Chapter 18
NIGHTMARES
I called Rebekah and Paula and told them I was catching the next flight to Washington DC. Needless to say, neither one of them was thrilled to hear that news. Rebekah did reluctantly agree to pack me an overnight suitcase. I told her I'd stop home and pick it up on the way to the airport.
The American Airlines flight took off right on time. It was about a two and a half-hour flight to DC so I figured I'd have plenty of time to think and plan my strategy upon arrival in Washington. I had been acting on anger and outrage and as the flight drew on I had second thoughts about my trip. What if I couldn't talk to Manning? What would I say to him if I did get the chance? After a while, I felt sleepy and dozed off.
I was in a bar with a woman and two other couples. My companion was a short brunette. I felt awkward being with her. I could tell she felt equally uncomfortable being with me. We left the bar and went to a hotel—the sign read Howard Johnson. We were both a little drunk and stumbled into our room. We took off our shirts. She began to give me a massage. Her fingers felt good—oh, so wonderful.
The scene shifted. I was in a courtroom waiting to be called as a witness. Suddenly a horrible feeling came over me. I stood up and ran into the next room. A woman was in a bathtub. She was pale white and her eyes fixed. I lifted her out of the tub and tried to revive her. She didn't respond. I held her tightly as tears flowed from my eyes. A paramedic put his hand on my shoulder. Let her go, he said.
"No! No! She can't be dead!"
The plane lurched as it hit the tarmac at Washington Dulles International Airport. I awoke amazed that I was in an airplane. The people around me were all looking at me oddly. I couldn't believe I'd slept so soundly. It seemed like just seconds earlier I had settled back for the long flight.
After deplaning into the mobile lounge, we started our short ride to the terminal. Memories of meeting Rebekah and my friend Steve here at Dulles seventeen years earlier played in my mind's eye. They had come to be with me when I was on trial. A jolt, as the mobile lounge made contact with the terminal, woke me from my daydream. The doors opened and we all entered the terminal.
Once inside I recovered my luggage and headed for the car rental plaza. Jodie had reserved me a car and it was ready for me when I got to the rental desk. A wave of anxiety washed over me at the thought of confronting Manning. This is crazy. I found my car and read the directions the attendant had given me for the trip to my hotel. I was staying at the Howard Johnson. The same one I'd stayed in while I was in the Marine Corps in the spring of 1970. When I saw the old hotel, memories flooded through my mind of Nicole, the sexy brunette massage therapist who'd spent the night with me in one of those rooms when I was on trial for allegedly murdering my drill sergeant. I wondered what she was doing and if she still lived in Washington.
It was after 7:00 p.m. when I closed the door and gazed around the small room—nothing fancy but adequate for a good night's sleep. I was hungry, so I decided to see if the old Omaha Corral Bar & Grille was still in business. I called the desk clerk and asked and she said it was. After changing into something casual, I left the hotel and started walking in the direction I remembered it being. A few blocks down the street I got an eerie feeling that I was being watched. I turned around quickly and surveyed the crowded street. Nobody seemed to pay me any mind, so I turned back around and continued on my way. Finally, I saw the big Omaha Corral sign flashing ahead. I quickened my pace and when I got to the front door I went inside.
A pretty girl in a jean skirt, yellow and white plaid blouse, and alligator boots greeted me. She asked if I was expecting anyone and I said, “I don't think so.” She gave me a funny look and then found me a table near the bar. As I was being seated, I noticed two men walk in. They looked at me and then quickly looked away. Both men were overdressed for a Midwest style steakhouse. She seated them across the room.
After downing a couple beers, the waitress brought me the big T-bone steak I'd ordered along with beans, fries, and Texas toast. I had just started eating when I noticed one of the two men get up and use the telephone on the wall. I took a deep breath and told myself they had nothing to do with me. After all, Manning had no way of knowing I was in town—at least not yet. But then I remembered Paula had seen someone outside our office in Dallas. Suddenly I wasn't so hungry and wished I'd ordered room service.
I lingered in the restaurant hoping the two men would leave but they weren't going anywhere. Finally, I got up my nerve and left. Just outside the door I stopped and waited. A second later the two men came out quickly and nearly ran me down. I got a good look at them. They excused themselves and kept walking. Spotting a cab coming down the street, I hailed it and quickly got inside. The driver took me back to the Holiday Inn and I went straight to my room.
The next morning, I headed toward the Capitol and Rayburn House Office Building where I had been told Manning had his office. It was difficult finding a place to park and I ended up having to walk six blocks away. Finally, at 10:15 a.m., I walked into Manning's congressional office. The receptionist asked who I was, so I told her and gave her a business card. She looked at her book and said I wasn't on the Congressman's appointment calendar.
I nodded and said, "Yes, this just came up. It's an emergency. Just tell the Congressman I'm Continental Exporters' attorney and I'm here to discuss the Robert Huntington kidnaping."
She gave me a skeptical look and went into an adjacent office. I looked around and noticed a lady dressed in black sitting behind me next to the door. I had walked right by her coming in and hadn't noticed her sitting there. She looked at me curiously. It was several minutes before the receptionist came back. "I'm sorry, Mr. Turner, but the Congressman can't squeeze you in today. He said to call him next week and he might have time to see you then.
"Tell him that's okay," I said. "I'm sure I can get an appointment today with the FBI or maybe a newspaper reporter who's not busy."
I started to walk out when a man stepped into the reception area. He was a tall, distinguished looking gentleman who looked familiar. I'd seen Congressman Manning on the evening news, but hadn't paid much attention to him. He motioned for me to follow him. I did and he led me into his office.
"Mr. Turner, I'm a Congressman for godsakes. You can't just barge in and expect to get an appointment immediately. And what exactly would you tell the FBI or the press?"
"Thank you for seeing me, Congressman. I apologize for coming without notice, but the matter is urgent."
"Well, nearly everything I deal with is urgent to someone."
"Anyway, I'll get to the point. I wanted to thank you for helping us free up the Continental Exporters' bank account."
"It was nothing. Just a telephone call to my old friend Tony Perez."
"You must have heard that Robert Huntington was kidnapped."
"Yes, a dreadful thing. Has the FBI made any progress in finding him?"
"No. He seems to have just vanished off the face of the earth."
"Well, of course, I'll do what I can to help find him, but you didn't come here to discuss his kidnaping, did you?"
"No, I wondered why you called Mr. Perez last night inquiring about whether the lien on the Continental Exporter's bank account had been released?"
"Well, . . . it was just routine follow-up. I was just curious."
"Nobody called you and asked you to check on it, did they?"
"Why, no. Nobody. I just followed through and made sure the job got done."
"So, you thought it was necessary to have Mr. Perez hand deliver a copy of the release to Metroplex Savings?"
"Yes, I'm an expert at cutting through red tape and I could see what had happened. The paperwork had just got stalled."
"But you knew Huntington had been kidnapped? Why was it so important the release be delivered to Metroplex?"
The Congressman shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
I said, "Did you know the money was going to be wired to Pana
ma the moment the lien was released?"
The Congressman stood up. "Good God, no! Is that what happened?"
The Congressman may have been a great politician, but he wasn't a great actor. I could see he was up to his thick neck in whatever sinister business was going on with Continental Exporters. It appeared I had gotten my questions answered and I wasn't going to accomplish anything more with further inquiry of the Congressman. I got up to leave.
I said, "Thank you, Congressman for seeing me and answering my questions. I think I understand what's going on now."
The Congressman leaned forward, narrowed his eyes and replied, "Mr. Turner, you don't understand a damn thing and you best stay out of business that doesn't concern you."
A cold chill darted through me. I'd just been threatened by a U.S. Congressman. Puzzled by the threat, I replied, "Or what?"
The Congressman stood up abruptly ignoring my question. It was clear it was time to leave, so I turned and left his office without another word. The receptionist gave me a hard stare as I walked past her. The girl in the black dress suddenly stood up and stepped in front of me. We collided and I felt her hand slip something in my inside coat pocket. She winked at me and began to apologize profusely. Curiosity as to what had been placed in my pocket welled inside me, but I knew I was being watched so I resisted the desire to pull it out and look at it. Just outside the office building I saw the two men who had been following me. They took up their posts again and followed me to my car. Fortunately, the lot was busy so I got to my car without incident.
Very carefully, I slipped my hand in my pocket and pulled out the folded piece of paper that had been deposited there by the mysterious lady in black. I opened it and found an address written hastily in blue ink. It read "22 East Commercial Way, Washington, D.C."
Not wanting the men following me to suspect I had received a message, I tucked the note back in my pocket and started the car. As I drove out of the parking lot I noticed the two men get into a blue Mercury Marquis and take off after me. I thought about the note and wondered what it meant. I had no idea where the address was, so, if I did decide to go there, I would need to get directions. It occurred to me that it could be a trap. The Congressman could have had the lady in black slip me the note to lure me to a quiet place where he could have me beaten or murdered. They'd make it look like I got lost and was the victim of a street gang. Then I remembered Detective Besch's friend Willard Marshall. I stopped at the next telephone booth I saw and called him.
"Hi. This is Stan Turner. I'm an attorney from Dallas. Detective Bingo Besch told me to look you up if I needed any help while I was in town."
"He did, did he?"
"Yeah, I'm sorry to bother you but I've run into a bit of a problem." I told him briefly about Huntington's kidnaping and Congressman Manning's involvement. He listened without comment. "When I was leaving Congressman Manning's place one of his staff members slipped me an address. I don't have any idea whose address it is but I need to check it out just in case it means something."
"Give me the address and I'll have someone find out where it is and who owns the place."
I read him the address and continued, "I have another problem too." I told him about the men following me.
"Do you have any idea who they are?"
"No, not really, but they're driving a blue Mercury Marquis Virginia license number TXU 232," I said.
"Okay, We'll check that out too. Hang on."
There were a few minutes of silence and then Willard came back on, "The address is a warehouse in a commercial district northwest of the capital. It's owned by CTW Investments, Inc. of Philadelphia and currently leased to a company called Continental Exporters."
"Continental Exporters?"
"Right. That's what it says."
"That's my client's company. We definitely need to go check it out."
"Okay, where are you? I'll come pick you up. I'll make sure your friends are detained why we go take a look at the warehouse."
"Thank you. I really appreciate all your help."
"No problem. Any friend of Bingo's is a friend of mine. How's the old rascal, anyway?"
"Doing well. Working hard."
"I bet. Hang loose. I'll be there in about five or six minutes."
"No problem. I'll see you soon."
I looked over my shoulder and saw the blue Mercury parked a block down the street. I wondered who they were and what they wanted from me. Suddenly two police cars came barreling around the corner. The first one stopped in front of the Mercury and the second one came to a screeching stop next to my rental car. I got out and jumped in next to Williard Marshall. He tore off leaving the other police car and the two men behind.
"So, did you find out anything about those two men?" I asked.
From what we could find out about their vehicle they are definitely not FBI. They're either private investigators or CIA."
"Really?"
We got to 22 Commercial Way in about twenty minutes. It was a large warehouse in an industrial area. When we approached the building, we realized it was closed and boarded up.
"There still may be some important evidence inside," I said. "Can we go inside and search?"
"Not without a warrant."
"Maybe if you called Detective Besch, he could give you what you need for a warrant?"
"You got his number?" Willard asked.
I had called Detective Besch enough times that I had memorized the number. I gave it to him and he dialed him on his car telephone. They talked for a few minutes and then he turned to me and said, "He's gonna call his contact at the FBI to get the warrant. We should have it in a few hours.
I nodded and replied, "Good. I hope we find something in there to make all this hassle worth the effort."
"Well, we'll just have to wait and see. In the meantime, I know a place we can get a cup of coffee while we wait."
I nodded and replied, "That sounds good to me."
Detective Marshall drove me to a diner. It didn't look like much but he said the coffee was good. We got a booth and a waitress poured us each a cup. As I drank, I wondered about his relationship to Besch.
"I appreciate you jumping right in to help me out," I said. "I didn't expect you to drop everything on account of me."
"Well, if Bingo told you to call me, I knew it must be important, and, after talking to him, I can see you may be onto something big."
"I don't know what to make of it. It's the most bizarre situation that I've ever been in."
"I wouldn't say that," Besch said. "If you're the Stan Turner I've heard about; your life is the definition of bizarre."
"You've heard about me? Wow."
"Well, you had us spellbound with the Dusty Thomas' trial."
"It was my partner who really should get the credit for breaking that one. She was on it like a hound dog from day one. She's a great criminal attorney."
"What's her name?"
"Paula Waters. She's back home right now trying to figure out who killed Don Baker."
"Right. I've read about that one in the papers too. Do you really think your client is innocent?"
"I don't know. He says he is, so I guess that's all I need to hear, right?"
Marshall nodded, "I guess for a criminal defense attorney that's enough."
"My hunch is that he is innocent. Don Baker had a list of enemies as long as a lizard's tongue."
Marshall laughed. "Yeah, well I bet a lot of bankers are unpopular these days with banks and thrifts failing left and right."
"I don't feel at all sorry for those greedy bastards. It's just too bad they're taking good folks down with them."
"So, who is this mysterious lady in black? Do you know her name?"
"No, she had a desk in the Congressman's office so she must be staff or an intern?"
"How old was she?"
"I bet she was an intern. She looked like she was in her early twenties."
"I'll make some inquiries and find out who she is
. She might have some additional information that would be useful."
We talked for another half hour and then Marshall looked at his watch and said, "I suppose we should be getting back to the warehouse. That warrant ought to be coming through here pretty soon."
I nodded and we both got up. We left the diner and drove back to the warehouse. The place was surrounded with police cars and a detail of FBI agents were unloading equipment out of one of their vans. I followed Detective Marshall up to the agent in charge.
"Jordan," Marshall said. The man turned and smiled at the detective.
"Hey, Detective Marshall," Agent Jordan said. They shook hands. "Thanks for the tip. We've been dead in the water on this Huntington kidnaping."
"Don't thank me," Marshall said looking toward me. "Thank Mr. Turner here."
Agent Jordan extended his hand and I shook it. "I just hope you find something in there that leads us to the kidnappers."
A blue Buick sedan drove up and a man got out holding a document. He brought it to Agent Jordan. Jordan looked at it and said, "Here's what we've been waiting for." He motioned to his men and they all gathered around. "Okay, it looks vacant but we don't know for sure if that's really the case, so be careful. Let's proceed as we discussed earlier."
Everyone nodded and they broke away into their teams. One unit went around the back of the building while another one readied a frontal entry of the building. An agent planted some kind of small explosive device on the front door and then backed off. It exploded blowing off the lock and quickly two agents kicked open the door and entered the building. Marshall told me to wait outside and then he entered the building with several of his men.
There was silence for several minutes and then one of Marshall's men came out and motioned for me to come in. I quickly followed him through the front door, down a long hallway, and into a huge open warehouse. The agents were scurrying around searching every inch of the place.
Jordan saw me approach and said, "Well, no evidence of grapefruit or any other commodity."
"Really?"
"Yeah, everything's been wiped clean, scrubbed down, and vacuumed. There's not a print, a scrap of paper, or even a fiber in the whole damn place. Whoever cleaned up this joint didn't want anyone to know what they'd been up to.
Black Monday, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 7 Page 18