by Mark Gilleo
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Senator Day? No, never met him face-to-face. He was too much of a coward.”
Jake tried to say something else, but the words failed him, inaudible breaths escaping his mouth.
Al wiped his cheeks and both men watched the water rush by. “If Senator Day is involved with this girl and your father, then you are in very deep indeed. He’s a powerful man, even among senators who are generally power heavyweights.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I hope you’re wrong about the guy in the photo.”
“Why? What does this have to do with me? This guy in the picture doesn’t know me from Adam. This news story is in every major paper between here and Boston, but it was filmed over a month ago. Six weeks ago I was burying my mother and I hadn’t seen my father in six years.”
Al had already done the math in his head. “Don’t bet on your anonymity. It’s a small world.” He leaned back and rested on his hands, his double-jointed elbows fully extended.
“Did Marilyn ever mention the senator?”
“No.” Jake thought about the question. “Why?”
“Those newspapers articles represent a second explanation for the current situation,” Al said, trying to draw Jake toward his own conclusion. “Your father, Marilyn, the senator, the Asian guy…a pregnant girl.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Two American men in Saipan, one pregnant girl,” Al hinted.
Jake choked up. “The girl is pregnant with the senator’s child,” he said, the air rushing from his lungs in a moment of self-enlightenment. His face felt flush, his head light.
“Congratulations, you are smarter than you look after all.”
Jake took a trip into the same pensive darkness Al had just visited. “I should’ve figured it out as soon as I saw the fax,” he said. “That was around the same time we went out for dinner with the senator. I should have known.”
“It’s water under the bridge now, Jake,” Al said gesturing to the bridge above and the water below. Jake didn’t laugh. Al ran his fingers through his reddish brown hair, and threw his head back with a sigh. “Besides, I don’t think it matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“When did you get that fax from Wei Ling?”
“Ten days ago.”
Al took a deep breath. “She is probably dead already.”
“Dead?”
“If she isn’t dead, she is locked away somewhere beyond your reach. Beyond the reach of American law, the power of righteousness, civil liberties, all that good stuff.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you it may be too late.”
“Too late to help the girl, or too late to find out what is going on between the senator, my father, the girl, and this guy in the picture?”
“Jake, I’m going to spell it out for you very clearly. Be careful. For the next couple of days, be careful. If I were you, I would stay away from your girlfriend. Keep your head down for a while. Vary your routine. And you may want to tell your father what you know. He could be in danger.”
“My father is out of town until the end of the week.”
“Well, eventually he is coming back and unless you want to bury both your parents in one summer, you might want to warn him. Assuming he doesn’t already know.”
“Al, you’re officially scaring the shit out of me.”
“Good.”
“Good for whom?”
“Fear is a good emotion. It creates alertness.”
“I’m going to have to disagree with you. Fear sucks, Al.”
“It can be good…” Al said thinking. “Who knows, today might turn out to be one of the best days of your life.”
“Not unless we get a quick turnaround. The day is young and it’s going downhill fast.”
“You’re missing the point. Some people wait their whole lives for a day like today. A day where they learn they have the chance to be an honest-to-goodness, balls-to-the-wall, hero.”
Jake shook his head. “Maybe this hero is going to slip into his apartment, grab his sleeping bag, and join you right here at the Potomac View Retreat.”
“My door is always open.” ***
Jake left and Al dug through a plastic bag he kept on the shelf in the rafters under the bridge. He pulled out an old pair of running shoes, the treads almost completely bare in the path his foot followed as it hit the ground on the heel and rolled forward.
He slipped on the shoes with their bright yellow reflective trim and reached down to tie the laces. With the grace and lightness of a ballerina, Al propelled himself down the shore of the river. He passed the Jefferson Memorial at a six-mile-a-minute pace, and kicked it up a notch when he headed over the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
It was redemption time. It was time to join the world of the living.
Chapter 31
Detective Wallace walked into the lobby of the swanky office building on K Street with Detective Nguyen in tow. The pit stop at the security booth by the detectives in worn slacks and dated sports coats was a formality. Rent-a-cops weren’t prone to giving the police a hard time. Sooner or later they would need their help dealing with real crime—a pickpocket on the premises, vandals breaking a window, workers stealing office equipment. The rent-a-cops were there to look like the police from a distance, and to call the real boys-in-blue when the situation got out of control.
“We’re looking for Winthrop Enterprises,” Wallace said, flashing his badge and looking for professional courtesy.
The black guard, a man in his early twenties with long whiskers on his chin, smiled and pointed toward the elevator, looking down his arm and past his finger like the barrel on a rifle. “Take the elevator to the top floor.”
Detectives Wallace and Nguyen were the only people in the elevator without a shine on their shoes and a briefcase in hand. The presence of the detectives kept the morning elevator banter to a minimum. Lawyers can smell outsiders from a hundred yards in high winds, much less in the confines of an elevator. Three floors and eight departed lawyers later, the police’s recently-formed detective tandem had the elevator to themselves on the ride to the top floor.
The detectives stepped into Peter Winthrop’s kingdom and the receptionist gave her standard greeting. “Welcome to Winthrop Enterprises. How can I help you?”
Two long steps from the elevator and the detectives were at the counter under the Winthrop Enterprises sign, the silver wording gleaming with recently shined letters.
“Good morning. My name is Earl Wallace and I am a detective with the D.C. Metropolitan Police Force. This is my partner, Detective Nguyen.”
The receptionist turned serious, an almost forced demeanor. “May I see your badges, please?”
Detective Wallace gave Nguyen a subtle glance before both men reached into their respective jacket pockets and pulled their shields.
“Thank you, detectives.”
“We are conducting an investigation and want to have a word with Peter Winthrop,” Detective Wallace answered with an equally serious tone.
“I’m sorry, detective but Mr. Winthrop is not available. He is out of town on business.”
“When will he be back?”
“I believe he is in Prague until tomorrow and is making a stopover in London on his way back. Although I am not his secretary, I am pretty sure he is due back by the end of the week.”
Wallace didn’t like the receptionist. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
“Me?”
“It will only take a minute.”
The receptionist looked around, turning her neck slightly and glancing out of the corners of her eyes.
“About Marilyn Ford,” Wallace added.
The mere mention of Marilyn’s name brought moisture to the receptionist’s eyes. She waved her hand in front of her face as if to dry any tears before they formed. Wallace looked at Detective Nguyen with one eyebrow raised. Wallace pull
ed out his notebook, ready to scribble.
“She was a wonderful woman,” the receptionist said, whimpering.
“Was she well-liked around here?”
“Yes, very. She’d been around Winthrop Enterprises before there was a Winthrop Enterprises. She was the president’s secretary for over two decades. She could be nosey, but what middle-aged, forty-something-year-old woman isn’t?”
Detective Nguyen butted in, “Nosey about what?”
“Nosey about the usual. Employees’s lives in general. Who was working on what, who was cheating on their wives, you know, the usual.”
“Before Marilyn’s death, did you notice anything unusual with ‘the usual?’”
“Not really. Not to me at least.”
“Boyfriend?” Detective Wallace asked, knowing that over fifty percent of all homicides against women are perpetrated by the man they share their bed with.
“Not that I know of,” the receptionist answered, now with an emotionless face that would have taken the pot at any Texas Hold’em tournament.
Detective Wallace handed the receptionist a picture of Chow Ying taken from the ATM camera. “Have you seen this man before?”
The receptionist leaned close, stared hard at the picture for few seconds and then looked up. “No. He doesn’t look familiar.”
Wallace wrote something in his notepad and ripped out the small sheet of paper when he finished. He placed the paper and the photograph on the marble reception counter. “Could you see to it that Peter Winthrop gets this picture and this note? It is important.”
“Yes, I will make sure he gets it.”
“And here is my business card. Please, have him call me.”
“I will let him know you visited.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, detectives.” ***
Back in the wood paneled elevators, Nguyen waited for the doors to shut and then asked, “What did you think?”
Wallace pulled at his waistline and looked at the open page of the notebook in his left hand. “Seemed like a suspicious office. Never had a receptionist ask to see my badge before, have you?”
“Can’t say I have. And she seemed to be a little emotional. Her tears came at the drop of a hat and vanished just as fast.”
“Almost like she was acting. Did you notice that a lot of people in the office were staring at us?”
“Not really.”
“Another ten years on the force and you will. Either way it looks like we have to wait a few days. But if Mr. Winthrop isn’t available, there are some things we can do in the meantime.”
“Starting with?”
“Shake the branches of the Winthrop fruit tree a little and see if anything interesting falls out.”
Chapter 32
The trip to the mechanic had fixed one problem, and Jake’s car no longer stalled. A few loose wires and a cracked distributor cap were diagnosed as the culprits, and the bill totaled forty dollars for the parts and a stinging three hundred for labor. The trail of blue smoke now coming from the tailpipe indicated even bigger problems were on the horizon. The telltale cloud of burning oil followed Jake’s Subaru like a tail, zigging when he zigged, zagging when he zagged.
Jake came to a crawl at the stop sign at Macomb Street and Connecticut Avenue. He could see his apartment, but getting to the parking lot of the old brick building was going to require three left turns on consecutive one-way streets. Jake checked his mirrors, not sure if he should be on the lookout for a six-foot-four mass of Chinese muscle coming at him with a samurai sword down the double yellow lines.
His conversation with Al had scared him. Stuck in traffic as the sun finished setting, Jake ran through scenarios for his father, a senator, and a girl named Wei Ling.
He pulled into the small strip of private parking spaces behind his building and prayed for an open one. He worked his car into the sliver of asphalt next to the massive green dumpster, leaving just enough room to slide out the driver’s side door. Another two inches of waistline and he would have needed a Crisco lube job to get by. He got out of the car, face-to-face with the stench of rotting garbage. He stuck his forearm into his nose and shimmied by without getting his shirt dirty.
As darkness fell over the city, Chow Ying smiled at his target’s timing. He marveled at his own patience. From a bench in the stamp-size excuse for a park across the street, Chow Ying watched Jake pull his car into the lot. The Mountain of Shanghai threw his newspaper in the trashcan and crossed the residential street with a slight limp. The situation was as good as it gets. The police would think it was a robbery gone bad. Another good kid killed by a violent element of the city—violence so ingrained in the city’s youth that neither prison nor the potential for an early funeral were deterrents. As Jake slipped from his car, Chow Ying closed in with slow measured movements. With thirty yards to go, Chow Ying’s strides became longer and his hobble more noticeable. A brief crunch of gravel under his foot gave him momentary pause.
Jake, head down, shifted through his keys as he approached the first floor security door in the back of the building. Chow Ying looked around one last time for witnesses, in final preparation to pounce. The kid didn’t stand a chance, ankle injury or not.
Jake pushed his way into the apartment and a giant hand crashed down on his shoulder from the shadows of the hall, the force spinning him around, slamming the security door open.
“Jake Patrick.”
“Jesus,” Jake said, looking up. It took a second to recognize the intruder. “Tony. You scared the shit out of me,” Jake said, panting. The Castello brothers stood at both sides of Tony. Together, Jake’s visitors stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the hall, blocking the passageway, stuffing the corridor from the mailboxes to the recycling room door.
Looking into the doorway from the outside, Chow Ying froze and then slowly retreated into the shadows near the building. He didn’t take his eyes off the scene in the hall.
“Mr. Sorrentino is requesting your presence for dinner.”
“Has Mr. Sorrentino ever heard of using the phone?”
“I just do as I am told.”
“How did you get into the building?”
“You don’t think a locked door would keep us out, do you?”
Jake thought about the question and considered it a moot point. If the three goons in front of him wanted to get into an apartment building, they would find a way. Window. Door. Trash chute. “Well, I can’t make it this evening. I’m kind of busy,” Jake said, still trembling.
“I can appreciate your busy schedule, Jake, but I don’t care. Mr. Sorrentino pays my bills and he is asking me to offer you a ride, to have a civil meal together. Do me a favor and make it easy.”
“Don’t threaten me, Tony.” Jake’s adrenaline startled both himself and his unwelcome guests. Verbalizing the fact that he wasn’t going to be a patsy for Tony or Mr. Sorrentino gave him a boost of confidence. Fear may indeed be a good emotion, he thought.
“Jake…”
“I’ll tell you what Tony. I need to get something from my apartment. Then I’ll go. But not because I have to. I’ll go because I like Kate.” ***
Chow Ying lurked outside the back door of the building as Jake and the trio of Mediterranean bloodlines firmly shut the door to the building and disappeared. Seconds from the kill and the prey had gotten away. There was nothing to do but wait. From the park across the street, Chow Ying watched the movement in Jake’s bedroom window. Ten minutes later, the lights in Jake’s apartment flicked off, and Chow Ying focused on the back door to the apartment. It was wasted energy. When Tony and the Castello brothers appeared with Jake wedged between them, Chow Ying cursed. The college-aged kid, surrounded by seasoned hard-asses, made Chow Ying think. The Mountain of Shanghai watched Jake get into the back seat of the car parked illegally on the main street and wondered if perhaps this kid had bigger problems than he did. ***
Jake sat on a bar stool and watched his three guardian angels play nine ball with ski
ll and language that could only have been perfected in a pool hall. And not one of those pool places in Bethesda or Ballston where yuppies come to pick up chicks and scratch the velvet with the rental cues. No, Jake’s current company used their cues to shoot serious pool, and, he imagined, crack the occasional skull.
Given the circumstances, the basement of the Sorrentino palace seemed like a safe place. If there was a large Asian on the loose in the city with ill intentions, he wasn’t likely to be paying a visit to the Sorrentino residence. Jake’s present company was only marginally better. They cursed and threw money at each other, taunted and shoved. Jake cringed at the guns, the handles of pistols hanging from shoulder holsters and protruding from waistbands. He prayed the guns would stay holstered. Jake was sure the crowd didn’t practice NRA-approved firearm safety.
His guards weren’t happy with their assignment and Jake knew it. They offered him a drink and pointed to the bathroom in the hall. “Don’t go wandering past the bathroom. We understand each other?” Tony said.
“Yes,” Jake answered, completing the longest conversation he had had since he had gotten in the car. Jake excused himself to the bathroom under the watchful glare of six eyes. He turned on the bathroom fan and lights before shutting the door. Then he pulled out his cell phone and made a call. Bring in the cavalry, he thought.
An hour passed and the bets on each game increased with every round. The pile of cash currently on the bar totaled six hundred and change, and the extracurricular violence was getting worse with every missed shot. After scratching on the eight ball, Tony grabbed the older Castello brother, put him in a headlock, and pulled out his revolver just for show.
The door upstairs slammed and Jake jumped in his seat. James “Jimmy” Sorrentino’s feet on the stairs brought the room to attention. The owner of the house entered the room, looking as if he were the only one who hadn’t had a stressful day. His suit was perfectly tailored, his gait strong and youthful. His face was stern, commanding the respect of the room.