One of the bartenders waved at him, grinned. “Hiya Tex.” Like his trademark boots, his nickname had stuck. The bartender scowled at two annoying, snobbish government types who tried to impress others with their bureaucratic titles. “I’m sorry gentlemen. Those stools are reserved for these people.” He smiled at their ire.
Carlton and Erika sat on the two stools while the two men slinked away. “You never cease to amaze me, Steve. So what’s new?”
“Same old, same old, man. Usual suspects. Crappy weather. Crappy tips. I’m glad you’re here. So who—”
“Has anyone asked for me tonight? I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“No sir-ee, Bob. Who’s your lovely date?” He eyed Erika with the polite yet obvious look that men adopt when trying hard not to stare at a beautiful woman.
Carlton again noticed his feeling of possessiveness. No. Jealousy.
“Careful, Steve. Not a date. Erika is a coworker. Erika, Steve. Steve, Erika.” Carlton watched Erika shake Steve’s hand. Who was he kidding? He didn’t like Erika just as a coworker. He liked Erika, period.
Get real, Carlton. She’s out of your league. Women like her date actors, investment bankers, and political appointees.
“Still, you make a lovely couple.”
Erika blushed, the red in her cheeks accompanied by a girlish smile. Carlton dodged the comment by scanning the crowd. “Still no sign of Mazursky. Where could he be?”
“So. The usual?” Steve asked.
Carlton was happy for the change in topic. “You bet. With—”
“Lots of ice and plenty of lime.” They finished the sentence together.
“And you, lady-not-on-a-date? What’s your pleasure?”
She placed her elbows on the bar and held her head in her hands, grinned. “I think I’ll have a glass of Champagne. I love Champagne.”
“Very romantic,” Steve said, spotting Carlton’s glare. “Just kidding, just kidding.” He smiled and turned to fix their drinks.
Despite the riot of noise in the bar, a tense silence enveloped Carlton and Erika. Absent Steve’s comments, it would have been easy for him to continue the charade that he had no interest in her.
Erika smiled, smoothed a crease in her skirt, avoided eye contact. Carlton reached for an Upmann Corona, decided not to bother Erika with the smoke. “I wonder what Dave found. He really didn’t seem to be buying our side of the story. Whatever he found, it must be big enough that he couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning. So why isn’t he here?”
“Maybe he got stuck at the office. Maybe he had second thoughts.”
“He didn’t sound like it. I’m getting antsy.”
“Here’s your booze.” Steve placed their drinks on the bar top, held up a shot glass. “And here’s mine. To you two, who aren’t on a date.”
Carlton and Erika sipped their drinks while Steve downed his shot. “You allowed to drink on the job?”
“No way.” He moved away to attend to other thirsty patrons.
His favorite cocktail calmed Carlton down. The anxiety quieted and he no longer felt so nervous with Erika. “So, coworker. I hate talking about me. Until Dave shows up, tell me more about you.”
“I thought women were the ones who are supposed to ask about men and sound interested.”
“It’s the twenty-first century. And you’re wrong. I am interested.” He realized how that must have sounded, winced. “Um, you know, we’re coworkers. I like to know the people I work with.”
“You want the Proust version or the Reader’s Digest version?” She was so beautiful, thought Carlton. Beautiful, smart, and educated, yet funny and not a cold careerist. Warm.
“Proust. Stream-of-consciousness, like in Remembrance of Things Past. Definitely more interesting than Reader’s Digest.”
She sipped her Champagne. He knew Proust. “I’m already buzzed. I may not be coherent.” God please don’t let me babble.
“I don’t mind.” He motioned to Steve for another drink.
“Well. Here goes. Born in 1975. Dad and Mom are Dutch...”
Mazursky never showed.
“As the circle of light expands, so does the circumference of darkness around it.”
- Albert Einstein
24 REVELATION
Main Justice Building
Washington, D. C.
11:03 A.M.
Four consecutive days of insomnia had made Carlton more dependent on caffeine than ever before, something he hadn’t thought possible. He reclined in his creaky office chair and sipped yet another mug of fresh Joe from his DOJ mug. The courier from the travel office would soon deliver his airline ticket to Hawaii. He had no desire to go to Hawaii. But what else could he do? Although everything he had learned pointed to the sinister hand of Waterboer, he had no hard evidence. Even if he did, Waterboer itself was untouchable. And the federal government’s role would be even more difficult to prove, let alone prosecute. And so he waited patiently.
He had left several messages on Mazursky’s voicemail at Senator Bigham’s office but had yet to receive a reply. He decided to read the Post to pass the time. He had been so involved with diamonds in Arkansas that he had neglected all other news for the past few days. Maybe it would get him back to the bigger picture of the real world. He leaned forward, scanned the headlines. One caught his eye.
SENATE AIDE FOUND DEAD IN SOUTHEAST
A burst of adrenaline jerked Carlton upright. He grabbed the paper from the desk.
SENATE AIDE FOUND DEAD IN SOUTHEAST
Noel Haney, Washington Post Staff Writer
Washington, D.C.—A man was found dead at 5 A.M. on Wednesday morning in an alley off of South Capitol Street, in Southeast Washington. Police identified the victim as David Mazursky, 36, of McLean, Virginia.
Holy Mother of God.
Mr. Mazursky was Legislative Assistant to Senator Wade Bigham of Arkansas. Captain Raymond Jackson of the District of Columbia Police Department announced that “the victim died of multiple bullet wounds in the chest and limbs.” Jackson listed no suspect or motive but said that the “shooting might be drug related.”
They murdered him.
A White House official who spoke under condition of anonymity stated that Mazursky was rumored to have been a drug user.
Bullshit. Mazursky was no druggie.
Mazursky’s wife Rachel, a physician at the Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland, was outraged by the suggestion her husband used drugs. “I’ve been married to David for eleven years, and not once did I witness him taking any type of drug or see any signs or side effects of drug use. The accusation is an insult to David and our family.”
Police said that they “have no prior knowledge of Mr. Mazursky’s alleged drug use.” But it does raise the question of what the McLean, Virginia, man was doing in a gang-ravaged part of Southeast Washington on the night of his murder. Police found two empty vials of crack cocaine in the victim’s inside pocket, and stated that the victim’s body was riddled by “bullets that came from an UZI submachine gun,” the illegal weapon of choice among drug gangs.
Carlton shuddered, grasped the table to steady himself against his mounting dizziness. A ball of fire burned in his gut.
They murdered him. Those bastards murdered him.
He must have been intercepted and killed between the Hart Senate Office Building and the bar. That’s only a few blocks. Whoever murdered him knew he would reveal something.
Someone knew he knew. But who? And what?
Carlton ran his right hand through his hair, gazed up at the ceiling, remembered Mazursky’s words.
I mailed you something.
Mail. He hadn’t received anything from Mazursky in today’s mail. Mail from the Senate would have made it to his desk by now. But no, he reflected. If it was that sensitive, Mazursky would have sent it to his apartment. Would have gotten the address somehow. D.C. to Arlington, it would get there tomorrow probably. But he would have mailed it from the Senate. The Senate had direct pick up by th
e Postal Service. Today. It would get there today. And if they knew about the planned meeting between him and Mazursky, they’d probably know about the mail, too.
Carlton glanced at his watch-11:40. The postwoman on his street finished her rounds around noon.
He bolted from his chair. Jarvik shouted something about Hawaii as Carlton dashed past him.
The Shark tore out of the underground garage. The deep rumble of its massive 390 engine roared through the dark underground passages. The thick whitewall tires burned on cement as the massive Caddy flew over the top of the parking ramp and slammed onto the pavement in a hail of sparks. Carlton threw the tailfinned classic into convulsions as it slid precariously on the capital’s slushy avenues half a mile from the White House.
He sped down Pennsylvania Avenue, fishtailed left on 15th Street, flew past the outer rim of the White House Ellipse. The Department of Commerce’s red awnings and oversized forged steel torch lamps blurred past on his left before he flung the car right onto Constitution Avenue and slalomed wildly between cars that seemed immobile on the wide avenue. He glanced at the hands of the clock on the dashboard-11:51.
Ten minutes.
Whoever ordered Osage’s and Mazursky’s assassinations and Wenzel’s frame up would have no compunction about breaking federal law by rifling through Carlton’s mailbox. Along with the mail would disappear whatever it was Mazursky had discovered, and with that probably the key to the Murfreesboro Mining and MacLean cases.
Two deaths already.
Carlton fought off the chill of a cold sweat. Constitution Avenue gave way to I-66. At this hour, the eastbound highway was not yet limited to carpoolers. Carlton stomped on the accelerator until the Shark exceeded the posted speed limit by thirty miles per hour, Virginia troopers the last thing on his mind.
Six minutes.
Son of a bitch.
The run home on 1-66 seemed to take forever. Finally, the Shark tore down the single lane of Washington Boulevard East of Glebe Road. Four minutes.
Come on, come on.
The little hills of the residential neighborhood rolled by like soft waves. The Shark flew over the peak of the third bill.
Carlton gasped.
A long traffic jam snaked back from beyond the curve in the road ahead. Carlton hadn’t seen it; couldn’t have seen it. The last car in the queue was only four car lengths ahead.
He stomped on the large brake pedal and slammed the shifter into the lowest gear. The brake shoes dug into their drums. The engine whined. Luckily, the asphalt had been cleared of snow. Still, the Shark hurtled toward the last car in line, only a few dozen feet away. Carlton clenched his jaw, braced for impact.
Only three car lengths. He couldn’t move to the busy opposite lane. The wheels locked.
Two car lengths.
One car length.
Carlton maneuvered the Shark to the right near a deep ditch and came to rest inches away from the car ahead in a jackknife position. Carlton exhaled in relief, removed his cramped, sweaty fingers from the white plastic steering wheel. He straightened the Caddy, tried to maneuver around the queue. Cars continued to whizz by in the opposite lane. He slammed the shifter up into reverse. His tires screamed backwards into the nearest side-street, now blocked by cars that had accumulated behind the Shark.
He squinted ahead.
A few hundred feet in front of the traffic queue was the toy-like outline of a squat white Grumman United States Postal Service truck, with its blue and red stripes and fat tires. It was only a few houses from Carlton’s street. He threw open the Caddy door and began a mad dash toward the mail truck. It waddled ahead tauntingly, one mailbox at a time.
The air was frozen. His lungs began to burn, then the muscles in his legs. He hated himself for smoking so many cigars, not exercising more regularly. But he kept running, focusing only on the mail truck. Two minutes later, his breath barely enough to supply oxygen to his lungs and legs and brain, Carlton reached the truck, panting madly. He steadied himself against the side of the truck. A head popped out of the driver’s side and looked back at him.
He looked up at the attractive African-American postal worker, smiled, still gasping. “Marcie! God am I glad to see you.” He placed his back against the truck, his lungs searing with pain.
“Mr. C?” She asked, obviously confused. She squinted to make certain the unshaven breathless man was in fact Pat Carlton.
“Thank God,” he wheezed. “Thank God you remember me.”
“Of course I remember you. What’s the matter?”
“I can’t explain right now. Can you please give me my mail?” He coughed.
Marcie squinted again. Technically, she was not allowed to deliver mail to anyone personally except in their homes or in their mailboxes, which were federal property. But Mr. C was nice. He always gave her a check and card at Christmas, twenty dollars last year. He was good people; a lawyer at the Justice Department. If you couldn’t trust the Justice Department, who could you trust?
Besides, she had always had a thing for him. “Sure thing, Mr. C.”
She disappeared inside the truck, emerged with a small bundle of mail. Carlton leafed through the envelopes nervously, still panting in the chill wind. Most of the envelopes were junk mail. Coupons. Special offers. Sweepstakes entries. Sales pitches. A letter from Cartier. And—
Aces!
A white business-sized envelope, its upper right hand corner displaying the scratchy signature of Senator Bigham. According to the Congressional franking privilege, it was guaranteed delivery anywhere in the United States without postage, free of cost to the member of Congress, although not to the taxpayer.
Carlton snatched the Senate envelope and the one from Cartier from the pile, shoved them into his pocket, handed the remaining letters to Marcie.
“I’m still pretty new in the Postal Service, but I’ve never seen anyone so happy to get mail before. What—”
He looked up at her. “Don’t ask. Can you put these in my box?”
“Uh... sure thing, Mr. C.”
“Thanks, Marcie. You’re a doll.”
Marcie beamed.
Carlton jogged back to the Shark, slowed to a brisk walk as his lungs and legs began to ache again. Cars behind the unattended Cadillac honked as the traffic jam inched forward. He jumped in, accelerated onto the grassy right shoulder. A flick of the power-steering wheel sent the Caddy swerving hard right around the next corner. He proceeded to his apartment building through side streets, slowly. He pulled around a dark corner, parked under the snow-laden outline of an elm tree, turned off the engine, and waited.
He found it strange to spy on his own apartment. A bit paranoid, like something out of a 1940s film noir. But he wasn’t paranoid. Two men had died. Whatever was in the envelope in his pocket was important enough for someone to kill twice. And despite popular opinion and tragic local news stories, it was rare for people to commit murder without a reason, no matter how mad the reason might be.
The engine ticked as it cooled in the glacial air.
Tree-lined Kenilworth Street was serene, as always. A dog barked at a cat. Cars on Washington Boulevard fought the logjam a block away. Cartoons blared from the house across the street. A neighbor poured antifreeze into the aged bowels of his AMC Gremlin.
Carlton focused on his brick apartment building. The elderly tenant on the third floor trudged from room to room, tea in hand, past florid drapes. Finally, Marcie’s mail truck pulled up. She didn’t see the Shark up the street and walked inside, deposited the mail into each tenant’s respective mail slot, and moved to the next building. Several minutes later, another mail truck pulled up to the apartment house. A tall bearded man dressed in the blue-on-blue uniform of the Postal Service got out of the truck and walked into the lobby of Carlton’s building, carrying a mail bag over his shoulder. Carlton squinted, saw him open a box, sift through its contents. He returned to his truck and drove away.
Bureau of Land Management. National Trust for Historic Preserva
tion. Federal Bureau of Investigation. United States Geological Survey.
Maybe the Central Intelligence Agency. Now the Postal Service. The government connection was clear, although the reason for it remained a mystery.
Carlton calmly started the engine, proceeded down the next street, and drove to a car wash two miles away, one of those automatic contraptions where the driver sits in the car and watches the brushes and soap and water work from inside. His nephews back in California loved the things.
Carlton paid the gas station attendant and obtained a car wash token. He waited until the Shark’s fins were fully engulfed by brushes, foam, and water before removing the folded envelope from his suit pocket. Out of breath and trembling slightly, he turned on the interior light, ripped the white envelope open, and nearly tore its contents in the process.
Mazursky died for this.
The envelope contained two sheets of paper. He read the first page:
Cleveland Metals Inc. $20,000,000. 113567854. Bank of Vanuatu.
Cleveland Metals?
He had heard the name before. Hadn’t Josh at SEC mentioned....That was it! Cleveland Metals owned Murfreesboro Mining Corporation.
The brushes stopped. Water poured over the Shark’s soapy metal skin and washed away thick coats of accumulated grime. Drops of water leaked through the well-maintained but old convertible top. He ignored them and flipped to the next page.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 16