by Lee Hurwitz
O’Brien had a lump in his throat. He quit DC Government to get away from the morass of corruption in the Watson Administration. Now, he was in the middle of another chapter of the sleazy escapades of Mayor Wendell Watson and his Director of Public Works, John Stone.
He stepped into Ralphie’s, the bar nearest his gate at Washington National. He had a 2:30 flight to San Francisco scheduled and had agreed to meet with Stone before leaving only with the greatest reluctance.
Stone was waiting for him. “Murph, how ya doin? I already ordered you a beer. Michelob okay? How are things in the private sector?”
“Busy, Stoney, busy. It’s hard work. It’s a lot of time out of town and a lot of ten, twelve hour days. But I’m enjoying it.”
“Listen, O’Brien, I’m sorry to have to bother you today, but we have to talk about something before you get on your flight. Let me get right to the point.”
Stone looked directly at O’Brien and spoke softly.
“Were you in Miami? And did you see two DC cops, perhaps two members of the Mayor’s security detail, with Evelyn Boone?”
O’Brien took a sip from his beer and said nothing for a minute.
“You know, Stoney, I had hoped to leave this shit behind when I left the District. I guess that I just was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He took another sip to give himself time to think. “Yeah, it was last week. I was entertaining some RDE clients at a restaurant, and who should I see having dinner but Evelyn Boone. She sees me and freaks. Off she goes to the john and ten minutes later she comes back coked out of her head. She bounces off my table and staggers around the room. The next thing I know, the Mayor’s two stooges, Hightower and another one, don’t know his name, come out of nowhere. Hightower tries to sweet-talk her into going with him. She calls the bouncer. Then all of a sudden here’s Jimmy Ray Mallory, and all hell breaks loose.”
“Hang on a minute. You’re sure that the guys were Hawkins and Hightower?”
“That’s it. Hawkins. I’m sure, Stoney. As sure as I’ll ever be. Anyway, they chased Evelyn and another woman into the parking lot and finally Evelyn and her friend were able to drive away. Then the Mayor’s thugs pulled out after them.”
“What happened after that?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Like I said before, Stoney, I’m out of this District Government shit for good and I’m not getting involved in it anymore.”
Stone closed his eyes, and took a big gulp of beer. This was worse than he thought.
O’Brien fixed him with a look. “Tell me something. Why is Evelyn Boone so important to the Mayor? What were Curly and Moe chasing after her in Miami? Is this about the Boeing bid?”
“I can’t tell you. Not now, not ever. Okay? Let me get this straight: you were on a business trip to Miami and you went to this restaurant to entertain some clients. At this restaurant, you saw Evelyn Boone and the two bodyguards there completely by coincidence?”
“That’s right.”
“Isn’t that a pretty big coincidence?”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.” O’Brien took a swallow of beer and stared at Stone.
Stone said nothing for a minute. He finished his beer and ordered another round. Finally he offered, “I’ll be honest with you, O’Brien. There are some people in the District Building that are kind of skeptical about this being a total coincidence. I mean, really. You were fifteen hundred miles away having dinner in the same restaurant at the same time as Evelyn Boone and the Mayor’s police. Doesn’t that seem kind of bizarre?”
“Very bizarre. I can’t figure it out either. You’re just going to have to trust me. It was a total coincidence.”
“Doesn’t Evelyn Boone work for one of your firm’s subcontractors?”
“Of course she does. But you have to understand, I had nothing to do with her. The first time I laid eyes on her was two weeks ago when we had lunch with Spagnola. You said you liked her big boobs. You said you were going to go to the District Building with her to look at a contract proposal in the Mayor’s office. That’s all I remember about her.”
Stone and O’Brien sat and awkwardly eyed each other.
“I have to jump on a plane and fly to San Francisco. What’s the bottom line? Are you going to believe me and forget about this shit?”
“Sure, I believe you, O’Brien. The problem is what if the press or the D.A. find out that you saw the mess in Miami.”
“Hey, you don’t have to worry about the press. I stay away from them. When they ask me about things, I always say no comment. I haven’t spoken to them in years. The District Attorney, that’s another story.”
“What do you mean, that’s another story.”
“Jesus, Stoney, the District Attorney is the law. I’m certainly not going to volunteer something to him, but if he subpoenas me and asks me straight out, I gotta answer.”
“You can always take the Fifth.”
“The Fifth Amendment? Hey, neither of us are lawyers. We can’t figure our way around the Fifth Amendment. Like I said before, if they call me, I’ll tell the truth.”
Stone lowered his voice to just above a whisper and looked O’Brien straight in the eye. “O’Brien, I like you. I’ve always liked you. I wish you hadn’t left the District. I’ve always been honest with you before. Let me be honest with you now. Like I said before, the powers that be are very skeptical about this so-called coincidence. Your firm has several very big contracts with the DC government. Watson is prepared to sign off on a multi-million dollar contract to process traffic tickets. I think it would be very difficult for the District to sign an RDE contract if it became known that you told a District Attorney or a grand jury about the mess you saw in Miami.”
O’Brien stared back, considering. According to the Coral Gables IT guy, the cops seemed satisfied that Evelyn was simply on some coke-fueled adventure. It was unlikely, O’Brien thought, that anything would come of the investigation. And hell, yes, if he had to tell Stone that he’d clam up before a grand jury in order to keep the RDE money flowing, he’d do it. He could always reappraise things if he had to.
“All right. You win. You don’t have anything to worry about. You can depend on me. I’m with you on this one. I didn’t see anything in the restaurant in Miami. My plane’s getting ready to take off. I have to run.” He rose to leave.
Stone got up with him, and then clumsily put his arm around O’Brien. He’s going to hug me, O’Brien thought, dismayed, and he was right. “You’re going to get something extra in your Christmas stocking this year,” Stone said, and then he laughed, horribly, sending his foul breath all over O’Brien’s face.
O’Brien swung free, dropped a twenty on the table, and broke out into a run for the terminal gate. He had seen many corrupt activities in his two decades with the DC government. Ninety-nine percent of it never saw the light of day. All this shit about Evelyn Boone was bound to blow over.
The trail having grown cold, P. Traum treated himself to six hours of sleep in the back seat of his car, with the police scanner turned low. So it was early morning when he rolled into the town of Little River, South Carolina. When I hit North Carolina I’ll go back home, he thought.
He pulled into a diner, ordered sausage, eggs, and coffee, picked up a paper, and stared into the face of Ronald Hawkins. “Ted Wilson wins ten thousand dollars high prize!” the caption said.
“Jackpot,” P. whispered.
Chapter 8
“I’d like to follow Agent Dennis on an investigation,” Yvonne explained. “See how he talks to people; how they respond; what clues he considers important; what clues he discards…”
“Sort of cineme-verite.” Henderson was sitting on his desk again, one foot on the floor. It was easy for him to do, Mitch observed, since he never had any papers on his desk. “Which investigation do you want to use, Agent Dennis?” Henderson arched his eyebrows.
Of course, Mitch had no investigations; no one in Henderson’s division had investigations. Even Henderson k
new that; he was simply looking to Mitch to invent something for the Hollywood scriptwriter.
“Well, we thought it best to use a fictional investigation, based on the Topping case. We’d use actors to play the witnesses.”
“But we wouldn’t script lines,” Yvonne added. “We’d rely on the actor’s spontaneous reactions. And that would give us an idea of what people would say in a real investigation.”
“All right,” Henderson said slowly. Mitch could tell that he hated this; that if he didn’t think it was going to end up on T.V. he’d never approve it at all. “Can you wrap this up by the end of the year?”
The Christmas season was notoriously slow. Mitch could see that it was all the time he was going to get. “Of course, A.D.,” he said.
As they were near the door Henderson called out, “I’m going to need that White-Collar Crime Report by next Tuesday.”
“I thought my case had priority,” Yvonne said when they were back in Mitch’s Office.
“That just means I work on it during the day,” Mitch replied. “The report is my after-dinner treat.”
The first thing they did was get the baggie full of money marked and take it down to forensics. “This is the T.V. money?” George Baxter asked.
“Word gets around fast.”
“I don’t know if we’re going to get a match.” George’s face formed a little sneer. “The only actors’ prints we have on file are old communists from the fifties.”
“Give it the full treatment anyway.”
“The full treatment,” of course, meant only that it would be matched with the prints of previously-booked Federal defendants, many of whom were now dead or already in prison. Unless Evelyn’s abductors had a federal crime history, it was unlikely that they would show up on the FBI’s records. Still, Mitch had to use this resource; it was simply too convenient to ignore.
Next, he had Yvonne sit with an FBI sketch artist and try to describe the two men who had abducted Evelyn. When he discovered that Yvonne didn’t carry a picture of Evelyn he had the sketch artist draw her, too.
Then they drove over to the Rittenhouse condominiums. Mitch had a sneaking suspicion that Evelyn was not missing at all…that she was simply ducking her girlfriend’s phone calls because she was embarrassed to admit that her kidnappers had brought her back to her own true love, the Mayor of Washington.
As they turned onto 14th Street, heading toward Evelyn’s, Mitch had a sudden idea. “When the two kidnappers were at the car, did either of them call the other by name?” Yvonne hunkered down; seemed deep in thought. “I mean, you know, a first or last name, not, like, ‘Chump’ or something.”
“The younger one,” she said slowly. “I’m not sure—the window was closed, but I thought he said something like, ‘let me do this, Hi.’”
“Let me do this, Hi. Are you sure he wasn’t saying that he wanted to get high—that whatever he was doing, he wanted to snort or whatever before he started?”
“I don’t think so. He had some sort of nightstick. He was about to break the window with it. He wouldn’t have had time to get high. Maybe he meant that he wanted to hit the window high. You know, as opposed to low? But—no, that wouldn’t have made sense. I think the other guy’s name must have been Hi.”
“Might be something.” Mitch took the car radio. “Dorthea, check the database for a Black male, first name Hiram, age between thirty-five to fifty-five. If you get too many hits, narrow it down to folks who have a history of kidnapping or assault.” They drove up to the building.
“These people you’re checking against…” Yvonne was still feeling her way with this man. He may be a brother, but he was a cop, too. He had this over-precise way of speaking, too, convoluted, as though he loved hearing the James-Earl-Jones sound of his own voice. “Do they include cops?”
“The records. Yes. Well.” Mitch smiled. “Cops are a whole ‘nother ballgame.”
They walked into the Rittenhouse and across the comfortable-looking, mildly stuffy lobby to the front desk. Mitch flashed his badge.
“I’m looking for a woman named Evelyn Boone,” he announced to the desk clerk, a very dark young man wearing an open-necked white shirt and chinos. The effect was electric.
“I cooperated!” he said, jumping up. “I did everything you asked me to.” The young man looked around, as though he was worried about being overheard, even though there was no one else in the room. “Please. You’ll cost me my job.”
Mitch looked at Yvonne, and then back at the clerk. “Look, Mr. Obando,” he said, reading the clerk’s name tag. “I simply want to go over what the other officer went over.” Mitch was feeling his way. Obando had clearly encountered somebody. “Your job is fine. Your job is secure.”
Obando muttered something in French, then astonished Mitch by picking up a heavy ring of keys. “One more time,” he whispered harshly. “You must tell no one of this.”
Mitch and Yvonne followed Obando up to Evelyn’s apartment. As he had before, Obando disappeared after opening the door.
“Nervous young man,” Mitch observed after he left.
“What was he talking about, one more time?” Yvonne said this, but Mitch figured she knew.
“Somebody asked about the room earlier,” Mitch said. “Probably a cop.”
“Like my cops,” Yvonne said, smiling. They moved through the rooms. Mitch noticed that there was a thin film of dust on the bureau in the bedroom. She had been gone for a while.
“Look at that phone,” Mitch said, pointing.
“What about it?”
“It’s got one of those redial buttons. You can call the last number dialed.” Mitch was pleased to see Yvonne’s mouth open in a little O. “Let’s give it a whirl.”
Putting on a pair of gloves, Mitch picked up the phone and hit the redial button. He waited while the ring sounded twice, and then a pleasant voice answered, “Alpha Travel.”
Mitch hung up. “I don’t think she’s been back here,” he said. “The last number she called was a travel agency.” Of course, she could have come back to her condo and made arrangements to travel somewhere else, but Mitch didn’t expect to be able to get that information without a warrant.
“‘What’s next?’ Yvonne asked.
“Place of business,” Mitch answered, striding out of the room. Before he left, though, he gave Obando a card and asked him to give it to Evelyn if and when she returned. Do everything, Mitch thought. Something might break.
At MBG Services, the data-processing company where Evelyn worked, Mitch’s FBI badge didn’t impress the receptionist. As soon as he said they were inquiring about Evelyn Boone, however, they found themselves in the office of Charles Dworkin, the company’s President.
“Evelyn’s in trouble.” Dworkin was a short, intense, mahogany-skinned man with tight, short-clipped curls. “What kind of trouble is Evelyn in?”
“Right now all we’re trying to do is ascertain her whereabouts.”
Dworkin allowed himself a slight smile. “I don’t think the FBI runs a missing-persons bureau,” he said, looking at Yvonne.
In fact the Bureau did have a missing-persons division, but Mitch didn’t feel like arguing with him. “Mr. Dworkin, let’s start over. My name is Agent Mitch Dennis, and this is my assistant, Ms. Brown. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re here to ask some questions about your employee, Evelyn Boone. I’m sure you want to cooperate fully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, as all loyal Americans wish to cooperate with the FBI.”
Dworkin waved Mitch and Yvonne into chairs across his desk. “She’s done this before,” he said, “taken off after closing high-stakes deals for the company. She’s out for two, three weeks, nary a word, and then she’s back. Like nothing out of the ordinary happened.”
“Did she just close a high-stakes deal?” Yvonne surprised Mitch, and herself, by asking the question.
“Yeah. With DC government.” Dworkin seemed surprised they didn’t know. “Or—with RDE. We’re a sub
on the big parking ticket processing contract. But we’re the rod that makes the wheel move. We’re the only minority data processing company that could handle the specs. RDE needed us to get the minority bid advantage, and they needed the minority bid advantage to beat Boeing.”
“Have you—has RDE—been awarded the contract?”
“It’s wired. It just hasn’t been announced.”
“How did you know it was Boeing you beat?” Mitch asked. “I thought government bids were sealed.”
“When you’re in the business as long as I’ve been, you know who the players are,” Dworkin said, with such bad grace and discomfort that Mitch knew there was more to the story.
Aloud, Mitch asked, “Did Evelyn work with the Mayor?”
A sly smile crept across Dworkin’s face. “It was mostly John Stone she worked with. Evelyn had certain—ah, attributes that Mr. Stone particularly appreciated. We have a saying here. We said she was ‘romancing the Stone.’”
When they were out of the office Yvonne asked Mitch what “attributes” Dworkin meant. “He was talking about Evelyn’s breast size,” Mitch told her. “But you knew that.”
Yvonne shuddered. “Is that the way things get done around here?” she asked.
Mitch thought a bit. “Yeah,” he said.
“Maybe I should stay in the car when we get there. I think my breasts might be too small for him.”
“We’ll wait before seeing Mr. Stone.” Stone was far too experienced a criminal witness to yield anything useful to an Agent on a fishing expedition. Mitch would save him for when he had something more substantial to talk about. “Do they eat lunch in Miami?”
After lunch, they went back to Headquarters, and more bad news. George had no fingerprint matches and Dorthea could dig up only one Hiram, a six-foot-eight geek who had done time for counterfeiting.
“I guess we should hit police headquarters, see if the fingerprints match anybody there, huh,” Yvonne suggested.
Mitch was not looking forward to this. Although few local police forces cooperated willingly with the FBI, the recalcitrance of the DC Metropolitan Police force was legendary. Mitch thought of the DC police as a sort of private army, with the various captains like ward committeemen whose power ebbed and flowed as they competed for Mayor Watson’s favor.