Washington DC

by A. C. Fuller

  She sighed. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it goes high up. Judge assigned to the pedo case—the guy you roughed up—has clout, that’s all I know.”

  “But why would a judge want to see me gone for roughing up a…” He didn’t finish the question. If a judge wanted him fired for roughing up a suspect, especially this suspect, it could only mean one thing.

  “Yeah,” Gabby said, as though reading his mind. “Actually I was gonna call you. Rumors on this judge are bad. I mean, bad. Has a history of going easy on sex offenders. Positions himself to get the cases on his docket. I hear he’s already under investigation but, for whatever reason, he has clout with the right people at IAB.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying back away. Quietly. If this judge is what I think he is, he’s gonna get got. But not by you. I’ll do what I can.”

  Warren rolled down his window and leaned out. The thought of a judge protecting pedophiles made his blood boil, and the cool air calmed him. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll back off. But if the judge is what you’re saying, promise you’ll get the word out.”

  “I’ll try, but you gotta do something for me.” There was silence on the line before she continued. “What happened with Wragg? You know no one buys the whole Superman story that you just happened to hear a woman screaming from below and badassed your way up the fire escape. And it just happened to be the reporter who broke the story about you?”

  “We were looking into the Ambani thing together. I had a couple hunches that turned out to be right.”

  “War Dog, c’mon.”

  “I don’t want to say too much, alright?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  He grunted. “You might be the only person in law enforcement I do trust. But you still got a job. You don’t want any piece of what I’m getting involved in.”

  “Involved? Present tense? It’s still happening?”

  A young couple emerged from the restaurant and shared a vape pen on the sidewalk. He was impatient for Cole to show, but he did trust Gabby, and he had time to kill. “You hear about Meyers?”

  “Yeah, but I asked about Wragg, Ambani.”

  He let her statement hang in the air.

  “There’s a connection?”

  Warren let out a long sigh. “I can trust you, right?”

  Gabby’s voice was hushed. “I swear on Saint Gabriel.”

  Warren didn’t know who that was, but Gabriella had said it once soon after they’d met. Three officers had been ambushed and killed execution-style one precinct over in Brooklyn on his second day in training. The department was shaken. Warren was shaken. She’d sworn to Saint Gabriel the killers would be brought to justice. And they had been.

  For the next few minutes, he talked her through the day he’d seen the post about the gun purchase on the dark web, how he’d connected with Cole, and their investigation into the townhouse that led them to Margaret and Chandler Price, then to Wragg. “I don’t suppose you can get me anything on Meyers?” he concluded.

  She laughed. “The FBI and the Secret Service aren’t famous for sharing their cases.”

  “You can’t play the JTTF card? A terrorist connection?”

  “No.”

  “Wragg, then. Can you help me with Wragg?”

  She ignored the question. “You’ve been a busy beaver, haven’t you? Still can’t believe you partnered with a reporter. I just can’t see it.”

  Neither could he. “Gabby, can you help me?”

  “I should say no, but—and not to flatter you—you’re one of the only people in law enforcement I trust, too.”

  “I’m no longer in law enforcement, remember?”

  “You’re not a cop any more. Doesn’t mean you can’t enforce some laws.”

  It wasn’t like her to say that, but she seemed to be agreeing to help him. “Michael Wragg. He doesn’t have any other addresses in the public record, already looked, but maybe he’s got a registration with the state, or an old address through the DMV. Can you check?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  4

  She wasn’t sure why Mazzalano lied, but she wanted to draw him out. “Can I get the DNA results when you do get them?” she asked casually.

  He lumbered around the bar and sat back down. “What for?”

  “Just to be sure, y’know. He held a knife to my back. I know it’s the same guy, but it’d be nice to have the DNA back me up.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Sure, but you know how backed up the labs are. Could be weeks. Months.”

  “Still, I’d appreciate it. Shit, Mazzalano. Why’d you drag me here?”

  “First let’s talk about Michael Wragg, how’d you find him, anyway?”

  “Reporting.”

  “C’mon, Jane, give daddy some sugar.” He leaned in close and continued in a heavy whisper. “What kind of reporting?”

  She walked behind the bar and poured two more shots of grappa. The first shot had warmed her just enough to allow her to tolerate this goon. Despite her better judgment, she wanted another.

  Still behind the bar, she said, “I looked into the townhouse where the shooting took place.”

  “Maggie Price?”

  “Yes, but no.”

  “Chandler Price?”

  Cole nodded slowly, then shot the grappa.

  Mazzalano stood and threw back the shot, slamming the glass down then dropping into his stool. He was sloshed. “Well I’ll be damned.” He shook his head slowly. “You sure?”

  Cole nodded. “You’re the only person I’ve told. It wasn’t something I had solidly enough to write. My editor doesn’t even know.”

  “Why not?”

  “The way I got the information was, well…” She shrugged. “But anyway, it lead to Wragg. I still don’t know exactly what Price did, but he told his wife to be out of town the day Ambani was killed. He set it up so Wragg could shoot Ambani from the roof of a vacant townhouse. I don’t know where Price leads, or if you can get to him, but promise me if you do, you’ll let me break the story.”

  He rested his wide arms on the bar. “Thought you were out of a job?”

  “News travels fast. How’d you hear?”

  He smacked his lips. “You’re not the only person I know at The Sun.”

  “I’ll be freelancing for a bit. Promise me, though, you find Price, you give me a heads up.”

  “I will.”

  “So, what was the tip you dangled to get my ass to Little Italy. If you haven’t heard, a former VP just got shot. I’m eager to get back to the news.”

  “Speaking of your ass…” More quickly than she thought he could move, Mazzalano heaved his heavy body around the bar and stood next to her. Too close for comfort. She leaned away, but the other side of the bar was blocked by a tall table covered in menus. His massive body pressed her into the table, which scraped along the floor.

  “Get off me.” She said it firmly, and just loud enough to cause a couple at a nearby table to look up.

  He squeezed her arms tightly. Something thick and wet touched her ear. His tongue. He let out a low moan. “I told you I had a tip for you,” he grunted, breathing heavily. In a boozy whisper, he continued. “You know you want this as bad as I do.”

  She lifted a leg and brought her heel down violently on the top of his foot. He grunted in pain and let go, then cackled with laughter, stumbling backwards. Dropping to her knees, she slid under the table at the end of the bar and hurried out of the restaurant.

  She spotted Warren in the driver’s side of a dark-blue muscle car across the street. She darted through a gap in the traffic, looking back as Mazzalano staggered through the door.

  She slid into the passenger seat. “Drive.”

  Warren glanced toward Mazzalano.

  “Drive,” she said again.

  5

  As the Ford Cougar pulled away, Mazzalano inhaled deeply. He still smelled her perfume. When he’d licked her ea
r, it had rubbed off on his upper lip. Roses, he thought, mixed with some spice.

  The Cougar turned right at the end of the block. On his cell phone, Mazzalano dialed Officer William Bowman, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Stallion, what’s up?”

  “WB, I need you to tail someone. You still at the end of the block?”

  “Like you said to be.”

  “She’s in a muscle car, heading south on Mulberry, likely to turn on Canal. Couldn’t get the plates but it’s dark blue, late sixties or early seventies. She’s in the passenger seat, driver was a black male.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just tail them for now. I’ll be around. I want to know where they stop, and when. Right away. And if you can get an ID on the guy she’s with.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He inhaled again, then stumbled back into Antonio’s.

  6

  They were waiting to pay the toll at the Holland Tunnel when a police siren broke the silence. Cole looked out the angled back window, but saw no flashing lights.

  Warren reached for his phone and Cole exhaled. The siren was his ringtone. “Why the hell would you make that your ringtone?”

  “It’s a specialty ringtone and text alert I assigned to only one person. And…” He trailed off, eyes on his phone.

  “What?”

  He handed her the phone and Cole read the text. It was from “Gabby”—no last name—and was an address in Nutley, New Jersey. “What’s this?”

  Warren fumbled in his pocket for cash. “I asked her to help us with Wragg.”

  “Who’s ‘her’?”

  “Old friend, like I said.”

  The wailing siren announced another text. Cole read it aloud as Warren paid the toll.

  “Text says, ‘Address is Ship, Store, and More. Came up in an address search for Wragg. His business, apparently.’ Nutley is about twenty miles north. D.C. is south. Worth the detour?”

  “Ask if police have been there yet. She might not know, but—”

  “On it.”

  Cole sent the question and stared at the screen as they entered the tunnel. “Won’t get a reply while we’re down here.”

  “What is this, 2011? Reception is actually better in the tunnel. Eight thousand feet of leaky coax.”

  Cole had no idea what he was talking about. “Huh?”

  “Coaxial cable with holes that leak cell reception into the tunnels.”

  “Since when?”

  “Five years or so,” Warren said. “What are you, some kind of anti-tech dinosaur?”

  “No, but do we really need to be sending tweets and texts a hundred feet under the Hudson River?”

  The siren blared again and Cole quickly muted it.

  “What’s she say?” Warren asked.

  Cole read the text.

  Gabby: Can’t promise some enterprising detective didn’t find it, but I got it from NYS DOS. Wragg registered the company in 2009. Since he’s dead, probably wasn’t high priority to get out there.

  Cole was puzzled. “Says she doesn’t think anyone has been there yet. Got the address from the Department of State, but I checked there. Wragg’s business didn’t show up when I searched. I searched everywhere.”

  Warren chuckled. “You think she’s hopping on DOS.NY.GOV?”

  “Is there a defunct business list or something?”

  “Something like that. Put the address into your maps and let’s go.”

  Cole tapped the address into her phone. They were only thirty minutes away.

  * * *

  As the phone led them north on Route 7 through Newark and Kearney, Cole noticed that Warren drove like a professional. She and Matt hadn’t owned a car since moving to Manhattan, but even when she’d driven regularly, she’d never driven like Warren. He weaved in and out of traffic, leaning into his lane changes as he accelerated, like the car was an extension of his body.

  They pulled into the small town of Nutley just after midnight and slowed at a sign that read, “E-Z Storage.”

  Warren pointed. “I thought you said it was called Ship, Store, and More.”

  “That’s what Gabby texted.”

  The parking lot was poorly lit and nearly deserted, but a light was on in the small office. Instead of turning in, Warren drove past and parked a block away.

  As they walked back toward the office, Cole gave him a questioning glance.

  “I don’t know what this is yet,” Warren said. “Plus, I saw the company you keep.”

  “Mazzalano?”

  “We’ll talk about him later.”

  Behind the desk, a young man sat on a stool, watching a video on his phone. When a bell on the door broke the silence, he looked up and brushed greasy red hair from his eyes.

  Cole strode up to the desk and gave it a double-tap. “That’s not porn, is it?” She’d read his expression right as she walked in—confusion and surprise—and wanted to keep him off guard.

  “Um, no, no ma’am,” he mumbled. “Can I help you?”

  Warren stood a step behind her, thumbing through a rack of pamphlets. “You know a Michael Wragg?” he asked calmly.

  “No, I…who’s that?”

  Cole held up a picture of Wragg on her phone. It was from a story in The Sun, which had published its first piece on his death only hours earlier. The photo had been leaked to a Sun reporter from a source who’d found it when going through his apartment after Wragg jumped to his death. In the photo, Wragg smiled by the side of a lake, holding up a large fish. It was from at least ten years earlier, Cole thought, judging by his hairline. “Has he been in here lately? Would have been older, less hair on top. Face more withered. Probably not smiling.”

  The kid leaned in. “Yeah, I think so. Ponytail?”

  “Yup,” Cole said. “When was the last time he was here?”

  “Week or so. Why? You cops or something?”

  Warren set a pamphlet back on the rack. “We’re investigators.” It was technically true, since they were investigating, and if this guy wanted to assume it meant they had legal authority, so much the better. “Did Wragg have a storage container here?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Where?” Warren pressed.

  “Sir, I can’t tell you that.”

  Cole put a hand on Warren’s forearm and pushed him back gently. “Have the police been here in the last day or two?”

  “No, what? Why?”

  “You sure?”

  “I was here the last three nights, and Monica would have told me if the cops came during the day. Not much happens out here.” He waved an arm at the rows of storage sheds behind a fence through a large picture window.

  “Ever heard of Ship, Store, and More?” Cole asked.

  “No.”

  “This business didn’t change its name from that or anything? We were told that this was the address of Ship, Store, and More.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t think so. I really should call the manager if—”

  Cole rested her elbows on the counter and leaned in. The kid was standing a little taller and was over his initial surprise. “You don’t want to do that. My friend here is a cop and—”

  “Cole!” Warren glared at her, a look she took to mean leave me out of this. He leaned down and whispered. “Don’t say I’m a cop. I’m not. There’s no way into that storage shed without breaking the law.”

  A half dozen objections leapt to mind, all starting with the word “But.” His look told her they wouldn’t do any good. Apparently Warren wasn’t willing to push their bluff that far. “I’m getting in there,” she whispered.

  “The man I showed you is dead,” she said to the kid, stepping back to the counter. “You want to know how?”

  He nodded.

  “He killed himself after being caught for the murder of a billionaire named Raj Ambani. You heard of the case?”

  He nodded again.

  “I believe evidence from that murder is in one of your storage sheds. Yo
u following me? That means EZ Storage and all its employees might be accused of harboring or even abetting a murderer.” It was a risk to lie so nakedly, but without Warren’s help, she couldn’t think of anything else.

  “Look lady, I don’t know what that guy did, but we don’t ask questions about what people are storing, and they all have to sign a form that says no illegal activity in the units. I’m calling my boss.”

  He reached for a phone, but Cole grabbed his hand. “Please,” she said, catching his blue eyes. “I’m a reporter. Give me five minutes in his unit and I swear you won’t get in any trouble.” She didn’t expect it to work, but if Warren wasn’t willing to play the cop card, it was all she had.

  After a moment, he tugged his hand free. “Hundred bucks, you only get three minutes, and you promise not to do anything that leads back to me. No photos. No writing what you see.”

  This was the equivalent of talking to a source on “deep background.” She might get some good information from it, but nothing she could print. She pulled five twenties from her purse, which hung on her hip like a fanny pack, and slid them across the counter.

  He stashed them in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll get the access code.”

  7

  The kid led her through a low gate, Warren following reluctantly. They passed under the watchful eye of a security camera, then through a metal door that opened into a rectangular building. Inside, fluorescent lights clicked on the moment they entered, revealing a long hallway with units on either side. A security camera had been bolted to the ceiling over the door, capturing them as they walked in.

  They passed ten units—five on the left, five on the right—each enclosed by a sliding metal door. They stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a door marked “12.”

  The kid typed a code into the keypad. “Three minutes.” The keypad beeped and the kid slid the door up.

  The screech of metal on metal jolted Cole. “You gonna stay and watch?” she asked.