by Mark Gilleo
“Who made the recordings?”
“I did. Virginia and DC are single-participant jurisdictions, meaning that only one party to a conversation needs to give permission for that conversation to be recorded. Being that I made these recordings, the legal authority has been satisfied.”
“You were wearing a wire?”
“I owned a fancy watch that could record up to twenty-four hours of voice. I downloaded the audio files to a computer via a simple USB connection.”
“And where is this watch now?”
“I lost it.”
Detective Wallace picked up his beer and took a long slug. Then he casually slid the thumb drive off the table and slipped it into his breast pocket next to his detective’s notebook. “Have you been doing a background check on me? Or is it just coincidence that I have a nephew-in-law who writes for the Metro section of the Post?”
“The world is full of coincidences.”
“And what if I choose not to do anything with the recordings?”
“Doesn’t matter to me. My interest has been satisfied.”
“Has justice been served?”
“Justice is decided at the individual level.”
“There is a system for justice. Most rational people would say justice can only be satisfied through the judicial system. Faith in the legal system is what keeps this country from ripping apart.”
“It is a nice idea, but it’s not reality. Do you know who has the most power in the legal system?”
“I imagine you are going to tell me.”
“Judges and the guy at the police station handling evidence. Either one can win or lose a case single-handedly. Either one can determine the course of a life. The rest of the judicial system can be banished to irrelevancy pretty quickly if either of those two people have been compromised, fall asleep at their post, succumb to emotions.”
Wallace took another long draw of his beer and then extinguished his cigarette in the remaining liquid in the bottom of the bottle, swirling the container briefly. “Another way to sabotage justice is to have no fingerprints.”
Dan smiled. “That would be a neat trick.”
“A nice trick, indeed. I followed evidence regulations with regard to the fingerprints taken when you were admitted into the DC jail. According to the letter of the law, I accessed the fingerprint system and deleted the prints we acquired when you were processed on entry.”
“Thank you for following the law.”
“But there is a discrepancy. The prints initially entered into the system were not the same as the prints that were deleted.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Detective.”
“When I processed you into the system, your fingerprints were taken electronically. I requested and received hard copies of those fingerprints, printed at the time of your incarceration. I wanted to compare those prints to other evidence.”
“To see if I killed Nguyen?”
“Yes. But here is the interesting part. When I went back to the system to delete the records, in accordance with the law, I asked for another hard copy of the prints. This copy of your prints was different. The fingerprints entered into the system are not the same ones that I deleted.”
Detective Wallace looked around the room cautiously and removed two folded pieces of paper from his pocket. He slid them across the table in the direction of Dan. “Seems like something is wrong with the computer system when it comes to your prints. Input does not equal output.”
“That is a curious error. You should have the IT department look into that. A computer issue like that could wreak havoc on the wheels of justice.”
“Yes, it could.” Detective Wallace stood and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure and an adventure.”
“Likewise, Detective. Keep my number. If you need anything on the other side of the river, let me know.”
“I just might do that.”
Detective Wallace waved to Ginger on his way out. As he disappeared through the arched doorway, Ginger slipped from her stool and headed towards Dan. A large red leather purse hung from her shoulder. She reached the table, and Dan stood to pull out her chair.
“Well, what do you know, gentlemen still exist,” she said.
“Only on Sundays.”
“Everything OK with you and your detective friend?”
“I understand you two have met. Haley told me he was in here asking questions last week.”
“He was. I kind of like him. For a cop.”
“Thanks for keeping an eye out for me.”
“You were good to Haley. You were always good to me. Nice to me. Normal to me.”
“People are people.”
“In my profession, people have a tendency to look down at you. Look at you like an object. Guess some of that is a hazard of the profession.”
“It seems like the least of your occupational concerns.”
Ginger looked at the butterfly bandages on Dan’s eyebrow. “Looks like you have some occupational hazards yourself.”
Dan nodded. “You said you have something for me?” he asked.
“I’m glad you could make it. I didn’t want to carry this around anymore. Didn’t feel safe with it. Was too nervous to keep it at home and too nervous to keep it in my car.”
“What is it?”
Ginger glanced around nervously as a group of men in the corner screamed in celebration to a touchdown being scored on one of the games. Dan noted the sudden outburst made her even more jittery. As the celebration subsided, she reached into her purse and pulled out a black leather-bound book. A large strap held the cover closed.
“This was Haley’s. One of her girls got it from her apartment after she, uh . . .”
Dan removed the strap and cracked the cover of the leather-bound book. His eyes opened wide as he read through pages of entries, names, services, preferences. “Holy shit.”
“That is exactly what I said. And then it got worse. By the time I made it through the first dozen pages, I started to get nauseous. Needed a little weed and a little wine to calm my nerves.”
Dan flipped through the pages, recognizing names from the news, people of prominence, lawmakers, and judicial guardians. He counted the lines per page and then estimated the thickness of the book at 150 pages. “There are thousands of entries. Thirty-four lines per page, 150 pages, front and back.”
“I figured you would be the best person to have that.”
“Why me?”
“Because you will do the right thing with it.”
“I don’t always do the right thing.”
“More than most.”
“You could sell this for a lot of money,” Dan said.
“As soon as I mentioned that book to anyone, I would be dead.”
“It might have the same effect on me.”
“Then burn it.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“It’s yours now. If anyone ever asks me about it, I will deny I ever saw it. Don’t know anything about it.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Do whatever you want with it. I am sure Haley would smile knowing you had it.” Ginger checked her watch and pushed her chair away from the table. “I gotta run. Somewhere to be.”
“You know how to reach me.”
—
At halftime, Dan left the comfort of his corner table in the bar area and crossed the restaurant to the private dining room on the opposite side of the establishment. He pulled the burgundy drapes to the left and slipped into the room through the arched doorway. Tobias and Joseph Cellini looked up, the top of their round dining table covered in papers. Two laptops were opened and plugged into the outlets at the base of the wall. Thick notebooks full of data sat in stacks near the front table leg. Cellini’s neckless accomplice was staring up at the television on the wall, cursi
ng at the results of the games as they flashed across the screen.
Dan approached the table and Joseph Cellini and Tobias both smiled. “Look at the happy couple. Does that mean the two of you were able to work something out?”
“I think we have a mutually acceptable agreement,” Cellini responded.
“And you, Tobias? Are you happy with the arrangement?”
“Not the billion dollars I was looking for, but retirement is in my immediate future.”
“So we are even? Clean slate?”
“Your debt is cleared. We are good.”
“Glad to hear everyone could walk away happy.”
“And Mr. Cellini, are things between us on the up and up?”
“You keep an eye out for my daughter and you won’t have any problems with me.”
“Good.”
Dan looked over at Mr. Neckless, who raised his wrist to show off his new gift. He pulled on the face of the watch and smiled at the wire as it unfurled. “Thanks for the watch, Danno.”
“Don’t mention it. Well, if we are all satisfied, I have a date with a doctor tonight. Take out in the hospital’s doctor’s lounge.”
Joseph Cellini spoke. “Danno, we are planning to do a little fishing later this afternoon, if you are interested. Head out on the Chesapeake Bay for a couple of hours. I hear the rockfish put up quite a fight. You are welcome to come with us.”
Dan stared into Cellini’s eyes and he could see the flicker of the devil dancing. “Fishing?”
“Yep. We’ve got our tackle in the car.”
“Deep-water tackle?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll pass. I’ve been known to have motion sickness.”
Dan shook hands with the three men and nodded at various staff members on his way to the front door. A minute later he strolled to his car in the parking lot and started the ignition. He drove around the restaurant and eyed the large black sedan with New York plates parked in the corner of the lot, not far from the Dumpsters. A large, well-dressed man with dark sunglasses stood at attention next to the rear of the car, smoking a cigarette, scanning the environment. As Dan drove by, the man stepped forward away from the car. For an instant Dan was certain he saw the rear of the vehicle bounce, the rear shocks under the trunk rocking slightly.
Chapter 47
—
Dan wiped the new front glass window of the art gallery as Lucia sat behind her massive stone desk giving him directions to the last streaks. Dan allowed the nit-picking, the fiberglass cast on Lucia’s arm a reminder of what he owed her.
“Anything else?” Dan asked.
“Nope. That wraps it up. This place looks as good as new.”
“New was a hundred and sixty years ago. It looks better than new.”
“Have you started painting again?” Dan asked.
“I have been dabbling. Business has picked up. The little explosion we had in here has put this place on the map. People are curious. The newspaper did an article on the gallery. I’ve sold most of the art that was hanging on the wall when the explosion occurred.”
“Who knew that shrapnel was the key to a good promotional campaign?”
“I am thinking about adding it to my art repertoire.”
“I will leave the art decisions to you,” Dan said, followed by a long moment of silence. “I am sorry for everything that happened. For the explosion. Your arm. Levi.”
Lucia nodded. “And I am sorry I lied about my father. About who I was. I know he can be a problem. Difficult.”
Dan thought about his mother. “Let’s agree not to talk about our parents.”
“Done.”
Lucia turned her head as the front door to the art gallery opened. Sue Fine, dressed in professional attire, approached the desk, managing to flash a meek smile. Lucia returned the smile and then looked over at Dan who was staring stoically ahead.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Lucia said, excusing herself to the rear of the gallery.
“I quit,” Sue blurted before Dan could say anything. “Retired. Officially. The paperwork has been processed.”
“Why did you quit?”
“The job wasn’t what I expected it to be, after all. I didn’t want to look back in twenty years and be proud that my greatest asset was my ability to lie.”
“I think it’s OK as long as you cloak it as patriotism.”
“OK for some. Not for me.”
“You were good at it.”
“Thanks.”
The front door to the art gallery opened again. A man hidden under a scarf and a hat, walking arm-in-arm with a woman in a fur hat, entered the room and began to move around the perimeter wall, admiring the artwork on display. Dan glanced at the backside of the patrons, poked his head into the rear of the gallery, and let Lucia know she had customers. A moment later she engaged the couple in the far corner of the gallery as they discussed a large piece of shrapnel art hidden in a painting of a girl riding an old-fashioned tire swing.
Dan turned back to Sue. “So what’s next?”
“I’m not sure. I am still weighing my options. I was thinking about getting a private detective’s license.”
“Unsavory characters. Unusual hours. Low pay. Not sure that would be my first choice.”
“It’s the only experience I have, other than being a spy.”
“That is a short resume. You have any references?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe I can offer you an internship. Unpaid.”
“For how long?”
“Until I trust you. Come back in a couple of weeks and we will see if you’re still serious.”
—
Dan watched Sue through the front window as she disappeared into the sidewalk crowd. He sighed deeply and a voice boomed behind him, shaking him from his focus. “Can you trust her?”
Dan turned and smiled. “Alex Stoyovich.”
“As far as you know.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to check on you. See how you were doing. I also wanted to bring you a gift.” Alex opened his long overcoat and pulled out a bottle of vodka plastered with Russian letters. “You can’t get this outside of Russia. It is made in a small town three hours from Moscow. Made with the best water in the world.”
Dan took the bottle. “I’m not sure why you’re giving me a gift. I should be giving you one.”
“I am giving you a gift for being the impetus to my retirement. My wife has been patient for forty-two years.”
“You said your wife died. That you only had a cover wife. You couldn’t have been married for forty-two years.”
“And you believed me? If you did, then I failed as a teacher.”
“Or I failed as a student.”
“You were an exceptional student.”
“I still have one remaining question.”
“I hope it is a question about art or vodka. Those are my new passions. Well, one is an old passion. One is new.”
“I would believe these are your new interests, if not for the fact you just reminded me not to trust you.”
“What is your question? I will try not to lie.”
“As you probably know, one of the people involved in my nephew’s death escaped. I would like to locate her.”
“The woman.”
“Yes. I believe she was the big fish you referred to when you mentioned the gray BMW.”
“Da. What do you want with this woman?”
“You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Who she is?”
“I know who she claims to be. I know what name she traveled under on her trip to Russia. I can assure you it is not her real name.”
“She is my mother.”
Alex began to laugh, big choking bellows heavy enough to get the attention of his wife and Lucia still in the far corner of the
gallery. “Oh, dear. That I did not see. I am sorry for laughing. The greatest thing about this profession is the surprises.”
“I have reached my quota on surprises.”
“When you get older you will once again look forward to them. When the days begin to blur into one another.”
“Can you find her? Tell me where she is?”
“I am sorry. I cannot. What I can tell you is what the Americans are likely to do under the circumstances. This woman, your mother, will be offered reassignment or early retirement. If she receives a reassignment, she will be transferred overseas to a small diplomatic post for a couple of years. Nothing too extreme, just a nice cushy assignment in a small embassy or consulate for a couple of years to let her career wind down. If and when retirement comes, she will be permitted to select a suitable location, provided that location is outside of the DC area. I doubt seriously the Agency would allow her to choose Washington. Not in her case. Not for her sins. Think medium-sized town in the Midwest somewhere. That is far more likely.”
Dan absorbed every word of the advice. “So she is gone?”
“She can be found. But it will take time and money. And luck.”
“What would you do if you were me?”
“Let it go. Move on. Sometimes a victory doesn’t have to be a total victory. You proved your nephew wasn’t on drugs and that your sister-in-law didn’t commit suicide. That is what you set out to do. You had an article in the Post that exposed an illegal domestic intelligence operation conducted on American soil. You pulled back the curtain of the puppet show. You have nothing left to prove.”
“Thank you,” Dan replied. “For your help and for the vodka.”
“You are welcome.” Alex looked over at his wife who had moved on to the next picture on the wall and was receiving personal input from the artist. “So . . . Where are you going to start?”
“Start what?”
“Start looking for her?”
Dan smiled. “I was thinking about taking a trip to Namibia. She always liked Namibia.”
About the Author
Mark Gilleo holds a graduate degree in international business from the University of South Carolina and an undergraduate degree in business from George Mason University. He enjoys traveling, hiking and biking. He speaks Japanese. A fourth-generation Washingtonian, he currently resides in the D.C. area. His first two novels, Love thy Neighbor and the national bestseller Sweat were recognized as finalist and semifinalist, respectively, in the William Faulkner-Wisdom creative writing competition.