Favors and Lies (33 page)

—

Dan relaxed in a chair at a round table in the back corner of the bar room. From his vantage point, he had a complete view of the room—every entrance, every exit, every table, every chair, every TV screen, every character.

Detective Wallace entered the room through the arched doorway and Good Time Charlie himself acted busy, shining glasses with a white towel at the bar. Wallace nodded at Ginger who was sitting on the same barstool where she had launched her sales pitch on their earlier encounter. Ginger winked and asked, “Did you change your mind, Detective?”

“Not yet,” Wallace replied, looking around for Dan and spotting him as Dan raised his hand. Detective Wallace assessed the room and its patrons as he approached the table, belly arriving first.

“When I said I wanted to meet with you, I didn't expect to meet here,” Wallace said, now surveying the football games on the TV screens.

“I wanted to catch the games. I had a couple of people to talk to. And a detective friend of mine wanted to meet. I thought I would handle it all at the same time.”

“Are we friends now?”

“We did smoke a peace pipe, if I recall.”

“We did.”

“But I think we can do it for real this time,” Dan said, smiling. He pulled two cigarettes from his pocket and pushed one across the table.

Detective Wallace looked down at the temptation and then up at Dan.

“I hear you quit,” Dan replied.

“Every month.”

“Three years for me. But I've been battling a strong craving for one lately. And I don't like smoking alone.”

“It's against the law to smoke indoors in a public venue in the state of Maryland.”

Dan glanced around at the necks of patrons cranked upward towards the TVs. “You are outside of your jurisdiction and I don't think the owner would mind if we smoked just one.”

Wallace pulled a lighter from his pocket and leaned over to light Dan's cigarette. Dan inhaled slowly and blew the smoke upward. “Holy crap that is good.”

“Don't blame me if you pick up the habit again.”

“Just one. Just today.”

“Celebrating?”

“Something like that.”

Wallace leaned back in his chair and inhaled.

“So what's on your mind, Detective?”

“You can call me Earl.”

“I could, but I like the sound of ‘detective,' Detective.”

“I had a few questions for you.”

“Shoot.”

“You want to tell me what
really
happened on Friday night?”

“You know I spent most of the afternoon yesterday with the Alexandria police and a roomful of suits who didn't identify themselves. I'll tell you the same thing I told them. I was drugged, kidnapped, and held hostage in the basement of a house that I own. My intern, who was really an employee of the CIA, was also held captive. We escaped. Fled for our lives. One of the kidnappers was shot. Another was incapacitated by his own man. A third kidnapper departed the scene. We thought there was a connection between the car you were following and the kidnapper who escaped, and we followed that assumption to my sister-in-law's house. There I met my deceased mother. You can imagine my surprise. I was obviously not in the right frame of mind. I was in shock. My behavior was clearly erratic. We were subsequently treated at Georgetown University Hospital for shock and stress, as you are aware, being you provided transportation.”

“Helps to have an intelligence agent corroborate your story.”

“She corroborated a story that no one believes. The entire crime scene was sterilized. There is no report of any bodies being found at the Stonewall Jackson residence. There is no official police report at all.”

“So you are just being labeled crazy.”

“Crazy and alive. I can live with that.”

“I have friends on the Alexandria police force who tell me there was only one body found in the house. Took three guys and a winch to get him out of an old well. All off the record, of course.”

“I believe that.”

“They said his face was torn open.”

“It wasn't pretty.”

“Things could have turned out worse for you. You got lucky. You could have easily been killed. Dumped under the Promenade. Who knows, your body could have been found in a stolen car with a gunshot wound to the head and a crushed larynx.”

“That would be one way to go.”

“There seems to be a lack of interest from the press on that story as well. Curious circumstances, really. A man in a stolen vehicle dies of a gunshot wound while on his way to death by strangulation. From what could be determined at the crime scene, the victim was being strangled from behind and attempted to shoot his assailant who was to his rear. The bullet ricocheted off the bulletproof plate in the headrest and entered the victim's skull.”

“Incredible,” Dan said, inhaling another drag and tipping the ash from the cigarette into an empty beer bottle on the table. “Sounds like a murder-suicide.”

“I have been investigating death and dismemberment for a quarter of a century. Never seen anything like it. Have you?”

“No.”

Detective Wallace leaned forward and stared at Dan through the smoke trailing off the cigarette in his mouth. “You sure you don't have any information on the subject?”

“You aren't implying I was involved, are you? I was inside a house you were observing.”

“I am aware.”

“And I was incapacitated. I had the injury on my head to prove it.”

“Yes, you did. Of course, that injury could have existed already. A fresh injury.”

“What about other evidence, Detective? Strangling a person from behind takes strength. It would also require some kind of weapon. A rope, perhaps. I mean, you could strangle someone from behind with a standard chokehold, but not if the headrest was in the way. Certainly not if the victim had a handgun at his disposal.”

“No weapon. The ligature marks indicated something thin, but strong. Like a piano wire.”

“I don't play the piano. Nor do I own one.”

“Me neither.”

“I guess that is two suspects down. You know, DC is a dangerous city. Another reason I live in Virginia. One bridge crossing away, but another world entirely.”

“Hmmm,” Detective Wallace replied, exhaling.

Dan put a finger in the air, pointed at the beer bottle on the table, and then changed his finger configuration to order two more drinks. The two men smoked in silence until drinks arrived. As the waitress walked away, Dan reached into his pocket and removed a thumb drive.

“You might find this interesting.”

“What's on it?”

“Voice recordings. Everything you need for everyone involved. I have the person responsible for Nguyen's death admitting that he has the detective's badge sitting on his mantle at home.”

Detective Wallace's eyes watered. “I already got his badge back. And his detective's notebook.”

“You would have needed a search warrant for that.”

“I only needed an address and you gave me his driver's license.”

“Skirting the law?”

“No more than you.”

Dan nodded and then took his hand off the thumb drive. “I assume you can get that to the right people. I understand you aren't very popular with the federal agencies already. Maybe you know someone at the
Washington Post
who would be willing to write up a story and run it for you.”

“Who made the recordings?”

“I did. Virginia and DC are single-participant jurisdictions, meaning that only one party to a conversation needs to give permission for that conversation to be recorded. Being that I made these recordings, the legal authority has been satisfied.”

“You were wearing a wire?”

“I owned a fancy watch that could record up to twenty-four hours of voice. I downloaded the audio files to a computer via a simple USB connection.”

“And where is this watch now?”

“I lost it.”

Detective Wallace picked up his beer and took a long slug. Then he casually slid the thumb drive off the table and slipped it into his breast pocket next to his detective's notebook. “Have you been doing a background check on me? Or is it just coincidence that I have a nephew-in-law who writes for the Metro section of the
Post
?”

“The world is full of coincidences.”

“And what if I choose not to do anything with the recordings?”

“Doesn't matter to me. My interest has been satisfied.”

“Has justice been served?”

“Justice is decided at the individual level.”

“There is a system for justice. Most rational people would say justice can only be satisfied through the judicial system. Faith in the legal system is what keeps this country from ripping apart.”

“It is a nice idea, but it's not reality. Do you know who has the most power in the legal system?”

“I imagine you are going to tell me.”

“Judges and the guy at the police station handling evidence. Either one can win or lose a case single-handedly. Either one can determine the course of a life. The rest of the judicial system can be banished to irrelevancy pretty quickly if either of those two people have been compromised, fall asleep at their post, succumb to emotions.”

Wallace took another long draw of his beer and then extinguished his cigarette in the remaining liquid in the bottom of the bottle, swirling the container briefly. “Another way to sabotage justice is to have no fingerprints.”

Dan smiled. “That would be a neat trick.”

“A nice trick, indeed. I followed evidence regulations with regard to the fingerprints taken when you were admitted into the DC jail. According to the letter of the law, I accessed the fingerprint system and deleted the prints we acquired when you were processed on entry.”

“Thank you for following the law.”

“But there is a discrepancy. The prints initially entered into the system were not the same as the prints that were deleted.”

“I'm not sure I understand, Detective.”

“When I processed you into the system, your fingerprints were taken electronically. I requested and received hard copies of those fingerprints, printed at the time of your incarceration. I wanted to compare those prints to other evidence.”

“To see if I killed Nguyen?”

“Yes. But here is the interesting part. When I went back to the system to delete the records, in accordance with the law, I asked for another hard copy of the prints. This copy of your prints was different. The fingerprints entered into the system are not the same ones that I deleted.”

Detective Wallace looked around the room cautiously and removed two folded pieces of paper from his pocket. He slid them across the table in the direction of Dan. “Seems like something is wrong with the computer system when it comes to your prints. Input does not equal output.”

“That is a curious error. You should have the IT department look into that. A computer issue like that could wreak havoc on the wheels of justice.”

“Yes, it could.” Detective Wallace stood and extended his hand. “It's been a pleasure and an adventure.”

“Likewise, Detective. Keep my number. If you need anything on the other side of the river, let me know.”

“I just might do that.”

Detective Wallace waved to Ginger on his way out. As he disappeared through the arched doorway, Ginger slipped from her stool and headed towards Dan. A large red leather purse hung from her shoulder. She reached the table, and Dan stood to pull out her chair.

“Well, what do you know, gentlemen still exist,” she said.

“Only on Sundays.”

“Everything OK with you and your detective friend?”

“I understand you two have met. Haley told me he was in here asking questions last week.”

“He was. I kind of like him. For a cop.”

“Thanks for keeping an eye out for me.”

“You were good to Haley. You were always good to me. Nice to me. Normal to me.”

“People are people.”

“In my profession, people have a tendency to look down at you. Look at you like an object. Guess some of that is a hazard of the profession.”

“It seems like the least of your occupational concerns.”

Ginger looked at the butterfly bandages on Dan's eyebrow. “Looks like you have some occupational hazards yourself.”

Dan nodded. “You said you have something for me?” he asked.

“I'm glad you could make it. I didn't want to carry this around anymore. Didn't feel safe with it. Was too nervous to keep it at home and too nervous to keep it in my car.”

“What is it?”

Ginger glanced around nervously as a group of men in the corner screamed in celebration to a touchdown being scored on one of the games. Dan noted the sudden outburst made her even more jittery. As the celebration subsided, she reached into her purse and pulled out a black leather-bound book. A large strap held the cover closed.

“This was Haley's. One of her girls got it from her apartment after she, uh . . .”

Dan removed the strap and cracked the cover of the leather-bound book. His eyes opened wide as he read through pages of entries, names, services, preferences. “Holy shit.”

“That is exactly what I said. And then it got worse. By the time I made it through the first dozen pages, I started to get nauseous. Needed a little weed and a little wine to calm my nerves.”

Dan flipped through the pages, recognizing names from the news, people of prominence, lawmakers, and judicial guardians. He counted the lines per page and then estimated the thickness of the book at 150 pages. “There are thousands of entries. Thirty-four lines per page, 150 pages, front and back.”

“I figured you would be the best person to have that.”

“Why me?”

“Because you will do the right thing with it.”

“I don't always do the right thing.”