Washington DC

by A. C. Fuller

  “Nah, I need to be at the desk. Boss calls a few times a night to make sure we’re not sleeping on the job. Close the door when you leave and it’ll lock. I’ll check it later.”

  When he left, Warren stopped her as she entered the unit. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but he was already opening the back door. She watched him leave, trying to decide if he was being overly cautious or if she was being reckless. Not that it mattered. Neither answer would be enough to keep her from entering the unit.

  Behind a stack of cardboard boxes to the left of the door, she found the light switch. She flicked it on. Jackpot.

  The unit was roughly ten by ten, and to her left and right, stacks of unmarked cardboard boxes reached just short of the ceiling. Otherwise, the storage unit was uncrowded. It looked more like an office than a storage space.

  Along the back wall, papers covered an old metal desk. A cork board hung behind it, papers and business cards jutting from all angles, held in place by thumbtacks. Next to the corkboard, a colorful world map hung on the wall, dotted with silver pushpins that marked cities in multiple countries. A single bookshelf stood to the right of the desk. She made a quick scan of the spines. Warren had been right about Wragg’s motive.

  The Jewish Problem

  Identitarianism

  The Great Replacement and the Path to Freedom

  America 2.0

  Mein Kampf

  To the left of the desk, a display case held a collection of military artifacts, including an old rifle with a wooden scope and a rusty green grenade. She hoped it wasn’t live. Quickly, she browsed the papers on the desk. She didn’t have time to read them if she was going to stick to her promise of only three minutes.

  She couldn’t stick to it. The motive for Wragg’s crime was in this room. Quite possibly, so were names of accomplices and details of any future killings. There was no way she was going to leave before finding it.

  “Cole.”

  The faint call had come from outside. Maybe Warren had decided to join her.

  “Cole.” Louder this time, more urgent.

  She froze, listening intently, eyes darting around the unit, trying to soak up as much information as possible. The panic in his voice told her something terrible was happening. His call wasn’t saying, “Cole, let me in.” It was saying, “Cole, get the hell out of there!”

  Had he had second thoughts about letting her go into the unit? Had the kid had second thoughts and called the cops? No, he’d only left her sight a couple minutes ago. They couldn’t have arrived so quickly. Maybe he’d pressed an emergency button under the counter as they spoke. Unlikely, but possible.

  Banging on the back door. “Cole!”

  She shot a frantic look at Wragg’s desk. Her instinct was to grab every piece of paper, but Warren’s admonition rang in her head. She hadn’t yet committed a crime—not much of one, anyway—but stealing from what would soon be a crime scene would change that. She’d promised not to publish anything that would lead back to the kid. Surely taking a few photos, just for herself, would be okay.

  She yanked her phone from her purse and trained it on the map next to the corkboard.

  Warren banged on the door again. “Cole, I’m leaving.”

  She snapped photos of the map, then a few of the papers scattered on the desk. Racing from the unit, she busted through the back door, nearly colliding with Warren.

  “We gotta get out of here.” He pulled her back through a winding maze of low rectangular buildings, away from the parking lot and the office.

  Cole glanced over her shoulder as they passed between two buildings. A car was parked in the front of the lot, high beams trained on the office. “Police car?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  Warren led them past three more buildings and stopped along what appeared to be the back fence. Roughly six feet tall, it was topped with two feet of curled barbed wire.

  Cole looked up, then back at the parking lot. “Don’t tell me you’re going to climb this.”

  Warren ignored her, shuffling along the fence to a spot where a solid pole connected two sheets of fencing at a ninety-degree angle. He pulled off his leather jacket and held it in his mouth, then gripped the pole and shimmied up, stopping when his head was just below the top of the fence. He steadied himself with his right hand and swung his jacket up with his left, laying it over the barbed wire.

  Cole watched in astonishment as he swung his feet up and over like a pole vaulter going feet first over a bar. His legs landed on the jacket. Arms still on the pole, he pulled down hard, compressing the barbed wire. Then, pushing himself up, he slid his belly over the jacket and dropped onto the other side of the fence. “Now you.”

  She latched her fingers through the fence and pulled herself up. A second later, she lay face first on the jacket, pressing down into the partially-flattened barbed wire, head dangling over the other side of the fence.

  She tried to swing her legs around but her pants caught on a piece of wire, ripping a small hole in them before she shook loose.

  Warren extended his arms. “Just fall.”

  She scooched forward and turned sideways, then let herself fall awkwardly into Warren’s arms. He set her down, then leapt up and grabbed his jacket.

  They edged along the fence, eyes on the parking lot. “If the kid called us in, they’ll head back to the unit. If we were tailed…”

  He didn’t finish the thought. Cole’s mind flashed with possibilities, but she didn’t have time to piece them together because Warren was pulling her forward. They crept along the fence through the darkness a dozen paces, then a dozen more.

  Warren stopped. “There.”

  He pointed at the office window. The kid had come out from behind the counter and was speaking with a figure in a dark uniform.

  They watched in silence as the kid led him through the same gate he’d taken Cole and Warren through only minutes earlier. When they disappeared behind a building, Warren said, “Now.”

  They sprinted across the parking lot and down the block to Warren’s car. Warren pulled out slowly without turning on his headlights. After a block, he flicked on his headlights and slammed the gas, jolting Cole back into the seat.

  In shock, she said the only thing she could think of. “Back there you said ‘Tailed.’ Like someone might have tailed us here. Who? How? What made you say that?”

  Warren’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. Cole turned. The road behind them was black. Warren swerved suddenly, following a sign for the Garden State Parkway south.

  Cole watched him watch the rearview mirror for what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes. She followed his eyes to a road sign that read:

  Philadelphia: 89 Miles

  Baltimore: 190 Miles

  Washington, D.C.: 227 Miles

  His shoulders dropped. His hands, which had been gripping the steering wheel ferociously, relaxed.

  “Rob, why’d you say we might have been tailed?”

  “Because I saw you at Antonio’s, meeting with that scumbag, Joey Mazzalano.”

  8

  Joey Mazzalano was well past tipsy. He’d started on the amaretto at four, then killed a third of a bottle of grappa before and during his meeting with Cole. He’d knocked back a triple shot of espresso before following WB’s lead through the Holland Tunnel and into New Jersey, but the effects of the coffee had faded and the alcohol still coursed through his blood.

  The key to driving drunk was engaging all the senses. He rolled down the car windows, letting the cold air dry his hot, sweaty skin. Over the stereo he blasted a Perry Como ballad that reminded him of his mother. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles popped.

  When he saw the sign for EZ Storage, he made the right turn a little too early, bumping the curb with his right-front tire. He jerked the wheel to the left to avoid doing the same with the rear tire, causing it to skid along the face of the curb, the rubber shrieking loud enough
to cut through the music. It didn’t matter. Only one other patrol car was in the parking lot, and it belonged to WB. His guy.

  He parked sideways across three spots near the office and poked his head in. Empty. He radioed WB. “Out front. You back in the stacks?”

  His radio crackled, then went silent. Letting his head fall back, he looked up. Thousands of stars shone in the clear night sky, more than he usually saw from the roof of his apartment in the city. Growing dizzy, he slapped his face with both hands, then shook his head, trying to clear the haze. He considered heading back to his car to sleep it off, but WB’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Boss.”

  A low gate was sliding open and WB stood there with a tall, redheaded teenager with a round face and a stupid haircut.

  “Kid,” WB said, “this is my lieutenant.”

  WB was well trained. He knew not to identify Mazzalano by name in situations like this.

  Mazzalano nodded, then waved at the rows of storage buildings. “Let’s go.”

  They followed the kid to the unit, Mazzalano intentionally bringing up the rear because he wanted to find his footing without them noticing. As they walked, WB explained. “Been here half an hour. Kid says two people came. White woman about forty, black guy around the same. Showed him a photo of Michael Wragg. Said the woman paid him a hundred bucks for a few minutes in the unit. The man didn’t follow her in. They were gone by the time we got back here.”

  WB had described the events as though he didn’t know who the suspects were, probably because the kid could hear. Always best to give civilians as little information as possible.

  “You lost them?” Mazzalano asked. He was over-enunciating, trying to sound sober. Problem was, he couldn’t tell if it was working.

  “If I’d had another car...anyway. Kid led me back to the unit, which was open, and they were gone. But you’re gonna want to see what’s in the unit. It’s…”

  “What?”

  “Just wait.”

  They reached the building and walked down the hallway to unit twelve. The sliding metal door was open.

  “Give us a few minutes,” Mazzalano said to the kid, who retreated down the hallway.

  Mazzalano walked to the desk and picked up a few papers with one hand, steadying himself on the desk with the other. He glanced at the map on the wall, the books, and the military artifacts. “Goddammit,” he said to himself. This was worse than he thought. Worse than he knew.

  “You want me to bag all this up and—”

  “Did they take anything?” Mazzalano asked.

  “How would I know?”

  Mazzalano inhaled deeply, taking in the dusty, mildewed smell, but said nothing.

  “Kid said she was only here three minutes, tops. You think she was looking for something in particular? Or maybe they just got a tip about the location and bolted when they saw me? Anyway, you want me to call CSI, fingerprints, the whole nine? What would it be anyway, Jersey? CID?”

  Mazzalano’s next decision mattered, but his thinking was dull and labored. He needed another espresso. He stared at a business card on the desk, mind churning like a tugboat through mud. His next action had to be right, could make or break him. “You’re sure they didn’t make you?”

  “Cougar drove past the lot, parked down the block. I watched them enter but kept my distance and called you right away. When I approached the kid, he lied at first, then took me back. When I got there they were gone. By the time I got back to where they’d parked, car was gone. They didn’t see my face. Couldn’t have.”

  He faced WB, who stood in the doorway. “There are empty duffel bags in my trunk. Bag up all this shit and throw it in my car.”

  “Boss?”

  “Do it, and tell the kid you need the security footage from all the cameras they could have passed. Double check the route. Make sure you have the footage, and that it’s erased. And tell the kid not to speak with anyone else. Give him your card. Anyone else shows up, you’re his first call. Got it?”

  “Got it, LT.”

  WB disappeared down the hall, leaving Mazzalano in the center of the unit, head spinning.

  9

  They were halfway to Philadelphia when Warren took his eyes off the mirrors long enough to give her his attention. “So, how’d you come to know that piece of shit Mazzalano?”

  Cole had been watching him watch the mirrors, impressed by his precision but concerned by his hypervigilance. She’d used the time to write an email to Martin Goldberg, an old acquaintance in D.C. They’d interned together twenty years earlier and he’d since become one of the most influential lobbyists on K Street. She’d requested a meeting for the following morning. Next she’d taken notes on everything she’d seen in the storage unit and studied the photos. The ones of the desks hadn’t yielded much of interest—receipts, shipping orders, and a few handwritten notes that didn’t make any sense. But the photo of the map, and its implications, startled her. Shocked her to a point where she wasn’t even ready to share it with Warren. So she was happy to answer his question.

  “Met him at a dinner at Antonio’s. I’d gotten an interview with a crusty old guy named Mikey Patisi, who’d just beaten a parole violation charge. He co-owns the restaurant. He’d served a few years on a drug charge way back and had been accused of ‘associating with known criminals’ because he’d hosted a dinner that involved some shady figures. Defense got him off on first amendment grounds, believe it or not. Anyway, he was in a celebratory mood and invited me to a party at the restaurant to celebrate beating the case. Mazzalano was at that party.”

  “A cop in a mob restaurant?”

  Cole nodded. “This was maybe ten years ago. Right when I moved to the city. I was green. I had no clue how reporting actually worked in a city like New York. It’s...well...different than they taught us in J-School. Anyway, I guess my natural inclination is to side with the accused, and I thought Mikey was an old restaurateur who shouldn’t be judged for who shows up to eat in his restaurant. Anyway, Mazzalano was at the dinner, was sauced, and gave me his number. Things kinda went from there.”

  Warren’s face was pinched, like he was searching for the right words. “How much do you know about him?”

  “He’s a sleazeball, if that’s what you’re getting at. But I can take care of myself.”

  “He hit on you? I mean, I assume so, but—”

  “You think he’s the first male source to hit on me, to try to trade a scoop for sex?”

  “You comfortable using your sex appeal for a story?”

  “Screw you.” She glared at him, but his eyes were back on the mirrors. “I always had a policy: I let men know I was happily married, completely off limits. If they wanted to embarrass themselves by leaking me info in hopes they could win me over, that was on them. Women get accused of using our sex appeal when most of the time we don’t need to bother. You have any idea how dumb guys like Mazzalano are? He stumbles through the world, led by his Amaretto-soaked libido. I just sit back and watch the train wreck.”

  “I guess that’s a way to navigate the ethical gray area, while also getting the job done.”

  “Like I said, I can take care of myself.” She was defensive about her relationship with Mazzalano, and she didn’t like how it felt. Despite her protestations, she had used his attraction to her in ways she didn’t feel great about. Dozens of times she’d wanted to smash a bottle of grappa over his head and delete his number from her phone. But she’d always felt she could control him, and he’d always delivered scoops. Lately, his behavior had escalated from creepy to downright abusive, and it was getting hard to reconcile her need for information with her self-respect.

  Warren slowed, allowing a car to pass on the left, then broke the long silence. “Mazzalano raped my friend.”

  His face was hard, eyes straight ahead. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d lie or exaggerate, but still, she had a hard time believing it. “When? Who?”

  “Gabby. The woman you were texting. And this is so far off the da
mn record you need to erase your memory when I’m done telling you this.” He shot her a look to let her know he was dead serious. “I’m talking Men in Black, neuralyzer-level forgetting. It’s not my story to tell, but you need to know who you’re dealing with.”

  Cole nodded slowly. “Got it.”

  “She’s JTTF now, but when the OCCB was dissolved in 2016, she did a bit with the Patrol Borough South when they gobbled up OCCB’s organized crime cases. Thought she was gonna bring down what’s left of the mob. She was my training officer in Brooklyn a few years before, and I respected the hell out of her, so I was sad to see her go. Two months later, she was back. No explanation. Just said, ‘It didn’t work out.’ Come to learn that she’d worked under Mazzalano—a captain at the time. One night they were working late, going over photos or some shit, and he came up behind her while she was standing at a desk. He pressed himself into her and…”

  “Don’t finish. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Sounds like you need to hear it.”

  Cole closed her eyes. “I don’t want to hear because you’re right, it’s not your story to tell. If Gabby told you that, and you believe her, then I believe you.”

  Dozens of interactions with Mazzalano ran through her mind. She’d always been careful to meet him in public places, telling herself that made it safe. For her, it had. But she’d also let his sleazy advances go because she could handle them. Now, she pictured all the women who couldn’t. Those who worked under him, those with less power than her. She doubled over, wracked with a wave of shame. All those times she’d just played along with his leering, grabby pig routine, ignoring it because of what she could get from him…and all those women who didn’t have the luxury of doing that. “Did Gabby report it?” she asked quietly.

  “Asked her the same question because I could never figure out why he was still working after that. She was always vague about it. Said, ‘It got swept under the rug.’” He shrugged. “Not like Gabby to be vague about stuff. You gotta understand, she’s a badass. I don’t know the details, but if she says it happened, it happened. And if she couldn’t get justice on it…” He trailed off, shaking his head.