Capital City

by Lee Hurwitz

  He examined himself as if from a great distance. He watched himself breathe, measured the surface tension of his skin, the dilation of his eyes, the taste of the saliva in his mouth. What was he feeling? Anger? Regret? Fear? He was feeling nothing at all. He was feeling empty, as though his blood had been drained and replaced with formaldehyde. He was a man only to the extent that he was a success; P. Traum as a failure was a no-man, a corpse. Nomads were men without homes, but nomans were men without souls.

  Failure is death. And P. Traum understood immediately that he must rectify his failure—must succeed in a way that the client, the Mayor, would understand and appreciate. There would be no fee. There would only be the pleasure and the satisfaction of a death—or several deaths—well realized. P. Traum would reevaluate the Mayor’s risk status independently, do an in-service survey, identify the greatest danger, and make it disappear.

  Mitch, studying the sketch just faxed to him, tried to chase the memory of his interview with Evelyn out of his mind. The idea of Yvonne performing unspeakable acts with—a chill passed over him.

  Of course, Evelyn’s story was full of contradictions. He had pointed out one of them to her: if she hadn’t told her boyfriend where she was going, how did he know where to find her? There was a more serious contradiction that he hadn’t bothered to point out. Her original story was that her boyfriend showed up the morning after she had moved in with Yvonne. But later, she said that the boyfriend hadn’t shown up by the night they visited The Fun Factory, which, according to Evelyn, was the third night of her visit to Miami.

  Still, Mitch knew from his long experience that stories that were full of contradictions could still be true. People were complicated animals. Even when they are powerfully motivated to tell the truth, considerations of embarrassment or vanity or both make them avoid details here, exaggerate them there, and create facts out of whole cloth. Evelyn could have left clues to her destination in the hopes that Aaron Moore would follow her; Aaron could have showed up not the next day but a week later; and the essence of the story could still have been the same—that Evelyn was taken not by a kidnapper but a repentant lover, and Yvonne had concocted this whole accusation in a desperate, lunatic effort to make Evelyn return her homosexual embraces.

  But Yvonne seems so healthy! While Mitch knew he was no expert on the matter, he thought he had enough insight to recognize a psychotic lesbian after six days of close proximity. Most of his colleagues in the Bureau and most of the folks in the community thought of homosexuals as degenerate perverts. Mitch had a more compassionate view; he thought they were ill, and he felt pity, not contempt. He reasoned that he himself felt attracted to women all the time and never felt himself attracted to men; for a homosexual, the situation must be reversed. What a horrible sickness! But Yvonne is healthy, dammit! and immediately an image of Yvonne in bed, naked, begging Evelyn to take her back, formed in his head.

  With a conscious effort of will, he studied the cool, bland image that stared at him from the fax Sheriff Collins had sent.

  Fuck! Copland thought as he banged his shin against some invisible object.Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  He didn’t dare say it aloud. Everything depended on him getting in, getting the safe open and the money out, and getting out in six minutes. Anything longer would be an invitation to calamity.

  He’d gotten in. But doing the rest of it was harder than he had figured. It was so damn dark…much darker than he expected. And his brother’s store—he didn’t remember him keeping those boxes up front when Copland worked there, two years ago.

  They’re boxes, you asshole, Copland thought, two years go by — they get moved. Copland hit something else, hard, with his other leg. Motherfucker! He clapped his hand over his mouth before the word got out. Better get down on the floor and crawl, he thought. Less chance of hitting something. He dropped to all fours, knocking over a plant or a lamp or some such shit.

  Now the safe—was that 28-12-13 or 22-18-13? He was pretty sure the last number was 13. Unless it was 31. He shouldn’t have gotten high before he tried this job.

  He saw the beam of the flashlight. Get down! he thought. He put his face flush against the floor. Wait, my ass is still up in the air! Copland reached up to be sure, felt his ass. Yup, just where he had left it. He brought it down, flattened himself out. Something else fell over.

  “Police!”

  Shit! That was aloud.

  All is lost, Wendell Watson said to himself, and then he willed himself out of his stupor. All is not lost. Someone else could make a mistake. Or...and then he realized that the disastrous press conferences had immediately lowered the ceiling on his best-case scenario. He could forget about occupying a million-dollar-a-year job in Manhattan and dictating to his chosen successor. It would now be sufficient to get out of town without being indicted and go hide some place where he could count his money.

  If Styx got himself elected, he could spend his entire four years in office uncovering Watson’s misdeeds. He wouldn’t even have to do the Mayor thing! Every other day would be a press conference in which he would reveal what the Inspector General found, or what connected person got a no-bid contract, or what former lover, now looking at a three-year stretch, had to say about his cocaine use. Styx could punctuate that with an occasional ribbon-cutting, and four years would go by like a snap!

  No, we can’t have that. There was one person, Watson knew, who could beat Styx. She wouldn’t be his puppet, like Corbin, but she had enough decency and compassion to leave the past alone.

  He knew that from personal experience.

  “Keisha?” he said when her line picked up, but it was just an answering machine. He called her secretary.

  “Councilwoman Lee is at a meeting,” the secretary said.

  “With whom?”

  “She didn’t tell me—”

  Watson felt his body tighten. “This is the Mayor of the City of Washington. And her ex-husband. Where is she?”

  The voice on the other end was silent for a little bit. “With Councilman Styx,” she said, finally.

  “Vonnie?” Mitch said as Yvonne walked into the office on Monday morning.

  They looked at each other for a moment. “Vonnie what?” Yvonne said at last.

  “Vonnie what—what?” Mitch was confused.

  “You said Vonnie. What about Vonnie? Who is she? What did she do?”

  “You’re Vonnie.”

  Yvonne looked stupefied for a moment. “Well, I suppose I am. But nobody calls me that.”

  “Evelyn doesn’t call you that?”

  “Evelyn? Nobody calls me that. Evelyn calls me Yvonne, just like everybody else.”

  Mitch looked at her. “I had lunch with Evelyn yesterday. She kept calling you that.”

  “You had lunch with Evelyn! Why didn’t you tell me? My God, what…”

  Mitch hunched forward, all business. “It was very disturbing. I have to ask you. Have you been entirely honest with me? If you haven’t, it’s all right. It’s okay. But now I need you to be absolutely honest with me, even if the truth’s embarrassing.” Yvonne looked stricken.

  There was a knock, and Sheila stuck her head in. “There’s a Sean O’Brien on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

  Sean O’Brien? Mitch remembered the brief interview with him and Spagnola, smarmy guy, tried to divert the focus to RDE’s outstanding corporate ethics. “Patch him through,” he said.

  Had O’Brien called two days ago, and Yvonne been in the room, he would have put him on the speakerphone. Now he just nodded to Yvonne and picked up.

  “Mr. O’Brien? What can I do for you?”

  “Look, I know you’re interested in information about the disappearance of Evelyn Boone.”

  Of course you do, you dork. I asked you about it. “Yes,” he said aloud.

  “I was at The Fun Factory in Miami a couple of weeks ago and I saw Evelyn Boone there.” Mitch could hear traffic noises in the background; realized O’Brien was calling from a pay phone.


  “Yes? Was she alone?”

  “She was being chased by two thugs from the Mayor’s personal security force. One of them was that Amos Hightower. I don’t know who the other one was.

  “Amos? Do you mean Aloysius Hightower?”

  “Yeah. That’s it, Aloysius. Some Biblical name. Anyway, there was a huge fight. There was a picture in the National Tattler. Maybe you saw it.”

  Mitch had the picture right in front of him. Damn! There was O’Brien, front row center, at a table with a few other guys in suits. Mitch considered O’Brien a peripheral figure, who knew Evelyn only through the contracting process. He never dreamed that O’Brien might have actually witnessed the kidnapping.

  “Agent Dennis? Are you still there? I don’t know how, but I think John Stone may be involved in this whole thing. He’s been asking after her…”

  “Mr. O’Brien, why didn’t you tell us this the last time we interviewed you?” Mitch said, without thinking.

  “Let’s just say…ah…my recollection has been refreshed.”

  Mitch bit his tongue. Since Watergate, all businessmen talked like lawyers, especially when they were guilty of something. I could slap an obstruction-of-justice charge on him, but what would be the point? He’d just lawyer up, and I’m after bigger game.

  “That’s fine, Mr. O’Brien. We appreciate that you’ve decided to cooperate now.” A recorded voice interrupted and instructed O’Brien to deposit three dollars for the next three minutes.

  “Hold on,” O’Brien said, and Mitch heard the gurgle of coins being deposited. He’s calling long distance, Mitch thought.

  “Away on business?” Mitch asked. “How are things at RDE?”

  “I am no longer connected to RDE,” O’Brien replied.

  Things were beginning to fall into place. Something bad had gone down, and he was now prepared to trash the people who had made it possible. “Let’s meet as soon as we can. How about tomorrow at ten at my office? We’d like to get a statement from you.”

  “Tomorrow at ten will be fine,” O’Brien said grimly. “I seem to have the time free.”

  Mitch smiled and gave Yvonne the thumbs-up sign as he broke off with O’Brien. So Yvonne had been telling the truth all along! He switched on the intercom. “Sheila, schedule a steno for ten tomorrow, this office.”

  “Mitch, Captain Pitts is on the line.”

  “Who?”

  “Captain Pitts? From the DC MPD? He says it’s important.”

  Mitch looked at Yvonne. “Okay,” he told Sheila. This was shaping up to be a strange day. “Dennis speaking.”

  “Agent Dennis? This is Elijah Pitts. You still looking for Sergeant Hightower?”

  “I’m putting you on speakerphone, Captain Pitts. Ms. Brown is here with me.” Mitch pushed the button. “Go ahead.”

  “You folks doing anything at two?” Captain Pitts’ voice boomed from the speakerphone. “Hope not. We have a certain security guard in custody. And he has one very interesting story to tell.”

  Chapter 15

  “Mr. Copland, now that I’ve read you your Miranda rights and you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present, we’re going to go over the crimes that you are accused of committing. Do you mind if I look at your file?”

  “Nah.”

  “Mr. Copland, I see here you were acquitted of armed robbery in 1981. You were convicted of second degree sexual assault in 1982, and you served nine months in Lorton. Let’s see—armed robbery again in 1984, and a trip back to Lorton for three years. You got out in 1987. Not the usual career path for employment in the City of Washington, I wouldn’t think. Where was I? Last night, you were picked up by the Second District, and it says here you were charged with breaking and entering and unlawful possession of a firearm.” The Assistant US Attorney looked up from his file and shook his head. “Your own brother’s store.”

  “I’m not talkin.”

  Despite the waiver, Mitch was feeling uncomfortable that they were proceeding without a lawyer present. The suspect was obviously not a rocket scientist, and Mitch could see a liberal DC judge deciding that he was not fully aware of his rights and so his waiver was invalid. This would not only void any conviction against Copland, it more importantly would prevent them from using any of the information the suspect could give them. He looked at Captain Pitts, the only other law-enforcement person in the room, but Pitts was inscrutable. Mitch took a sip of coffee, and nearly dropped the cup. It was awful—bitter and unpleasantly hot.

  The Assistant US Attorney—an ex-cop named Leonard Altman—allowed himself a small chuckle. “It’s certainly your right to remain silent, Mr. Copland,” he said. “I merely want to draw to your attention the fact that you are now looking at a fifteen to twenty-five year prison sentence for your third felony conviction. To be honest with you, normally I would not be inclined to do a thing about it. I’d say you earned yourself another trip to Lorton. But I understand from Detective Briggs that you saw something while you were working as a security guard that we might find interesting.”

  Mitch couldn’t have heard that correctly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Altman,” he said. “I thought you just said he was a security guard.”

  Altman’s smile grew wider, became a smirk. “I did, Agent Dennis,” he said. “This man was a security guard for the City of Washington. Working in the District Building.” Mitch looked at Pitts to see if they were joking; they weren’t. “Home of the Mayor’s office. Am I right, Mr. Copland?”

  Copland remained silent.

  “Where you witnessed a shooting?”

  Copland sat inert in his chair in the cramped interview room in the DC Jail. “Well,” he said finally, “I dunno.”

  “You don’t know whether you were a security guard, Mr. Copland?” Altman asked incredulously.

  “I dunno about the other thing.”

  “What don’t you know, Mr. Copland? Either you witnessed a shooting in the District Building or you didn’t witness a shooting there. There is no in between.”

  “What’s in this for me?”

  “Well, Mr. Copland, that depends on what you saw in the District Building. If you saw a crime committed in the District Building and you testify about that crime, the US Attorney’s Office might, and let me stress the word might, decide that due to your cooperation, the felony charge could be plea-bargained down to a misdemeanor. If you plead guilty to a misdemeanor, you cannot by law be sent to jail for longer than a year. Do you follow what I’m saying, Mr. Copland?”

  Copland stared back. Mitch wondered if he might be high. The suspect seemed to be going through his paces underwater. Mitch could see the gears turning every time Altman asked a question, but the gears were turning slowly, and not very efficiently. Copland looked out of place in Washington...looked like he’d be more at home on a farm somewhere in the Midwest. The blond mop on the top of his head, the red-cheeked sullenness. Mitch wondered for a second whether there would be any significance to the fact that the security guard they were trying to get to turn state’s evidence against the mayor was white—and then admonished himself. Why does everything have to be about race?

  “Yeah, I get it.” Copland said.

  “Let me ask you again. Was there a shooting in the District Building?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Who was shot? Was it a man or a woman?”

  “A woman.”

  “Do you know the name of the woman who was shot?”

  “Nah.”

  Pitts interrupted. “Was it this woman?” He handed a picture to Copland.

  Copland squinted. “Yeah,” he said. “Think so. Course, when I saw her, she was lyin’ down.”

  “Could I see?” Mitch asked, and Pitts handed him the picture. Mitch looked at it for a while. He had seen her before, but not in police work. Maybe in the newspaper.

  “Was this woman killed or wounded?” Altman continued.

  “Uh, killed, I guess.”

  “When did this shooting take place?”

  “Abou
t three weeks ago.”

  “Who was involved in this shooting?”

  “Uh, Hightower.”

  “Aloysius Hightower, of the Mayor’s Special Protective Force.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Altman looked at Pitts. “We’re picking him up,” Pitts said, confirming for Mitch what O’Brien had revealed earlier that morning.

  “Anyone else?” Altman had returned his attention to Copland.

  “Uh, yeah. The Mayor.”

  “The Mayor, as in Wendell Watson?”

  “Yeah, Watson.”

  The phone on the wall rang and Altman picked it up. “Yes?” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

  Altman listened for a few seconds. “He’s waived,” he said, frowning more deeply. “We don’t need…” Altman listened for another half-minute or so. “Fine,” he said, slamming down the phone. “Your boss thinks Copland should have a P.D.,” he said to Pitts.

  Pitts said nothing and neither did Mitch, but silently Mitch was glad for the DC Chief’s foresight. The Public Defender would gladly take Altman’s deal—what lawyer wouldn’t? —and no one would be able to challenge the plea deal later.

  The public defender, a moon-faced middle-aged man with a pencil moustache and a bad toupee, bustled into the room. “George Clarkson,” he said, sticking his hand out to Pitts, and then working the rest of the room: Mitch, Altman, and finally his client. “George Clarkson,” he repeated to Copland, more softly.

  He seems familiar, Mitch thought—familiar like a TV actor rather than someone he knew from his work. Mitch wondered if his perceptions would be sharper if he had stayed in police work rather than wandered into the bureaucracy.