“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, c’mon, Stoner. You haven’t leveled with me all weekend. You’ve been hiding information from me. You figured something out and you’re keeping it to yourself. I need to know what it is.”
“Why don’t you come in and sit down.”
Katz entered and Stone closed the door. Together they moved to the kitchen, right off the foyer. “I figured out that Ari Hammond and McLuhan are the same person,” Katz said. “I drove out to Dulles to confront him, but it really didn’t do any good. I don’t know any more than I did beforehand.”
Stone adjusted her robe more tightly around her. “Do you want some coffee or maybe something stronger? I got decaf and high test, along with about everything you’d find at a liquor store.”
“Decaf’s fine.”
Stone looked disappointed, but began pulling out coffee cups. “When Tommy wrote his first story about Spates and Landry being in cahoots with one another, I knew he had it wrong,” she said. “Their operations weren’t connected, but I didn’t do a thing to correct the story. I wanted Landry to get caught in the middle of a shit storm.” She filled the coffee machine reservoir with water, popped in a decaf capsule, and pressed a button. She shuffled barefoot across the tile floor, her toenails polished bright red. She and Katz perched on stools on opposite sides of the kitchen island.
“I hated that man,” she said. “It’s been ten years, ten years almost to the day, and it still hurts like it was yesterday.” She went back to the machine and placed a cup under the dispenser. “Anything bad that anyone could do to him was good in my book. As events began to unfold, it occurred to me that the news story wasn’t the only thing that was wrong. A lot more was going on. But I felt the same way about all of it. I just wanted Landry to burn.”
May 30, 2011
Sherry Stone and Phil Landry had never met or spoken until that night. It was a Saturday. Stone had driven to the state penitentiary in Mecklenburg County earlier in the day, listening to Boom Boom Pow by Black Eyed Peas twenty times on the radio. Her goal was to speak to convicted burglar Trey Carr. Although inconclusive, there was evidence suggesting that Carr was innocent of several residential burglaries for which he had pled guilty. Similar-style break-ins had occurred after Carr’s incarceration, leading Stone, who was looking into those B&Es, to question whether the correct suspect had been charged and convicted.
A lone ranger, Stone didn’t check with the chain of command before looking into the matter. If she had, Stone might have been told to back off. A federal inquiry was already studying the facts and circumstances surrounding Carr’s convictions and the detective who handled the cases, Phil Landry.
Landry had heard that a DOJ policy wonk by the name of Fernando Pena was heading the inquiry. Pena had taken up the investigation based upon a report by a Catholic University graduate school researcher named Ruth Hammond.
Carr played dumb during Stone’s interview. The way he looked at it, Stone was either uninformed or gathering information on behalf of Landry. He didn’t open up the way he did to Hammond.
Landry assumed Stone was part of the team investigating his police tactics and was acquiring incriminating information about him from Carr. When Stone returned to the station, Landry was waiting.
“Hey, jerk-off,” Landry said, getting in Stone’s face. “There are two things you remind me of: cocks and coke. From what I hear, you’re either sucking or snorting, on and off duty. There’s no place in this department for a sissy coke head. Either you leave the force today or I blow the whistle, no pun intended.”
Stone recoiled. It was a one-two punch to the gut. Intimidation and threats. “Fuck off,” Stone replied, frightened, pushing Landry aside.
“I’m filing a complaint tomorrow if you’re not gone,” Landry threatened.
“I dare you,” Stone said. “There’s something wrong with your cases, Landry. You want me out because you’re scared I’m going to figure it out.”
Landry called Stone’s bluff. Forty-eight hours later, he went to internal affairs and reported the rookie cop for drug use. Stone was ordered to take a drug test that night, and the next day she was suspended from the force.
**
THREE SMALL ceiling lights created spotlights over the marble kitchen counters. Stone put a cup of decaf in front of Katz. “Is this really what you want?” she asked.
He looked at the cup. “Maybe something a little stronger,” he admitted.
She headed to the liquor cabinet in the dining room. A ceiling fan rotated in the center of the room. The windows stared out at a deep black night.
“You didn’t seem surprised when I said Hammond and McLuhan are the same person,” Katz said to her from the kitchen. “When did you figure that out?”
“Carr told me.” She returned with a bottle of Green Hat gin and a couple of glasses. She filled the glasses with crushed ice and placed them on the kitchen island, pushing the cup of decaf aside. She opened the bottle of gin and splashed a double shot into each glass. “Yesterday, I reviewed a list of some of the individuals who’d been stopped in D.C. for carrying H-Pack backpacks,” Stone said as she settled herself on the stool across from Katz. “I recognized two of the names. One was Maria Pena. The other was Ahmed Suleiman. Do either of those names ring a bell?”
“No,” Katz said, sipping the gin. “Except Pena is a name I’ve heard. Federico Pena.”
“It’s Fernando,” she said. “I think Federico Pena is a politician. I’m not sure. Anyways, you made the right connection. Maria is Freddy Pena’s daughter. And Suleiman is Trey Carr’s nephew.” She took a deep gulp of her drink. “Well, actually, his son.”
“I’m not following, Stoner. What’s that got to do with Hammond?”
“C’mon, Mo. Freddy Pena and Trey Carr were part of the investigation into Landry. Pena headed it and Carr broke the case open with his testimony. Landry despised both of them. At the time, he threatened Carr. And he was a man of his word. We now know he attacked Hammond for finding out about what he was doing. If Landry hadn’t been stopped, he would have continued hurting people. I’m sure he would have gone after Vanessa Wilson, the woman who pulled the documents from his computer this weekend.”
“I get Freddy Pena and Carr, but those aren’t the names of the people you found on the list. You mentioned their children.”
“The way I figure it,” Stone continued, “Landry decided to extract revenge against Pena and Carr by harming their children.” She finished her drink. “That’s what this was all about. Landry planned to sacrifice Maria Pena and Ahmed Suleiman. “Imagine, if you can, both of those kids walking down the street with dummy explosives in H-Pack backpacks. Or maybe one of them carrying a real bomb, and it exploding. They would have been killed by Landry’s goons waiting at designated Metro stops. Nobody would have been the wiser and nobody would have asked questions.”
Katz was beginning to get it. The thought that had occurred to him during the drive from the airport was crystallizing.
“It would have destroyed Freddy, who’s never fully recovered from losing his wife, and devastated Trey, who’s having his own issues fresh out of the penitentiary,” she added.
Katz finished his gin. He refilled his glass. He looked over at Stone. She waved off his offer. “When did you meet with Carr?” he asked.
“After I saw the list, I interviewed Maria Pena. Then I called Trey.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Stoner?”
“Mo, you make it sound like I figured everything out in an instant. That’s not how it worked.”
Katz got up from his stool and placed his hands on the counter, leaning toward Stone. “That’s bullshit. You avoided me. You were uncovering clues and putting together the pieces and you didn’t even have the courtesy of telling me about it.”
“Like I said, I wasn’t sure where it was leading.”
“That’s not true, Stoner. You knew exactly where it was going to lead.”
“We go back in time, you and
me,” Stone said. “You represented me in a drug case. I was guilty. It didn’t stop you. You fought to get a drug charge dismissed and give me a chance to move on. I was guilty as shit. And, yet, wasn’t it ‘justice’ the way the thing turned out?”
Katz backed away and folded his arms across his chest, considering her comments.
Stone held out her glass toward him. “I’m ready for that refill,” she said.
Saturday Morning
Carr watched as his son rose from the bench to take the call. As Suleiman turned, he jolted a pawn and it dropped to the ground. It was a sign, Carr thought. That horrible man Landry is using my son as his pawn. Not a nephew. A son. It was always a game to Landry. The truth was in the blood, which was always thicker than mud. Carr pulled out his own phone and called Hammond.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hammond cried. “You know the drill. This isn’t good.”
“I’m sorry,” Carr whispered, his eyes on Suleiman’s back. “I just wanted to check to be sure everything is set.”
“Yes, Trey, for the fiftieth time, everything is set. This is the last time I’m going to answer your call. From here on out, just act. You know where to go and what to do. Goodbye.” And he hung up.
Suleiman turned and noticed his uncle on the phone.
Saturday Afternoon
Hammond called Carr and apologized for snapping at him. Protocols be damned. He suggested they meet at their usual spot, the tip of Hains Point. Hammond was genuinely concerned that Carr was having second thoughts. If Carr backed out now, the entire plan would dissolve. As they sat together, Hammond pulled out a cell phone. It had a bright pink cover.
“Whose is that?” Carr asked.
“Freddy gave it to me earlier today,” Hammond said. “It belongs to his daughter. I already used it to book a reservation down the hall.” He began typing and leaned into Carr so that his message was visible on the screen. It read:
Need you tonight. Room 901. Down the hall. Have a special treat. Not what you’re expecting. Will not disappoint.
Saturday Night
Carr pulled into the parking area at Roaches Run and parked in a space at the opposite end from the white van. A black sedan was parked next to the van. He slid down in his seat and waited. After a while he saw Landry exit the van, then get in the black car and drive off.
Anticipating Landry’s route, Carr got out of his car and waited. In a couple of minutes, Landry’s car came off the ramp from the airport onto the parkway. Carr watched until it made a right turn onto the 14th Street Bridge. Then he pulled his vehicle beside the van and walked to the back door. Landry had installed a special lock, but nothing that couldn’t be opened. Carr needed less than five minutes to crack it. He returned to his car and popped the trunk.
Inside was a pressure cooker filled with nuts, bolts, razors, and other metal objects.
The carnage of the 2013 Boston Marathon explosions — three fatalities and hundreds of injuries, including 16 with lost limbs — was a stark reminder of the destruction that could be wrought by the innocent-looking device. Carr carried the pressure cooker gingerly to the van.
**
KATZ EMPTIED his glass and put it down.
“That’s right, Sherlock,” Stone said. “Carr said Hammond provided the device and told him where to put it inside the van.”
Katz was incredulous. “He told you that?”
“Yeah, he told me. In fact, it gets better.” She pulled the gin bottle toward her and refilled both their glasses.
Sunday Night
Pena arrived at Roaches Run. Carr got in the passenger side of his car. “We ride, Poncho,” he said. Pena laughed. Pena turned onto the parkway’s southbound lanes, stayed in the right lane, swooped around the airport, and took the ramp onto the northbound lanes of the G.W. Parkway. He drove by Gravelly Point and turned right to the ramp to the 14th Street Bridge. He shifted to the second from the left lane and drove into the District. To the left was the Holocaust Museum. To the right, the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. He stopped at the light at Independence Avenue.
“I can smell him,” Carr said.
“Me too,” Pena replied. “It’s real now. No more rehearsing. We’re actually doing this thing.” The car drove across town to K Street, where it turned left. At 18th Street, Pena pulled to the curb. “I’m going to the lecture,” he said. He leaned into the back seat, grabbed a bag and handed it to Carr. “Good luck,” he said, patting Carr’s shoulder.
Carr exited the vehicle with the bag.
Pena found a parking space and walked to DAR Constitution Hall. He bought a second edition copy of The Rhythmic Cycle of Life outside the tent set up next to the hall, then took a seat under the tent.
A few minutes later, Henry David McLuhan appeared to deafening applause. He sat on a bar stool in the center of the stage. “Good evening,” he began. “The Rhythmic Cycle of Life is a self-help book. It’s based on a simple premise, which is that your life, like history, repeats itself. Life is not linear; it occurs in cycles.”
Pena looked at his watch.
“Since your life is cyclical,” McLuhan continued, “the key to a successful life is to repeat your past successes and avoid your past blunders. There is no easier way to do that than to understand the cycles of your own existence. It’s all about you, literally. You’ve already been around the block a couple of times.”
Everyone laughed, except Pena, who sat nervously in his seat.
**
Carr went upstairs, opened the door to Room 901 and removed the contents of the bag, which included a light black sweater, a bottle of perfume, and a thin piece of wire. He hung the sweater in the closet, leaving the mirrored door open. He sprayed the perfume near the foot of the bed and on the pillows. Then he went to the bathroom and closed the door.
**
“I’M BEGINNING to understand why you didn’t return my calls,” Katz said.
Stone laughed. She went to the dining room and got two martini glasses and a bottle of dry vermouth. She came back into the kitchen waving the glasses and bottle. “Care for a martini?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Listen,” she said, filling the glasses with crushed ice to chill. “I don’t know if the story is true or not. We sat on a bench in the park. I’m assuming he was waxing poetic, because I’m not planning to do any further investigation.”
Katz raised an eyebrow.
“Listen, dude, defense attorneys will fight to the death to get their clients off,” she said. “You did it all the time. Juries acquit defendants if they find extenuating circumstances. People take justice into their own hands all the time, for better or for worse.” She emptied the ice from the glasses, then poured gin and a splash of vermouth into each one. She handed one to Katz. They clicked glasses.
“So what happened next?” Katz asked.
“Wait a second,” she said, turning to the refrigerator to get olives.
Sunday Night
Landry smelled the perfume, saw the sweater, and glanced at the light emanating from beneath the bathroom door. He chuckled. He undressed, got between the sheets, and waited for Pena’s warm, lithe body to slide in beside him. He closed his eyes. He never heard the bathroom door open or someone moving across the carpet. Carr sprang onto the bed, his left knee knifing the mattress as he drove his body against Landry and wrapped the wire around Landry’s neck.
“What the fuck!” Landry sputtered, spinning around and trying to wrap his fingers under the wire. “What the fuck are you doing?” Then Landry’s eyes met Carr’s. At first, he was in disbelief. Where is Maria? Why is Carr here? What is happening? His survival instincts took hold. He tried desperately to dig his fingers under the wire and pry it loose. His feet thrashed wildly under the sheet, trying to push away from Carr.
“You’re gonna die, motherfucker,” Carr whispered. “This is for all the grief you caused so many people.” He tightened the wire around Landry’s neck. “The reputations you tarnished.” Another tug on the
wire. “The careers you destroyed.” Landry struggled for air. “The people you hurt and humiliated.” The wire was so tightly wrung that blood began to spurt out of Landry’s neck. First, the legs stopped thrashing. Then the fingers quit trying to unloosen the wire. Finally, the body went limp. Carr held the grip. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Then he let go and took a series of deep breaths.
**
McLuhan enthralled his audience. “Once you’ve been through two cycles,” he said, “you should have a very good idea of the rhythm of your life. You should see when good things happen and recognize the events that enable those things to occur. By the same token, you should see when bad things happen. And you should be able to study how to avoid those things from repeating themselves.”
A moment later, he took another sip of water from the glass on the table. “These are all ways to shake things up. Redirect your energy and take yourself off the road that previously led to bad destinations. Use today — right now, tonight, in real time — to change the past. You can do it.” Then he paused. You may have good instincts, but mine are a little bit better. “You can definitely do it.”
**
Thirty minutes later, McLuhan was signing copies of The Rhythmic Cycle of Life as adoring fans placed their copies in front of him. The Sharpie was working at maximum speed as he took the messages handed to him and wrote the words on the inside page, completing the message with a flourish of his initials, HDMcL. When he received a note that simply said, “Full Circle, Finally,” he looked up. Pena was standing in front of him. McLuhan put the note in his pocket and wrote on the inside cover:
F — We have come full circle. May this merit the redemption you long desired—Ari
**
Pena found a parking space near the alley. He opened the trunk and pulled out a box of books, throwing his copy of Rhythmic Cycle on top of the other books. He walked down the alley, up the steps to the loading platform, and entered through the service door, which was left ajar by a wad of paper wedged between the steel door and its metal frame.
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