Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (14 page)

Washington Post
offices

Thursday morning

T
he column in
The
Baltimore Sun
Sports section the following morning had no byline:

POST REPORTER’S HARLEY TRASHED

The story beneath the flamboyant headline appeared to have been written by someone who had stood in the middle of Perry’s living room last night. At least there was no mention of her mother. In fact, the short article came across as a spoof, pretending to be straight news about a reporter who’d broken a big story before turning to ironic humor, speculating whether this is what a sportswriter should expect if she fell asleep on the job.

Bennett John Bennett nodded to the paper. “Who did this?”

“You mean trashed my motorcycle?”

“No, that’s the police’s deal. I want to know who gave the
Sun
this story.”

Perry thought of the chill she’d felt when she’d seen her mangled Harley, the impotent rage. He didn’t care about that? “I can
only think that someone saw the property damage report and somehow it ended up with a
Baltimore Sun
Sports reporter.”

“First the FBI invades our newsroom, now this? What are we here, writers or the story?” He tossed the paper in the trash basket beside his desk. It was already overflowing, and the paper bounced off onto the floor.

Lolita said from the doorway, “It was a cheap shot, Perry, even though it’s true. I’ve got a call into my buddy at
The Baltimore Sun
. He’ll tell me who wrote this and I’ll go punch out some lights.”

Alonzo peered in over Lolita’s shoulder, looking like Einstein after an extra-heavy bolt of current from the light socket. “I guess that Tebow story got one of your readers really pissed off. I wonder why.” He scratched his tangled mess of hair and wandered out, whistling the theme song from
A Beautiful Mind
. The song floated through the newsroom until he was back at his desk.

“This is freaking never-never land,” Bennett said. “Who attacks a sports reporter? Go away, Perry. Think about whether you want to be here. We’ve got a new owner who’s never been in the business, and soon they’re going to move the
Post
, take this building away from us, and put us God knows where. I’d rather worry about this paper than about you.”

Was she mistaken, or was there a flush of concern for her. “Why are you grinning?” he asked her.

She said, “I have something this morning you’re going to like—Tebow’s in love.”

Bennett snapped his pencil in half, nearly rose out of his chair. “In love? Tebow? Who told you this? Did you tell your source to keep his mouth shut? What’d you do, offer him money? Sleep with him? Did he tell you who she is? Her name? Jeez, I do hope it’s a
girl. No, of course it’s a girl. Find whatever you need to, Perry, flush it out. You be first on this and I’ll murder anyone who writes graffiti about you in the men’s room again.
Go!
”

She was still grinning when she sat down at her computer and logged on. She’d taken Buzz Callahan’s call on the way in to the
Post
, with Davis, made him pull over next to a dumpster to make notes while Callahan filled her in. Callahan had been injured as a rookie this past season. She’d nurtured him since he was a sophomore at UCLA, rooted for him in print and on her blog, bemoaned the torn ACL and the year of rehab before he’d try again. He and Tebow were friends and, lo and behold, Buzz had sent her a photo of Tebow and a girl off his iPhone, taken in a tucked-away little restaurant off Mondaver Street in Boston. Was this Tebow’s way of thanking her for setting things straight?

She typed:
Meet Tim Tebow’s girlfriend, Marcie Curtis.

She’d done initial research on Marcie Curtis, a senior at Wellesley, majoring in international banking. She was a brainiac, and the adoring look she was giving Tim in the photo had nothing to do with his bank account.

She posted it to her blog with its photo of Marcie Curtis after she turned in her copy to Bennett. She left him chortling.

Her brain jumped back to last night. Not for a minute did she believe it had anything to do with a pissed-off fan. Most people who were passionate about sports weren’t nuts—well, most of the time. No more than she was. No, it was about her mother. Who was doing this, and why? She could make no sense of it. She also knew she was going in circles.

She looked up to see a delivery boy with a bright yellow
MACDONALD’S FLORIST
logo on his jacket carrying a huge bouquet of
red roses in a stylish green vase. He was making a beeline right for her.

What was this? Flowers? Had Davis sent her flowers, the idiot? She automatically pulled a five out of her wallet. “You Ms. Black?”

“That’s me,” she said, and she gave the boy the five and set the beautiful vase on her desk. He stuck the five in his pocket, gave her a salute, and took off.

She was opening the small card when her cell rang. “Yes?”

“The roses there yet?”

“Goodness, Day, your timing’s incredible. I’m looking at a dozen gorgeous red roses as we speak.”

“I wanted to thank you for last night, Perry, and to tell you I understand.” His voice was muffled for a moment, then he was back. “That was my mother. She sends you her best, says she’s worried about both you and your mom. And now your Harley’s been trashed. We’re all very worried. What’s going on, Perry?”

She sighed. “I wish I knew, Day, but I don’t.”

“Say the word and I’ll move in with you, protect you.”

She had to smile at that. “No, no, I’ve got an FBI agent sticking to me like a second skin, so don’t worry. What are you doing at your mom’s house?”

“Lunch with her and Brooxey. I’m also trying to talk her out of my grandmother’s engagement ring for you. I told her it was your size. It’s even nicer than the one I got you. I think you’d really like it, Perry.”

“Day, really, I—”

“I know, I know, lips are zipped until this mess is cleared up. You’re sure you don’t want me to come back, take care of you?”

“No, but thank you. Give my best to your mom and Brooxey.”

Day laughed. “He wants me here to play billiards—not pool with actual pockets, mind you, too plebian. Nope, gotta be billiards.” He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, “I love you, Perry, and I’m worried sick. Please, keep safe.”

“I will, Day, I promise. Thanks again for the beautiful roses,” and she punched off her cell.

His grandmother’s engagement ring? She felt disoriented for a moment, and sad. She loved Day. But how would she be able to tell him it could never be in that way?

She checked the roses for water, futzed around in her desk and opened her computer. All of a sudden Special Agent Davis Sullivan appeared in her mind’s eye, sprawled on her sofa on his back at 6:00 a.m., his big feet wrapped in a pale blue throw. Another throw her mother had knitted for her last year covered him to his neck, except for one bare arm that flopped over the side of the sofa, his open hand resting on the small Persian carpet her father had long ago brought her back from Istanbul. She’d said his name as she stood over him, a cup of black coffee in her hand, and watched him come instantly awake, focus his high beams on her face, and relax. He breathed in the coffee, sat up, the afghan falling to his waist, and smiled at her. “Good morning, princess. How’s tricks?” And he’d scratched his bare chest.

Natalie Black’s house

Thursday morning

N
atalie Black held her favorite balancing-stick pose, one beautiful straight line from her pointed toes to her pointing fingers. Her hair was fastened with a rubber band, a red poof on the top of her head.

Perry watched her for a moment, unable not to smile. Her mom’s breathing was slow and easy, her form right on—one perfectly straight leg holding her steady.

Hooley wasn’t watching her. He showed Perry in, told her her mother didn’t have much extra breath to speak to her since she’d been hunching and twisting and bowing and folding herself in two in those yoga positions of hers. Now he was standing by the big bay window on the south side of her workout room. The view was of the deep, beautifully landscaped backyard, elms and oaks surrounding the high stone fence. He seemed to be looking for any movement.

Connie Mendez, Natalie’s young female bodyguard, was sitting on the small leather sofa, her eyes on Perry.

“Hi, Perry, I’ll be done in a moment,” Natalie said, not looking
at her, holding her pose, her face down between her arms. In the next moment, Natalie slipped to her knees and went gracefully into the rabbit pose, all balled up, Hooley thought, glancing back at her—forehead on the floor, arms back to lie on top of her calves. Then she came to her feet, bent side to side a couple times, picked up a towel and wiped off her face.

“I thought you’d be hard at work, Perry. What’s up? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

Her mom didn’t know about her Harley, thank heavens. If Hooley or Connie had read about it in
The Baltimore Sun
, they hadn’t said anything yet. She knew she’d have to tell her soon, since it was only a matter of time before someone dropped that bomb on her or she noticed on her own that Perry was driving a rental car. But not now; her mother didn’t need any more bad stuff piling on her.

She’d start with the graffiti. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Natalie paused in downing a huge glass of water. “You mean you finally want to tell me about the graffiti in the men’s room at the
Post
? When Angela called, she naturally assumed I already knew. Of course, I called Davis right away, and naturally he, too, knew all about it. Evidently, everyone knew except me. So the guilt got to you? You finally realized keeping Mom in the dark wasn’t going to work?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to burden you. The FBI has a photograph of the guy who wrote that graffiti in the men’s room. It’s Carlos Acosta, Mom.”

Natalie stilled. “Carlos?”

“Yes. Didn’t Angela describe him to you?”

Natalie splayed her hands. “From Angela’s description, it could have been any young Hispanic male. I wondered if anyone recognized the man. Tell me why in heaven’s name Carlos Acosta, my gardener’s assistant, would be writing such awful nonsense in the men’s room?”

“Ma’am,” Hooley said. Natalie turned to him, a half-full glass of water in one hand, the towel in the other. “You know I asked Agent Sullivan to tell me about everyone coming and going. I wasn’t told about Carlos. He should have alerted me immediately. Perry, you’re certain Carlos was the one who posted that graffiti?”

“Yes.”

Hooley pulled out his cell, punched in numbers. “Is this Special Agent Sullivan?”

Connie was looking at Hooley, listening to his low voice. She looked, Perry thought, alert and focused. Like Perry, she was probably wondering what Hooley was saying to Davis. Perry drew closer to her mother and lightly laid her hand on her shoulder.

Hooley punched off. “Agent Sullivan said he still can’t reach Carlos. He said he also spoke again to Mr. Sallivar, who hadn’t heard from Carlos, either. You know Carlos isn’t one to stay out late and party, he’s a responsible kid. Sullivan said neither of you is to leave the house. He’ll be right over.”

Perry said, “Mom, where is the key to dad’s gun case?”

Hooley took a step toward her, held up his hand. “Whoa, Perry, no way. I’m here, Connie’s here, and I’ll get Luis up here from the guardhouse.”

“Don’t bother, Hooley. Mom?”

“Come with me,” Natalie said, all business. “I’ll get it for you.”

Both women walked out of the workout room, Connie and
Hooley on their heels. Perry kept her mouth shut—smart, since she didn’t want to end up lying on her back on the floor with a bruised kidney. She never wanted to take on Connie.

Natalie walked into her study, once her father’s study, no longer as imposing as it had been, with oversized dark leather sofas and chairs and shadowy chocolate-painted walls. Now it was a light, airy room, still filled with books, true, still stacked high and tight on deep inset shelves, but somehow they no longer overwhelmed. Natalie opened the drawer of an elegant Regency desk, pulled out a Redskins key ring weighted with a good half-dozen keys, and walked to a discreet cabinet beside a narrow closet door. She unlocked the doors, pulled out another key, and unlocked the glass doors inside.

Hooley was impressed by the collection. Lots of firepower. There were at least a dozen handguns—a couple S&W M625s, a Ruger Redhawk, even a Cimarron Thunderer and an American Lady Derringer. Were those Savage Weather Warriors? Yes, two of them, and there was a SIG Sauer 556 Classic Swat. He watched Perry lift out an automatic and hand it to her mother. “The Walther PPK still your favorite, Mom?”

“Oh, yes.” Natalie took the Walther, racked the slide, checked that the chamber was empty—Hooley saw her whisper “clear,” a well-learned habit. Then she took the magazine Perry held out to her, shoved it in, racked the slide once again to put a bullet in the chamber. “Good to go. You’re quite right, Perry. I should have armed myself the second I got back to the States, or at least after I was nearly run down in Buckner Park. It comes from spending so much time in England, where one doesn’t do that sort of thing, especially not an ambassador.” She patted the Walther’s barrel. “It was Ian Fleming, though, who changed James Bond over to the Walther PPK. It suits me better than the Beretta 418.” She grinned
over at her daughter. “I always figured what was good enough for Bond was good enough for me.”

Perry pulled out a nine-millimeter Kimber Sapphire, a striking handgun with its blue three-inch barrel, racked the slide, shoved in a magazine, racked the slide again, checked to see a bullet was chambered, and nodded. She took down a belt clip, fastened the Kimber to it, and clipped it to her jeans. She eased her leather jacket over it.

Natalie looked at her daughter’s gun clip, and then down at her shirt and yoga pants. “Give me one, too, Perry. I’ll go shower and change.”

Hooley wanted to take on both of them, but he knew dead serious when he saw it. He had to admit both women handled the guns competently, with caution and respect. But still he couldn’t help it, the words burst out of his mouth: “Wait a minute, Mrs. Black, Perry, you’re civilians, protecting you is my job. You could hurt yourselves—”

Natalie held up her hand. “Don’t worry, Hooley. We’re both very good shots, and Brundage went to great lengths to secure us all licenses to carry in Maryland. Stop fussing.”

Perry said to Hooley, “You don’t have to worry about our shooting ourselves in the foot or you or Connie by accident. Now, as for Davis, I’ll have to think about that. Mom and I used to shoot together every month or so. Right, Mom? Have you practiced lately?”

“It’s been a while. You know as well as we do, Hooley, once you get good, your muscle habits are set. Now, I’d like to speak to Agent Sullivan myself.”

Hooley said, his voice desperate, “Agent Sullivan should be here in fifteen minutes or so, ma’am. I don’t think he’s going to approve of you and Perry carrying weapons.”

Perry shrugged, looked at her watch, then patted the Kimber snug against her waist. “Mom’s boy toy should be here by now. Let’s go see if he wastes time ranting or if he decides to be reasonable. Hooley, would you ask Mr. Sallivar to come to the house?”

When Davis walked into the living room, the first words Hooley had for him were “Be careful the clients don’t shoot you, Sullivan.”