Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  The evening well spent, the front doorway to my D.C. townhouse well lit by my wrought-iron pole light. I step out of the vehicle. My hip is throbbing. I have at least seven steps in front of my four story town house. I can bear it, for the last time.

  "It's been a real pleasure, Sir."

  His suit and hat always look as if they belonged to another. Collins looks out of place suited but I'd never tell him that.

  "For me as well."

  "I want to tell you, thanks for giving me a chance when no one else believed in me. They say I'd be pushing up daisies in Greenfield right now if it weren't for you. I mean, you could've picked any of those other posh drivers but you picked me. And well, I - I just wanted to say thank you. I appreciate you recommending me to drive for that senator. I start Monday. I know you don't like to take gifts, but if you would." Collins hands me a present. "From me and the Mrs."

  “Thank you. The pleasure was mine."

  That phone rings again. Collins turns away and lowers his eyes. I answer it.

  "Give me two minutes. I'll call you back." I slip it into my pocket.

  "Shall I see you in, Sir?"

  "No, I'm fine. You go on home and tell your wife ‘Merry Christmas’."

  Lifting his gift. I thought it crazy to have interior decorators ten years ago. But they did a good job. Standing in here for my last night I recall telling them, do as you will but keep my favorites in the seating area. Cigar case, ashtray and heating pad for my hip. The rest impressed visitors more than me. It was clearly the home of a single man. There it is, greeting me at the door for the last time.

  It was the first frame I bought my wife after our wedding. Young, cheek to cheek, her veil nothing more than a lace tablecloth pinned at the top but she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The front hall table is its home. I purposely angle it to face the door when I leave so it is the first thing I see when I walk in. I then turn it the other way so it is certain to be the last thing I see when I leave. I never noticed the small scratches on the wood table giving away my secret habit.

  It's quiet. Hot shower, heavy monogrammed robe and a Cuban cigar. A deep draw and I sink into the deep leather chair in front of the gas fireplace, watching the flames flicker, swirling a glass of brandy.

  My wonderful moment is interrupted. That phone rings again. I answer it.

  "Yes. Now, what's so imp-... When?" I put the glass down harder than I thought. "You have everyone on it?" I ask. I listen. "Keep me posted." I say hanging up the call.

  There's nothing I can do about it. That is what my men are for. Bed. I have an early flight.

  Jason Jones

  The weather shut down every airport just as I thought it would. Rushing home was superficial anyway. There is no one at home to rush to. Not since she walked out. I can hear a pin drop five offices down. The usual skeleton crew is here, and then there is me.

  It's still in my teeth. The grit of Director White trying to use me to add accreditation to her ridiculous report.

  If she didn't stop me, I could have found out what I came to find out. I needed more. I thought for sure something more would have surfaced, but Wilkes proved more clever than I first anticipated. He's calculating. The one thing I am sure of, it is now or never. I had to give my man the signal. I had to let him know it was time. Did I do it prematurely? No. I can't second-guess my decision. Knowing him, it's probably too late any way.

  My cell phone is ringing. That could only be only one person. My trusted assistant. She's the only one who would call me right now. Sam. Through thick and thin together. She and her husband were a big help when my wife left.

  Holding the last file in my left hand, I answer the phone with my right and sit down on the lumpy sofa. I have the lamps lit so the shadows in the office seem to be creeping closer.

  "It's me," I say, answering the phone. It's Sam.

  "I called the hotel," she says, chewing. "You never checked in. Typical. It's Christmas Eve, Jason. You can't stay away forever. You're going to have to go home eventually." Sam sips a drink.

  "All of the flights are grounded," I say. Let’s see if she buys that?

  "You are in D.C. It's an hour and a half drive."

  No chance. I trained her well.

  "Did you ever watch geese cross a street?" I ask her.

  "What? Has your brain frozen?"

  "Geese. I visited a town in Virginia and everywhere there was a lake, there were geese. They cross the street just like they walk, in a line. There's always one that goes first, I noticed it's usually the biggest one, taller than the others. It sticks its head way up and looks around then it takes one step off the curb and stands there for a while. They just don't rush into the street like squirrels or deer. It stands there then takes one step at a time really slowly, advancing. At first, I watched them anxiously and I kept wondering..." I start flipping through files.

  "Wondering what?" Sam asks.

  "I kept wondering why they didn't just fly over the street or make a run for it fast. But, that big goose was big because he lived a long time. He lived a long time because he learned how to stand there long enough for the cars to see him standing there and when they slowed, the other geese followed. They all went. If only one went, it increased the chances of the one being killed, visibility. They moved as a group and it insured the likelihood of survival." I paused to let it sink in.

  "And you're telling me this because..."

  "Sam, I think the big goose is moving."

  There it is, the internal ah-hah. Wilkes is moving and it won't be long before the other geese stick their heads out and waddle into the street with him. Sam didn't get it. Maybe it's better if she doesn't. I like to keep her clear so she can think about the things I focus her on. She doesn't puzzle things together. She analyzes the picture.

  "There is something you need to look into. Immediately. It just came in," she says.

  "How did you know I don't have plans?" When all else fails, I turn to sarcasm.

  "You told me to tell you if anything big showed up within the next forty-eight hours, well, it hasn't even been nine hours but something popped up. A homicide," she says. I can hear her clicking on the computer keyboard.

  "Where?" I ask.

  "New York."

  I sit straight up and drop the file on the coffee table. Now I'm curious.

  "Why did this shine to you?"

  "Steve Harvard. His daughter Elizabeth Harvard was found dead a few hours ago in a taxi in front of their building. It looks like a professional hit."

  "Steve Harvard, billionaire Steve Harvard? Heavily invested in overseas tech, Steve Harvard?" I say hanging on her next words.

  "Yes. Suspected drug cartel investor, Steve Harvard. If that doesn't shine, I don't know what does. The higher ups think you should go too."

  "Why would they send me? Why not the Federal Bureau of Investigation? Why Central Intelligence Agency?" I ask her. She pauses. Our 'read between the lines' signal.

  "There's no mistake, Jason."

  "Get me the-"

  "-next thing moving out of Washington D.C. Done. A driver is waiting outside. Standard black government vehicle. You can’t miss it. I'd go with you but, you know..."

  "You have a life. I know. Thanks, Sam."

  "God help New York."

  "I didn't hang up the phone yet."

  I hear her laugh and then a click. Anything that significant in New York means it truly has begun. 'The first goose has moved and the line is forming.’

  Road trips don't appeal to me. I don't like to talk much when I'm working on a case and most drivers want to talk; that is, except Fernando. I am hoping Sam arranged for Fernando to drive. The only thing he likes to do on road trips is listen to his rap music. I have proved to be able to sleep through that. Also, he drives faster to music.

  The five hour drive was quicker than I thought. Of course, I fell asleep during most of it and woke to Fernando bopping away.

  New York, Manhattan is beautiful during Christmas
. But this storm, it's almost at its climax. I have never felt cold like this. It's like the end of the world.

  The driver pulls into the front of a hotel.

  "No. Take me straight to the site."

  "Yes, Sir."

  The driver rubs his eyes. I can't blame him. Staring at a barely visible street through thick falling snow. I need to get there while things are fresh.

  We pull up in front of Steve Harvard’s building and I open the door before the vehicle comes to a full stop.

  A New York Police Officer approaches me. I didn't realize I was only in my suit jacket.

  "You need a coat."

  "You deduced that all by yourself, did you?"

  He smiles. That's one thing I like about New Yorkers, they don't bruise easily.

  "Here Big Wig, I have an extra N.Y.P.D. jacket in my car. You are?"

  "Jason."

  "What? No mile long title?" he says sarcastically.

  "I'm just Jason. Thanks for the jacket."

  A good detective disappears, blends in and watches. His gesture just helped me more than he realizes.

  I can't help but look straight up at the penthouse balcony. Wind freezing my face off. On the penthouse balcony a woman's night robe flows in the wind. She is as white as snow except her red lips. She must be frozen. Must be the victim’s mother. A large diamond wedding ring on her finger catches the light. When you can see a rock ten stories up, it's a gem. Her eyes fixed on the roof of the taxi cab below.

  A police officer begins yelling at the other officers on the street.

  "Get these people back!"

  Press? Of course. He looks like he's been out here for a while. The perfect person to ask.

  "Why hasn't the body been moved yet? It's been hours."

  "The storm. Harvard's men are just five minutes out."

  The coat breaks the cold from my back.

  "Harvard's men?"

  "He fought with the Captain but a call from higher up. Tied our hands. Figures."

  "Where's the Captain?"

  "Security room. All these buildings have one. There's video. They've got a suspect."

  "Really." I feel my livers freezing. "Officer, you need to go in and warm up."

  "Nah, I'm used to this. Besides, I'd rather be out here with the guys."

  He gestures to the other officers outside, directing traffic, holding back the crowds. Doing what it takes to secure the scene. I can respect that sense of unity.

  As I walk inside, I can hear him talking to the reporters.

  "Sorry, you know I can't tell you anything. Please move back."

  "Officer," a young eager-eyed brunette reporter begins, "clearly from the amount of police presence and the fact that the chief himself is standing right there, this must be related to Harvard, come-on, give me something here."

  "Sorry, you won't be impressing your editor tonight. Please move your crew back," says the Police Officer.

  There is a barricade curtain draped a few feet from the crime scene taxi. A futile attempt to block photographs. All of the taxi doors are open. It's eerie. I never liked the stillness that creeps in with death. Alright. I must look at this deductively.

  The driver’s head is turned to the right as if he were speaking to the passenger. Bullet entry to the back of the head, exit through the forehead. He never saw it coming. This wasn't a personal or emotional murder. Who went first? The dead taxi driver’s shoulders shrugged with lifeless drop. His eyes open, staring with total unexpectedness. No opportunity to pray, beg for his life, nothing.

  He's a family man. A creased color photograph of a smiling woman holding a young boy is taped to the dashboard with a crucifix hanging from the rear view mirror. At least he was a Christian. A half-eaten sandwich in its wrapper on the passenger seat beside a book, "Home Buying for Dummies". This guy was going places. He had plans and probably not likely to mix himself up with the wrong crowd.

  The girl saw it all happen. Her bullet came from the side of her left temple. Both her hands are on the door handle and one foot is outside of the taxi. She tried to get out. Her eyes are still open. She saw her killer. The absence of breath is obvious. And a sparkling frost has formed on everything inside the taxi.

  Any footprints have been filled in with the freshly fallen snow. No shell casing for the two bullets fired. This wasn't a spray or shower of shots. They were direct intended hits by someone who got close.

  There is a camera mounted on the outside of the building pointing directly at the entrance. Curious. The person was either disguised or didn't care. Not a robbery. Her purse is still there and his tip reservoir is full of fives and singles.

  I'm curious about what is on this tape.

  "May I help you, Sir," asks the door man, dressed in a traditional red long tailed jacket with top hat. He is clearly comfortable in his suit.

  "The Captain?" I ask.

  "Yes, of course. He's in there. It's the security office."

  I can hear a squabble in full swing. Inside, it's interesting. The Captain is a tall man. He's dressed in a suit and full length dress coat as if he just came from a function. His strong jaw bones are bulging like the veins on his temples. Why is he yelling at this man in black discreet tactical gear with no identifying badges on his clothing?

  "That video is evidence! New York Police Department is leading this investigation. Any on the side hunting Mr. Harvard wants to do is up to you. Now he may have pulled some favor with the Mayor which is the only reason I haven't snatched that video out of your hands, but you will not obstruct the course of this investigation. My men will run facial recognition in our labs."

  "The Mayor said-"

  "Don't tell me what the Mayor said! You own him, not me..."

  "Look, I'm willing to cooperate with you as he stated, but we need to get this to the lab. The faster we identify this man," he taps the screen, "the greater the likelihood we have of catching him."

  While they bicker, I glance the room over. There are all kinds of muddy footprints on the floor. The security monitor shows a frozen screen of a man in a hood, short jacket with hands in his pockets standing, staring at the building but his face is obscured by the snow and shadow is cast on his face because his back is to the street light. I squint and lean in closer.

  It can't be.

  There is a thin man in glasses sitting at the table clicking away on his laptop while they argue. What is he doing?

  A detective interrupts.

  "Sir, we have something."

  "Hang on, detective." He turns to the thin man. "Give it, now."

  The thin man ejects the CD, slips it into a cover and hands it to the Captain. He puts it into his breast pocket. I don't think he knows it's a copy, or worse, an altered copy.

  The Captain exhales, pushes past me. I forgive him for bumping me like a piece of furniture. There are three elevators. Two for residents and one with an engraved 'P' on it with a code pad beside it accessible by fingerprint.

  "Tell me."

  I don't even have to introduce myself. I just stand here and everything will come to me.

  "Hey, outside. Control that scene."

  I spoke too soon. I just stand there and look at the Captain. His deputy is more observant than he is simply because he has broken rule number one. Always stay calm.

  "Captain, he's not ours."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Those shoes."

  His deputy steps outside to take a call.

  "Who are you? One of Harvard's," the Captain asks me, rudely at that.

  "No. Central Intelligence Agency. C.I.A."

  A surprised response. Typical when those three letters are put together.

  "This case gets odder by the minute," the Captain says while he is now trying to decide whether to divulge his information to me.

  "Let it out, Sir. I'm here to help. Despite the shoes."

  He's stretched. This will be easier than I thought.

  "Yeah, yeah. Elizabeth Harvard, aka Liz, was coming
home from work-"

  I didn't intend to stop him but I have to ask.

  "Work?"

  The Captain fills me in. "Street credit, she was studying law. Part time, gives her something to talk about you know. Okay, so she takes a cab as usual, it stops and just as she's about to pay, pow, pow."

  "Any eyes?"

  "One. The doorman. He hid when he heard the shots. Get this. He saw the shooter come inside and go into the security office."

  "What did the guard say?"

  "Nothing. Lucky for him he was in the can at the time. Bad egg salad for lunch. Door man says the guy was in there at least a minute."