Cold Frame

by P. T. Deutermann

  “What’s that?”

  “That the people with power have a basic, unquenchable need to make it known that they, indeed, have power. So they talk. They boast. They posture. They whisper into unreliable ears at Georgetown dinner parties. Given today’s technology, none of that remains a secret for more than, oh, about two minutes.”

  “So,” she said. “You’re a watcher, but not a player?”

  Her eyes had become appraising. He realized she obviously thought that she was a player.

  “Um, not always,” he said. “I hear things. I make inquiries. Then I know things. People find that out, I can sometimes be a player. God knows, I have the time. Fact is, though, my time is really devoted to the study of plants.”

  She smiled, and those chameleon eyes lit up. Hiram thought it was a delight to see. “Tell me,” she said, quietly, enjoying her Scotch.

  “I took up the study of plants thirty years ago, when I became sort of a houseplant myself. The family estate was not huge, much as Delaware isn’t huge. But the gardens were amazing. Even as a child, I understood that an afternoon walk among all that was a special privilege. Since the estate’s walls were my horizon, I got involved. Nowadays, my personal research is focused on the way plants defend themselves from predation, which can include animals, herbicides, machines, or even other plants. Do you own a home, Special Agent?”

  “Not me,” she said. “I’m an urban cave dweller. But my father was a serious hobby gardener, so I know all about his war on weeds.”

  “Just so,” Hiram said. “So-called weeds, in particular, fascinate me.”

  “So-called?”

  “Weeds,” he said. “The gardener’s name for those plants that he did not intend to grow. But they’re plants, just like the ones your father was trying to grow. They’re amazing. They’re masters of symbiosis. They’ve learned how to take advantage of all that watering and fertilizing just as much as the desirable plants do, and: guess what? They’ve evolved the ability to hitch a ride on that unnatural gravy train, some of them in quite amazing ways, such as sending out side roots for surprising distances in order to steal nutrients. A clump of weeds five feet away from your father’s prized row of tomatoes might be feeding on what he was feeding the tomatoes.”

  He stopped. He’d been lecturing. That wasn’t why she was here. “Forgive me, I find all of this fascinating. You probably do not. You’re here to inquire about toxins, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “‘Poison’ was the word I had in mind. But here’s the thing: I was present for the death of Frank McGavin.”

  That surprised him. At the same time he felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Strang, he thought. That fucking Strang. He’d eventually told Strang no, but then Strang had sicced his boss on him, and Carl Mandeville was nothing if not persuasive. Now he definitely wanted to hear this. “Do you know a man named Kyle Strang?” he asked. “He supposedly works at the Bureau.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know the name, but let me check.” She pulled a tablet computer out of her oversized bag, clicked some keys, and then shook her head. “If I were on my secure computer in the office I could probably find him, but the government phone directory for the Bureau doesn’t show a Kyle Strang.”

  It was getting dark outside. He wanted her to stay, but that was impossible. In an hour or so, he would turn into a limp and very weary human replicant.

  “Look,” he said. “I think I have much to tell you, depending on the answer to one final question, if you will be so kind. Then you must come back.”

  “Of course,” she said, visibly intrigued. “What?”

  “Did what happened to Mister McGavin involve flowers, by any chance?”

  Her face paled. “Yes, it might have,” she said. “A vendor came in, selling flowers for the tables. I bought a bouquet for our table right before McGavin went down,” she said.

  He nodded. “Let’s make a deal, my dear. I’ll tell you how, if you’ll tell me who.”

  “No problem,” she said. “I think I already know who. But I am desperate to hear how.”

  Thomas had appeared in the doorway with a tray of what looked like meds. Ellen understood and stood up.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked. “Or whenever you’re able? This is important, Mister Walker. I think there’s another—incident—planned. I’d like to stop it.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Nine, if you can. Mornings are better for me, as you can probably see.”

  “Nine it is,” she said. “And thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Special Agent,” Hiram said. “I may have had an unwitting hand in that ‘how.’”

  “Trust me, Mister Walker,” she said. “I know the feeling.”

  * * *

  Mandeville had Strang on a secure call. “Jungle drums,” he said. “Are telling me the Bureau has taken on the Logan accident?”

  “I’ll check that out,” Strang said. “But why?”

  “Where is Ellen Whiting?”

  “I have no idea,” Strang said. “I can probably find that out, too, but—”

  “No,” Mandeville interrupted. “No. I’m going with your idea. I’ve set in motion a domestic rendition for that Metro cop. Petersburg. What I need to know from you is whether or not the Bureau’s involvement in Logan was precipitated by Ellen Whiting. Can you do that?”

  “It’s Friday night,” Strang said. “I can sniff around over the weekend, but the major players won’t be there.”

  “Do what you can,” Mandeville said. “This is important. And if it helps, I’ve got the Bureau’s Professional Standards people doing the grab.”

  “Tyree Miller?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a pretty closed-mouth group,” Strang said. “But I’ll work it. I can’t be too obvious about it, though, given my cover.”

  “I understand,” Mandeville said. “For what it’s worth, I’ve set in motion a real rendition for this cop, but for right now, I need him sanitized.”

  “I understand,” Strang said. “I’ll work it.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  Mandeville broke the secure connection. Ellen, he thought, his fingertips drumming lightly on his desk. I was going to make you my protégée. Have you joined them? That was why he was going to snatch the Metro cop. If everything quieted down, he would have his answer about whether or not Ellen Whiting was keeping her part of their bargain. If everything did not quiet down, then his next course of action would become clear. And necessary, too.

  Then he remembered: he needed to switch off Evangelino, for the moment, anyway. That was the good thing about having someone like that at your beck and call—you never needed to explain anything to him. And, best of all, he never argued with you.

  FOURTEEN

  It was definitely a Friday night in Georgetown, as evidenced by the rumble of traffic up on M Street. Av sat in his deck chair up on the roof and savored the beautiful fall evening. He could just barely hear the splash of the small waterfall coming out of the canal lock out front. The canal was running high after thunderstorms the night before. He’d gone for a run, showered, and then changed into formal rooftop attire: jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  The restaurant encounter with the feds had been of the short but not-so-sweet variety. They’d asked where Ellen Whiting was. Av and Wong had played dumb. One of the agents said that they’d seen her come into the Dragon Palace. Av had said, good for you, but what’s that got to do with us? The lead agent asked Av to confirm that he was indeed Sergeant Smith of the MPD’s ILB. Av had nodded. The three feds stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to apprehend him in place of Ellen Whiting.

  “So it’s your statement that Supervisory Special Agent Whiting is not here somewhere in this restaurant?” the lead agent said.

  Av shrugged, as did Wong, who now looked like a giant chipmunk with an entire egg roll sideways in his mouth.

  “What’s upstairs?” another of the agents
asked.

  “Don’t know,” Av said. “Downstairs is for tourists, this floor for regulars, who are mostly courthouse snuffies or LE. Upstairs they probably don’t speak English. Can we see some creds?”

  The lead agent produced Bureau credentials while the other two continued to stare down at the two cops.

  “Thank you,” Av had said. “Are we done here?”

  “For now,” the lead agent said. “We’ll probably meet again.”

  “Hot damn,” Wong had said, sucking loudly on his cup of tea, and staring meaningfully at the smallest of the agents.

  When the dynamic duo had gone back to the office, Mau-Mau and Miz Brown were not in evidence, and neither was Precious. The two detectives were reportedly up in the personnel office. The usually omniscient secretaries had no idea where Precious was. Av thought that maybe she’d sensibly just taken the rest of the day off, promising herself to climb the bureaucratic mountain on Monday with the tarbaby from hell. That would be a much better day than a Friday, when all conscientious civil servants turned off their phones by three o’clock at the very latest.

  He’d stopped by the wine store on the way home and bought some more of that expensive red. He was determined not to be defeated this time. The trick with red was to go slow, he told himself, and now that he’d had two glasses, he was much less worried about headaches.

  Ellen Whiting, however, had the makings of a headache. Supervisory special agent. Senior enough and sufficiently connected to have been sent to the DMX in place of an assistant director. Where was she now? Had she gone back to the Hoover building for that meeting with Tyree Miller’s boss? Did FBI agents ever take it on the lam? And then there was Precious, out of the office on undisclosed business. Mau-Mau and Miz Brown, the two retirement-eligible members of ILB, were worried about their pensions and starting paperwork.

  So why am I worried? he thought. If some superspook’s gone rogue and taken some extreme, unilateral action, that has to be a problem for federal LE, not Metro PD, which was, as Precious kept reminding him, well out of it. Except: the thirty-something hottie possibly masquerading as a special agent kept trying to involve him in this mess. Was any of this shit even true? Or was he worried because the two most experienced inmates at ILB were alarmed enough to put their papers in?

  As he considered having a third glass of red, he thought he heard car doors opening and then closing out on Thirty-third Street, and then the same sounds from the back of his building, down in the narrow alley. When he realized he could no longer hear traffic on Thirty-third Street, he got up from his chair to take a look. He saw blue strobe lights reflected on building façades across the street. He wanted to look over the rooftop parapet wall, but something made him hesitate.

  What. The. Phuque, over? The sounds and lights had all the earmarks of a building being surrounded by a tactical team. Not a building—his building. He hurried down the stairs into his loft apartment and went over to the curtained windows. Sure enough, the street below was filled with SUVs and other federal-looking vehicles. There was even an MPD squad car up at the corner of Thirty-third and Cady’s Alley, blocking the right lane. There was another one on the other side of the arched bridge over the canal. Then he heard heavy footsteps coming up the interior stairs. Uh-oh, he thought. Goon squad, inbound.

  They did have the courtesy to knock, as opposed to breaking down the door with a SWAT master key. He went to the door and opened it. The stairwell was filled with federal agents, all wearing windbreakers with their agency logos and identifying letters stitched into the fabric. It was an eclectic group: FBI, DHS, and ATF, of all people, and lots of guns, of course.

  “Detective Sergeant Kenneth Smith?” asked the man standing in the doorway. He was huge, sumo-huge, and he was standing there with his hand on a holstered Glock.

  “That’s me,” Av said. “How can I help you?”

  “We have a warrant for your apprehension,” the big guy said. “Will you come quietly?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Av said. “And can I see the warrant?”

  “In the car you can,” the FBI agent standing behind the big man said. Av recognized him from the Dragon Palace. The agent gave him a cold smile when he saw recognition dawn in Av’s eyes.

  “Okay,” Av said. “Perp-walk or just a come-along?”

  “Just a come-along,” said yet another voice standing farther down the stairwell. Av recognized Tyree Miller. “We also have a search warrant for your premises here. Are there any explosives or other dangerous materials in this building?”

  “Not in my apartment,” Av said, as the realization that he was about to be taken away by federal agents sank in. “Can’t speak for the renters on the second floor or Mr. Kardashian’s store, though.”

  “You have any weapons on you?” the big man asked, eyeing Av’s wine-time outfit.

  “Nope. I don’t carry in the peace and security of my own home.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” said the big man, stepping in and putting a huge paw on Av’s upper left arm. Av knew better than to offer resistance. Guys like this went through life hoping and praying that someone would resist so they could throw them down the stairs.

  Tyree Miller fell in behind Av as they went down the stairwell. “You could have just called,” Av said over his shoulder to Tyree.

  “Yeah, but we like our drama,” Tyree said. “Shows the taxpayers that their Bureau is on the job.”

  “So what’s the beef?” Av asked as they approached the front door.

  “Later, in my office,” Tyree said. “For now just be nice, okay?”

  * * *

  The initial interview was held in Tyree Miller’s office, with Tyree presiding and with three other agents present, one of whom Mirandized Av and then had him sign a form indicating that he understood his rights under the law. Av thought that Tyree’s office was rather small, but then realized that the office reflected Tyree’s mission more than his importance. Nobody liked the rat squad.

  “As a serving police officer, I do understand my rights,” Av said, as he signed his name. “But not why I’m here. Anyone going to clarify that for me?”

  “Yes,” Tyree said, handing Av a second piece of paper. “Here’s the warrant, signed by Judge Ellerton-Smith. She sits on the FISA court. Know what that is, Sergeant?”

  “I do,” Av said. “That’s the federal court that doesn’t have to abide by the Constitution.”

  Tyree frowned. “And you went to law school where, Sergeant?”

  “University of Snowden?” Av answered. Tyree grunted. The other agents studied their yellow legal pads, their faces uniformly devoid of expression.

  “Be that as it may, Detective Sergeant,” Tyree said, slowly, “that warrant specifies that you are suspected of obstructing justice and possibly aiding and abetting the prime suspect in two different homicides, each involving a senior administration official.”

  “Did someone just allege that?” Av asked. “Or is evidence required before this secret court issues a secret warrant?”

  Tyree sat back in his chair. “The government has to present evidence to support probable cause,” he said. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and held up the warrant. “You were involved with both incidents, first as an investigating officer, in the case of McGavin, and, second, as a witness, in the case of Logan. These ‘coincidences,’ coupled with your association with Special Agent Ellen Whiting, and your felonious lying to federal officers when they asked you if she had been present in that restaurant, were sufficient for the court to sign out a warrant for your apprehension and a search warrant for your premises.”

  “Your people find her in that restaurant, Mister Miller?” Av asked. “Because if you didn’t, you’re gonna have a tough time making your so-called felony stick.”

  Tyree looked over his reading glasses at him, his expression clearly hostile.

  “We know she went into that restaurant, Sergeant,” Tyree said. “My people watched her go into that restaurant.”

&
nbsp; “And your superstar agent asked me if it was my statement that she was not in that restaurant,” Av said. “I didn’t actually say anything. I just shrugged. Sergeant Bento nodded, too, as I remember. Thinking back on it, I’m willing to bet that she was not in that restaurant by the time your ace investigators made it upstairs. That means I was telling the truth. Now: how is that a felony?”

  “You deliberately deceived a federal agent, Sergeant. That is a felony.”

  “Not me,” Av said. “Lemme repeat the question—did your people find her in that restaurant?”

  There was a full minute of silence in the office. Tyree Miller appeared to be having trouble controlling his temper. He sighed and took off his reading glasses.

  When Miller didn’t answer, Av asked another question. “And who is this prime suspect I’m supposed to be aiding and abetting? Special Agent Whiting?”

  “We’re not here to answer your questions, Detective Sergeant Smith,” Miller said, ignoring said questions. “I personally find it hard to believe that you, as an experienced homicide detective, were directly or even indirectly involved in what happened to those two officials. I do think, however, that you are being used by someone who is far more experienced and cunning than you are. When you deceived my agents in the restaurant, and that’s still a felony, Detective Sergeant, I took the opportunity to bring you in for questioning, mostly so you would understand that we are extremely concerned about these two incidents. We, just like most Metro homicide detectives, do not believe in coincidences.”

  “Or, apparently,” Av said, “in due process, the right to be represented by an attorney, and the right to face my accusers in a court of law that conducts its sessions in the light of day and not in some white-tiled basement with blood drains in the floor. I think you have two options: you either charge me or you let me go.”

  Tyree shook his head. “We don’t have to charge you, Sergeant,” he said softly. “Or let you go. You have intruded into the world of federal counterterrorism. The CT community plays by very different rules.” He leaned forward. “If we want to, we can rendition you to a foreign country, where the rules of evidence and procedure have more to do with vise grips and batteries than lawyers.”