K Street

by M. A. Lawson

  “Yeah,” Jessica said. “The things they’re doing with organ transplants these days are just amazing.”

  Then she hung up before Kay could ask the important questions, like, are you getting enough to eat, do you have enough money, and—the biggie—are you seeing anyone?

  She called Henry next and asked how Callahan was doing.

  “Better,” Henry said. “They finally beat back that infection and he’s recovering from the pneumonia. He’s not strong enough to leave the hospital but he’s able to talk when he’s not sleeping.” Henry laughed. “He keeps pestering me to sneak him in a pack of smokes and some booze.”

  “Sounds like he’s recovering,” Kay said. “Oh, one more thing, Henry. I need a favor.”

  • • •

  AFTER SPEAKING TO HENRY, Kay decided to go see Callahan. She needed his advice.

  She drove to the hospital, but before she entered Callahan’s room, she asked Henry, “Did you talk to your guy?”

  “Yeah, he’s expecting a call from you.”

  “Thanks, Henry.”

  She walked into Callahan’s room, and the first thing he said to her was, “Go get me a pack of Marlboros.”

  He didn’t look good—although he looked better than the last time she’d seen him. There was a little color in his face, but he looked weak and he’d lost quite a bit of weight—but then, Lord knows, he needed to shed a few pounds. Kay knew that as soon as he got out of the hospital, he’d start stuffing his face and drinking again. A near-death experience would not be a life-changing experience for Callahan; it would instead be an excuse to do everything he liked to do in excess before the next bullet actually killed him.

  Callahan also didn’t have any answers for her. He told her the same thing Prescott had said about their relationship: that they knew each other from his days at the CIA.

  “Then why did you give me Prescott’s name?” Kay asked.

  “I didn’t know I did. In fact, I don’t even remember talking to you.”

  Kay figured he might be telling the truth about that. He’d just come out of surgery, was still groggy from the meds he’d been given and in pain, and he might not have known what he was doing.

  “I know Prescott’s one of the people running you, Callahan,” Kay said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Callahan said, his blue eyes doing their best to look innocent—which wasn’t possible.

  “You’re lying,” Kay said.

  “So tell me what you’ve been doing,” Callahan said, not the least perturbed that she’d called him a liar.

  She told Callahan the whole story; she didn’t see any reason not to. He was shocked to hear that the technician at the NSA and Danzinger had both been killed. She also told him that Prescott had determined who the spy was at Zytek and was now planning to turn the spy into a double agent to use against the Chinese.

  “That’s smart,” Callahan said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Kay said.

  She went on to say that she’d tracked down Otis and shot him in the knee and killed another one of his men. Then she identified the Chinese operative who hired Otis—a so-called cultural attaché at the Chinese embassy named Fang Zhou.

  “Wow,” Callahan said when she finished. “You’ve been a busy little bee.”

  As she’d been telling him what she’d done, Kay had the sense—just like she’d had with Prescott—that Callahan already knew some of the things she was saying. She didn’t know how he knew, but he didn’t ask the type of questions she thought he would have asked if he’d been hearing the story for the first time.

  “Have you ever heard of Fang Zhou?”

  “No,” Callahan said.

  “Prescott doesn’t want me to touch him because she’s afraid that will screw up this double-agent operation she’s planning.”

  “Well, it sounds to me like Olivia’s right. You need to leave Fang alone.”

  “But he killed Danzinger, tortured and killed her secretary, and killed Norton and Klein—two guys who worked for you.”

  “I know, and I’m not happy about that, but you gotta keep your eye on the big picture.”

  “Fuck the big picture,” Kay said.

  “No, Hamilton, you can’t do that. You gotta leave Fang alone, like Prescott told you.”

  “But there’s no reason to leave Otis alone. Right now Otis has a ton of money, and he’s going to get away with killing our people unless we do something. And we can’t turn him over to the cops, because if they link him to Fang Zhou, all this shit could end up in the papers.”

  “Do you know where Otis is?” Callahan asked.

  “No, but Prescott does. I planted a cell phone in Otis’s truck and I know Prescott can track him with it, but she won’t tell me where he is. That’s one of the reasons I came here today. Can you think of some way to persuade Prescott to tell me?”

  Callahan closed his eyes. “You know, I’m not feeling so hot,” he said. “Maybe we can talk about this later. And stop at the nurses’ station when you leave and tell them I need something more for the pain.”

  Kay had to admit that he didn’t look good. Talking to her for just twenty minutes appeared to have exhausted him. On the other hand, the duplicitous bastard could be using his condition so he wouldn’t have to talk to her any longer. But all she said was, “Okay, but I’ll be back.” She hoped he realized that that was a threat.

  As she was leaving, Callahan said, his voice weak, “Leave Fang alone, Hamilton. I’m serious about that.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Kay said.

  Outside Callahan’s room, she asked Henry, “Has anyone been to see him? I mean, other than doctors and nurses.”

  “Just you and Eli,” Henry said. “Why are you asking?”

  “Just curious,” Kay said. To change the subject she said, “You must be getting pretty tired of sitting outside this hospital room.”

  “I’m not leaving Callahan’s side until he’s well enough to take care of himself.” And again Kay wondered about Henry and Callahan’s history.

  • • •

  WHAT KAY DIDN’T KNOW was that Prescott had seen Callahan two hours before Kay arrived at the hospital.

  Prescott had entered the hospital wearing blue scrubs, large-framed glasses, and a badge that identified her as Dr. Harriet Sheppard, Internal Medicine. She wore a surgical cap to hide her platinum blond hair. When Henry saw her, he made no attempt to stop her or question her. And she barely glanced at Henry as she pulled a mask up to cover her mouth and nose and entered the room; she acted as if Henry had as much significance as the furniture in the hallway.

  Once inside, she gave Callahan a briefing on all that had transpired since he’d been shot, including all that Hamilton had done. She even told him about Admiral Kincaid’s plan to use Winston to feed the Chinese information that might allow the U.S. Navy to track their attack submarines.

  Her last words to him were: “You get that goddamn woman under control, Callahan, because if you don’t, I will have to deal with her.”

  Prescott currently had an electronic and physical net around Hamilton; she still had Tate and Towers following her, and Brookes was still monitoring Hamilton’s cell phone calls, her landline calls, and her e-mails.

  But Prescott wasn’t satisfied. All she was doing was monitoring Hamilton—which wasn’t the same thing as controlling Hamilton. She was beginning to think that maybe she should give Otis to Hamilton—rather like giving a feral kitten a mouse to play with. She needed to keep the kitten occupied, and maybe if Hamilton was allowed to take care of Otis, she’d be content and leave Fang alone.

  There was also another reason for letting Hamilton reacquire Otis—although Prescott hadn’t decided if she was ready to go there yet.

  • • •

  THE FAVOR THAT KAY had asked of Henry was if he could
put her in touch with someone who could get her a couple of weapons. The D.C. cops still had her Glock—the one she’d used to kill Otis’s guy at the building on K Street—and Kay no longer had Eloise Voss’s Beretta.

  Kay had hated to do it, but after she’d killed Otis’s pal, Billy, she’d tossed Eloise’s Beretta into the Potomac River. She thought it pretty unlikely that the police would ever match the slug in Billy’s body with Eloise’s gun, but for Eloise’s sake, she didn’t want to take the chance. So into the river it went. Kay had always thought that if they ever drained the Potomac, it would look like that famous fountain in Rome—except that the riverbed would be littered with weapons, not coins.

  When Kay had called Detective Mary Platt and said she wanted her gun back, Platt had told her no. She said the Glock was evidence in a multiple homicide and until the case was closed, it was going to remain with the police.

  “But you might never close the case,” Kay complained.

  “That’s right, and one reason why is that no one who works for Callahan is cooperating,” Platt had said. Platt said the few employees she’d been able to talk to all claimed to have no idea why a group of masked men armed with machine guns would want to steal Callahan’s safe. Platt had yet to talk to Callahan; whenever she tried, she was informed he was too sick to talk. She was pissed.

  “There’s something screwy about that company,” Platt said to Kay. “I’m starting to think it’s some kind of front for laundering money and that’s why the robbers hit the place.”

  Kay laughed. “You’ve been watching too many movies, Mary. And by now you’ve processed my Glock, so I don’t understand why I can’t have it back.”

  “Because I don’t want you to have it back,” Platt said and hung up.

  Which was why Kay had asked Henry if he knew where she could get two weapons: one to replace her Glock and one to replace Eloise’s Beretta. She told him she didn’t have the time—or the inclination—to fill out a lot of paperwork and wait for whatever background checks were required. Kay was actually a big believer in background checks for people purchasing handguns—she just didn’t think the rules should apply to her, at least not when she was in a hurry. She figured that Henry—being a hometown boy with connections—might know a guy. And he did. Henry gave her a number to call and said he would call the guy first to vouch for Kay.

  Kay called the gun dealer and told him she wanted a .40 Glock and Beretta 92. Not a problem, the man said. He told her to meet him in the mall near Metro Center at eleven a.m.—which, coincidentally, was the same time Fang Zhou was meeting Jamal at Tunnicliff’s Tavern. On the way to the mall, Kay stopped at her bank to get cash.

  • • •

  THE GUN DEALER was sitting at a table in the mall’s food court. He’d told Kay that he would be wearing a black beret so she’d recognize him. He was in his sixties, with a neatly trimmed white beard and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a guy who might teach at Howard University than an urban guerilla. He was reading a book by Barbara Kingsolver, and when he saw Kay glance at the title as she sat down, he said, “For my book club. It’s quite good. You should try it.”

  Kay handed the man a Walgreens bag containing thirty-two hundred dollars.

  He passed her a Gap bag containing one used Glock, one brand-new Beretta, and two fully loaded clips for each gun. He wasn’t cheap, but he delivered.

  She thanked the gun dealer and returned to her car.

  Kay thought about calling Eli to discuss the situation, then decided not to. All Eli would do is tell her the same thing Callahan and Prescott had, which was to leave Fang alone.

  Kay had lunch at a McDonald’s—a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake—then because she’d stuffed herself, she decided to go to the gym and burn off all the calories she’d just consumed. She was also feeling edgy and pissed off, and needed to release some of her restless energy and simmering anger.

  Her gym was near the office on K Street and she kept shorts, a tank top, and tennis shoes there. Ten minutes after she arrived, she was riding a stationary bike, pedaling like she was racing in the Tour de France.

  • • •

  AS KAY WAS PEDALING TO NOWHERE, Jamal Howard parked his car a block from her apartment building.

  29

  DAY 5—1 P.M.

  Jamal Howard stood across the street from Hamilton’s building, wondering why John would want such a fine-looking woman killed—but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the thirty Gs that John was paying.

  Jamal was dressed in what he thought of as his Joe Citizen clothes: khaki pants, a white button-down short-sleeved shirt, and plain white tennis shoes. He was young enough that people who saw him might think he was a student. He left the shirt untucked so the tails covered the Glock that was slipped into the back of his pants.

  Jamal crossed the street toward Hamilton’s building. John had told him that she lived in apartment 812, but Jamal didn’t know if she was home or not. The building didn’t have a doorman—Hamilton must not be rich—but the front door was locked. Next to it were four rows of doorbell buttons with the tenant’s name beside each one. Jamal pushed the one labeled K. HAMILTON. No one answered.

  Jamal crossed the street again and leaned against the building across from Hamilton’s. There wasn’t any shade and he didn’t know how long he would have to stand there. It was the middle of the day and if the woman worked, he could be waiting around all afternoon—and it was hotter than a bitch. Nothing to be done about that, though. It was the price a professional like himself had to pay.

  • • •

  ELOISE VOSS DECIDED it was time to go for her walk. She walked every day for at least a mile, rain or shine, hot or cold. Today was hot, so she put a bottle of water in her fanny pack and donned a pink breast cancer fun run baseball cap.

  As she left the building, she noticed the young man across the street. She couldn’t help it. After thirty years protecting presidents, their wives, and their children, she was always aware of the people around her. The young man didn’t seem threatening. He was good-looking and clean-cut. She found it odd, though, that he’d be standing there with the sun beating down on his head instead of finding someplace shady to wait for whomever he was apparently waiting for.

  When she came back from her walk thirty-five minutes later, he was still standing there. Hmm, she thought.

  • • •

  JAMAL HAD BEEN hoping that he might get lucky and see Hamilton enter her building, follow her inside, and shoot her in the elevator, but after waiting outside for an hour, he decided to give up on that dumb-ass plan. There had to be a restaurant or a coffee shop somewhere close by. He’d sit and drink sweet iced tea and come back every hour or so and ring Hamilton’s buzzer.

  • • •

  FEELING BETTER AFTER HER WORKOUT, Kay drove back home and parked in the garage under her building. She opened the trunk and removed the Gap bag containing the weapons she’d purchased.

  As soon as she was inside her apartment, she called Eloise Voss.

  “Hi,” she said, “it’s Kay Hamilton. I’ve got a present for you. I could bring it down to your place, but why don’t you come up here. I know it’s a bit early in the day, but I thought I could make us a pitcher of martinis and you could tell me what it was like working for the Secret Service.”

  “What a delightful proposal!” Eloise said. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Exactly five minutes later, Eloise knocked on Kay’s door and Kay poured them each a martini in the fancy glasses she used when she had guests.

  “I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” Kay said. “The bad news is I had to throw the Beretta you loaned me into a river.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you.”

  “Okay. What’s the good news?”

  Kay handed Eloise a box wrapped with Chri
stmas paper, the paper depicting fat, laughing Santas. It was the only wrapping paper Kay had available. Eloise carefully took the wrapping paper off, making sure she didn’t tear it, which was something Kay never understood. Whenever she was given a present, she just ripped the paper off.

  When Eloise opened the box and saw the Beretta, she said, “How sweet of you”—like Kay had given her a box of chocolates. “Are you sure you can’t tell me why you had to toss my gun? I can keep a secret, you know.”

  “I wish I could,” Kay said. “But I can tell you I didn’t do anything illegal.” That was sort of true. Killing Billy had been an act of self-defense, but some nitpickers might think that shooting Otis in the knee was illegal.

  Eloise Voss turned out to be a hoot, especially after her first martini. She’d joined the Secret Service in 1964, at the age of twenty-four, the year after Kennedy was assassinated. She served under every president from Lyndon Johnson to Bill Clinton, retiring in 1995, in the second year of Clinton’s first term. Most often, she was responsible for protecting the First Lady and the presidents’ children. The stories she told about the presidents’ wives—particularly Barbara Bush and Hillary Clinton—were hilarious. And Kay was sure Eloise wasn’t telling her the really good stories—the ones she’d take to her grave.

  Kay could see a lot of herself in Voss—a tough lady still going strong at seventy-six—and Kay could imagine herself being like her when she was older. The only difference was that Kay would never be able to share her experiences working for Thomas Callahan.

  About an hour after Eloise arrived, the buzzer sounded. Kay punched the intercom button and said, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “FedEx. Delivery for Zimmerman.”

  “You buzzed the wrong apartment,” Kay said.

  From the couch, Eloise said, “Tell him the Zimmermans live in 912.”