by Otho Eskin
“What people are normally in the White House at that hour?”
“Depends on what might be going on. That night it was quiet. So you would have, in addition to the Secret Service detail, the communications teams and a skeleton stenographic and secretarial group. There are usually some military liaison types in their offices and often a few from the chief of staff’s office. And because the President and First Lady were having a formal dinner, there were the usual crew in the mess and servers bringing and taking whatever.”
“Quite a few people.”
“Not compared to the daytime staff. Unless there is some crisis, the White House at night is kind of sleepy.”
“And there was no crisis.”
“None that I know of.”
“When I’ve visited the White House,” I say, “I’m always brought in through one of the entrances on the north side.”
“That’s standard procedure.”
“Are there entrances, say, on the south side?”
“Several. They are normally reserved for formal events.”
“There are steps on the south side?” I ask.
“That’s right.”
“Can someone within the White House leave the building and gain access to these steps?”
“Yes, if they have clearance.”
“You said there are steps on the south side. How many steps?”
“I don’t know. Ten. Twenty. Why?”
“Sandra could have left the building through the south entrance.”
“I suppose she could have.”
“Could anybody else have left that way without being challenged?”
“Not unless they had a White House pass.”
“What happened after you got to the White House on the evening Sandra disappeared?”
“Drake had called headquarters and more search parties were organized. They searched the offices and public areas in the White House. The mess, the parking area. When they couldn’t find her, they expanded the search area to include the Rose Garden and grounds, expanding the perimeter to the outer fences. Then, about an hour into the search, one of the agents reported Sandy had been seen outside of the White House at about one fifteen.”
“I need to see the log showing who entered the White House and who left that evening.”
“You can’t. Nobody is allowed to see them now. I looked at them the night Sandy disappeared, but by next morning they were closed.”
“Do you know if Sandy was logged in when she arrived that night?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I checked the logs myself.”
“How about when she left?”
“No record of her leaving.”
“So Sandy entered the White House but never left.”
“That’s the way it would appear. But we know she did leave.”
“Who saw Sandra outside the White House?”
“One of the women on the evening clerical staff. She’d finished her shift and was on her way home. She was in a cab and had just left the 15th Street checkpoint when she saw someone she thought was Sandy.”
“What then?”
“She’d heard Sandy was missing and that people were looking for her. She called White House communications and told them she’d seen Sandy.”
“I need to talk to that secretary. I need to know exactly when and what she saw.”
“The Secret Service has already interviewed her.”
“I must talk to her myself. What’s her name?”
Talbot is silent, struggling to remember. “Valerie. Valerie North,” he says at last.
“How do I reach her?”
“I understand she’s been put on administrative leave and told to stay home. I can’t tell you anything more, except Valerie and Sandra were friends. I’ve never met Valerie. She’s just a name Sandra mentioned. I don’t even have an address or phone number.”
“There must be a phone book listing White House staff. Get me a copy.”
“I can’t. The White House is now off limits to me.”
“Do you know anyone on the White House secretarial staff ? Somebody who might know this Valerie’s home phone number?”
He stares at the tabletop. “Maybe,” he says softly. “I know a couple of the girls.”
“Give me a name.”
“If I do this, I could be fired.”
“I understand. It’s your call.”
Without a further word, he takes his notebook from his pocket and writes down a name and a telephone number.
“I’ll take my chances,” Talbot says. “If this helps you find Sandy’s killer, it’ll be worth it.” He looks at his watch. “I better get back before they send a search party for me. But before I go, there’s something I need to tell you about. A few of us have got together and organized a memorial service for Sandy. It’s tomorrow at Saint Luke’s on Massachusetts Avenue. At three in the afternoon. I’m not religious, but Sandy was, and it troubles me that Sandy should leave this world without any observance.”
“I’ll be there.”
He leaves without looking back. I’m about to follow when my phone signals I have a text message. Someone wants to meet me at the entrance to the Metro Subway station on 7th Street. The message says the caller has something for me from Sister Grace.
When I arrive at the Metro entrance, I pass through groups of teenagers, mostly Black and Hispanic. A couple of men stand nearby trying to look innocent, several plainclothes cops among them. After a few a minutes, a voice calls out: “Detective!”
It’s the kid I’d seen at Sister Grace’s headquarters. He’s short and skinny and wears a hoodie. “You have something for me?”
He studies me suspiciously. “You a cop?” he asks. “They say you a cop.”
“Did Sister Grace send you?”
The boy looks around. “Yeah. She has a message for you.”
“What’s the message?”
“You gon’ give me some money for the message?”
“I’m gonna take you direct to Sister Grace and she gonna whup your ass.”
The kid does not look impressed by my threat.
“What’s the message?”
“Sister Grace say she losin’ patience with you.”
“What’s that mean?”
The kid shrugs. “I don’ know. Just she losin’ patience is all. She say you know what that mean.”
“That’s all she said?”
“They’s more. She say you should look for a man called Black. He can tell you what you need to know.”
“Who’s Black?”
The kid shrugs. “How do I know?”
“Did Sister Grace tell you how to find this man named Black?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? What’s ‘maybe’ supposed to mean?”
“You got another of them twenties, mister?”
I take a wad of twenties from my pocket, pull off one and give it to the kid. The kid eyes the bankroll. “Forget it,” I say. “How do I find this man Black?”
“Ask Fast Freddie. He can tell you where to find Black.”
“Who’s Fast Freddie?”
“I don’ know. Just Fast Freddie. She say he’ll lead you to the man you want.”
“How do I find this Fast Freddie?”
The boy shrugs. “He sells used cars or somethin’. Jus’ tellin’ you what Sister Grace say. Can I have one of those twenties?”
“If you do something for me. Easy money.”
“Sure, Mister Policeman.”
“Do you know where to find Lamont?”
“Lamont stayin’ away from the club these days, you know.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I know where he hangin’ out. What you want with Lamont?”
“None of your business. Tell him I have a business proposition for him. Something that will make him a very rich man. You got that?”
I take out another twenty. “Get that message to him. Just
him. Don’t tell anyone else.”
“Sure. No problem.”
I write my cell number on the twenty and give it to the kid. “You tell him I have a deal for him that will make him a big man. Tell him to call this number.”
The boy snatches the twenty. “Just that?”
“What’s your name?”
“I tell you if you give me money.” I peel off another twenty.
“Okay. Your name.”
I can see the kid considering holding out for another twenty. “My name’s Otis,” he says at last.
“How old are you, Otis?”
The boy stands up straight, to his full height. “I’m seventeen.”
“If you’re a day older than fourteen, then I’m the man in the moon.”
“Okay, Moon Man.” The boy snatches the bill and disappears into the crowd.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BY THE TIME I get back to headquarters it’s dark outside and the squad room is empty. Most of the lights are dimmed and the telephones have stopped ringing.
For the hundredth time I check for emails, for texts, for phone messages. Nothing from Kenneth.
I pick up my phone. To my surprise Hal Marshal’s in his office. “Hal, why aren’t you home with your loved ones?”
“We’re on the edge of a volcano is why.”
“I’ve got a question you can help me with.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Come right on up.”
I get to his office in five minutes, bearing my customary container of tea. Hal is, as usual, sitting at his desk staring at his wall map. There are more pins clustered around the city. A lot more than last time and they seem to me much more disorganized.
“What’s going on in the streets?” I ask.
“I’m not certain. My snitches are going silent. That means either nothing’s happening or something really bad is about to go down. My usual sources are scared and have gone into hiding. They’re not hanging around their usual places. They’re not returning my calls. That’s bad.”
“You told me Lamont Jones is going to challenge Cloud for control of the drug market and Sister Grace’s entire organization. Is that what’s going down?”
“It don’t make sense for Lamont to challenge Cloud. Neither Cloud nor Lamont got the firepower to take the other down.”
“What about the gun-buy people are talking about?”
“That would definitely tip the balance in favor of whoever gets those guns.” Hal makes notes on a yellow pad. “You said you had a question.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named Freddie?” I ask.
“There are hundreds of people named Freddie.”
“Maybe someone known as Fast Freddie. Someone who’s sleazy, criminal, and probably dangerous.”
“That’s about everyone I know.”
“How about a Freddie maybe connected to used cars?”
“Now that does ring a bell. I’ve heard of a Fast Freddie who pretends to sell cars but I don’t remember where. I’ll check.”
What I think is going to take a few minutes turns out to take over an hour. Hal begins by going through a couple of Rolodex files, then some loose cards he keeps in his desk drawer. Then he checks his computer. Finally, on the verge of giving up, he pulls open a file drawer from an ancient, dented steel cabinet. This is another reason Hal will never be let go from the police force—nobody would ever be able to find anything.
“I’m getting there,” Hal says. “I’m getting warm.” Hal tugs a yellowing scrap of paper from his files and sits at his desk, a look of triumph on his face. “I knew it. I knew it.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Frederico. Frederico Hernandez.”
“Otherwise known as Freddie?” I ask.
“Otherwise known Fast Freddie, Marcel, Roger the Badger, and a dozen other names. Otherwise known as a low-level hood with a long, undistinguished rap sheet, mostly involving fraud, check kiting, dealing in stolen cars and fencing stolen property.”
“Is there any way I can locate this distinguished citizen?”
Hal studies the paper he’s holding. “The last address I have is a car dealership called Ultimate Used Cars in Anacostia.” Hal scribbles an address on a scrap of paper and hands it to me. “If you meet this Frederico, give him my regards.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ARORA LOVELACE STANDS in front of my house, looking angry. “Going somewhere?” she demands as I step out my front door. It’s seven in the morning.
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d get up-to-date on your investigation into the Sandra Wilcox murder.”
“I have nothing new to report.”
“Really?”
“I’m exploring various avenues of investigation.”
“Such as?”
“I got a tip.”
“What tip?”
I can see she’s having a hard time keeping her temper. “If we’re going to work together, we can’t keep little secrets from one another.”
“The leader of the Brotherhood may or may not have contacted a man in Anacostia about a sale of weapons. I’m going to check him out.”
“I’m coming with you.” Arora stands firmly in my way.
“This is personal.”
“This is not personal!” she almost yells. “It’s not just about you. It’s not even about your partner, Kenneth. Let’s go check out your tip.”
Just a coincidence, Arora showing up just as I’m leaving? I wonder. Awfully convenient. Has the Bureau bugged my phone? It comes back to me what Hollis Chambers said about my house being watched and my phone tapped. It would be just like the FBI to do that while at the same time working with me on the Wilcox case. But this is not the time to find out. When that time comes, I’ll have it out with Carla Lowry. Today I need to see Fast Freddie. I can make an issue of it with Arora and tell her to get lost. But this would take time. And there’s no good reason to refuse her help.
“Let’s go for a ride,” I say.
“We’ll take my car. Your car’s far too conspicuous.”
As we cross the Anacostia River, I ask: “What’s this really about? You didn’t just happen to stop by.”
“I told you, I want to know what you’ve learned.”
“You could have phoned. Carla sent you, didn’t she? She told you to track me down so you can keep an eye on me.”
“I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Give me the address where we’re going. I’ll navigate. Tell me about your tip.”
“Some friends of mine have heard that somebody with a garage in Anacostia is involved in gun sales.”
“Friends of yours?”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of friends?”
“Old friends.”
We find Ultimate Used Cars on an out-of-the-way back street in an otherwise deserted strip mall—dirty and windblown. The few other businesses along the street are vacant—long-since shuttered and abandoned. We identify the lot from the dreary red and yellow balloons that bob listlessly in the breeze. Once-bright pennants hang from sagging ropes. In front, a dozen car wrecks are parked posing as secondhands.
The street is deserted except for a light-colored van a hundred or so feet up the block. Arora parks her Datsun across from the lot, and we walk among the rusting wrecks. In the back of the lot there is a wooden structure with a sign reading “Garage” and “Body Work.” It has overhead, corrugated rolling-metal doors, closed and secured by a heavy padlock at the bottom. Above the doors is a tattered, weather-beaten sign that reads: “Lube” and another that reads: “Alignment.”
To one side of the garage is a small building with a sign that reads: “Office.” At that moment two men emerge, watching us as we cross the lot. One is tall, maybe six feet, a little thick around the waist. With a bristle mustache. The second man is short and skinny.
“Good morning, folks,” the short man says.
“Can we help you?”
“We’re looking for Fast Freddie. Either one of you named Freddie?” I ask.
“Freddie? I don’t know any Freddie.” The short man turns to his companion. “You know anybody by that name, Floyd?”
“No, sir. Don’t know nobody by that name.”
“You two work here?”
The shorter man turns to his friend, then back to me. “We’re just looking at cars. Right, Floyd?”
“That’s right. No one name of Fast Freddie around here.”
“Why don’t we check the office? Maybe Freddie’s in the back. Darling!” I call to Arora who is a few yards away looking at a dented Buick. “I’m going into the office. See if I can find the manager.”
Arora waves at me cheerfully. “I’ll come with you, dear.” She strides across the lot and we head for the office door.
“Freddie’s gone for the day,” the short man says. “The office is closed.”
“We’ll wait.”
Arora and I walk briskly into the office, leaving the two men in the lot watching us.
It’s a small room dominated by a large, battered, wooden desk, its surface scarred with decades of coffee stains and cigarette burns along the edges. There’s a calendar on one wall, a year out of date, and flyers advertising car-towing services scattered on a small table near the door. An empty water cooler stands in one corner, littered with dead insects. There’s no one in sight.
As Arora begins a search of the office, I go through the drawers in the desk and find a few old invoices and a metal letter opener. One drawer has a cheap lock used on cheap office furniture, and it takes me less than a minute to jimmy it open, using the letter opener. Inside there is a small, battered notebook, bound with a rubber band. I slip the book unobtrusively into my inside jacket pocket.
“Nothing here,” Arora announces from across the office.
“Nothing here either,” I say. “Let’s check out the garage.”
I follow Arora through a metal door into the garage area. A couple of cars sit on the oily floor. Along the walls are wooden workbenches with a few greasy tools. Torn newspapers litter the floor. More flyers interspersed with calendars and advertisements for motor oil are stapled to the walls. High above the floor are dirty windows covered with wire mesh screens.