!
**
During the afternoon, dozens of people were questioned about bringing H-Pack backpacks into the city. No one coordinated the investigations. As a result, they Balkanized into a dozen disparate inquires.
“We’re exacerbating the problem,” said one intake officer processing the interviews. “We don’t have grounds to detain these people. We’re potentially looking at massive civil rights violations and lawsuits up the wazoo.”
One by one, the suspects were released. No standard operating procedure was established for detaining, questioning, or releasing them. In some instances, names and addresses were taken. In others, people were simply released without any identification being shown or recorded.
Stone was standing in a police substation in the District that was collecting the names of detainees. Two names on the list caught her eye. She asked if either of the individuals was still at the station. One was, she was told.
Her phone rang. She answered it without checking the source of the incoming call.
“Mo asked me to see how you’re doing,” Mai Lin said.
Stone had received two calls from Katz earlier. She deliberately did not answer either one. She was beginning to have her own suspicions. If she was right, it might be best to connect the dots later. “Everything is copacetic,” she replied.
“Are people being questioned for bringing backpacks into the city?”
“They’re being released,” Stone answered. “I’m good with that. I don’t think there’s any need to hold them. I mean, what for? They didn’t do anything. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Stone wondered what angle had Katz’s attention. “Well, there’s nothing suspicious here,” she said. “I’m preparing to leave soon.” After the call ended, Stone went to the desk sergeant and asked if she could interview the woman with the backpack who was sitting on a bench against a tile wall. The one whose name on the list that caught her attention.
“This way, Maria,” Stone said a moment later.
Hesitantly, Pena complied. Stone took her into an interview room and closed the door. The square cinderblock room held a small rectangular table with a chair on either side of it. T
here was no recording device and no mirror that enabled people on the other side of the wall to observe their conversation.
“How well did you know Phil Landry?” Stone asked as they sat down.
Pena jumped up. “Who?”
“Phil Landry,” Stone replied calmly. “And please sit back down.” Pena complied.
“I’m not here to hurt you or do anything wrong, okay? I know you were involved in an intimate relationship with him for the past several months.”
Pena sat ramrod straight in the chair. “I’d like some water. And how long are you going to question me?”
“Five minutes, max. I just want to gather a little information, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Pena said, relaxing a little. She didn’t need that water after all. “I was having an affair with Phil. I just didn’t think anyone knew about it.”
Stone had not known about the affair. She was working off a hunch. In the papers she reviewed in Wilson’s apartment, Landry indicated he was having sexual relations with one of his three targeted individuals. When Stone saw the name Maria Pena on the list at the police station — along with Ahmed Suleiman — she suspected Pena might be that person.
It was the first piece that fit the jigsaw puzzle she was trying to solve in her head.
“Do you know who he is?” Stone asked. “I mean, do you know anything about Phil Landry?”
“No. Why, should I? He seemed like a nice man to me. I can’t understand why he would be involved in any of those terrible things they’re saying.”
Stone lowered her head and ran fingernails across an eyebrow. Wow. The girl is so far behind the curve she doesn’t even know this is the guy who destroyed her father. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“What do you mean? I saw his picture on television today. Is that what you’re asking?”
“When was the last time you were intimate with Phil?”
“You mean, like sex?”
“Yeah, Maria. I mean, like sex.”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“How about last night? Did you meet with him at the GreyStone Hotel last night?”
“What are you talking about?” Pena started to cry.
It was the last thing Stone needed. This interview needed to be conducted with a modicum of discretion. Just nail down this one final fact and get out of here, Stone told herself.
“Did you drive to the GreyStone Hotel last night to meet with Phil?”
“No. I stayed home. I was by myself.” She looked at Stone through her tears. “It’s not like I can prove it. But I did not see Phil Landry. I swear.”
Stone nodded. “Okay, wipe your eyes. We’re done.”
As Pena pulled herself together, Stone smiled to herself. Again, she’d gotten information off a bluff. She had not known whether there was a sexual liaison last night at the GreyStone but, given her mounting suspicions, it was logical to believe there could have been one.
After releasing Pena, Stone was confident the narrative created by Tom Mann was inaccurate.
Stone contacted the investigator in charge of the bombing at the GreyStone. She asked if she could come over to the hotel. She anticipated the response to her question so was quick to say, “I realize it’s outside my jurisdiction. I’m just interested in seeing whether there are any similarities between the hotel bombing and the explosion at Roaches Run.”
Just one officer’s request to another to nose around, “Columbo” style, she insinuated. It worked. “Come on down,” said the cop in her best Monty Hall imitation. Thirty minutes later, Stone was at the GreyStone.
While there was no evidence of damage to the lobby, an inspection of the hotel’s infrastructure — plumbing, electricity, heating and cooling — was pending.
Stone found the security manager and inquired about security cameras. She was told there was a four-hour blackout the night before. It didn’t surprise her. She pressed the security manager, who turned her over to the hotel’s IT guy. He finally came clean after Stone said the info would be kept confidential. He explained there was a recurring request from a guest who wanted his sexual liaisons to stay anonymous. One of those liaisons was last night. The security manager knew about it too, the IT guy said. They were both in on the take.
“A lot of politicians and diplomats visit on a regular basis,” he said. “Or at least they used to until the pandemic. Nowadays not so much. Still, I sympathized with the guy. Plus, it’s a few extra dollars in my pocket.”
Stone ran up the stairs to the ninth floor, two at a time. She pushed open the heavy metal door from the staircase to the interior of the hotel and examined the wing undergoing reconstruction where the bomb had exploded. There was a huge hole in the wall, now covered with plastic sheeting.
She studied the contents of the wing, including a heavy-duty plastic and rubber chute that dropped from a window to a huge dumpster in the alley. Then she examined the other wing. The doors to all the rooms were locked.
When she came back down, she told the IT guy she wanted to see the room where the liaison had taken place. He was resistant. “Don’t fuck with me,” she said. “You’ve been a good boy so far. Start giving me a hard time and you’re only looking for trouble.” She saw fear behind his bluster. “If someone pays you to temporarily dismantle the security cameras to facilitate his liaisons,” she said, “he probably uses the same routine every time he comes here, which includes using the same room. I want to see it.”
The IT guy acknowledged she was right but that there was a deviation from the norm on Saturday night. For the first time, the guest requested a different room. And the request was made by text from an unfamiliar number.
He took her to the room.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary when she looked it over: king-size bed, end tables, credenza, plasma television, desk, table and chairs, plush carpeting.
“Who cleaned the room this morning?” she asked. He said he did not know, but he could find out later. “Do it now,” she insisted.
He resisted. “The maid, she…”
“Don’t worry,” Stone said. “I don’t care about whether she’s legal. Around here, the local police don’t volunteer information to the feds as a matter of policy.”
Fifteen minutes later, Stone was seated with the maid, Juanita Salazar. The coronavirus had devastated members of her family, many of whom worked in health care and custodial services. Despite the risks posed to her, Salazar felt fortunate to be working and drawing an income.
She explained the room had definitely been occupied. The bedcovers were pulled back and the pillows were on the floor. But, Salazar added when prodded, there was no evidence of sexual activity: no stains on the bedsheets, and no condoms or gels around the bathroom or in the trash. There were no cigarettes in ashtrays or drinks on the tables either.
“Anything else?” Stone asked.
“Nada,” Salazar said. Then she paused. There was one thing. A sock was left in the closet. “I throw it out,” she said. Stone asked if Salazar could find it. She also asked if anyone had inquired about the liaison. “No,” Salazar said. “Everyone just go to the explosion.” She pointed in the direction of the wing under construction.
“Okay,” Stone said. “And listen, this is just between us. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“Gracias,” said Salazar.
Stone went back to the IT guy. “How were you paid?”
“It’s always an anonymous electronic payment to my PayPal account,” he said. “Except this last time was different. An envelope showed up in my mail slot in the back room. I still got it. Do you want to see it?”
Stone demurred. That was a job for the D.C. cops. She was already way outside of her jurisdiction.
As she was leaving the hotel, she called Vanessa Wilson. “Can I drop over and review those files again?”
An hour later, they met at Wilson’s house. Neither of them bothered to put on a protective mask.
“What are you looking for?” asked Wilson.
Stone did not share the nature of her inquiry, but a review of the paperwork confirmed her suspicion. Based upon the descriptions of Parties A, B, and C outlined in the documents, she was convinced that Pena and Suleiman were two of the three people Landry had enlisted in his project. Landry — that sick fuck — had intended to take Pena and Suleiman to slaughter, along with Party C, whoever he or she happened to be.
Stone saw it clearly. The plan called for the threesome to carry H-Pack backpacks from the GreyStone to Lafayette Square. H-Packs might be ubiquitous but they were also easy to spot, which was why Landry had selected them. He had carefully chosen trigger-happy personnel to be posted at specific spots where he directed the threesome to go, Stone reasoned. Landry expected them to kill Pena, Suleiman, and Party C when they showed up with backpacks.
Stone thanked Wilson, got back in her car, and called Trey Carr, whom she had tracked down. There was no answer. She left a message: “Call me.”
Chapter Nine: Evening
CARR CALLED STONE within an hour. They met in Farragut Square. A few food trucks were parked along the perimeter of the rectangular park. A bronze statue of David Glasgow Farragut stood on a pedestal in the center of the park, a pigeon atop his head.
“You don’t look nothing like the way you did then, but I’ve never forgotten what you tried to do for me,” Carr said. “And I’ll always be grateful.”
Stone was the rookie cop who questioned Landry’s tactics when Carr entered a plea in Alexandria Circuit Court.
“Sooner or later, we become who we’re meant to be,” she said. “True that,” Carr said.
“I wish I could have actually done something for you,” Stone said. “I was unsure of myself. Landry intimidated me into remaining silent even though I knew something was wrong.”
“It wasn’t on you,” Carr said. “There was a prosecutor and a judge involved as well. They’re the ones who should have stepped up. You did the best you could at the time.” Carr smiled broadly. “It’s really good to see you.”
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