Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  Evelyn made it to the first floor. The hallway was dark. All she needed was to find her way out of the building and she’d be free in the city again. She ran toward the east entrance and tried to open the tall, heavy door. It was locked.

  A cleaning woman pushed her cart out of one of the offices.

  “Please open the door,” she shouted.

  “No habla ingles.”

  “Abre la puerta, por favor.” The older woman stared at Evelyn, then made her decision. She inserted a key in the lock and wordlessly opened the wooden door.

  Evelyn slammed the door closed, wishing she could as easily shut out the bizarre and gruesome evening. She shouted for a cab, then began to run toward Pennsylvania Avenue, her legs feeling the cold wind whip through her sheer black stockings.

  Back in the District Building, Hawkins heard the east door slam and ran toward it. It was locked.

  He shouted to the cleaning woman.

  “Open the door.”

  “No habla ingles, senor.”

  “Open the damn door, I gotta get out.”

  “No habla ingles.”

  “GET OUTTA MY WAY.”

  He drew out his Glock and aimed at the door. The woman screamed and Hawkins instinctively cringed. There’s too much goddam noise already. He stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it round the gun. There. That should do it. He fired three rounds into the locked door, kicked it open and, discarding the jacket, ran outside.

  Evelyn heard the gunfire and looked back to see Hawkins sprinting toward her. She had no time for a cab. She turned and dashed toward the J.W. Marriott hotel on the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue. The largest Marriott in Washington, it had shops, restaurants, and other potential hiding places.

  Hawkins ignored the pain of his injured knee. He was also a former high school athlete, a sprinter, and was now gaining ground on Evelyn as they ran across and down the street. Suddenly she disappeared into the hotel’s 14th Street entrance.

  She ran down an escalator to the lower lobby where a big banner read “Welcome National Association of Realtors.” She ducked into a ballroom full of real estate agents wearing name tags. Evelyn could have blended into this reception very easily if she had shoes. She looked at her stockinged legs, thought better of the idea, and eased back out.

  Hawkins ran into the lobby. She was nowhere in sight.

  He took the escalator to the next lobby down, scanning the three levels of the deep green and mauve hotel floors as he descended. He circled the second level three times, scanning the third level at the same time. Then he saw it: a housekeeper carrying a pair of shoes into a ladies’ room. Minutes passed.

  Finally, a tall woman walked out, wearing a black, dressy outfit. Hawkins was sure this was his target. He moved closer. He knew he had her. He instinctively reached down and rubbed his shin, where he had hurt himself tripping over the woman’s shoes.

  He said softly. “Don’t make a scene, come with me. Everything’ll be all right.”

  Evelyn didn’t look at him. She walked away without a word. Hawkins followed her. “I’m a police officer and I want you to come with me.” Evelyn kept walking. Hawkins grabbed her from behind.

  Evelyn shrieked, “Get your hands off me.”

  “You gotta come with me,” he commanded.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you! Get your hands off me, you pervert!”

  Hawkins and Evelyn were attracting attention. A burly man put his hand on Hawkins. “Hey, fella, why don’t you just leave her alone.”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  Evelyn shouted, “I haven’t done anything and he’s harassing me.”

  While several men surrounded Hawkins, Evelyn managed to slip away.

  Hawkins pushed his way out of the knot of realtors and made his way toward her. Evelyn turned and ran up the escalator to the main lobby. She ran toward the registration desk, with Hawkins right behind her.

  She yelled to the hotel staff behind the counter, “That man’s following me. What kind of hotel is this?”

  “I’m a police officer and we need to ask her some questions,” Hawkins tried to explain.

  “Where’s your badge, Officer?” asked the hotel clerk.

  “I left it in the District Building.”

  The hotel clerk reached for a phone and called the hotel’s security.

  Hawkins put his arms around Evelyn’s waist and tried to carry her away. She grabbed the front desk and screamed.

  As hotel employees separated them, two security guards approached.

  One of them said to Hawkins, “Let her go. Do you have any business in this hotel?”

  “I’m a police officer and we need to question this woman.”

  “Lemme see your badge.”

  “I left it in the District Building.”

  “Sure, fella, sure. I’m an employee of the Marriott Corporation and I have authority to detain you on our premises. You can tell your story to the police.”

  He took out a pair of handcuffs.

  “But you can’t arrest me. I’m a police officer.”

  As two security guards struggled to put a pair of handcuffs on Hawkins, Evelyn walked out the 14th Street entrance where a line of cabs waited for fares.

  She jumped in the first cab in line.

  “Get me outta here.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Just get me outta here. Head uptown.”

  The first thing Hightower thought, in that frozen moment after he shot Sharon Scott, was, I’ll grease them all—catch the woman running out the side door between the shoulder blades, then fire a couple rounds into Hawkins when he makes a grab for me, shoot Watson between his eyes—then plant the gun in that whore’s dead hand. Then…then… shoot myself…and then the moment passed.

  “I’ll get her, Hi.” And before Hightower could say anything, Hawkins was out the door in pursuit of Evelyn Boone.

  “You’re in some trouble now, I believe, Mr. Hightower,” the Mayor said, a slight smile playing on his lips. He was still staring at the dead woman. Watson looked up at Hightower. “What do you suppose he’ll do if he catches her?” It was remarkable how cool, how self-possessed, he was, standing there naked in front of Hightower.

  “I don’t know,” Hightower replied, and then he said what he knew was true. “Neither does he.”

  Watson returned his stare to Sharon Scott, then looked down. “I’m still horny,” he said, finally. Just then they heard a clatter at the door.

  “Shut that off—” Watson’s face snapped shut, but it was too late, and fat John Stone and a security guard were through the door. The two of them stopped, mouths open with big white eyes, gasping, like landed groupers.

  “Gentlemen?” The Mayor cocked his eyebrows slightly

  “Jesus,” Hightower whispered.

  Watson took a step toward Stone. “What the fuck are you, Stone? My shadow? My mother? What the fuck you doing here?”

  “I wanted to—I left something behind…”

  “I told him the office was closed, Mr. Mayor,” Hightower breathed.

  “There!” Watson exclaimed. “The office is closed! What’s the matter, Stone? You got wax in your ears?” The Mayor turned to Hightower. “Shoot him,” he instructed.

  “Oh, God, Wendell, no!” Stone wailed. “Oh, God, you know you can count on me. Remember before the Grand Jury…”

  “You punk-ass motherfucker don’t say anything about that.” He gestured to Hightower. “I was just joking. Well, we’re just going to have to make the best of this mess, won’t we, Stoney?”

  “I…I…” Sweat was pouring down Stone’s face. He mopped it with his damp, balled up handkerchief. “Is…is she…?”

  “She’s just taking a rest,” Watson said, gesturing toward the dead woman. Blood pooled by her ear.

  “I heard gunshots,” Stone explained. The security guard looked like he was about to piss his pants.

  “Of course you did.” Watson walked over to the security guard. �
��Officer Copland, here, thought he saw unauthorized personnel in the area, and he fired a shot into the air.” Without warning, Watson slapped the security guard, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Afterward, he somehow exchanged firearms with Officer Hightower. Give me your gun, you piece of shit cocksucker.”

  “What?” said Copland in a hoarse voice. A thin trickle of blood emerged from his nose, and the left side of his face swelled red where Watson had hit him.

  “I said give me your gun, you whoreson motherfucking sumbitch.,” but before Copland could reply Watson was on him, half-strangling him, grabbing his service revolver and pulling it out of his holster. Once the gun was out, Watson’s manner changed instantly. “I believe this is yours, Officer Hightower.” He extended the gun to Hightower, who accepted it. “And I believe that you have Officer Copland’s gun.” Without thinking, Hightower stripped off his gun and held it out toward Watson, who waved it—no fingerprints here—on to Copland. “Officer Copland will be suspended pending an investigation, but the suspension will be with pay.” Watson smiled. “And he will be exonerated. I would use the opportunity to look at some of the beautiful parks and monuments in our fair city, Mr. Copland. We civil servants often overlook the sheer beauty of the things we labor to protect and preserve. Now, get out.”

  The command seemed to startle Stone into wakefulness. “Wendell, you know I’d never say…you know how I stood up at the Grand Jury…”

  “John,” the mayor said, affecting great weariness. “If I wanted to see three hundred fifty pounds of asswipe, I would have stayed at home with my wife. Now, what are you doing in my office? And who is that with you?”

  After they left, Watson sauntered to the open door. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a pile of papers on the floor in the hallway.

  “What’s what?” Hightower, trailing, spoke before he could see into the hall.

  “Get it.” The Mayor made a gesture and turned away.

  When Hightower brought the papers back the Mayor took them out of his hands. “I wonder what she wanted with this?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips. He walked back into his office; tossed it onto a pile of similar documents. He turned to Hightower. “I think you may have been premature, Aloysius.” The remark was critical but all Hightower heard was Aloysius. The mayor had called him by his given name only twice before, once when his wife left him and once when his mother died. “But I appreciate that you acted out of concern for me. Loyalty like that should be rewarded, not censured.” Watson sighed. “If it wasn’t for that woman, who is...” He went over to his desk and did something with his Rolodex, “Evelyn Boone, I believe, this would…this would not be a problem at all. A tragedy, yes. But not a problem. I mean, you can certainly count on my loyalty. And Hawkins, God knows. Not his judgment, not his sense, perhaps not even his sobriety, but you can certainly count on his loyalty. But that woman, she’s the wild card. Oh, yes, she surely is.”

  Hightower tried to swallow, but his throat and mouth were dry as chalk. “What do we do?” he croaked.

  Rather than answering, Watson began to rummage through the top left desk drawer, throwing a half-a-dozen paperbacks onto the desktop before he found the book he wanted.

  “See this? Titus Andronicus, Shakespeare’s bloodiest play. There’s something I want you to hear.” Watson paged through the paperback. “It bears upon the problem that woman created.” He slowed down and brought the book up close to his face. “Ah, here it is.” He smiled in great satisfaction, and read. “’Two may keep counsel when the third’s away.’ Do you know who said this, Hightower? What character, I mean?”

  “What—what character, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Aaron the Moor! A brother!” Smiling broadly, Watson tossed the little book, underhanded, to Hightower. “One of only four in all of Shakespeare! You should read it. Read it tonight. The brother has some advice!”

  And so that’s what Hightower is doing now, and it’s taking him a long time. Shakespeare is difficult, but he must be read, the brother has some advice, and now he’s found it, all the way into Act 4, Scene 2. “Two may keep counsel when the third’s away,” the brother is saying, “Go to the Empress, tell her this I said…” and then Hightower reads the advice.

  He kills her.

  “Stage directions!” the Mayor had roared. “A man can go far if he can follow stage directions!”

  He kills her.

  This is bad, the Mayor of Washington said to himself while looking into the mirror. He had a cut, a deep one, about an inch and a half above his eye. This is very bad.

  He washed his hands, and then winced as the hot water found its way into the open cut. He had some mercurochrome around somewhere, and an Ace bandage. He was grateful for the private bathroom, which allowed him to think without the distraction of the dead body on the floor of his office.

  He was full of adrenaline and had felt no pain during the fight, the shooting, and the immediate aftermath. But the adrenaline was mostly gone, now, leaving him full of regret.

  He had overreacted when he found that bitch’s toy in her purse. He could have destroyed the recorder and sent her home, and that would have been the end of it. Or what if it wasn’t? How bad could it have been? All right, so the Mayor had a little blow and then connubial relations with a woman not his wife. So did half the civilized men in Washington tonight. People knew he liked to have fun. He might have a little trouble with the US Attorney, but his people would understand him—and if that ofay bastard was dumb enough to put him in jail, why, his constituency would make him Mayor for life!

  No, it was a mistake for him to put his hands on Sharon Scott. But in his world, if the man of the house decides that a little discipline was in order, you stood there and took it, whether you were his woman or his child. He was shocked when Sharon—who up until that point had been nothing but docile and sweet—decided to go all Bruce Lee on him.

  But that wasn’t his worst regret. His regret was his impulsive, hubris-driven commissioning of Hawkins and Hightower to solve his dilemma. He should never have allowed Hawkins to go out after that woman—why, that boy was so stupid that Watson wouldn’t be surprised if he got arrested. And telling Hightower to track her down...well, that was just magical thinking. The Sergeant was bright enough, but he was a bundle of nerves, bad assumptions, blackout rages, and self-doubt. He was, in a word, unpredictable, which is the last thing you want in a hired killer.

  No, he should have sent Hawkins and Hightower home and called in a professional, which is what he had done about an hour later, to take care of the unpleasant reality lying in the floor next door. In fact, that was them now, he surmised when he heard a muffled knocking at his office door. He slipped into his Nunn-Bushes, took a moment to tie them, and then opened the door.

  He was surprised to see Vasquez himself, dressed in a custodian’s uniform and leading a crew of three similarly-dressed men, who carried with them a large, white-plastic container on rollers. “Evenin’, boss,” Vasquez said, and then made a gesture with his head. “That looks like it hurts.”

  “Like a sumbitch.” Watson looked at Sharon, all curled up on the floor. She seemed smaller, somehow, than he remembered her. “She had a heart attack,” he said. “I don’t want to have to explain what she was doing in my office at this hour.”

  “Understood.” Vasquez walked around the body. “Her blood pressure must have been, like, through the roof. Part of her head’s blown off,” he explained.

  “Just get her...” Watson made a gesture. “Your men will be discreet?”

  “Hombre.” Vasquez gave him a pitying smile. “They don’t even speak English. Or Spanish.”

  “What do they speak?”

  “Russian!” Vasquez grinned widely, and then barked out an order Watson didn’t understand. Two of the workers took a rug out of the container and put Sharon on it. Methodically, they rolled it up. The third got down on his hands and knees and poured some chemical on the bloody patch where her brains had leaked out. “
Get that nasty stain right out, boss,” Vasquez said. “No one will know it was ever there.”

  Watson was glad the men were Russian, not because they couldn’t find a way of communicating with the press or the US Attorney, but because he knew they were contractors from the Russian mob, which was so brutal that it was inconceivable that anyone would ever talk, to anybody.

  “You do good work, Vasquez,” he said. He was beginning to feel nauseous. He wondered if he had a concussion. Watson had heard that nausea accompanies concussions, but he didn’t remember losing consciousness.

  The three men stopped to lift the rug, with Sharon deep inside it, into the container. “Don’t dump it in P.G. County,” Watson instructed. “Take it down to Charles. Or St. Mary’s.”

  Vasquez put his hand on Watson’s shoulder. “Believe me, bro. You don’t want to know.”

  Watson watched them roll out the door. For all anyone could tell, they were doing nothing more dramatic than carting out the night’s trash. Which, in a way, they were.

  “I’d look after that cut, hombre,” Vasquez said as they left. Watson nodded, and winced. He knew what was ahead. More mercurochrome. Another bandage. The loving arms of his tubby wife. And then—press conference.

  “Wait!” he shouted to Vasquez. He hated making decisions on the fly, but he had made one earlier, and now he was regretting it. Vasquez said something he didn’t understand—must have been Russian—and then came back to Watson.

  “I have something else for you if you can do it quickly,” he said.

  Denise Boone, like her sister, was a young, voluptuous beauty with flawless skin and a powerful, athletic frame. The resemblance ended there.

  Where Evelyn was independent and successful, Denise gave her life over to the search for powerful men who would provide for her; insulate her from death and destruction. Since the only powerful men within easy reach were members of the DC area’s large criminal community, she found herself in the successive embrace of a series of mob underbosses, hit men, gang leaders, pimps, and street criminals. Often she would have to share these men with an unknown number of other women. Sometimes they beat her. When Denise was with such men, Evelyn would have nothing to do with her.