by Joseph Flynn
“Well, good for you,” Angela said. “I’ll pray that it works out.”
“Prayer might be what it takes,” Sweetie said.
She eased her hand away from Angela and said, “May I begin?”
“Of course,” Angela said with a nod.
“Why did you leave your vocation, your school?”
Angela’s face sagged. A mist of tears blurred her green eyes. She wiped them with the cuff of her shirt. When she looked at Sweetie the sadness she had felt was replaced by indignation.
“After being faithful to my vows for thirty years, I was asked to write a letter declaring that I was a Catholic in good standing.”
Sweetie knew this was a profoundly serious matter to Angela, but she couldn’t suppress a grin, and had to ask, “A good Catholic as decided by whom?”
“His Excellency, Bishop O’Menehy. The request came from the diocesan office.”
Sweetie shook her head. “Those guys. Most of them just don’t have a clue.”
“No, they do not,” Angela confirmed. “With all the trouble they’ve caused the church over the years, they should be the ones to declare their piety and their purity. Nuns aren’t the ones who’ve brought so much shame on the church, not the ones who cost the church so much money that could be better spent in so many other ways.”
“So you politely declined to write the letter?” Sweetie asked.
“Oh, no. I wrote one, all right. I said I viewed myself as a good Catholic, and I suspected Pope John XXIII would agree with me, if not his successors or their bishops.”
Sweetie smiled broadly. John XXIII was her favorite pope, too. Il Papa Buono. The good pope. He was to the papacy what John F. Kennedy was to the presidency: beloved. The men who followed him in the Chair of Saint Peter were more likely to recall Richard Nixon, to Sweetie’s mind anyway. As for Angela’s crack about the bishops, that was just a hard elbow to the ribs of the ruling class.
“Were you asked to recant or at least revise your words?” Sweetie asked.
“I was. I informed the diocesan office I had made my first and last statement on how I regarded my faith and my relationship to the church. They bided their silence until the school year was finished.”
“Didn’t want to cause an uproar among the parishioners,” Sweetie said.
“That thought occurred to me as well. The day after the school year was completed I was informed that I was no longer the principal of Saint John’s. I was to confine myself to my quarters as much as possible, spend my time in prayer and reflection, and await the decision of my superiors as to where I would serve the church next.”
Sweetie asked, “Did you renounce your vows by letter or phone call?”
“E-mail,” Angela said. “Somebody once told me e-mail is eternal; I felt that was apt.”
Sweetie smiled. Angela Edwards was a tough woman, and she’d caught her at just the right time. “Angela, did you know a third-grader at St. John’s by the name of Mai Vanh?”
“Of course. I know all my children by name, appearance, and family.”
That didn’t surprise Sweetie, even though Angela’s claim would likely include hundreds of children and an even greater number of parents, siblings, and other relatives. Only top politicians had memories equal to those of good educators.
“What can you tell me about Mai and her family?”
Sweetie might have shared confidences with Angela, but that didn’t mean the former principal was going to give away information about her students — her children. Sweetie had no doubt that Angela still felt an obligation to all the young souls whose temporal and spiritual welfare she had once safeguarded.
“You haven’t told me whose interests you represent, Margaret.”
“Primarily, I’m working for a friend who was shot and almost killed by criminals in the Vietnamese immigrant community. In a larger sense, I think there’s a threat to … well, the diocese. I hope you won’t hold that against me. In fact, I think the demands the bishop’s people made on you might be related to a priest I met in Annandale.”
Angela sat up straight in her chair. “Father Francis Nguyen?”
Sweetie nodded. She wasn’t surprised Angela knew of him. Religious communities, like any others, had their grapevines.
“Do you know what will become of him?” Angela asked.
“No, but my guess is, like you, he’ll soon be taking a new path.”
The former nun put a hand over her eyes. Despairing for the church that had driven her away, Sweetie felt sure. After a moment, Angela looked back at Sweetie.
“Will any of your actions have an adverse effect on Mai?”
Sweetie had considered that question herself. Not just for one little girl, but for all the children involved in Horatio Bao’s machinations.
“There’s going to be some anxiety for a number of children and their families. Could be disruption. Even displacement. But I’ve been paid a considerable fee to do this job. I’ll donate it to the families who suffer.”
“Will your fee be enough to make things right?”
“Probably not. But I know some people who … have connections. I’m sure they’ll help.”
Angela meditated on the situation.
“If I don’t help you, will things only get worse?”
“Likely, they will. My friend, the one who got shot, was a federal agent. They take care of their own.”
“I’m glad someone does.” Bitterness had crept into Angela’s voice. She pushed it aside. “I have some money of my own.” She laughed. “You wouldn’t know it to look at this place. But my father set up a trust fund for me. He let me have only 10% of the quarterly disbursals, knowing I’d give it to the church. The rest was rolled over into treasury bills. If you can donate your earnings, how could I do any less?”
“So what can you tell me about Mai? Is there anything unusual?”
“She’s a lovely little girl. Perfect attendance. Immaculately groomed and dressed. A good student. Not exceptional in her academics, but fiercely determined. She’ll be a success someday on the strength of her will alone.”
Sweetie hated to ask her next question, but did so anyway.
“Did you see any signs of abuse?”
“You mean molestation?”
Sweetie nodded.
“No, none at all.”
“Let’s give thanks for that,” Sweetie said. “But was there anything at all that struck you as unusual about Mai’s behavior?”
There was: Sweetie saw it in Angela Edwards’ frown.
“Mai was a transfer student. Came to Saint John’s from a public school. If you asked her about her old school or where she had lived before coming to Falls Church, there was a pause of a second or two before she answered. And after she did, she would nod to herself and smile.”
Sweetie had seen variations of that behavior any number of time in adults.
Ones who were being interrogated by her or another cop.
Happy when they got their lines of bull laid out just as they’d been rehearsed.
“Thank you, Angela. You’ve told me everything I need to know.”
Buckingham Palace, London
15
The presidential motorcade arrived at the palace, punctual to the second. Palace staff deferred to the Secret Service in the matter of opening the door of the president’s limousine. Once that issue had been disposed of, Sir Robert Reed stepped forward and extended his hand to Patricia Darden Grant. The president took it and looked Sir Robert in the eye.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sir Robert.”
“The pleasure is mine, Madam President.”
He released the president’s hand and bowed slightly.
“I’m very fond of your son,” Patti said.
“As am I, ma’am. I look forward to meeting him.”
“Before the wedding ceremony, I trust.”
“His mother is working out the details. Will you please follow me?”
Patti gestured and a fit, conservatively
dressed young woman in her thirties stepped forward. “This is Special Agent Hernandez. She’ll be happy to chat with you, Sir Robert, while I speak with Her Majesty.”
Sir Robert smiled. “Thank you for your consideration, ma’am.”
They both knew the president was telling him the Secret Service had insisted she have an agent nearby, even at Buckingham Palace. Sir Robert would have the obligation to seat Special Agent Hernandez out of earshot of the president’s conversation with the queen, but with a clear sightline on Holly G.
Patti had no doubt Sir Robert would accomplish his task with élan.
He gestured toward the Palace.
“Her majesty,” he said, “expresses the hope you will enjoy tea with her in the garden.”
Arlington, VA
16
Welborn stood with his face pressed against the window of the strip mall dance studio like a kid staring into a candy store. He was dressed in a butter yellow polo shirt, beautifully faded jeans and new TopSiders. Parked behind him in a slot just to his left was Kira’s new show car, a red Porsche Cayman S. She had hinted that she would buy him a matching model as a wedding gift. He’d teased her, saying he wanted a Honda Civic hybrid. But after driving the Porsche, Welborn thought maybe he’d ask for a Tesla Roadster. Electric eye candy with plenty of zoom and no carbon footprint.
In the mall’s mid-afternoon lull, there was no one around to pay attention to Welborn.
After two minutes of diverting himself with automotive thoughts, and staring into the dance studio, Welborn heard a car pull into the lot, taking the parking space right behind him. As if slow on the uptake, he turned around only when he heard the newly arrived car’s door open.
His effort was rewarded by his first look at Calanthe Bao. Right here, he thought, was a serious example of supermodel talent scouts falling down on the job. If this woman didn’t belong on magazine covers, no one did. Long, shining black hair. Golden skin. Features symmetrical to the nearest millimeter. Tall and slim, but he’d bet she could do half as many pull-ups as he could, and he could do a hundred.
“May I help you?” she asked. Great voice, too. Throaty alto.
A hundred replies jostled for the head of the line. None of them as witty as he would have liked. None of them in character.
So he said, “I’d like to take some dance lessons, but I don’t see the hours posted anywhere.”
“It’s not that kind of dance studio.”
“No?” Welborn asked, puzzled. “What other kind is there?”
She smiled and, if possible, looked even more gorgeous.
“The kind for gypsies,” she said. “Dancers who work on stage.”
“Oh,” Welborn said. “Lessons for people who already know what they’re doing.”
She smiled again. “Maybe not as much as they should know.”
He sighed. “Well, they certainly have to know more than me.” With a wave, he said, “Thanks.” He started for his car. With his pilot’s peripheral eyesight, he saw her studying him.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What kind of dance do you want to learn?”
Welborn stopped with a hand resting on the roof of the Porsche and looked at her.
“Wedding,” he said.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You know, the kind you do at a wedding. I’m getting married in a month. My fiancée is a terrific dancer. I’m not any kind at all. I thought it would be a nice surprise if I could get through our first dance without stepping on her toes. Maybe even lead a little.”
“What a thoughtful gift,” Calanthe Bao said. Looked like she meant it, too.
When Welborn had suggested the idea to Deke as the ruse to approach their target, he’d said, “What a crock.” Welborn hadn’t taken the criticism to heart. He’d soon be marrying his own beautiful woman, and until recently the Secret Service agent had been living with his mother.
“Maybe you know some other place,” Welborn suggested. “You know, open to us non-gypsies.”
Calanthe paused before answering, clearly weighing a decision. Taking in Welborn’s appearance. He didn’t think it hurt her appraisal that he wasn’t driving a Honda Civic.
“I’ll give you lessons,” Calanthe said, deciding.
“You’re a gypsy?”
“No, I’m the one who helps them get their choreography right.”
“That’s very generous of you. How can I thank you?”
“Oh, there will be a bill for services rendered. And I’d appreciate it if you try not to step on my toes.”
“Do my best,” Welborn said with a smile.
“I’m Callie,” she said, extending her hand.
He took it, felt the strength he’d suspected, and said, “Welborn.”
She liked that: a name denoting money. It added to her appraisal.
Callie told him she had to run an errand.
To the post office, he knew. Closed early on Saturday. Deke had used his tin to question the manager of the PO Sweetie had seen Calanthe use. It wasn’t surprising the PO guy knew when Callie came by every day but Sunday.
Welborn had taken his spot at the dance studio window minutes before Callie was scheduled to drive past. A good-looking guy with a red Porsche had both caught her eye and proven to be acceptable bait.
“Should I wait in my car?” he asked.
She handed him two keys. “The studio will be more comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
With a wave, she got in her car and drove off. Welborn watched until she was out of sight. Then he looked off into the middle distance. There was a small park across the street. On the far side of it, Deke was sitting in his car and watching.
Ready to move fast if Welborn gave a distress signal.
Welborn just gave him a grin and held up the keys.
That was when Ricky Lanh Huu pulled into the lot in a Nissan sedan.
He popped out and asked Welborn with a sneer, “What’re you smiling at, pretty boy?”
17
In both flight school and federal officer training, Welborn had been taught to identify enemies swiftly. All of that was superfluous in Ricky’s case. Welborn would have recognized him as a troublemaking twit back in his playground days.
Ricky started to run his mouth some more, but Welborn had stopped listening. He needed to make a move. Not just because Ricky might precipitate a scuffle, but because Deke was certainly already in motion, coming to swoop down on the punk everyone credited with shooting him. Welborn couldn’t blame him for that, but he didn’t want Horatio Bao to be alerted that he was being targeted. So Welborn opted to use the keys he’d been given. He opened both locks with no wasted motion. Before Ricky could grasp that Welborn wasn’t hanging on his every word, the young Air Force captain had let himself into the dance studio and relocked the door.
Tactical retreat, Welborn thought. He’d be happy to get up close and personal with this punk another time. For his part, Ricky didn’t like being dissed. People weren’t supposed to walk out on one of his performances. He marched up to the studio door, leaving his car door open and the engine running. Welborn didn’t think that was too smart.
Told him a thing or two about the guy. Impulsive to a fault. Overly sure of himself.
“Hey, asshole,” Ricky yelled, trying the door and finding it unyielding. “I asked who you are? You fuckin’ deaf or something?”
Welborn went with, “Something,”
Ricky tried the door again, rattled it hard. Got angrier that the door remained unimpressed by him, too.
“Broken glass can cause terrible cuts,” Welborn warned.
Over the punk’s shoulder, Welborn saw that Deke had arrived on foot and recognized that his colleague in off-the-clock law enforcement was safe for the moment. He amused Welborn when he stepped back to eavesdrop from behind a tree.
Ricky had no idea he was being observed. He banged the glass door hard, as if to test the truth of Welborn’s warning. The glass fooled them both and stayed intact.
&nb
sp; The punk pulled a knife out of a pocket, flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. Neat trick, but once again Deke drew Welborn’s attention. Welborn hoped the Secret Service agent hadn’t thought he was threatened by the blade. He shook his head to warn him off.
Ricky thought Welborn was reacting in dread to his weapon.
“Oh, yeah, man. You gotta come outta there sometime and when you do…”
He moved the tip of his blade in a small circle and finished with an upward jab.
Getting bored with the creep, Welborn flipped him off. He wanted to get rid of him before Callie came back. Ricky went to rattle the door again, but even his learning curve wasn’t that high. He turned to look at Kira’s Porsche, and in particular its tires. If Ricky had rotated his head a few more degrees, he would have seen Deke sitting behind the wheel of his own car, quietly closing the door, but he didn’t. Ricky turned back to Welborn to make sure he got the idea.
“Gonna slash your tires,” he said. “All of them.”
Michelins, costing $370 apiece. Welborn didn’t see Margaret reimbursing him. He wasn’t keen on having to explain the situation to Kira either. She might buy him a Honda after all.
As Ricky turned back to the Porsche, Welborn rapped on the door.
Ricky stopped and looked back. Welborn gestured with his index finger. Wait a minute.
He took a pen and a small notepad out of a back pocket.
He wrote two sets of numbers on a page and held them up for Ricky to see.
The first set was: 911. The second was: 4AXT219. Ricky’s license plate number.
By now, Welborn had his cell phone in hand.
Ricky had no trouble comprehending the police emergency number, but recalling his own tag number was an exercise in memory that required verification. He turned and …
Saw someone driving off with his car.
Deke had his head dipped and his shoulder raised. With the speed he had the car moving, it was unlikely Ricky had gotten a good look at him. But he ran down the street after his car nonetheless. Didn’t have an efficient stride, Welborn observed.