by Mark Gilleo
“Working girls work all neighborhoods and come in all colors and sizes.”
Old Man Johnson looked straight at Dan. “She wasn’t no working girl.”
“A customer?”
“That’s what the police detectives thought.”
“And you think different?”
“I do. Maybe I didn’t see no murder, but the white woman I saw in the neighborhood wasn’t buying drugs.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she never stopped the car. Saw her on a few occasions driving by. Black car. Nothing unusual about the car.”
“Did you see the woman’s face?”
“Enough of it to tell you it was a white woman.”
Dan looked at Old Man Johnson’s thick glasses and surmised that his eyesight and age combined to devalue his police testimony.
“Did you see the white woman the night that Tyrone was killed?”
“No, but I saw the same car I had seen before. A black sedan.”
“Did you get the tag number?”
“Nope.”
“Did anyone else see the car?”
“I heard some people mention it.”
“And all of this was told to the police?”
“Damn right. I told them exactly what I just told you. I saw a white woman in the neighborhood. Saw the car. Saw the same car the night Tyrone got shot.”
Chapter 51
Dan followed a uniformed officer back to the table near the whiteboard in the corner of the robbery and homicide division. Detective Wallace was standing at the front of the makeshift classroom, magic marker in hand. The chicken scratch from the morning had been replaced with a diagram that appeared more coherent. Previously-terminally-ill-and-now-deceased assassins on the left. Known dead jurors— the EPA lawyer, Marcus Losh, and Carla the waitress—on the right.
The table in the corner work area had also been cleared of the morning’s display of documents. Stacks of papers and photos now surrounded the perimeter of the work area. A laptop sat open on an empty chair next to the printer.
“Where did you go?” Wallace asked.
“I went to check on a few things with the Tyrone Biggs shooting.”
“You went to Anacostia?”
“Yep.”
“Smart move going during the day. Generally speaking, I wouldn’t go there without a partner,” Wallace replied. “Back in the early nineties, standard police operations required two marked units after dark.”
“Sounds great. Sorry I missed it,” Emily said. “What did you learn?”
Dan rubbed his hands together and spoke. “Did you know a witness reported seeing a white woman in the area in the weeks leading up to Tyrone Biggs’s murder?”
“I didn’t,” Wallace admitted. “But like I said, I wasn’t working the case. By the time Tyrone Biggs was killed, I had transferred to the swanky side of town. Any description from this witness beyond ‘white woman’?”
“Not really.”
“Well, ‘white woman’ isn’t much to go on.”
“Uh-oh, here we go again,” Emily interjected. She turned towards Dan. “You are about to learn how to appropriately describe a suspect by the color of coffee.”
“White is white,” Dan said. “And in Anacostia, apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
“Who was the witness?”
“An elderly gentleman who lives on the same block.”
“How old?”
“Old enough that he probably wouldn’t be a good witness, but young enough that I think he can tell the difference between a white woman and everyone else in the neighborhood.”
“Noted,” Wallace said.
“What did you two find out while I was gone?” Dan asked.
Emily answered. “There were over fifty witnesses at the Tyrone Biggs H2O trial. Witnesses testified for all six victims as to the impact the murders had on their friends and families. Victim impact statements. Multiple witnesses also testified to the character of the deceased.”
“Did you compile a list?”
Emily motioned towards the top of the large table. “We have a list. Another long list. All the mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, boyfriends, and girlfriends of those killed at Club H2O. We started to compile photos and dossiers for most of the witnesses and family members.”
“Have we run across a photo of anyone who could be our man in the baseball cap and glasses?”
“Not yet. But there are a lot of faces to locate and go through. If we include more distant relatives of the deceased such as uncles and cousins, we are in the neighborhood of ninety names. That’s on top of the list of potential suspects we got from the hospice, which is another hundred. Add all that together and we are going to need more manpower.”
Dan nodded. “Let’s see if we can narrow it down. What about the money angle? Which of these young victims from the H2O shooting came from the wealthiest family?”
Wallace answered. “Looks like we’re splitting hairs on that front. How rich is rich? We have four wealthy families, all of them very successful. The four wealthy victims all went to high school together at the Bullis School. Very elite. Very expensive.”
“How did the families make their money?”
Wallace lifted a piece of paper off the table and held it at reading distance. “We have Michael Downs, the father of Annie Downs, one of the girls killed at Club H2O. Michael Downs worked for twenty years at a defense contractor that specializes in satellite imagery. He currently serves on the board of directors for that same company and lives in Potomac. Three years ago he purchased the house where he and his wife now live for $6.5 million. Apparently it was a cash transaction.”
“That would qualify as ‘not poor.’”
“He owns a helicopter and has climbed three of the highest peaks in the world for sport.”
“Definitely not poor.”
“Number two on the list is Richard Porter. Daughter was named Natalie. Mr. Porter doesn’t seem to be employed at the moment because he doesn’t need to be. According to some old press releases, Mr. Porter started a couple of IT companies, which he later sold to some larger, well-known corporations. His last company specialized in facial recognition software and was sold to IBM for $90 million.”
“Okay. Rich Dad number two. Next.”
“The third shooting victim was named Camille Okafore. The Okafores made their money in mining. Precious metal mining in particular. They are fourth-generation miners, originally from South Africa. The amount of their wealth can only be estimated as ‘a lot.’ The Okafore family owns thirty thousand acres of land in Montana and another twenty thousand in Idaho.”
Dan whistled.
“The last on the list is George Westing. Mr. Westing lost his daughter, Laura. Mr. Westing runs his own hedge fund. Westing Financial. You may have seen the commercials.”
“I’ve been looking for some place to put my money.”
“I’m sure I don’t make enough to qualify as a client,” Wallace replied. “I’m not sure the DC Police Department in its entirety makes enough to qualify.”
“Does anyone from these wealthy families have a criminal background? Anyone who, on the surface, seems as if they could be involved in multiple assassinations?” Dan asked.
“Not yet,” Emily answered. “But we’ve only been banging away at this list for a few hours. And short of someone with a military or criminal background, I’m not sure what someone who employs cancer victims as killers looks like on paper.”
Dan paced around the table looking at the stack of faces and dossiers. “Did we bounce the list of family members and friends from the H2O trial and against the list of employees and volunteers from the Capital Community Hospice?”
“Of course.”
“So no match?”
“Nothing. We wouldn’t be here talking if there was one.”
“Did you double check?”
“I double checked by hand and then I put all the names into a spreadsheet and ran a
column match search. There were no names that appeared on both the list of friends and relatives of the deceased from the H2O shooting—those people with motive to kill the jurors—and the list of Capital Community Hospice employees and volunteers.”
“Curious,” Dan said. “Any idea where we are with the court order for the list of jurors?”
Wallace answered. “It’s at the courthouse as we speak. We should have something later today. Tomorrow at the latest.”
Chapter 52
The cell phone next to the futon on the floor vibrated against the century-old wood. Dan turned away from his laptop computer and reached for the phone, his hand brushing over his loaded handgun, twelve in the magazine, one in the chamber.
“Did I catch you napping?” Wallace asked without introducing himself.
“No. I was going through the backgrounds of the witnesses and family members from the H2O trial.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Interesting, yes. Concrete, no.”
“You online now?”
“I am.”
“Check your inbox. I just sent you the full list of jurors.”
“Same-day turnaround on the court order? That’s fast.”
“Someone may have mentioned the possibility that a congressman’s wife was in danger.”
“That would get things moving.”
“Do you have the document yet?” Wallace asked.
Dan clicked his mouse. “I just opened it. Twelve names. Have you done anything with them?”
“Just got them. Your girl Sherry Wellington is on the list, under her maiden name. The waitress is there. Marcus Losh is also on the list. Ditto for the EPA lawyer.”
Dan started scanning the lists, reading each name carefully.
Detective Wallace continued to talk. “First thing we’re going to do is run the list through the District’s Department of Motor Vehicles, get some addresses, and start making phone calls.”
“What if they’re dead?”
“They won’t answer their phone.”
Dan looked away from the list for a moment. “Does the DC DMV flag an individual when they’re deceased?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it doesn’t happen for a long list of possible reasons.”
“And if they aren’t residents of DC? Some of them could’ve moved out of the city since the trial.”
“We’ll have to contact other jurisdictions or get some unofficial federal assistance.”
Dan returned his attention to the list of juror names and his eyes froze on the last name listed. “I gotta run,” Dan said. “Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
*
Dan slipped by two groups standing near the glass front doors and passed the hostess stand without breaking pace. He weaved his way through the mostly standing crowd near the bar and edged his way to the end of the large slab of polished wood. The bartender he had met on his previous trip placed a cocktail in front of a woman three seats down and then made eye contact with Dan. The bartender approached, smiling, anticipating the possibility of another hefty tip for a few quick questions.
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
“What can I get you?”
“Frank.”
“If that’s a drink name, you’re going to have to tell me what’s in it.”
“It’s not. Is he around tonight?”
The bartender stared at Dan and his face seemed to recognize the former dollar-doling patron was on a decidedly different mission. “Give me a minute.”
*
Frank stepped onto the floor in his white kitchen apron with his name embroidered in blue thread on the front pocket. Dan stood from his bar stool.
“Dan. I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“What can I help you with? We’re in the middle of the dinner rush.”
“It’s important,” Dan said. “And it should only take a couple minutes.”
Frank, a sheen of sweat glistening on his bald head, motioned in the direction of a recently vacated two-seat table in the back corner of the restaurant. Dan sat and pushed the dirty dessert plates from the table’s previous occupants to the side. Frank took his seat across from Dan and stole a quick glance around the buzzing restaurant. Dan stared at Frank’s profile and facial features, trying to imagine the man with a different appearance.
When Frank turned his attention back towards Dan, Dan said, “I have a few questions for you about Tyrone Biggs and the trial.”
Frank’s overheated face notched a loss of color.
“I assume the police called you today to check on your well-being. If they haven’t, I would expect a call soon,” Dan added.
“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I asked ‘Tyrone who’?”
“No, I wouldn’t. That train has left the station. I received the jury list and your name was on it.”
“I knew there was no such thing as an anonymous jury. A bunch of bullshit from a bunch of judges and lawyers.”
“It was anonymous until a few hours ago.”
“And here you are.”
“I found you because your life may be in danger. But I think you already know this.”
Frank’s head dipped slightly in a subconscious gesture of defeat. “Sherry told me what Marcus had discovered in the obituaries. She warned me. The same day she warned Carla.”
“Are you worried?”
“There were twelve people on that jury and from what I have heard, a lot of them are dead. So yeah, it concerns me. No one ever mentioned that jury duty can ruin your life.”
Dan felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and ignored it. “Tell me about the jury and the trial.”
Frank squinted. “What do you want to know?”
“How did a jury with video evidence of a murder find the perpetrator innocent?”
“Do you know who Tyrone Biggs was?”
“I do.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“I think you were paid off.”
Frank nodded. “Out of curiosity, are you going to be asking any questions you don’t know the answer to?”
“That’s a habit I blame on the attorney in me.”
“Well, if you know all the answers you can have this conversation without me.”
Dan stared at Frank without blinking. “I don’t have all the answers and this conversation is over when I say it is. We can have a decent, polite discussion, or I can make a call to the FBI and IRS and see if they need a new case to work. Just so you know, the police are only interested in your well-being. As of now, I’m the only person with any inclination as to what may have occurred seven years ago.”
“I can tell you everything I know and you may still go to the Feds.”
“I could, but I’m just not that interested in you. I’m interested in finding the person responsible for killing the jury of your peers.”
Frank leaned back in his chair slightly.
Dan continued. “Tell me about the payoff. How much did Tyrone Biggs offer you?”
Frank swallowed and began wringing his wrists in tight, short twists.
“I’m going to say it one more time so we are clear. I’m not interested in you, Frank. I don’t give a shit one way or the other. But the guy I’m looking for is interested in you. So if you want to increase your chances of receiving social security one day, your best option is sitting right in front of you.”
Frank puckered his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. “He paid us a hundred grand each.”
“How many of you?”
“Some of us. Most of us. I don’t know exactly how many. It’s not like we counted a show of hands.”
“But you know that Tyrone paid off Sherry, Marcus, and Carla.”
“Yes. He paid them off.”
“How in the hell did he reach the jurors? You were sequestered, correct?”
“I will ask you the same question I just asked a minute ago.
Do you know who Tyrone Biggs was?”
“Yes. He was a gangbanger and drug dealer.”
“In his little corner of the world, Tyrone was more of a drug lord than a drug dealer.”
“Which is probably another good reason not to let him walk free.”
“There wasn’t much choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Really? You really think that? Let me ask you this: If someone gave you the option of living or dying, which would you take?”
“Living,” Dan replied.
“Easy choice. No strings attached. Now let’s change it up a little. If someone gave you the choice of getting paid and living, or dying, which would you choose?”
Dan didn’t respond.
“Not much of a choice is it? The money isn’t the important part of the equation. Live and get paid, or be killed,” Frank said. “Really, Tyrone Biggs didn’t have to offer us the money. He could have just given us the option of living or dying.”
“I can see your point. The money becomes inconsequential.”
“The money was a side decision. At least it was for me,” Frank said. “I was offered money to let a drug dealer and murderer go free. That is true. But I was also offered my life in return for letting a drug dealer and murderer go free. And in the end, it wasn’t much of a decision. The money was a bonus.”
“You could have informed the judge that the jury had been tainted.”
“I could have, but Tyrone knew all of our names. He knew where we lived. He knew our family and friends. We were told he would know if we went to the judge. I wasn’t willing to take that risk.”
“So he had someone in the courts on his payroll.”
“I don’t know how he got his information, but he knew everything he needed to know about me.”
“Now it’s my turn to go back to the previous question. How did he reach you? The jury was sequestered.”
“We were. We were put up in the Americana Hotel on Sixteenth Street. It’s no longer there. A law firm bought it and converted the whole thing.”
“I know the place.”
“Well, we were sequestered in the hotel. We had uniformed court officers in the lobby and on the second floor monitoring the hall and the stairs. I was on the third floor.”