One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3)

by Dale Amidei

  Catania looked up when the door’s bell jingled, out of boredom rather than any particular concern. A little redhead dressed in black walked in, pulling off her gloves before she did the same to her dark, round-lensed sunglasses. She seemed content to wait for the hostess to notice her arrival.

  “Hey! Boone! Is it really you?” he exclaimed.

  She turned her head at the sound of his voice and then flashed a smile. “Eddie! Long time, paisan.”

  He rose, beckoning an old friend. “C’mere, kid.” His hug was met with an elegant, one-armed return and a elegantly Italian kiss on the cheek. “You gotta join me,” he insisted. “It’s been forever since I seen ya.”

  “It’s been five years,” she corrected. “Still with CID?”

  “You betcha. Where they got you now?”

  She smiled. “Over at the Crossing.”

  Liberty Crossing. Holy cow. He attempted to stifle his surprise as she sat down with him. “Well, then I guess I won’t ask doing what.”

  “It would save my time and your feelings, Eddie,” she replied in confirming his intuition.

  His waitress came over, noticing the late arrival at his table. “Welcome. A lunch menu, ma’am?” the dark-haired woman inquired.

  Boone Hildebrandt gave her a smile as well. “Solo caffe, per favore.”

  “Certamente, signora,” was the answer, and then the two were alone once again.

  “Hey, Boone, you still got the lingo. You’re makin’ me feel at home, here.” She looked pleased and crossed those killer legs—she ain’t slacked off since I knew her.

  Continuing the charm job, she told him, “The name of this place is Italian for The Feed Trough, Eddie.”

  “Yeah? Well then I shouldn’t have to worry about the serving size.”

  Her smile was back. “So what are you up to, amico mio?”

  “Oh, we got business across the road.”

  “Bad?”

  “Bad enough,” he admitted. “Double H.”

  She did not, in his trained eyes, appear surprised in the least. “Got a line on the perps?”

  Shaking his head, he answered, “Hell, Boone, we don’t know who the stiffs are yet.”

  “What about the ID you found on one of them?”

  “Huh?”

  He saw her eyes flick to confirm their privacy, and then her hand slipped inside her jacket, a second later sliding a textured evidence bag—this kind wouldn’t hold a print unless you inked up for it—across the table. On top of the stack of cards inside was a Maryland license featuring a picture of one of the two dead guys, before acquiring the bullet hole now marring the middle of his forehead. Catania managed to keep his jaw from dropping.

  She shrugged. “USIC is done with those, Eddie,” she said in a colder voice than when she first joined him.

  “Boone, what’s goin’ on?”

  “I’m having a cup of coffee with a friend, Eddie. Then we’re both going back to work. You know how it is, right?”

  Life in the deep black? No, not anymore. I’m too old and too fat for that crap. He merely took the evidence and slipped it inside the overcoat hanging across the back of his nesting chair. The waitress came by and delivered his food while Boone sipped her coffee, looking for the entire world as if nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had just occurred between them.

  She returned her cup to his table. “Enjoy your ziti, Eddie. It was nice seeing you again. Arrivederci.”

  “Ciao, babe. Stay outta trouble, I guess, huh?”

  “You got it, paisan.” Standing up, Boone ducked down for another kiss, afterward wiping what must have been a trace of her red lipstick from his cheek.

  He watched her leave, and from his point of view she looked even better from the back than she did from the front. His mind only briefly struggled with the ethics of writing the encounter out of his report. Who are you kidding, Eddie? She’s stationed at ODNI now. None of this ever happened, and you know it.

  Chapter 7 - A Walk in the Park

  St. Ermin’s Hotel

  London, England

  As were his assets, Benedek Jancsi Novak’s businesses were held internationally. His current concern was tending to the seemingly endless rounds of precursory consultations leading up to London’s December meeting of the major economic players in the region. The exhortations, economic coercion, and rhetorical arm-twisting taxed even a billionaire’s endurance. Necessary to effectively engineer any profitable scenario in the realm of international finance, they were scheduled through enough of his calendar to make him long for a break well before one usually appeared. I am tired. And my day has been annoying enough already.

  His secretary was a severe but efficient German woman, one who guarded the interior of his suite against those self-important enough to assume their status precluded the necessity of an appointment. She entered his office now, barely four seconds following the departure of a personally intolerable Italian serving as his nation’s Minister of Economy and Finance. “Herr Novak. There is a call for you. They said they would not give a name.”

  “And they lived? Ludwiga, are you losing your touch?” Doubtful. If the woman’s hair was pulled back into any tighter of a bun, her lovely face might look Chinese.

  “Hardly,” she sniffed in a humorless tone. “The voice is strange … elektronische, verstehen Sie? I did not think I should have sent whoever this is through without first inquiring as to your interest.”

  Far from indifferent, Novak welcomed the arrival of something besides another grasping ingrate or arrogant rival. He managed a perfunctory smile. “Send them through, dear. If nothing else, I need the amusement.”

  “As you wish.”

  His telephone, part of the system traveling with him when the accommodations could at all make it worthwhile, rang a few moments later. “This is Benedek Novak.”

  “Benedek, dear,” the electronically altered voice responded. “Are you still minding your investments?”

  “Always,” he answered. “And who might this be?”

  “Really, it has not been so long a time. But to answer your question, I am both your biggest patron and potentially your ultimate beneficiary.”

  “Ah, of course. What can I do?”

  “Do you remain a man who would jealously guard his stake in the public sector, Mister Novak?”

  “Only when I wish to make more money, though it is a desire which never seems to leave me.”

  The voice laughed, sounding chillingly sinister, an effect enhanced by the device scrambling the caller's input. “Then I advise action, Mister Novak. You watch the news from the States and understand, do you not?”

  “Always, of course. To what story in particular do you refer?” the financier asked.

  “Virginia. DARIUS. It was the subject of an anticipatory discussion which we had some time ago.”

  Ah, yes. There is always contingency planning going on with this one. Novak nodded. “I remember everything, of course.” He checked the newswires, on which the mention of the mishap in McLean could already be found. “Matters in the technical arena did not go well at all, I see.”

  “And now the investigators must find what they seek, Benedek. Let us not keep them waiting, shall we?”

  “Agreed. The solution you held in contingency will be forthcoming and logically apparent, I assure you.”

  “I’m certain it would be best for all involved. Good day, my friend.”

  Novak hung up the receiver, wondering if he were still capable of looking as astounded as he felt. But what else is to be done? This is not small change on the table.

  Picking up the handset again, he punched in a number. The extension took too many rings to answer, and then it was in a language he could barely understand, much less use in a conversation as potentially entangling as the one he was about to have. “Speak English, you fool,” he advised.

  Fort Marcy Park

  McLean, Virginia

  Eighteen hours later

  Delmar Givens had grown up
in Minnesota, so a morning low temperature of thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit was hardly the coldest he had ever experienced over the course of his fifty-three years. It was indeed legitimately cold, just not freezing as he commonly heard from the locals whenever the mercury dipped below fifty degrees inside the Beltway. He considered the world’s being filled largely with idiots no mystery.

  Neither did mornings in general bother him. The sky was clear, and the sun would be up soon. As the birds chirped to warm themselves, and the wildlife scampered about, he stood and remembered similar sounds from his childhood. It was the same here as on the farm long ago. He was not at all surprised to find the animals, living in the heavily wooded tract just off the George Washington Memorial Parkway, to be at their most active during this early hour. It seemed apparent they were unaccustomed to seeing humans intrude upon their isolated habitat before sunrise.

  His early Saturday morning meet practically demanded a setting this obscure, considering the amount of privacy the face-to-face would require. No one in their right mind will be out here for hours. And given the Park’s history, it would be the last place anyone looked for us in any event.

  He turned back to the door of his Mercedes, checked the time on a Cartier, and pulled the sleeve of his topcoat and sweater back down over his gloved wrist. I’m running a bit late. But my car is also the only one here. Givens looked around, seeing a likely spot further into the trees. The ground had dried from the rain earlier in the week, but he wore his older shoes just in case. The prospect of negotiating the dewy, unpaved path leading toward the sitting area at the edge of the clearing did not intimidate him.

  Givens locked the late-model sedan with a flick of the button on his key fob, stuck his hands in his overcoat pockets, and walked. The deeper he moved into the Park, the quieter and more removed the traffic and nearby road became. He realized it was due to the heavy, wet stillness the trees afforded this place. One could shout here, and though a person might be walking along the Parkway—not that pedestrians were common along the busy artery—there was no guarantee of being heard.

  He soon reached a bench anchored to its concrete slab. Brushing as much dew off of the seat as he could, he knew between his GORE-TEX top layer and wool liner, he would be fine. How the other participant in this morning’s meeting would fare, he would find out. But then again, childhood winters must have been just as cold for her.

  Sitting down in the nearly palpable solitude, Givens listened to the 'round-the-clock denizens of the Park resume their normal level of activity. He thought about similar mornings half a country and two-thirds of a lifetime away. It is not really a bad way to begin another day, Del decided.

  From the far end of the Park, the crunching sound of a regular pace drifted ever nearer, and presently, a jogger appeared, huffing and wiping against the effects of his exertion in the cold weather. Runners, Givens thought with amazement. Is there any time of year able to stifle their incessant addiction to masochism?

  A well-built man in his midthirties, the jogger plodded along the edge of the tree line. The boundary of the woods was the natural circuit of the park since a defined jogging path was nonexistent. He must have started from the opposite side, or run from his home nearby, Givens knew from having taken the first spot of the day’s driving patrons.

  The man approached Givens and gave him a grin as his pace slowed. “Ah, good morning! Brisk, is it not?”

  Foreign born. A diplomat, perhaps? “Indeed. You are having an invigorating run.”

  “The best kind.” The man paused, running in place before dropping for a few deep knee bends.

  This will be an awkward moment, if he does not move along soon. Hopefully he is not much of a conversationalist. To Delmar, however, the jogger did not seem to be in a hurry.

  “A beautiful place. You must come here often to enjoy such a morning.”

  Givens smiled though out of politeness and not to encourage the fellow. “Actually, I am meeting someone. Not to be rude, monsieur, but we had expected to be alone.”

  “Ah, yes … well, it is Washington. Intrigue is to be found everywhere here.” The man touched his toes effortlessly, swinging his arms back and forth, afterward rolling his hips. He blew a breath, his hands still behind his back, and then moved toward the rear of the bench where Givens sat.

  “This is Virginia, actually, though the District is only—” Givens felt the shocking sensation of the other man’s hand atop his own head, shoving the hat he wore forward over his eyes, and then for only a moment the pressure of a terribly hard object pressing against the side of his head behind the ear. What the—

  His assassin looked toward the left, seeing as anticipated the 115-grain metal-case bullet had exited the subject, spraying Delmar Givens blood and brain matter down the length of the weathered park bench. The shot itself did not register a report since the thrust was solid enough to drive the muzzle blast directly into his victim's cranium. The only sound had been the tick of the hammer fall and a squash from the opposite side of the dead man’s skull.

  The shooter leaned Givens back and let the hat fall as it would have naturally. Reaching forward, his murderer plucked the glove from the deceased's right hand. With the derringer’s action opened, the appropriate fingerprints were applied to both the empty cartridge and the live load the barrels now contained. The action of the handgun snapped shut once more, and after a few wipes with the killer's handkerchief, the pistol was pressed into place. Again the scene was engineered to appear as if the dead man’s hand had fallen naturally.

  With care the jogger looked over the scene and the condition of the slab under the bench, seeing nothing other than a few dewy footprints which would dry without leaving much of a trace behind. He knew, in any event, his footgear—along with the rest of what he wore, from the sweats to the watch cap on his head—would be discarded at the first opportunity he encountered.

  It was indeed a peaceful place. Satisfied, the killer turned and resumed his jog. The scant remainder of his route would take him only to the parking lot. There his ride, having monitored the operation via his transmitter, would soon appear.

  “Adieu, my friend.” The words were an agreed-upon signal to his driver.

  It was midmorning on a Saturday. Having dealt with both her early callisthenic routine and her breakfast—the croissants here rivaled those in Paris—Boone was in her jogging array and headed for the treadmills in the hotel spa. Anticipating nothing besides her morning miles, her phone was along for the music it contained. Whoever arranged the exercise facility here had retained the foresight to position the machines facing the door. So, unlike her running out in public, Boone felt comfortable giving up the aural portion of her situational awareness for the sake of a soundtrack. At least once I’m under way. Those two bipedal meatballs with the Tahoe are still out there somewhere.

  Her side trip yesterday, made to enhance Eddie Catania’s reputation as a sleuth, had not resulted in any political temblor—yet. It’s a matter of time, though. Whether the outcome would be a major scandal or an incident simply written off as a case of unfortunate moonlighting on the part of a White House staffer remained to be seen. She knew her involvement would stay officially nonexistent while Terry maintained the case as a black op. And it would not be the first time I’ve seen the man designate ODNI’s domestic involvement to be a permanent secret.

  Boone made it down to the hotel’s ground floor and had her hand on the latch of the glass door leading into the deserted spa when her phone buzzed to signal an incoming text. Bloody hell. Who is this?

  Navigating her thumb to her messaging app, she began to open the panel partitioning off the gym. Seeing the sender as the ODNI messaging server, however, she removed her other hand to allow the entrance door to swing back into place. Boone opened the SMS text message: “LEVEL ORANGE HAS BEEN DECLARED. ALL ESSENTIAL ODNI PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT IMMEDIATELY.” The SCO turned, deciding on the stairs rather than a potential wait for the elevator. Someone at Terry’s level or
above has declared a governmental emergency.

  The USIC Senior Case Officer walked through the doors of ODNI less than an hour later. Observing Bradley’s office to be already open, Boone knew she was the second responder. She made a beeline for his door, not bothering with the usual settling-in routine of ditching her coat and bag. Her boss sat at his desk, apparently watching live news feeds from multiple sources via his computer.

  “Terry … what’s happening?”

  Glancing up, he lowered the volume a bit. “Delmar Givens was found this morning—by a mother and her kids—dead in Fort Marcy Park.”

  Boone blinked, disbelieving. It took her a moment to formulate a response. “Isn’t dumping the bodies of Administration officials there considered trite by now?”

  Bradley was less than amused. “It has the appearance of a suicide, from the first reports.”

  “Who is on the scene?” Boone asked, approaching his desk. Flipping windows via his keyboard, Bradley answered, “McLean has just handed it off to National Park Police and FBI on site.”

  Her hand gripped her bag. “Who’s the agent in charge?”

  Another deft stroke of the keys and he had her answer. “Ed Catania. He’s assigned to the DARIUS investigation as well.”

  Yeah, Terry, I know. I wish I could have told you. She feigned a moment of consideration although she wanted to be in motion already. “Terry, I know Eddie. I should evaluate the scene. We have plausible cause for interest.” Looking up, she could perceive his accepting her suggestion.

  “Agreed,” he allowed. “Orange might not last the morning. The incident seems not to have been a precursor for anything unfortunate. Go ahead. I will wait out the interim.”

  Thanks, Terry. “On my way,” she acknowledged. Turning for the door, Boone found she was glad for having listened to her instincts and donned black.