Cold Frame (19 page)

“They let them run free because they have been
coerced
into doing so, Hilary,” Mandeville replied. “Why? Because the thugs are better organized, armed, and funded than the local governments. No, this won't do. DMX fulfills a pressing need: to reflect terror right back at these Islamist maniacs who hate us and all we stand for. If you expose the DMX to a political review in today's supercharged political climate, we lose a very effective, if not the only effective weapon against the terrorists.”

Logan just shook his head, started to say something but then a crumb caught in his throat and he reached for his water glass. His sleeve knocked his steak knife off the table. As Logan reached down to retrieve it, Mandeville saw his chance. In one swift motion he passed his left palm over Logan's almost empty wineglass as if to steady it while the fat man was struggling to bend down. He glanced at his watch as Logan straightened up and reached for the breadbasket. Now all he had to do was get Logan back out onto the street in no more than about forty-five minutes, tops.

“Let's see if this bottle's as good as the last,” Mandeville said, expansively, pouring a splash into his own glass. He pointed to Logan's glass. “Finish that.” Logan gulped down the last of his wine and smacked his lips in obvious anticipation of another bottle. Mandeville signaled the waiter to bring fresh glasses, in honor of the excellent wine—and to make sure any residue ended up in the dishwasher.

*   *   *

Av had spent the early evening at Georgetown University attending a lecture on forensic toxicology, courtesy of the MPD's continuing education program. Even though he was no longer assigned to a homicide bureau, he was determined to keep up with the science end of the city's too many murders. He'd halfway expected Precious to nix his request, but since she, herself, was attending night school, she was all for it. He thought the little interlude with Happy might have influenced her thinking, as well. He thought she was still embarrassed about all that.

He left the east campus and walked down Thirty-fifth Street toward the canal area, enjoying the gentle evening breezes coming off the river below and how the streetlights seemed to polish up the million-dollar town houses of the university neighborhood. Another block brought him to Canal Street, where the M Street bar and restaurant rush hour was building. As he waited for the light to cross Canal Street, he saw a yellow cab slow and then stop in the intersection, as if getting ready for a left turn—except there was no left turn possible there. Then he saw a rather large man open the left rear door of the cab, heave himself unsteadily out of the vehicle, and then walk straight into the heavy flow of traffic going the other way through the intersection toward the Georgetown nightlife. There wasn't even time for horns—two vehicles hit the man, the first a Mercedes sedan that spun him off its left front bumper. The man bounced off the side of the yellow cab, back into the road, and then was struck by a SUV, which hit him head-on and smashed his body under the front end. The driver of the SUV slammed on the brakes, causing the following car to rear-end it, sending the SUV lurching forward another ten feet in a hail of glass.

The man from the cab was no longer visible. Av knew he was probably pinned under that Suburban. He hoped he was dead because otherwise they'd be sewing on him for a year. The yellow cab was still stopped right where the man had gotten out. The driver, who looked to be Middle Eastern, was standing next to the driver's-side door with both hands held to his face. The driver of the third car, a woman, was leaning against the remains of her steering wheel airbag. She appeared to be crying

Amazingly, the traffic began to part around the three stopped vehicles and the cab, with only the two cars right behind the wreck coming to a stop. Av wanted to go out into the intersection but the westbound traffic coming out of Georgetown was barely slowing—if they hadn't seen the man get hit, they'd assume it was just another fender-bender.

The man in the Mercedes, however, knew better. He gingerly got out of the car and walked back toward the Suburban, his right hand held in front of his mouth as if he was about to be sick. At that moment a patrol car rolled up, its blue strobes flashing. They must have been in traffic, Av thought. He thought about going out into the intersection now that traffic was being forced to stop in both directions, but hesitated. The two cops had their hands full right now, and soon there'd be more cruisers and an ambulance on scene. He decided to check the incident board in the morning and then call the District people working the incident to give a witness statement. What in the world had prompted that guy to get out of the cab like that? He'd never looked—he just got out and walked like some kind of zombie right into the stream of traffic. He made a mental note to emphasize that point when he gave his statement. Then he resumed his walk home, thoughts of dinner somewhat muted now.

*   *   *

Carl Mandeville had the White House staff car drop him off at the Lincoln Monument after dinner. He told the driver he needed to walk off all that rich food, and asked him to pick him up in an hour at the reflecting pool behind the Capitol building. As he started up the walkway toward the World War II Memorial, he reflected on his discussion with Logan at dinner. That idiot's worldview was all too typical of the so-called progressive intelligentsia in Washington, insulated as they were by inherited money, an affluent lifestyle, and a certain group-think smugness that seemed to warp their approach to everything, from Georgetown dinner parties to public policy.

Strang would be alarmed by what he'd done tonight, but he'd needed to show Strang not only who was in charge but also what could happen to anyone who crossed him. Normally he did not indulge in direct action, taking care always to have a layer or two between his masterminding and any actual wet work. He sensed, however, that Strang had been taking him a wee bit too much for granted lately, with all his let-me-take-care-of-it suggestions, as if he was the one driving the train. What would happen to Logan tonight, no, probably what had
already
happened, would snatch him up nicely.

One of his former subordinates in the Agency, now a division chief, had told him about Strang and how it might be useful to Mandeville to have someone “sleeping” in the Bureau headquarters. Mandeville had jumped at the offer, if only to have eyes and ears at the Hoover building, and, if necessary, another hired hand. His first major tasking had been to talk the strange millionaire botanist out in Great Falls out of some of his rarer toxins, and he'd opened that door that handsomely. But: given how easily that Metro PD cop had been able to deflect Strang's “subtle” efforts at intimidation, perhaps he'd overestimated the old spook's abilities. One thing was for sure—Strang knew nothing about Evangelino, and he was determined to keep it that way.

On the other hand, he'd have to be extra careful in dealing with the third one, Wheatley. He smiled in the glow of the faux gas lamps throughout the Mall area. It would be interesting to see how pompous Mr. Wheatley reacted to a second member of their little committee going to meet his maker. Hell, it'd be interesting to see if Wheatley even showed up for their next meeting once he heard the news. And Ellen? He had to be careful there, he thought: she was on ready alert, and Logan's sudden demise might trigger her into doing something awkward.

Patterns, he reminded himself, as he walked briskly by the inconspicuous bronze statue honoring John Paul Jones. Be careful about establishing patterns. He needed to let Wheatley stew for a while. See what the Metro PD cops did with the Logan matter. See if that same Metro cop got involved again. Figure out what to do with him if that happened. Well, hell, he knew what he would do: switch Evangelino into second gear, that's what.

He raised his walking stick in greeting as he passed a Secret Service vehicle. He saw a flash of a hand wave back. Good to know someone was on the job, he thought, as he strengthened his stride toward the big white building up on the Hill. No meetings tonight. Evangelino would report tomorrow by text as to whether or not he knew enough about that detective's daily routine to take him out at short notice. Evangelino was all about preparation, but when he moved, the target simply disappeared off the face of the earth, sometimes, he'd heard, literally.

 

ELEVEN

At nine-thirty the next morning, Av called the Second District station and asked for the desk sergeant. He identified himself and then asked for whoever was handling the fatal pedestrian incident in Georgetown last night. A second sergeant picked up, listened to what Av had to say, and asked if he'd come to the district office. Apparently there was some federal interest in the victim, and Av being from ILB and all …

“Aw, shit,” Av announced to the squad room when he hung up. “I think I just grabbed a tarbaby.”

“Good work, my man,” Mau-Mau said, brightly. “That's what hands're for, right?”

Av checked out on the board for the Second District. He bummed a ride from street patrol and arrived fifteen minutes later. He went through security and then discovered that he was not the only visitor that morning. The reception area was sporting a contingent of federal agents, along with some suits that Av learned were from the Treasury Department, of all places. The feds were standing around looking annoyed. The two cops at the reception desk were looking worried. Av walked up, handed over his ID, and said he was here to give a witness statement on the pedestrian incident in Georgetown last night, which, according to the morning's
Washington Post,
had been a fatality.

The room suddenly went silent. While one of the cops made a hushed call, Av turned around to find every one of the feds staring at him.

“What?” he said.

“You saw it?” one of the suits asked. He looked older than the rest and had an air of authority about him.

“I did,” Av said. “Who are you?”

“You first, Sergeant,” the man said with a demeaning tone of voice.

Av reacted. “I'll give my statement to the MPD investigator who's working the incident,” Av said. “You can talk to him when I'm done.”

The man began to get red in the face and Av wondered if maybe he'd been the least bit tactless. Again.

“You listen to me,” the man began, but he was interrupted when the station captain, a large and totally bald black man, came through the doors behind the desk and called for Detective Sergeant Smith.

“Right here,” Av said. The captain nodded and then indicated that Av was to come through the counter doors. He looked around the room at the assembled feds, sniffed, and led Av back into the inner offices.

Av had many questions, but the captain's bearing indicated that he was probably not in a sharing mood, so he just followed. They went into a conference room, where some station cops, a sergeant in civvies, and a secretary were sitting around a table. There was a TV screen up on the wall, which displayed the reception area. The captain indicated where Av was to sit. He then went to the head of the table.

“I'm Captain Wright,” he said. “I understand you're ILB?”

“Yes, sir, I am. But I'm not here in that capacity. I witnessed the accident last night.”

“Why didn't you identify yourself to the officers on the scene?” the captain asked. The other cops were studying their yellow pads.

“They had their hands full with uncooperative traffic, then EMTs, and what looked like a pretty messy scene. I waited until this morning to call and give my statement.”

“Okay,” the captain said. “That's hardly standard procedure. You should have identified yourself and given your statement right there and then.”

“Yes, sir,” Av said.

“Okay. So: what happened?”

Av described what he'd seen.

“You're saying this guy got out of the cab and deliberately walked into oncoming traffic?”

Av hesitated. The captain caught it. “What?” he said.

“‘Deliberately' might be the wrong word. He got out of the cab, which had stopped in the intersection. It took some effort. He was—really fat. He didn't appear to be scared, just determined. He got out, straightened up, and then walked straight ahead, like—I'm sorry, but some kind of zombie.”

“Zombie.”

“Hands at his sides. Staring straight ahead. Walking like his joints were freezing up. Small steps, but determined. Right until that car hit him. So: what's the crowd out front all about?”

The captain sat back in his chair. “Your ‘zombie' was the assistant secretary of the treasury for international trade.”

My zombie, Av thought. Then a sneaky little thought crept up in the back of his mind—the Bistro case. The captain looked as if he was reading Av's mind. “Isn't Precious Johnson your boss?” he asked, finally.

Av nodded.

“Guess what?”

“This is going to the Briar Patch?”

The captain smiled, but it was not a warm smile. “You better fucking believe it, Detective Sergeant,” he said. “We don't do zombies here in the Second.”

“Wow,” Av said. “Can't wait. Especially with all those happy campers out front.”

The captain smiled again, but it was mostly teeth this time. “
Your
happy campers now, Sergeant,” he said. “I'm gonna call Precious. My people will show you out the back door. With any luck you can beat that pack of suits back to HQ.”

“I'll need a ride, then,” Av said. “Sir.”

*   *   *

“You ever seen Al Pacino doing some directing?” Precious asked, looking at the Gang of Four seated in front of her. “You know, where he goes: Cut! Cut! Cut! What the
fock
was that? What the
focking fock
was that? You
focking
fock. How did this dumb
fock
get onto my set, will somebody focking tell me
that
?”