by Otho Eskin
“Are you in charge here?” I ask.
“Do I look like I’m in charge? You want Mrs. Sweet. She’s the lady who runs this place.”
“And how do I find your Mrs. Sweet?” I ask.
“Melanie,” he calls out loudly. “There’s a cop here wants to see you.”
A door at the back of the room opens and an African American woman emerges, large-bosomed and smiling a broad, friendly smile. She holds two fabric samples in her hands—one pearl white, one a pale pink. “Which do you like, hon?” she asks. “It’s for a wedding breakfast. They’ll be monogramed of course.”
“Is the breakfast inside or outside?” I ask.
“Outside.”
“Tented or non-tented?”
“Tented.”
“Go for the pearl,” I say. “My name is Zorn. Marko Zorn. I’m from Metropolitan Police Homicide.”
“You’re right, I’ll go for the pearl. You’re here about that awful business last night at the Lincoln Memorial? What’s the world coming to, I ask you.” She drops the fabric samples onto a workbench. “A real shame. I lost one of my best servers last night: Manny was his name; I’m just heartbroken about Manny.”
“I have some questions about the shooting.”
“Then come with me into my boudoir.” She leads me through a door into a small cluttered office.
Catalogs are stacked on the desk and floor. The walls are covered with photos of table-settings and flower arrangements. The woman holds out her hand and we shake.
“Melanie Sweet.” She sits in a desk chair that squeaks loudly.
“Were you at the reception last night?” I ask.
“Some of my people were there. I had three events last night: a wedding reception, a bar mitzvah, and that business at the Lincoln Memorial. My job is to deal with catastrophes.”
“Do you own Tip Top Caterers?”
“Some nice folks at the bank own it, dear. You want to know about the man we hired who shot somebody, I expect.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Zilch. I’ve already explained all this several times to your people.”
“You’ve been interviewed by investigators? Were they properly dressed and polite?”
“They were.”
“Then they were probably FBI. I’m DC police: a different outfit.”
“I told the others. I have no information on who that man was.”
“Any paperwork? Any forms he filled out?”
“The other cops took everything. All my records, even my computer and goddamned cell phone! Everything. When do you think I’ll get my stuff back?”
“Never. Maybe not even that soon. Tell me what you can remember.”
“In addition to our normal catering requirements, we arrange for music groups. Not a problem for a small group with a keyboard. We do that all the time. But the embassy of Montenegro needed a group who could play some of their national music. No big deal. In this case, I started by contacting the musicians’ union and the accordion community.”
“There’s an accordion community?” I ask.
“You better believe there is, dear. I put together the group over the weekend. Then one of the accordion players crapped out on me. He got a better-paying job at a bar-mitzvah. Then, next day this guy shows up saying he’s looking for a gig and tells me he plays balalaika and accordion. Bingo! I’m in heaven. He told me he was a student at Penn. Looked okay to me. He had ID’s. A Pennsylvania driver’s license, too.”
“Did he play the accordion for you?
“You mean like an audition? I never ask for that. I figure who’s going to admit to playing an accordion if they don’t?”
My cell phone rings. It’s Rick Talbot.
“How’s Janet?” I ask, motioning for Melanie to wait a sec.
“She’s in recovery and is doing well. She insists on talking to you. She wouldn’t say what about. Just that she had to see you immediately. Can you come to the hospital? She’s in the surgical ICU on the fifth floor. She said it’s urgent.”
“I’ve got to leave to go to the hospital,” I tell Melanie. “Before I go I want you to look at something.” I show her the photo of the assassin on my cell phone taken at the morgue this morning.
“Is this the man you hired?”
“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” she says.
“This man’s name was probably Oleg Kamrof,” I say. “I don’t think he was a student at Penn.”
“What happened to the guy I hired to play the accordion?”
“I’d say he’s probably in a landfill somewhere.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LIEUTENANT BONIFACIO DROPS me off at the hospital and I tell him to wait until I call. The reception area is crowded with people carrying flowers and boxes of candy. Some clutch helium balloons saying “Get Well Soon,” another balloon announces “It’s a Boy.” It must be visiting hours and the elevators are packed. I stand for a moment behind a young couple, the woman grasping an enormous teddy bear. I can see right away there’s not enough room for the couple, the bear, and me so I take the stairs.
At first glance, the stairwell seems empty and the only sound I hear is my tread on the concrete steps. I’m almost to the third floor when I realize I have company. A large man emerges on the fourth-floor landing and stands motionless, looking down at me, his feet apart, bracing himself. He must be six three. He’s heavyset and his bald head gleams in the fluorescent glare of the stairwell lights. He holds a small-caliber pistol in his right hand.
I look over my shoulder. A second man is running up the stairs toward me, two steps at a time. I recognize them as the two men I’d seen in the embassy CCTV film who kidnapped the young code clerk and left her body in a culvert in the rain. I hope it’s them. I’ve been looking forward to meeting them in person.
When the man coming up the stairs sees me, he glances past me at the man on the upper landing, waiting for some signal. His hesitation is fatal.
There’s not enough time for me to draw my Ruger. But I don’t need to.
For just a second, I have the advantage, and a second is all I need. I spin around and charge down the steps at the man below me.
He looks surprised and braces himself, as he tries to aim his gun, but he’s too slow, and I have the advantage of speed and momentum as I lunge into him. My motion lifts him off his feet, and I hold him in a bear hug, his arms pinned to his side. He can’t get at his gun, which he drops to the concrete step. I hold him as a shield between me and the big man on the landing above, who’s aiming his gun at me.
Then I lift him and twist him over the steel stairway railing, and for a moment he’s balanced on top. His face contorts with terror as he realizes what’s going to happen when I give him a violent shove and push him into the void. He tries to grab my arm but can’t hold on and he falls over the railing with a scream, arms thrashing in terror, headfirst. I don’t wait to see him hit the concrete floor three stories below.
I swing around. The big man is running down the stairs toward me. He hesitates as his buddy disappears over the rail. I draw my Ruger from its holster and fire once. At his head. The bald man pitches forward and slides down the steps, stopping a few feet from me, his gun resting on the step below him.
I wonder, does he think about the young woman he murdered on the side of the road? Does he regret what he did? Probably not thinking about much of anything at the moment.
I look up and down the stairs and see no one. No resident is out to grab a quick smoke; no nurse is on her way home after finishing her rounds. I have the stairwell to myself.
I push open the door to the fifth floor and step into a corridor painted pale green. The hall in front of Janet’s hospital room is crowded with friends and colleagues from the State Department and the Diplomatic Security Service.
An intern, a powerfully built, black man, stands by the door. “Are you Detective Zorn?” he asks. “Mrs. Cliff said to let you see her as soon as you arrive.�
�
Her intensive-care room is quiet and the lights are dim. Janet lies motionless in her hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors. There’s a faint, regular beeping and gurgling sound that I guess is a good sign. Her eyes are closed, and I think she must be asleep. A nurse sentinel stands next to Janet’s bed, not allowing anybody near.
The others in the room are a young man who looks like an orderly and a man named Stark I recognize as a member of Janet’s security team. He’s there to protect Janet. An elderly African American couple sit in one corner, holding hands, and a girl, eight or nine stands next to them.
“My name is Zorn,” I say to the nurse. “I’m told Janet wants to speak with me.”
“The surgery was successful,” the nurse tells me. “The doctors are hopeful, but the patient needs rest. She’s asleep now. I’ll call you as soon as she’s able to talk.”
I go to the elderly couple and introduce myself.
“I’m Vincent Cliff,” the man says. “This is my wife, Sharon. We’re Janet’s parents. We just arrived from North Carolina.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I say. “I’m sorry it’s under these terrible circumstances. I understand the doctors are optimistic.”
Mr. Cliff nods. “They think she’ll be fine. Do you know our daughter, Janet?”
“A little,” I say. “We worked together over the last few days.” I turn to the young girl. “And you are?”
“This is Rachel. Janet’s daughter,” Mr. Cliff tells me.
I never thought of Janet having a child. I guess I never thought to ask her about her family.
“Your mother is a very brave woman,” I say to the girl. “A real hero. She probably saved the lives of many people. She certainly saved my life.”
The girl looks at me with scorn that only a child can show for clueless adults.
Janet stirs in her bed and opens her eyes. Maybe she’s heard my voice. She says something so softly I can’t hear it. The nurse leans down to listen, then stands up and speaks to me. “The patient says she must talk to you. Please, a few words only. She needs rest.”
Janet’s eyes follow me as I approach her bedside.
“I need to talk to this man alone,” Janet whispers. “Everyone else, stay away.”
The nurse looks like she’s about to argue.
“Everyone!” Janet’s almost-shout is intimidating.
The nurse and the others in the room move quickly away, and I lean over the bed and speak softly to Janet.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like crap.” She takes a deep, broken breath.
“You told me you always wanted combat experience,” I say. “You finally got your chance.”
“Fuck off, Detective. You’re not funny.” She gasps for air. “They say I shot the assailant last night. That’s not how it happened, is it?” She takes another deep breath. “The shooter got me before I could get off a single round. You’re the one who killed that son of a bitch. I saw you fire your weapon—it was you.”
“You’re going to be okay and the prime minister is safe.”
From the distance comes the sound of multiple police sirens arriving at the hospital. I’m guessing somebody has stumbled across the two guys I left dead in the stairwell and has called 911.
Janet takes another ragged breath. “He was coming toward us. You were behind me, Detective. It wasn’t the prime minister he was after, was he? Somebody wants you dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
TWO MEN, BOTH wearing brown suits and white shirts and what seem to be identical green ties, grab me by my arms from both sides as I step out of the intensive-care unit. I can tell they’re FBI. What have I done now?
“Detective Zorn, you’re under arrest,” one of them announces loudly. The second man pats me down efficiently and removes my Ruger.
“What am I being arrested for?”
“For the murders of Victoria West, Nikos Mazarakis, and the attempted murder of Nina Voychek.”
“You are also carrying a concealed weapon, which is illegal in the District of Columbia.”
“I’m a police officer.”
The second man sniffs at the Ruger. “It’s been fired recently.”
“Come with us,” the first man says.
“Come where?” I demand.
“To where we’re taking you to.”
“Who are you guys?”
“You have the right to remain silent,” the first man says as they push me toward the bank of elevators. “Anything you say can and may be used against you in a court of law.”
The irony here doesn’t escape me. Except I don’t believe in irony. These clowns want to arrest me for three murders I had nothing to do with. And just beyond the door to the stairs lie two dead men in the stairwell whose demise I had a great deal to do with.
The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“Come quietly or we’ll have to hurt you.”
The two men hustle me into an empty elevator, waving away others trying to get in, and we descend to the lobby. Lieutenant Bonifacio sees us and starts to cross the lobby to intervene. I wave him off. No need for him to get involved in my problems. I wouldn’t want his record, which, I assume until now has been spotless, to be ruined by associating with me.
My escorts and I leave the hospital and climb into a waiting black SUV with tinted windows, parked directly in front of the entrance in a “No Parking” area. I’m shoved into the back seat between two burly guys one of whom is wearing way too much Old Spice.
We drive for maybe fifteen minutes through downtown DC and finally stop on a quiet side street with mostly small, two-story buildings. I’m hauled out of the SUV and taken into a brick building that looks like it could house a dentist’s office. There’s no sign on the door—not even a street number. I’m familiar with most of the FBI’s safe houses in the city, but this one is new to me.
For a couple of minutes, we stand in an uneasy group in what, in a normal building, would be a lobby. My escorts talk among themselves in hushed whispers and then they gesture for me to move and we march down some stairs and along a corridor painted a faded green. They usher me into a room furnished with a wooden desk and four gray-metal chairs. If you’ve seen one interrogation room, you’ve seen them all.
My escorts take seats opposite me. One has a neatly trimmed, gray beard—I didn’t know the FBI allowed beards—the other, somewhat younger, is clean-shaven. They both take identical notebooks from their jacket pockets—must be Bureau-issue, I figure—flip them open, and place them on the table in front of them.
“What’s this all about?” I ask.
“We ask the questions here, Detective Zorn,” the one with the beard answers.
“Questions? You have questions?”
The one with the beard stares at me. “You some kind of comedian? You hear the man, Gene? He’s a comedian. You should be on Saturday Night Live. We’ve heard of you, Detective. You got a reputation as a major troublemaker and all ’round jerk. How is it you’re able, all by yourself, to irritate most of the law enforcement agencies in this city?”
“It’s a gift.”
There’s a long moment of sullen silence. “Were you at the reception last night at the Lincoln Memorial?” the one with the beard asks.
“You know I was. Along with several hundred other people.”
“Why were you there?”
“I was working with the security group protecting the prime minister of Montenegro.”
“You’re not a security guard. How come you were providing security?”
“Beats me.”
“That’s not an adequate answer.”
“I know, but that’s the best I’ve got.”
“You trying to be funny, Mr. Funny Man?”
I figure this is a rhetorical question and I don’t bother to answer.
“Did someone hire you to attend the reception?”
“The United States Secretary of State.”
“Why did he do th
at?”
“Ask him.”
“We’re asking you, comedian. He’s busy.”
“I’m busy.”
I consider giving the two agents some additional lip but decide against it. As enjoyable as that would be, I don’t have time for entertainment. I have an appointment in a very short time at the Capitol Theater with a killer.
“Tell us exactly what happened when Agent Cliff was shot.”
“I was standing a few feet behind Agent Cliff,” I tell them. “A man was coming at us, holding a gun. The man shot her.”
“What happened to this man with the gun?”
“He dropped to the ground. It looked like he was shot in the head.”
“Who shot him?”
“Hard to tell. There was a lot of confusion. I ran to Agent Cliff to see what happened to her and determined she’d been wounded.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Several Diplomatic Security Service agents came, and I went looking for the prime minister.”
“Why did you do that?”
“That was my job.”
“What job?”
“I was part of the security detail there to protect the prime minister. Really, guys, are you not paying attention?”
“What did you do then?”
“I located the prime minister, got her into her car, and we left the scene. We drove to the official residence of the Embassy of Montenegro, where I left her.”
“Detective Zorn,” the man with the beard says, “you were seen snooping around the reception.”
“Snooping is my profession.”
“Before the reception began you were seen standing by the musicians’ bandstand. Who were you meeting?”
“I wasn’t meeting anybody. I was there because it was a good vantage point to observe what was going on.”
“Were you looking for someone in particular?”
“No one in particular.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Anybody who didn’t belong there.”
“Did you see anybody who didn’t belong?”
“No.”
“Except the man you claim shot Agent Cliff.”