Cold Frame

by P. T. Deutermann

  Precious eyed the offending monster, who grinned back at her and burped.

  “Okay,” she said, getting up. “I’m gonna try to go on the offense here. I’ll tell the assistant chief what you told me and that I think MPD should initiate a formal interagency investigation into the actions of the four FPS people. Emphasis on the formal. Make them explain why they were following you on the towpath. In the meantime, Detective Sergeant Smith, I want a full written statement as to what happened out there. What are we waiting for in the McGavin matter, again?”

  “Cause of death, manner of death,” Av said. “Some kind of reliable ID on the girlfriend. Really like to talk to her.”

  “You gone and got yourself wrapped around a goddamned mystery, haven’t you.”

  Av threw up his hands.

  “Do you have history with the assistant chief by any chance?”

  “It’s possible,” Av said uncomfortably.

  “Super,” she said. “In the meantime, mysteries are not our remit here, Detective Sergeants. This is ILB. You four nutcases put your thinking caps on and make this thing go away. And quit picking on feds. They’re fragile these days, with that sequester bullshit and all.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later Av and Howie pulled into the physicians-only parking area at the MedStar hospital complex on Irving Street. Howie was back in character as Mau-Mau, the dreads wig in place and casual clothes instead of the morning’s suit. They’d stopped for mid-morning coffee near the hospital.

  “There’s the ER entrance,” Av said. “EMTs oughta be hanging out around the meat wagons somewhere.”

  They were on a mission to talk to the EMTs who had responded to the call at the Bistro. Their names were on the incident report, and the two individuals, Castro and Baynes, were supposed to have come on-shift thirty minutes ago. They walked over to where four boxy ambulances were backed into their parking spots near the ER entrance. There was a group of white-coated, mostly young men standing just outside the ER’s glass doors, smoking cigarettes. Nobody seemed especially interested when two cops walked up. EMTs and cops got along.

  Av introduced himself and asked if they could talk to EMTs Castro and Baynes. Two guys stepped forward, said hey, and asked what was up.

  “You guys respond to a man-down at the French restaurant called the Bistro Nord, a week ago, maybe Thursday last?”

  Castro looked at Baynes. “Nope,” they said in unison.

  Av frowned. He pulled out the EMS report, showed it to the two EMTs. They studied it for a minute, then shook their heads. “Looks right,” Castro said. “And I see our names there. But those are not our signatures, and we never did a run to any restaurant.”

  “You telling me somebody arrived at that place in a MedStar ambulance, accompanied by a street patrol cop, and took this guy to MedStar, who does have a record of him, and faked the names on the report?”

  “Man, I don’t know what to say.” He turned to some of the other EMTs. “Any of you guys do a call at a French restaurant called—what was it?”

  “Bistro Nord. Connecticut Avenue. Last Thursday. Guy did a flop and twitch at a table, owner called 911. He was nonresponsive upon arrival. Supposedly MedStar EMS transported him here. ER docs pronounced him a half hour after arrival.”

  Blank looks and head-shaking all around. “Another EMS, maybe?” one of them asked.

  “But that’s our form,” Castro said. “Our names. Just not my signature.”

  Av looked at Howie. The next step was obvious: get to the patrol cop who’d come in with them. They looked again at the form. The cop’s report was attached, but the block for responding officer’s name was blank.

  “Fuck,” muttered Howie.

  “So what’ve we got here?” Av asked when they got back in their car. “Are we saying that the Bistro deal is entirely bogus?”

  “Sure looks like it,” Howie said. “The meat-wagon guys—why would they lie?”

  “Right,” Av said. “Why would they lie. You know what? I’m beginning to think this whole thing took some serious organization and planning. Maybe the ME’s right: this is a fucking homicide.”

  “You got a problem, right there, partner,” Howie said. “You still thinkin’ like a homicide cop. Ain’t our job, remember? We’re not detectives anymore—we the tarbaby po-lice now.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Av said.

  * * *

  One of the secretaries intercepted them when they got back to the office. “Lieutenant wants a word,” she said. “But first, Mau-Mau, honey? You need to go get some Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes on. Word is Chief Sweetness and Light is inbound.”

  Ten minutes later they were summoned into Precious’s office. Assistant Chief Taylor was sitting behind Precious’s desk; she was standing to one side, her face indicating that she was not too happy to be bumped from her desk.

  “Right,” Taylor said, staring at Av. “That’s the one.”

  One what? Av wondered with a sinking feeling.

  Taylor was a large but not very tall man in an ill-fitting uniform. Av’s mother would have called him a black Irishman: dense black hair, dark eyes, prominent five o’clock shadow, big, unpleasant face, and a loud voice. He was staring at the two of them as if they were notorious criminals. Av had put on a sport coat, and Howie had removed the dreads and changed his shirt. Both of us have shaved heads, Av thought; maybe that’s it.

  “The assistant chief has been in touch with his counterpart in the Federal Protective Service,” Precious announced. “There have been—developments.”

  “Developments.” Taylor snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.” He pointed at Howie. “Smith I know by reputation,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Sergeant Wallace,” Howie said.

  “Where’s motormouth and the freak?” Taylor asked.

  “Detective Sergeants Brown and Bento are assisting with a homicide interview in the Fourth District,” Precious said.

  “I said I wanted to see all four individuals involved in that altercation on the C & O Canal,” Taylor said.

  “They went out before your office called down,” Precious said. “We can reschedule, if you’d like.”

  “I don’t like,” Taylor said. “You—Smith. What started this crap?”

  Av told him what little he knew.

  “Well, maybe if you spent more time on the job and less on the towpath this kind of shit wouldn’t be happening.”

  “My runs are on my time, Assistant Chief,” Av said. “Before or after working hours.”

  “Don’t give me lip, Detective. The FPS people are saying you pulled a weapon on them. And I understand that you improperly diverted street patrol units for backup? Were they there on your time?”

  “I had four individuals who appeared to be trying to corner me out there,” Av said. “For all I knew this was some kind of get-back deal going down from my time at homicide. I had no idea they were FPS, nor did they identify themselves as such until I got reinforcements.” He turned to Precious. “Do I need my rep here, Lieutenant?”

  Precious looked down at the floor.

  “You’re his boss,” Taylor said to Precious. “You tell him.”

  “For right now, you are suspended, Detective Sergeant,” she announced. “Pending a review by Internal Affairs. I must ask you for your badge and your weapon, please.”

  Av stared at the two of them for a moment. Then he produced his shield and his Glock and put them down on Precious’s desk. Taylor stood up.

  “Just so you know, Smith, the suspension’s a stopgap measure. Call your rep if you want to, but you’re actually going to be terminated. As in: fired. This has been coming for a while, and happily you just handed me the pinch bar I needed to force your average ass out. Lieutenant Parsons sends his regards, by the way.”

  He turned to Precious. “Lieutenant, let me remind you of your principal mission in this department. Take no further action on that so-called John Doe until his own agency makes an in
quiry. Then ask them to close their eyes for just a moment while you drop it in their laps. In the meantime, call building security and get this civilian out of my building.”

  He waggled three fingers in Av’s direction as he walked out. “Buh-bye,” he chirped.

  * * *

  Av walked back into the squad room and sat down at his desk. Well, he thought, looking around, this gig had certainly been short and sweet. He heard Precious talking to the assistant chief as he was leaving, and then she and Howie came back to the squad room.

  “Detective Sergeant,” she said. “I am very sorry to have to have done that. And no matter what the assistant chief says, you will get a hearing and you will have a chance to fight this termination. With my support, I might add.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Av said. “It does seem a little extreme.”

  “Plain bullshit, is what it is,” Howie said. “That fat asshole, Parsons? He been layin’ for you, and now he’s talked Happy Taylor into doing his dirty work for him.”

  “Actually,” Precious said. “Taylor had to promise the deputy director at FPS that the officer responsible would be fired in order to get the complaint to go away.”

  “All that’s good to know,” Av said. “But the fact remains: those guys were putting some kind of move on me. I don’t care which federal alphabet they belong to—I still want to know why. Lieutenant, you want me to leave right now?”

  “Hell, no,” she said. “Take your time. Leave your stuff if you want to. You can’t act officially until this is resolved, one way or another, but there’s no need for you to do some kind of perp walk out the front door. Call your rep. Schedule a meeting. Tell him I support you.”

  “Thanks again, Lieutenant,” he said. Precious nodded and went back to her office. Couldn’t have a better boss than that, he thought.

  Howie reversed the chair at his own desk and sat down. “I’ll fill in Wong and Miz Brown,” he said. “They were there. They saw what was going on. Come hearing time, three of us can help you with this one. Happy makin’ this out like you some kinda loose cannon, but those dudes were definitely fuckin’ with you.”

  “I sure thought they were,” Av said. “Look: I think I’m just going to go home for the day.”

  “Call your rep, first, man.”

  “Yeah, I will. But before I do, I want to see some paperwork, see what the actual charges are. And in the meantime, I’m gonna do a little detecting.”

  “No badge, no gun,” Howie pointed out. “Means no detecting.”

  “But that’s just the point, bro,” Av said. “No badge, no gun, I can do whatever the hell I want to, just like any other civilian out there. Right?”

  Howie’s expression reflected a certain lack of confidence in that theory.

  Fuck it, Av thought. I will go running tomorrow morning. Those fucks show up, I will show them what I’m famous for. See how far they can swim with broken arms.

  EIGHT

  Midnight on the Mall. Mandeville slowed his pace. What would the watchers think? he wondered as he walked over toward the bench. A couple of aging, maybe closeted gay guys meeting after dark on a park bench? Was there a directional mike being trained on the man on the bench? Infrared spotlights coming on in their direction? The monument was lit up by bright white spotlights, but what was looking back at the ground? He didn’t care. He and Strang had a well-rehearsed procedure.

  He walked past the bench but then slowed his pace. A minute later, Strang got up and began to follow him. Mandeville deliberately changed course toward the perimeter road and the nearest parked vehicle, one of those now ubiquitous Expedition SUVs. As he walked past, the right front window slid down and an agent started to warn him that he was being followed.

  “A source,” Mandeville replied. “It’s okay.”

  The agent nodded and rolled up his window. Mandeville sat down suddenly on the next park bench. A minute later, in full view of the watchers, Strang sat down beside him. He was wearing a pair of those square-lensed eyeglasses popular in European fashion circles and sported a black mustache to boot.

  “A mustache?” Mandeville said. “Seriously?”

  “It has an RF antenna embedded in it which can detect an audiobounce listening beam device and warn me through an earbud in these stupid glasses.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  Mandeville grunted. Strang being funny. “What’s happening with the McGavin thing?” he asked.

  “The case,” Strang said, “such as it is, is being handled by a foursome of exiles in something the Metro PD calls the Briar Patch.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Well, their mission within the MPD is to move any cases which might involve federal-anything out of the MPD. Such cases are known as tarbabies, hence the Briar Patch allusion.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Not one pound,” Strang said. “This is the ILB Whiting told you about.”

  “Oh,” Mandeville said, remembering now. “And did you lean on someone?”

  “I had a team try to scare off the lead detective, a Detective Sergeant Ken Smith. As it turned out, that didn’t work. Smith got up a posse and ran my guys off.”

  Mandeville grunted but didn’t say anything.

  “I covered it by pretending to be a senior guy at the FPS. Bitched to some assistant chief, demanded that they fire the guy behind what happened out on the towpath. The chief seemed happy to oblige, so I think that problem is over.”

  “Just like that?” Mandeville said, eyeing the man next to him.

  “Well, apparently, anybody sent to the Briar Patch is already teed up for some kind of disciplinary action or even termination. Since the MPD bosses’re just looking for any excuse to fire them anyway, now they have one. I’ll confirm and let you know.”

  “Just like that,” Mandeville said again.

  “It’s what I do for love of country and a good apple pie.”

  Mandeville snorted. “What if he beats it? Keeps nosing around? I do not need a bunch of air-mail cleared Metro cops peeking in the windows at the DMX.”

  “Well, that’s why I wanted to meet. You have a way to set a rendition in motion?”

  Mandeville took a deep breath and then nodded. “That comes with its own problems,” he said. “Metro cop just disappears? Because that’s what happens in a rendition. Gone from the face of the earth.”

  “He’s single, no family, no girlfriend, and a happy loner. I can guarantee nobody at a high level at MPD will ask any questions. And, it doesn’t have to be abroad.”

  “The quiet room?”

  Strang nodded.

  “Let’s wait and see what happens,” Mandeville said. “It’s an option, but not a risk-free option.”

  “Sorry to hear about McGavin,” Strang said, turning his head to survey the Mall and all those parked cars.

  “A little too well fed, I suspect,” Mandeville said, getting up. “Keep in touch, please.”

  “Count on it,” Strang said to Mandeville’s departing back.

  * * *

  After a weekend of general moping around, Av decided to go up to Jeff’s market on Sixteenth Street to pick up a large steak and a premade salad. He bought two bottles of decent red from the wine shop across the street, thought about some French bread and maybe a baking potato, decided against all those extra carbs, and then went home. He’d felt naked out there on the street with no weapon, but he had a cure for that problem stashed in a wall safe in his loft. The old building was full of hidey-holes and odd spaces, and, like all cops everywhere, he had an ample collection of guns and ammo. As a police officer, he was required to carry at almost all times. As a civilian, he did not intend to stop that practice, confirming the old saw that cops don’t carry guns to protect you—cops carry guns to protect themselves.

  He turned into the cramped alley on the left side of the building and stopped to wait for a garage door, which had begun rising. The actual garage was nearly forty feet long and L-shaped at the ba
ck. There was room for his aging Ford pickup truck, a Harley, two bicycles, and a tool room, some walk-in storage bins, and a workshop. Access to the building itself was through a service door that led to a bricked-up loading bay. From there he could get to the stairwell on the right side of the building that led up to the second-floor apartment foyer and, from there, to his loft on the third floor. Only he had access to the garage. He sometimes let Mr. Kardashian store stuff in the garage, but not very often.

  There was an ancient coal-fired boiler room beneath the loading bay, but all the heat and air-conditioning utilities had long since been converted to electric. Bright red fire-main piping lined the stairwell, and the exterior door out to Thirty-third Street was keycard operated. Av had often thought of installing some kind of dumbwaiter system so he wouldn’t have to hump groceries up to the loft but had never gotten around to it.

  His loft was what a Realtor would call an open plan: it took up the entire third floor of the old building, whose eighteenth-century interior brickwork and chestnut beams remained fully exposed. The only interior walls enclosed his bedroom, bath, closets, and a small study on the back side of the building away from any street noise. The rest of the loft included a large living room area with a working fireplace that he’d filled with a woodstove insert. There was a corner kitchen with a counter bar and a nice range, a stairway up to the roof, and all the ancient wooden structural beams, pillars, and iron framework of the original edifice. The floors were random-width oak boards, polished by decades of service. He’d put skylights in four places, so the total effect was of space and light. The woodstove in the fireplace was big enough to heat the whole place, and the fifteen-foot-high ceilings and three-course thick brick walls made air-conditioning a matter of a few window units. His uncle had done most of the engineering work when he first built the loft, and, other than to remove some of his uncle’s somewhat disturbing artwork, Av had seen fit to make very few changes.