The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “It’s time to cut the crap, see?” Knocking criminal suspects unconscious seemed to be standard procedure for this lawman. “We know Rogers contacted you ahead of time on Ollie Boyce Henson’s cell phone. The call’s been registered, okay?”

  Still shaken, Rosalie nodded uncertainly while James stood silently, slouched against the wall, arms hanging at his sides.

  “Where is Ollie Boyce Henson’s cell phone?” Jeff asked.

  Rosalie could feel the tears start to come. She couldn’t take any more. All these accusations, all these interrogations, all these threats and violence taken out on her sons. “I suppose she’s taken it with her” was all she said.

  James stood up a little straighter. “We never saw her cell phone, and she didn’t stay long, okay?” he added.

  “Then what’s this?” Jeff held up a clear plastic bag with Ollie’s cell phone. “It was in the garbage can out in the kitchen.”

  Rosalie couldn’t believe her eyes. No one should be allowed to be so stupid! How could she and the boys have overlooked something like that?! They could have gotten rid of it along with Doggie’s clothes. Or thrown it far out into the Hudson River, or so many other things.

  “We’ve never seen it before,” said James, nice and easy, pulling one leg up under him against the wall. “Guess she just tossed it there.”

  “Why would she have wanted to do that?”

  “Fucked if I know. Must have known it could be traced, what else?”

  “Traced? How? How could she know we’d find the guy who’d given it to her?”

  “Look, we told everything down at the police station already. Also that she wasn’t your average bitch. She was cunning. That’s what I said, word for word. Check it out in your report,” said her eldest son, acting offended.

  Take it easy, you, pleaded Rosalie’s eyes, but James ignored her.

  “We found this, too.” Jeff showed her the empty hair-dying package.

  “That’s right, I put a little color in my hair this morning,” she said, her heart in her mouth. At least they hadn’t found Doggie’s hair clippings. She must have flushed them down the toilet. Praise the Lord for that.

  He studied her hair intently and finally seemed convinced. She exhaled again, imperceptibly.

  “Okay, we’ll give you one last chance now,” said the other detective. “Since the time James contacted the police last night we’ve been tapping all the telephone numbers registered at this address—four in all. A cell phone in your name,” he pointed at James, “a land-line in your mother’s name, a cell phone belonging to little brother here—who seems to be waking up now, by the way . . .” He nudged Dennis with the tip of his shoe. “And last of all, a cell phone that was registered in the name of your deceased brother.”

  Detective Jeff took over. “If we’d had the time to check it out, we probably would have turned up some pretty juicy stuff about this little family and its acquaintances. But for the moment what interests us is that someone made a call on your dead brother’s phone—Frank, I believe his name was. But how can that be? He couldn’t very well have made the call himself, I mean, being dead and all, could he?”

  Rosalie went back to studying the floor.

  “How the fuck should I know what Frank was doing just before he died?” said James. “He could have sold his cell phone for a fix. It was shooting dope that killed him, as you fucking well know.”

  The other detective who was standing in the kitchen doorway stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and yet another plastic bag appeared. Rosalie didn’t know what it was, but James didn’t look pleased at the discovery.

  “This gun, was it Frank’s, too?”

  Looking at the smooth, gray object, Rosalie was close to tears again. Could they really have been so dumb as to let all this evidence lie around the apartment? What would be next?

  “Yeah,” said James, keeping his attitude in place. “I don’t know how many times we warned that boy. Couldn’t make him understand. He had his own thing.”

  “Then I sincerely hope it’s his fingerprints we find on it. I assume you’re willing to let us dust it, since you’re so sure it was Frank’s.”

  “I’m not willing to do a fucking thing. I’ve done what I was supposed to.”

  The detective called Jeff went and stood in James’s face. Despite their height difference, he looked him in the eyes with the kind of self-confidence that came not only from having a weapon and an armed partner, but also signaled that he’d handled guys much bigger and badder than James in his time.

  Unfortunately, James overlooked his body language.

  “You’re the eldest, aren’t you?” asked Jeff.

  James didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He knew they knew he was.

  “Good, then I’m holding you responsible if we find it necessary to take your mother along to the station because you refuse to tell us everything you know.”

  James was looking less and less pleased. Just as long as he didn’t overreact for her sake.

  Jeff turned to Rosalie. “We’ll let it rest with the firearm for now. The point is, we already know most of the story, so all we’re looking for now is your confirmation of some details.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Rosalie nodded anyway.

  “At two A.M. last night we localized Doggie Rogers somewhere down in Virginia, with the help of your deceased son’s cell phone. Have you anything to add, Mrs. Lee?”

  She shook her head. How could she have been so naive as to believe they’d get out of this easily? That she could appease men like these?

  “She had just been speaking to a man in Georgetown. A Danny Hargraves. Do you know him, Mrs. Lee?”

  “Danny Hargraves? No, I don’t.”

  “Okay, you don’t, you say . . .” He picked up the photo album from the China trip and began paging through it. “Then I think you ought to take a closer look at this picture here.” He pointed at a shot of the Beijing hotel’s lobby, where Doggie, Rosalie, and John Bugatti were standing, pointing at the floormat in front of the elevator. Suddenly, Rosalie remembered how it had tickled them to see this mat that resembled a huge baby’s bib with the day of the week printed on it, and how it was changed each day. They’d had some fun times there before tragedy struck. It was all so sad to think about now.

  “You know John Bugatti here, but you don’t know Danny Hargraves?”

  “No. And I didn’t know he had any connection with John Bugatti. I was never with John in private, and it’s seventeen years since I saw him.”

  “John Bugatti is wanted by the authorities, did you know that?”

  She made the sign of the cross. “Oh, no. What’s he done?”

  “Then maybe you don’t know Doggie Rogers is meeting him in Washington today, either? She never mentioned that to you?”

  “By the Holy Father—no!” What in the world did they suspect her of having to do with all this?

  She shook her head and looked at her son who was still stretched out on the floor. How was it all going to end?

  She noticed Dennis’s body moving slightly. It looked like he was stretching one arm, inch by inch, farther under the chest of drawers.

  Oh, my God, she thought, what’s he up to? What’s he got lying under there—some weapon? Was he suddenly going to turn a gun on these detectives? She wouldn’t put it past him. How could she have failed so miserably in driving this pigheaded, macho behavior out of her children? Did they really take so much after their father?

  Then she saw James flattening himself more and more against the wall. He’d also noticed Dennis and was having a hard time staying nonchalant.

  “Hey, man, listen,” he said, getting both FBI men’s attention. “My mom went to China once and Doggie Rogers was there, too, okay? She had our address, that’s all.”

  Rosalie nudged Dennis cautiously, but he kept on. She was
sure this was going to end badly. In a moment, there would be shooting and someone was going to wind up dead. So she kicked him in the side—still with no effect. Now his arm was completely outstretched under the dresser.

  “But you must know this man, Mrs. Lee,” Jeff continued, pointing at a picture of a tired T. Perkins standing before a giant portrait of Chairman Mao in Tiananmen Square.

  “Yes, he was one of the contest winners, too. There were three of us. He was a very nice man.” She kicked Dennis so hard this time with the point of her shoe that he gave a start. It couldn’t be long before the investigators noticed him.

  The other detective nodded. “T. Perkins sent a message to Doggie Rogers’s cell phone last night. Do you know where Sheriff Perkins got her number?”

  “No. . . .” In a second she was going to have to stomp on Dennis’s rib cage. “No, I do not. From Doggie Rogers herself, I imagine.” Her heart was beating like it was just before the time she collapsed in front of Penn Station.

  “There are several aspects of this we don’t understand.” It was Jeff’s turn again. “It looks like we’re going to have to take all of you in.”

  Something was going to happen now, she was sure of it. So she swung her foot back and kicked her son so hard that his body buckled and he let out a howl.

  “Stand up, boy!” she commanded. “Now, you two tell these men what you know, you hear?” Dennis looked up at her. He was furious now, and he was the type who didn’t know how to gear down once he got going. Both his mother and teachers at school knew all about it.

  “You boys tell them how you wanted Doggie Rogers to leave immediately when you found out the authorities were looking for her. That at one point you knocked her down and then she escaped while you were trying to get her to the police station. And that it was me who let her get away. I had no idea she’d done something bad. Was it that serious? Just let us know how we can help; we’ll do everything we can. I’m very close friends with the president, and I wish him only the best.”

  She looked at them earnestly as she bent over to Dennis and stretched out her hand. “Come on, Dennis. Get up and tell them everything. Don’t worry ’bout me, I’ll be all right. I mean, I didn’t know she’d broken the law.”

  He took her hand grudgingly and looked up at his big brother. James had been in trouble more than once in his life but had always managed to get out of it. He could tell that now there was a chance to do it again, so he gave his younger brother a stern look and shook his head.

  She saw the two FBI men looking at each other out of the corners of their eyes. They’d for sure heard excuses like hers ever since they’d joined the Bureau.

  “Hold on,” said Jeff, as his cell phone rang. He listened for a long time, then answered with a simple “Yeah.” With his poker face in place it was impossible to tell if it was good news or bad.

  He hung up and looked straight at Rosalie. “That was one of my colleagues in Richmond. They’ve just been to your sister Josefine’s home, questioning her.”

  Her shoulders went limp. Dear Jesus—that, too?

  “You see? We know everything. Your sister was a pretty tough customer, says my colleague, but in the end she told them everything.”

  “She knew nothing, I promise you!” She looked at Dennis, who was rubbing his side. “The boys don’t have anything to do with this, either. It’s like I said: It was me who sent Doggie down to my sister’s. Doggie asked for my help; I had no idea what she’d done. I still don’t—won’t you please tell me what it was? But my sister, she didn’t know a thing. Honest!”

  “Your sister’s telephone has been out of order the last twenty-four hours. The militia cut the lines. We know she didn’t know that Doggie Rogers was coming. We also know more or less how Miss Rogers got down there, and we know her cell phone was on once more this morning. There were signs of a struggle in Mrs. Maddox’s house, and she claimed it had been the militiamen. Doggie Rogers has disappeared and so has the militia. Do you know if Miss Rogers had anything to do with them, Mrs. Lee?”

  “She didn’t, I’m sure of it. She never would. She wasn’t like that, far as I know.”

  They weren’t impressed. “We must ask that you and your sons don’t leave town,” said Jeff. “We’ll be calling you in to give a deposition at a later point.”

  “What about Doggie Rogers? Have you arrested her?”

  “We can’t give you that information.”

  Rosalie looked at them and nodded. She could see the satisfaction in their eyes. No, they hadn’t caught her yet, or they’d have said it, but it wouldn’t be long.

  All she wanted them to do now was leave. Then she would call Doggie and warn her. She didn’t care if they found out. What could they do to her?

  The two men packed some of their discoveries into their briefcases and went out into the hall. Then one of them turned around and said, “Mrs. Lee, if T. Perkins or John Bugatti call, drag the conversation out, understand? If we can tell you’re trying to help us, we’ll ignore your and your sons’ offenses. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  She nodded.

  “And Mrs. Lee, one last thing: You can forget about calling Doggie Rogers when we leave. Her phone was turned off hours ago.”

  * * *

  —

  Finally they’d gone, and Rosalie had to make sure. She went over to the chest of drawers, got down on her knees with a little grunt, and peered underneath. Yes, it was just as she had expected.

  A little revolver lay against the wall, wedged behind the bureau’s left rear leg.

  CHAPTER 37

  The driver let Doggie off on a side street just before the pedestrian bridge over to Theodore Roosevelt Island, towards Washington City. It was only a little before ten, Sunday morning, yet it was dark as evening, and rain was pelting down.

  “You have enough time to walk the rest of the way,” said the milk truck driver, and handed her a blue poncho.

  “I can’t take you downtown because of the roadblocks, but it’s just over the footbridge and straight out Constitution Ave. I suppose you know the way.”

  Yes, he could bet she did.

  She put on the poncho and pulled its hood over her head. “What about the dead guy inside the tank? What’ll you do with him? Aren’t you afraid about what could happen?”

  “Afraid?” He gave a faint smile. “We’ll see. I’ll probably get rid of him somewhere along the way.” He opened his wallet, the one he’d retrieved from the body. “Here. This is yours.” He gave her $1,700 and kept the rest, just as they’d agreed.

  Doggie put the money in her back pocket.

  “And these—they’re not mine, either.” He took the militiaman’s two drawings out of his wallet and handed them to her.

  She looked at them for a moment and then folded them so they wouldn’t get soaking wet. They were slightly blurred cross-section drawings of a column with some curves in front. She couldn’t tell what they were, offhand.

  “They’re not mine,” she said, but put them in the plastic bag anyway.

  “Take care of yourself, lady” were his last words before the milk truck again began rumbling northward, spraying water from its rear tires.

  “Just over the footbridge and straight out Constitution Avenue.” Just, the driver had said. He hadn’t had the vaguest idea. Problems began arising already at the pedestrian bridge. There were poncho-clad soldiers every hundred yards, checking people as they passed, crouching in the pounding rain. Some people were stopped, had a flashlight shined in their face, and were body-searched. Everyone had to show what they had in their bags, but they weren’t interested in Doggie’s plastic bag. There was a battered cell phone and a couple of wet drawings and all the odds and ends of ladies’ accessories she’d had in her Fendi bag.

  “They can’t be interested in someone who looks like me,” she reasoned, praying she wouldn’t have to face the gl
are of the flashlight. She’d noticed the sheets of plastic-coated MOST WANTED photos some of the soldiers were holding and saw them again a little farther on, fastened to the bridge’s railing. There were many pictures, some small and some large. There was Michael K. Lerner, the journalist Miss B, Moonie Quale, a few other militia leaders—and herself. Being represented in this gallery didn’t exactly cheer her up.

  “Halt!” she heard a soldier yell from the end of the bridge. He was looking straight at her, pointing his flashlight at her face. “Step forward!” he ordered and pushed the flashlight switch. It clicked but wouldn’t go on. He shook it and clicked it on and off a few times while she felt her knees begin to wobble. There was no getting away.

  “Fucking piece of shit,” snarled the soldier, knocking the flashlight against the palm of his hand. He tried turning it on again. Still no luck.

  He squinted into her face as rain sloshed off his hood. Then he said, “Move on,” and stuffed the flashlight under his poncho. The other soldiers glanced at her briefly and also waved her on.

  Apparently, they took her for some kind of bag lady. True enough, she wasn’t a particularly lovely sight to behold. Her coal-black, spiky hair had given up the fight and was plastered to her head; the remains of her makeup were less than tidy. She hadn’t had a bath in a very long time, and the trip down to Five Forks and back to Washington had left its messy imprint on her grayish horror costume. She wasn’t easy to recognize.

  The level of police activity was much higher when she got across the bridge. The National Guard was lined up along the road all the way from the Watergate to the Lincoln Memorial. She heard a couple of passersby saying it was impossible to walk through the park for all the undercover agents and policemen.