by Otho Eskin
“Marko,” Arora calls to me. “You better come see this.” She stands at the edge of the grease pit.
A man lies at the bottom of the pit, facedown. He is dressed in a cheap business suit and looks quite normal except the back of his head has been crushed.
“I guess Freddie wasn’t fast enough.”
My rage surges through my body. “I’m going after those two guys.”
Arora holds up her hand. “I smell something.”
I smell something, too. A fire with the distinct smell of gasoline.
The door to the office we’d just come through slams shut, and I hear the sound of a dead bolt pushed into place from the other side.
“Check the back door!” I yell at Arora while I run to the door to the office. It’s locked tight.
“We’re fucked!” Arora calls to me from across the garage, struggling with the back door. “Can’t budge it.”
I rush to the large roll-up doors. The padlock on the outside has secured it shut. My mouth and nose are filling with the smell of burning gasoline.
“How long have we got?” Arora calls to me.
“Ten minutes tops,” I yell back. “Before this whole place goes up in flames and the roof collapses on our heads.” My heart is beating fast. Heat from the outer walls burns my skin. The roar of the flames deafens me. Smoke seeps through cracks in the wooden walls, stinging my eyes.
“In that car!” I yell, pointing to a battered Chevy. I pull open the door and climb into the driver’s seat. Arora jumps in beside me. There are no keys in the ignition, and I fumble as I try to hot-wire the starter.
“Do you want me to do that for you?” Arora says through clenched teeth.
“I got it! I know what I’m doing! I got it!” The engine turns over. I put the car in gear, release the clutch, and press the accelerator to the floor and we’re moving just as the back wall begins to collapse in flames.
The car lurches foreword and we blow through the roll-up steel doors, flinging us forward, and we’re speeding through the lot. The big man stands in front of us, holding a gun, his mouth open as we speed toward him. At the last second, he leaps to one side.
I bring the car to a skidding stop. Arora and I jump out. The garage and office building are engulfed in red and blue flames. Smoke twists into the sky. Over the sound of the roaring flame I hear the pop—the sound of a shot from a small-bore handgun. Followed instantly by the clang as the round strikes the roof of the car a few inches from my head.
Arora’s drawn her service Glock and is crouched behind the dented Buick. The big man stands twenty feet away, shooting wildly at us, not taking time to aim. A round hits the passenger door where Arora is crouched. I jump behind the cab of a Ford truck and catch a glimpse of the short man running toward the white van parked up the street. The big man fires twice more. Arora, a couple of cars to my left, returns fire, but her target darts behind a pickup and she misses.
The big man races toward the van, dodging among the parked wrecks, his gun in his right hand. He stops when he reaches the van, takes one more wild shot at us, jumps into the van and the van speeds up the street, disappearing around the corner.
We slowly stand up, coughing and gasping, trying to clear our lungs of smoke and gasoline fumes. Arora’s face and clothes are smudged with soot and fly ash, her hair a tangled mess. Her hands and arms smeared with grease. Somehow, she’s not lost her glasses, which she pushes firmly back on the bridge of her nose.
We check the area, Arora holding her weapon in both hands, slightly crouched. Once satisfied we won’t be visited by any more shooters, she replaces her Glock in her shoulder holster.
“Who the hell are those guys?” Arora asks.
It’s a rhetorical question and doesn’t call for an answer. I figure we’ll be seeing them again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“LET’S SEE IF I’ve got this straight.” Carla Lowry sits at her desk, arms crossed, looking at us over her half glasses. “You went on an unauthorized investigation. You blew up a garage. You left a murder victim at the scene of the crime. You engaged in a firefight with some unidentified persons. But you neglected to report any of this to the local law enforcement authorities.” She looks intently at me. “Marko here doesn’t count.”
I notice Carla’s not making notes.
We’d managed to wash ourselves up a bit before coming to see Lowry at FBI headquarters and we’d removed most of the ash from our faces and the grease and oil from our hands and arms. I’d tried to brush off smoke stains from my clothes, but there are still splotches. Arora’s hair is a catastrophe.
“Are you two okay?”
“I’m missing no body parts,” Arora answers.
“Your orders, Agent Lovelace, were to keep an eye on Marko here, not take part in a felony break-in.”
“There was no break-in, ma’am,” Arora says. “The doors to the office and garage were unlocked and open. More or less.”
Carla looks skeptical. “Don’t you two know better than to get yourselves locked inside a burning building?”
“Lesson learned,” I say.
“Okay. Did you find out anything from this debacle?”
“The leader of the Brotherhood,” I say, “made contact with a man named Fast Freddie in connection with an illegal purchase of a large amount of military-grade weapons.”
“And you know this how?”
“From a confidential source.”
She gives me a sour look. “We have every agent on the East Coast looking for this terrorist group and for your partner and, so far, have come up empty. Same with the Secret Service. And you, Marko, manage to locate a contact before lunch. I won’t waste my time asking you how you managed that. You’ll only lie. So you got a tip that someone involved in a weapons deal was located at this location. Then what?”
“We decided to investigate.”
“Without going through channels? Without backup?”
“Those things take time. We don’t have time. My partner’s in danger.”
“I thought the Bureau rewarded initiative,” Arora observes.
“It does not reward idiocy, Agent Lovelace. During this event, you drew your service weapon? Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you discharged your service weapon?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why did you do that, Agent Lovelace?”
“We were under attack from two hostiles.”
“Are you convinced the use of your weapon was justified?”
“Absolutely.”
“You know there are procedures in situations like these.”
“There was no time for procedures,” I interrupt. “Procedures kill you. If Agent Lovelace had not taken defensive action, we would have both been killed.”
“Maybe. You say you fired your service weapon at one of the hostiles, Agent Lovelace.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You missed. I’m recommending you take a small arms refresher course. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who was the victim in the grease pit?” Carla asks.
“I expect it was a man named Fast Freddie,” I tell her. “We didn’t have time to chat.”
“Did either of you discover anything of use during this escapade?”
“No, ma’am,” Arora replies, adjusting her glasses. “We searched the office but found nothing.”
“Marko?” Carla asks.
I’m acutely conscious of the weight of the notebook resting in my inside jacket pocket and wonder whether its shape and weight is obvious. “I’m afraid not. We found nothing of use.”
“It looks like the whole operation was just a royal screw-up,” Carla Lowry observes.
“It wasn’t a total loss. We have a visual ID of the men leaving the garage. The killers who are probably members of the Brotherhood.”
“I suppose that’s better than nothing,” Carla says, morosely.
“There’s one more thing,�
�� I add. “When we arrived at the used car lot, there was a car parked about a hundred feet north of the lot.”
Arora nods in agreement.
Carla Lowry picks up her pen. “Make? Model?”
“Chrysler Town and Country minivan,” I say.
“Silver or light gray,” Arora adds.
“2004 model.”
“2005,” Arora corrects me.
“I’ll inform the Secret Service immediately,” Carla says. “And the DC police. And ATF. They’ll track down that vehicle.”
“One more thing.” I study Carla intently. “Is the FBI tapping my phone?”
“Next question.”
We both get quickly to our feet. “And, Agent Lovelace,” Carla says. “Go home, take a shower, and get into some decent clothes. You look like a circus clown. You’re a disgrace to the Bureau.”
When we leave the FBI headquarters, I offer to take Arora to my place so she can take a shower there. She expresses gratitude for my generosity and says it’s the worst idea she’s ever heard. She hails a passing cab. Just before she climbs in, she whispers, “We made a good team, Marko.”
My cell phone rings. It’s Frank Townsend. “Where are you?” he yells. Without waiting for an answer, he goes on, “Get back to the office. Now! There’s someone here who must talk to you.”
I conclude from Frank’s tone there’s no point in arguing and I head back to police headquarters. I go to the men’s room and examine myself in the mirror. I have smudges of smoke on my face, my hair’s a mess, and my jacket—a nice Brioni—is torn at the right shoulder. I wash up as best I can and comb my hair. I go to my personal locker where I keep my service weapon and spare shirts and jackets. I hang up my torn Brioni jacket and put on a Stephano Ricci jacket I keep here for emergencies. I’m almost presentable now.
When I get to Frank’s office, he’s talking to a man—short, a bit stout, probably athletic in his youth, but now gravity and age have taken their toll.
The man is in intense conversation with Frank as I enter. He leans in close to Frank, poking his index finger into Frank’s chest. They stop and turn to face me when I arrive. Their expressions are not friendly.
“Marko,” Frank almost shouts, “this is Nat Blake.”
I try to remember who Nat Blake is.
“Nat is Kenneth’s dad.”
The man approaches me, his fists clenched, his face red, and I think for a moment he’s going to take a swing at me. But he stops a few feet away and glares. “What the hell did you do to my boy?”
“I’ve told Nat,” Frank says, “police from every jurisdiction in the area are looking for Kenneth at this very moment. So is the FBI. So is the Secret Service.”
Kenneth’s dad does not seem impressed. He’s interested in one thing: me. “What the hell have you done with Kenneth?” I feel the spittle on my face. “Who the hell do you think you are? You put him in harm’s way. You put an inexperienced young officer in danger.”
I think about explaining that was not my plan but decide an attempt to justify myself would only make matters worse.
“Frank told me,” the older man continues. “He assigned Kenneth to you because you were the most experienced police officer on the Metropolitan police force. He said you were used to handling dangerous people. He said you would look after my boy.”
The man takes a deep, ragged breath. I look at Townsend. He studies a pile of papers on his desk.
“This behavior is inexcusable! Unprofessional!” Nat Blake goes on. “I was a police officer for twenty-eight years. Do you hear me? I’m a law-enforcement professional. I ran a tight ship. Nothing like this ever happened on my watch! I’m calling my congressman. Understand? I’m going to demand a congressional investigation. There will be consequences.”
He turns to Townsend. “Sorry, Frank. We’re old friends, I know. I got to do what I got to do.”
I can see Frank cringe. Kenneth’s dad stops to take another gulp of air.
“Mr. Blake,” I say, “we have every resource of the state and federal governments out searching for Kenneth right now. I have several solid leads. We will find your boy. I promise you.” I don’t say whether Kenneth will be dead or alive when we find him. “Within twenty-four hours, we will find Kenneth.”
This is, of course, total bullshit. Frank Townsend knows that and looks at me sharply. But Kenneth’s dad doesn’t know me and is so desperate for any glimmer of hope he decides to believe me.
“You find my son.” The man almost chokes. “You bring Kenneth back. Safe. You hear? Otherwise you and the DC police department here will experience no end of hurt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“THE LADY HAS already arrived, sir,” a young man at the reception desk tells me. “She’s waiting for you in the Montpelier Lounge. Lena will show you to your table.” Lena, it turns out, is a pretty, young woman from somewhere in South Asia. She takes two leather-bound menus in hand, and I follow her through the large dining room. The Anchorage Restaurant is located on the Potomac River and its large picture windows look out over the water. Tonight, the river sparkles with the running lights of pleasure craft and tour boats.
The light in the dining room is tastefully low, the tablecloths and napkins pristine white. At the Anchorage, the waiters speak in subdued voices and the busboys do not speak at all. The loudest sound in the room is that of butter knives touching butter plates.
One of Miss Shaw’s minders sits at a long bar watching me closely.
Miss Shaw has selected an out-of-the-way table in an alcove. A Fendi black leather purse hangs from a little hook on the side of her seat. She is dressed in a leather miniskirt that shows off her shapely legs. She smiles and waves away Lena and her menus and gestures for me to take a seat.
I sit across from her. “I spotted a member of your protective detail at the bar. Are you never alone?”
“There’s another one near the front door, in case you were wondering.” Her voice is low.
“Secret Service?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t rate Secret Service protection. That’s limited to the President and his family. People like me have to depend on hired guns. I assured my guys you are harmless. I hope you aren’t going to make a liar of me.”
“You’re safe with me.”
“I doubt that.”
Why does Miss Shaw need protection? I wonder. And from whom? I ask myself, again, why I’m here and what does this woman want? She’s not here because she’s bored or needs some man to buy her dinner. She wants something from me and that worries me. Of course, I want something from Miss Shaw. I’m not sure just yet what it is.
A pretty young black girl clutching a pad stops at our table. “What can I get you from the bar?” she asks.
“A gin martini, please,” Miss Shaw says. “Bombay Sapphire. Straight up. A splash of dry vermouth. Forget the olives. They just take up room.”
“And you, sir?” our server asks.
“Wild Turkey. Ice and branch water on the side.”
The server nods and glides away.
“I hope you’re not in a rush this evening,” Miss Shaw says. “I was hoping we would have time to get to know one another.”
“There’s a lot going on just now. I may be interrupted at any moment. My partner is missing and every cop in the metropolitan area is out looking for him. The city is on the verge of a gang war. The streets are being flooded by the deadly drug fentanyl. And I am deeply engaged in the investigation of the murder of Sandra Wilcox. Apart from that, you have my full attention.”
“I know all about your murder investigation.”
“Did you know Sandra Wilcox?” I ask.
“I knew her—professionally. As women, we dealt with many of the same challenges in our professional lives.”
“What kind of person was she?”
“Very serious.”
“Did she have enemies?”
“Among the White House staff ? I doubt it. She was friendly and agreeable. I can’t
speak to her private life. I would know nothing about that.”
“Did you know Sandra had an allergy to peanuts?”
“Did she? I had no idea. But how would I possibly know a thing like that?”
“What about Sandra’s love life?”
Miss Shaw shakes her head. “Fraternization is strictly against White House rules. Sandy, I think, was the kind of person who observed rules. I heard she was once seeing a Secret Service agent but that was before being assigned to the Protective Detail. For the last year or so, I doubt she had time for love.”
“Do these White House rules apply to you? Do you have time for love?”
Before she can answer our server brings our drinks and we make a silent toast to one another. Miss Shaw’s hands are slender and pale with fine bones. Her nails are a bright scarlet.
I lean in closer. “What’s really going on here?”
“We’re having drinks and engaged in a civilized conversation. Like normal people.”
“I don’t think either of us is a normal person. I mean, what’s going on with the Sandra Wilcox investigation? I’m being shut down. On orders from the White House.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Are you the one shutting me down, Miss Shaw?”
She places her right hand gently over her breast. Her scarlet nails glitter. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I’m just a working girl.”
“I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t believe you. You have your own security detail. These gorillas, I assume, are from a private security firm but are paid out of White House funds. Working girls in the White House don’t rate their own security team. You’re something special. I believe you have a more important role than you let on.”
“I like to think I can sometimes be of help to the President and the First Lady.”
“How long have you known Mrs. Reynolds?”
She shrugs. “A few years. We go back a ways.”
“What’s your relationship with her?”
“That’s personal. Not really any of your business.”