Cold Frame (10 page)

Both detectives rolled their eyes.

“Mau-Mau, you eavesdropping?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Howie said, with a grin.

“You get a proper suit on before you go consorting with Bureau people,” she ordered. “They get one look at you, they'll be calling up their reaction force.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Howie said.

“I'll get back to you,” Precious said.

When they'd hung up, Av noted that Precious didn't miss much. Howie laughed.

“You don't know the half of it,” he said. “She stops in the secretaries' office coupla times a day and reads through all the message forms. She already knew we'd had a call-me from OCME.”

“You gonna ditch the wig?” Av asked. “Look funny with a suit.”

“
Hell,
no,” Howie said.

*   *   *

Precious called them back into her office ten minutes later. “Bureau Metro Liaison desk says they don't know what we're talking about, refused to confirm that Ellen Whiting is a special agent or even a Bureau employee, whose black SUVs went where, or why they should care about yet another dead John Doe in the District.”

“You told them John Doe?” Av asked. “But we know his name. And we know where he worked.”

“First call,” Precious said. “You never give everything away on the first call, Detective. Now: the ME says it's possibly poisoning?”

“Inconclusive, awaiting further tests,” Av said. “But: gut feel? It's hinky and that doc knew McGavin's name, but would not tell me why he'd been posted as a John Doe. So: what the hell's going on here, please, ma'am?”

“One of those vast right-wing conspiracies is what this is,” Precious said. “Okay: we're gonna do what any good bureaucrat does in this situation: we're gonna sit on this one for now. I think I need to talk to somebody upstairs.”

“Sit on it?”

“Best thing is for us to go into a holding pattern here until the ME pronounces, one way or another. He says natural causes, we're done. Release the remains to the wife. He says homicide…”

“Yeah?”

“Shit, I don't know,” she said. “In the meantime, you guys leave it alone.” Her phone rang. She pointed them to the door. They went back to the squad room.

“This is so bogus,” Av muttered.

“No, it isn't,” Howie said. “This is ILB. We in the tarbaby biz. This is what they look like.”

“Yeah, okay,” Av said. “But some other agency has to be mixed up in this.” Then he remembered the four guys he'd encountered on his morning run. He told Howie about that.

Howie stopped short in the hallway. “And this happened, when?
Partner?
” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, I should have said something. But: it was so out-there, you know? Like my imagination kinda thing.”

“'Cept for those sunglasses,” Howie pointed out. “You keep 'em, by any chance?”

Av went to his desk and pulled out the glasses.

“Piece'a shit Chinese knockoffs,” Howie said, eyeing the offending glasses. “Low-end Walmart, at best. Nobody in federal LE would actually wear this shit.”

“Exactly,” Av said. “So why should I take this seriously?”

“Who spikes a pair of sunglasses on somebody's fence, huh? Tell me that, my man.”

“Somebody who found them on the path. My fence was the closest place to put 'em,” Av said.

“Except,” Howie said.

“Yeah, well, they are kinda bent in half.”

“Uh-huh,” Howie said. “How'd you feel, those guys blowin' past you close enough for you to smell 'em?”

“Well,” Av said.

“There you go,” Howie said. “Your Spidey sense ticklin' the back of your neck when those dudes were closing in on you?”

Av nodded.

“Okay, then,” Howie said. “Crew gotta do something about this. You runnin' again tomorrow morning?”

“Well, yeah.” Av knew very well what Howie thought about running for exercise, or, for that matter, any other form of exercise. The only exercise Howie was into involved getting lunch. “You wanna come along?” he asked, innocently.

“
Hell
no,” Howie said. “But I got me a plan. Those dudes like four on one, we'll let 'em see what that feels like. Get Wong into it. He loves this kinda shit.”

Gee, Av thought, remembering the scene this morning. What could possibly go wrong with that idea?

*   *   *

The next morning, Av warmed up outside the building just before sunrise. It was another cool, clear morning, Washington at its very best in the early fall. There was already a grunch of devoted runners headed up the narrow towpath toward the next up-and-over.

“Knock, knock,” a female voice chirped. He looked around. It was Rue Waltham, the lovely rooftop visitor from the other day. She was decked out in running gear, practical and yet just the least bit sexy. It was those filmy white running shorts, he decided. Looked more like panties. She had a small fanny pack Velcro'ed to the small of her back. She grinned when she caught him checking her out.

“Hey, there,” he said. “Ready to try out for the C & O relays?”

She gave him a brilliant smile, and, for just a moment, his rule about getting close to the ladies wobbled a bit. “Try's the operative word,” she said. “If I hold you back, let me know and get on down the road.”

“It's not a race,” he said. “Let's just enjoy the morning. You warm up already?”

“No, but it won't take a minute,” she said. She then proceeded to stretch and bend, and then bend and twist some more. Av continued through his own warm-up motions while trying not to stare. Had to admit: the young lady had developed a lovely procedure. He grinned when a passing runner bounced into a hedge as he trotted by, gawking. Yeah, dude, he thought. She
is
pretty, isn't she.

“Okay,” she said a few minutes later. “Ready if you are.”

They headed up the towpath at a leisurely jog. She ran alongside to his left and appeared to be going at an enjoyable pace. She was fit, he decided after five minutes, with no visible breathing problems. He relaxed. He'd been afraid she might be trying for something she couldn't really do, but it was evident that she actually was a runner. The morning was glorious, the air clear and smog-free, the towpath traffic light as they jogged in place while waiting to cross the streets. While they were waiting at the second bridge, he heard Rue squeak in surprise. He looked over, saw her staring at something in front of them, and then he saw it, too. “It” was a man's face looking back at them through the driver's-side window of a black Mercedes that was stuck in traffic across from them. He was wearing a red ball cap, and there was something really wrong with his face, and with his left eye in particular, which made it impossible to tell how old he was, but that left eye reminded Av of a snake's eyes. Rue looked away, aware that she was being rude, and then the traffic edged forward, creating a gap through which they quickly crossed the street and then went back down to the towpath.

“Jeez,” he heard her say, and he grunted something in reply. Some weirdo wearing a Halloween mask, right there in broad daylight. They finally jogged out of the urban part of Georgetown and into the park. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; even the canal water still looked better than usual, with no visible floating bodies. He'd decided not to talk: he could maintain this pace for miles and hold a conversation, but he wasn't yet sure about her.

Once they cleared the downtown area he asked if she was ready to kick it up a bit. She nodded, and they went to work. For the next three miles he concentrated on his own pace and breathing while not paying much attention to her. She'd told him to keep on going if she faltered, but she didn't. At four miles, near Chain Bridge, he slacked off. He looked over at Rue. She was breathing much harder now, and her face and skin were flushed. She looked back at him and nodded, but obviously had no breath for conversation. He slowed to the jog pace for the next half-mile, watching her out of the corner of his eye as her color faded and she regained her breath. He looked at his watch.

“Turnaround time,” he announced. “Slow jog back, okay?”

She nodded. As they turned around he caught her scent: a touch of perfume, some serious sweat, and a bare frisson of something else. Female exertion, he decided, or some of those lethal female pheromones. Shields up!

As they headed back he became aware of two runners closing in behind them. He wanted to look back but held himself in check. There were lots of runners out by then. Two more behind him meant nothing. Except: they were gaining, running harder than he and Rue were, their feet pounding harder on the towpath than seemed necessary. A moment later they passed him.

Military again. Those same sunglasses, cropped hair, extreme fitness, and passing a little closer than necessary. He'd felt Rue move in closer to him when they'd gone by. Then he realized the runners were slowing their pace a bit now that they were in front. Extra-long black tees, red shorts today, military-style ball caps. Familiar, he thought. Coincidence? Not fucking likely.

Footsteps behind them again. This time he really did want to look over his shoulder, but his cop sense told him everything he needed to know. It was another box. He touched his right hand to his gun pouch, and then remembered he wasn't alone this time. He glanced at Rue: she was oblivious, head down, putting one foot in front of the other. He had no idea what these guys intended, if anything, but he wished she wasn't in the mix just now.

He saw the bridge he'd stopped at with the fake cramp coming up ahead. There was a thick stand of scraggly trees on the river side of the towpath. Now there was no one else around, and that in itself was strange—ten minutes ago there'd been all sorts of foot traffic. All of a sudden it was just the six of them, running almost in formation, at a jog pace. He had the clear sense that both pairs of runners were subtly shortening the box. He casually draped his right hand over the groin pouch, ready to draw. And then from up ahead, at the bridge itself, came a loud:
Kiyai!

“Walking now,” he murmured to Rue. “Stay close to me.”

“Wha-at?” she said, looking around.

As they dropped down into a walk, Av took her by the arm and veered to the left, walking over to the side of the towpath closest to the canal. The two guys behind, surprised by his sudden turn, trotted by and then slowed down, while the two up ahead had stopped. Then all four turned to stare at the apparition rising on the towpath.

Wong Daddy stood there just on the other side of the bridge like an ambulatory oak tree, beginning his foot-stomping routine and carrying on in the unknown Asian dialect. He was wearing a size fifty-something judo gi pants, a tent-sized Metro PD sweatshirt, and a black band around his forehead. His fists were clenched and he was amping up the volume while staring wild-eyed at the four runners. Each time he raised his arms to balance the next stomp, his gold shield and holstered gun became visible. The four runners backed up a few steps as they realized Wong Daddy was approaching them with each stomp. He had coarsened his voice and was now sounding like the senior samurai in a Kurosawa movie.

“What
is
that?” Rue asked, pointing at Wong while sticking to Av like glue. “And who are those guys?”

“'Bout to find out, I think,” Av said, pulling up his T-shirt to expose his own gold shield, and drawing his snub-nose. “Go sit on that bench over there, and if there's shooting, get into the water.”

“Shooting?
What?!
”

The four runners were in a close group now, and two of them had their hands under the right side of their own extra-long tees. Then, from behind the approaching madman, came the growl of a siren as a Metro black-and-white came crunching slowly up the towpath, blue lights strobing. When it reached the approaches to the arched bridge, the engine shut down and Miz Brown unlimbered his lanky frame from inside the Crown Vic. He was dressed in a suit and tie, with his gold shield pinned to his left breast pocket.

There was nowhere for the four runners to go except back the way they'd come, and by now Av was standing on the towpath in their way. Miz Brown gave Wong Daddy a tender little pat on his bald pate as he walked by, opening his credentials and asking the four men to identify themselves. Wong Daddy stopped his performance and then joined Miz Brown. When he got to within six feet of the four nervous-looking individuals, he growled something, hunched forward, and then began to sidestep around the group of four, his fingers opening and closing as if they were independently seeking something to squeeze the life out of. Miz Brown stepped into the magic circle, and displayed his credentials more prominently.

“Metro PD, gentlemen,” he said. “ID, please? Preferably
before
I lose control of my troll here?”

Av could see that the four were considering a bolt, either by rushing Brown, four on one, and taking their chances with Av's .38, or even executing a scrambling detour down the heavily wooded hillside toward the banks of the Potomac. He heard a noise behind him and turned to find Howie, also in a suit and minus the dreads wig, standing with his coat back and his right hand on his hip-holstered weapon. Traffic up on Canal Street was slowing as people caught sight of the weird tableau down on the towpath. The four guys looked positively worried now, and then two more black-and-whites hove into view behind Miz Brown's car. Four uniforms got out and spread themselves along the towpath.

That seemed to do it for the four unsubs. The oldest-looking one of them reached down and lifted the hem of his tee, revealing his own gold badge pinned to his waistband. The other three followed suit. Their tees were plenty big enough to accommodate holstered weapons, but no one appeared to be reaching.

“We're FPS,” the man said. “Our creds are in the office.”