Sweat (25 page)

Detective Wallace walked into the lobby of the swanky office building on K Street with Detective Nguyen in tow. The pit stop at the security booth by the detectives in worn slacks and dated sports coats was a formality. Rent-a-cops weren't prone to giving the police a hard time. Sooner or later they would need their help dealing with real crime—a pickpocket on the premises, vandals breaking a window, workers stealing office equipment. The rent-a-cops were there to look like the police from a distance, and to call the real boys-in-blue when the situation got out of control.

“We're looking for Winthrop Enterprises,” Wallace said, flashing his badge and looking for professional courtesy.

The black guard, a man in his early twenties with long whiskers on his chin, smiled and pointed toward the elevator, looking down his arm and past his finger like the barrel on a rifle. “Take the elevator to the top floor.”

Detectives Wallace and Nguyen were the only people in the elevator without a shine on their shoes and a briefcase in hand. The presence of the detectives kept the morning elevator banter to a minimum. Lawyers can smell outsiders from a hundred yards in high winds, much less in the confines of an elevator. Three floors and eight departed lawyers later, the police's recently-formed detective tandem had the elevator to themselves on the ride to the top floor.

The detectives stepped into Peter Winthrop's kingdom and the receptionist gave her standard greeting. “Welcome to Winthrop Enterprises. How can I help you?”

Two long steps from the elevator and the detectives were at the counter under the Winthrop Enterprises sign, the silver wording gleaming with recently shined letters.

“Good morning. My name is Earl Wallace and I am a detective with the D.C. Metropolitan Police Force. This is my partner, Detective Nguyen.”

The receptionist turned serious, an almost forced demeanor. “May I see your badges, please?”

Detective Wallace gave Nguyen a subtle glance before both men reached into their respective jacket pockets and pulled their shields.

“Thank you, detectives.”

“We are conducting an investigation and want to have a word with Peter Winthrop,” Detective Wallace answered with an equally serious tone.

“I'm sorry, detective but Mr. Winthrop is not available. He is out of town on business.”

“When will he be back?”

“I believe he is in Prague until tomorrow and is making a stopover in London on his way back. Although I am not his secretary, I am pretty sure he is due back by the end of the week.”

Wallace didn't like the receptionist. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“Me?”

“It will only take a minute.”

The receptionist looked around, turning her neck slightly and glancing out of the corners of her eyes.

“About Marilyn Ford,” Wallace added.

The mere mention of Marilyn's name brought moisture to the receptionist's eyes. She waved her hand in front of her face as if to dry any tears before they formed. Wallace looked at Detective Nguyen with one eyebrow raised. Wallace pulled out his notebook, ready to scribble.

“She was a wonderful woman,” the receptionist said, whimpering.

“Was she well-liked around here?”

“Yes, very. She'd been around Winthrop Enterprises before there was a Winthrop Enterprises. She was the president's secretary for over two decades. She could be nosey, but what middle-aged, forty-something-year-old woman isn't?”

Detective Nguyen butted in, “Nosey about what?”

“Nosey about the usual. Employees's lives in general. Who was working on what, who was cheating on their wives, you know, the usual.”

“Before Marilyn's death, did you notice anything unusual with ‘the usual?'”

“Not really. Not to me at least.”

“Boyfriend?” Detective Wallace asked, knowing that over fifty percent of all homicides against women are perpetrated by the man they share their bed with.

“Not that I know of,” the receptionist answered, now with an emotionless face that would have taken the pot at any Texas Hold'em tournament.

Detective Wallace handed the receptionist a picture of Chow Ying taken from the ATM camera. “Have you seen this man before?”

The receptionist leaned close, stared hard at the picture for few seconds and then looked up. “No. He doesn't look familiar.”

Wallace wrote something in his notepad and ripped out the small sheet of paper when he finished. He placed the paper and the photograph on the marble reception counter. “Could you see to it that Peter Winthrop gets this picture and this note? It is important.”

“Yes, I will make sure he gets it.”

“And here is my business card. Please, have him call me.”

“I will let him know you visited.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome, detectives.”

Back in the wood paneled elevators, Nguyen waited for the doors to shut and then asked, “What did you think?”

Wallace pulled at his waistline and looked at the open page of the notebook in his left hand. “Seemed like a suspicious office. Never had a receptionist ask to see my badge before, have you?”

“Can't say I have. And she seemed to be a little emotional. Her tears came at the drop of a hat and vanished just as fast.”

“Almost like she was acting. Did you notice that a lot of people in the office were staring at us?”

“Not really.”

“Another ten years on the force and you will. Either way it looks like we have to wait a few days. But if Mr. Winthrop isn't available, there are some things we can do in the meantime.”

“Starting with?”

“Shake the branches of the Winthrop fruit tree a little and see if anything interesting falls out.”

The trip to the mechanic had fixed one problem, and Jake's car no longer stalled. A few loose wires and a cracked distributor cap were diagnosed as the culprits, and the bill totaled forty dollars for the parts and a stinging three hundred for labor. The trail of blue smoke now coming from the tailpipe indicated even bigger problems were on the horizon. The telltale cloud of burning oil followed Jake's Subaru like a tail, zigging when he zigged, zagging when he zagged.

Jake came to a crawl at the stop sign at Macomb Street and Connecticut Avenue. He could see his apartment, but getting to the parking lot of the old brick building was going to require three left turns on consecutive one-way streets. Jake checked his mirrors, not sure if he should be on the lookout for a six-foot-four mass of Chinese muscle coming at him with a samurai sword down the double yellow lines.

His conversation with Al had scared him. Stuck in traffic as the sun finished setting, Jake ran through scenarios for his father, a senator, and a girl named Wei Ling.

He pulled into the small strip of private parking spaces behind his building and prayed for an open one. He worked his car into the sliver of asphalt next to the massive green dumpster, leaving just enough room to slide out the driver's side door. Another two inches of waistline and he would have needed a Crisco lube job to get by. He got out of the car, face-to-face with the stench of rotting garbage. He stuck his forearm into his nose and shimmied by without getting his shirt dirty.

As darkness fell over the city, Chow Ying smiled at his target's timing. He marveled at his own patience. From a bench in the stamp-size excuse for a park across the street, Chow Ying watched Jake pull his car into the lot. The Mountain of Shanghai threw his newspaper in the trashcan and crossed the residential street with a slight limp. The situation was as good as it gets. The police would think it was a robbery gone bad. Another good kid killed by a violent element of the city—violence so ingrained in the city's youth that neither prison nor the potential for an early funeral were deterrents. As Jake slipped from his car, Chow Ying closed in with slow measured movements. With thirty yards to go, Chow Ying's strides became longer and his hobble more noticeable. A brief crunch of gravel under his foot gave him momentary pause.

Jake, head down, shifted through his keys as he approached the first floor security door in the back of the building. Chow Ying looked around one last time for witnesses, in final preparation to pounce. The kid didn't stand a chance, ankle injury or not.

Jake pushed his way into the apartment and a giant hand crashed down on his shoulder from the shadows of the hall, the force spinning him around, slamming the security door open.

“Jake Patrick.”

“Jesus,” Jake said, looking up. It took a second to recognize the intruder. “Tony. You scared the shit out of me,” Jake said, panting. The Castello brothers stood at both sides of Tony. Together, Jake's visitors stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the hall, blocking the passageway, stuffing the corridor from the mailboxes to the recycling room door.

Looking into the doorway from the outside, Chow Ying froze and then slowly retreated into the shadows near the building. He didn't take his eyes off the scene in the hall.

“Mr. Sorrentino is requesting your presence for dinner.”

“Has Mr. Sorrentino ever heard of using the phone?”

“I just do as I am told.”

“How did you get into the building?”

“You don't think a locked door would keep us out, do you?”

Jake thought about the question and considered it a moot point. If the three goons in front of him wanted to get into an apartment building, they would find a way. Window. Door. Trash chute. “Well, I can't make it this evening. I'm kind of busy,” Jake said, still trembling.

“I can appreciate your busy schedule, Jake, but I don't care. Mr. Sorrentino pays my bills and he is asking me to offer you a ride, to have a civil meal together. Do me a favor and make it easy.”

“Don't threaten me, Tony.” Jake's adrenaline startled both himself and his unwelcome guests. Verbalizing the fact that he wasn't going to be a patsy for Tony or Mr. Sorrentino gave him a boost of confidence. Fear may indeed be a good emotion, he thought.

“Jake…”

“I'll tell you what Tony. I need to get something from my apartment. Then I'll go. But not because I have to. I'll go because I like Kate.”

Chow Ying lurked outside the back door of the building as Jake and the trio of Mediterranean bloodlines firmly shut the door to the building and disappeared. Seconds from the kill and the prey had gotten away. There was nothing to do but wait. From the park across the street, Chow Ying watched the movement in Jake's bedroom window. Ten minutes later, the lights in Jake's apartment flicked off, and Chow Ying focused on the back door to the apartment. It was wasted energy. When Tony and the Castello brothers appeared with Jake wedged between them, Chow Ying cursed. The college-aged kid, surrounded by seasoned hard-asses, made Chow Ying think. The Mountain of Shanghai watched Jake get into the back seat of the car parked illegally on the main street and wondered if perhaps this kid had bigger problems than he did.

Jake sat on a bar stool and watched his three guardian angels play nine ball with skill and language that could only have been perfected in a pool hall. And not one of those pool places in Bethesda or Ballston where yuppies come to pick up chicks and scratch the velvet with the rental cues. No, Jake's current company used their cues to shoot serious pool, and, he imagined, crack the occasional skull.

Given the circumstances, the basement of the Sorrentino palace seemed like a safe place. If there was a large Asian on the loose in the city with ill intentions, he wasn't likely to be paying a visit to the Sorrentino residence. Jake's present company was only marginally better. They cursed and threw money at each other, taunted and shoved. Jake cringed at the guns, the handles of pistols hanging from shoulder holsters and protruding from waistbands. He prayed the guns would stay holstered. Jake was sure the crowd didn't practice NRA-approved firearm safety.

His guards weren't happy with their assignment and Jake knew it. They offered him a drink and pointed to the bathroom in the hall. “Don't go wandering past the bathroom. We understand each other?” Tony said.

“Yes,” Jake answered, completing the longest conversation he had had since he had gotten in the car. Jake excused himself to the bathroom under the watchful glare of six eyes. He turned on the bathroom fan and lights before shutting the door. Then he pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
Bring in the cavalry
, he thought.

An hour passed and the bets on each game increased with every round. The pile of cash currently on the bar totaled six hundred and change, and the extracurricular violence was getting worse with every missed shot. After scratching on the eight ball, Tony grabbed the older Castello brother, put him in a headlock, and pulled out his revolver just for show.

The door upstairs slammed and Jake jumped in his seat. James “Jimmy” Sorrentino's feet on the stairs brought the room to attention. The owner of the house entered the room, looking as if he were the only one who hadn't had a stressful day. His suit was perfectly tailored, his gait strong and youthful. His face was stern, commanding the respect of the room.

“Gentleman, if you would excuse us?” Mr. Sorrentino said to the hustlers.

The part-time pool sharks left, leaving their money on the bar, next to a loaded pistol that the older Castello brother had yanked from his pants. Tony gave Jake a long glare as he passed.

When the room was quiet, Mr. Sorrentino stared at Jake down his formidable, double curved nose, evidence of too many fights to remember.

“Jake, I'm going to be honest with you.”

“Please.”

“I don't like you.”

Jake smirked with fear. “I'm not sure how to reply to that, sir.”

“I've been keeping tabs on you for a week or so, since our little problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“The little problem with the strippers.”

It all became clear to Jake—Tony, the intimidation, the offer for dinner. “Mr. Sorrentino, I wasn't with those strippers. As I explained to Kate, I was there with my father and one of his clients…”

“I heard the story, Jake. Boys will be boys, I understand this. I have been married for thirty years to the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on…but I understand that men have needs.”

“Mr. Sorrentino, I wasn't
with
the strippers.”

“But you were coming out of a strip club with them.”

“Yes, but that's not the whole story.”

“Maybe, maybe. Like I said, I've been watching you. Watching you on your way to work, watching you on your way home. To my surprise, you seem to be on the up-and-up. No other strippers. No other girlfriends. No heavy nights on the town. Pretty amazing considering your age.”

“I'm older on the inside,” Jake said trying to lighten the mood.

Jimmy Sorrentino didn't take the bait. “I sent my guys to get you today for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, I wanted to clear the air between you and me, man-to-man, face-to-face.”

More man-to-man bullshit
, Jake thought. The conversation of feeding his balls to the dogs was still fresh in his mind. “Sir, you could have called and asked me to see you. There was no need to send over three guys to harass me.”

“Yes, I suppose I could have,” Jimmy answered, simultaneously dismissing the statement as ludicrous. “The second reason I wanted to see you this evening was to ask you to stop seeing my daughter.”

“Stop seeing Kate?”

“Yes. Don't break her heart, just remove yourself from her life slowly. Stop calling so often. Just fade away.”

“Why?”

“Because I love her, and I don't want her around you.”

“Mr. Sorrentino…”

“Jake. Put yourself in my shoes. Explain why I should support you as my daughter's significant other. I'm a man of great understanding. If you can help me understand, maybe we can get past this little problem.”

Jake tried not to laugh. If there was one thing Mr. Sorrentino had shown, it was that he was anything but understanding.

“Go ahead and explain why I should continue to let you see my daughter. Take your time Jake. I am a patient man.”

Jake excused himself for a second trip to the bathroom. He threw water on his face and let the drips run down his neck.
What have you gotten yourself into?
he asked himself in the mirror. She is just a girl. There are a million other fish in the sea. A million other fish with far more hospitable fathers.
She is just a girl
, he said to himself again.
She is just a girl
…

Jake walked back into pool room. Mr. Sorrentino was behind the bar sifting through bottles. Two empty shot glasses sat on the counter. Jimmy turned and filled the glasses with bourbon.

“So Jake, do we have an agreement?”

Jake looked down the counter at the gun next to the pile of money that Tony and the Castello brothers had left behind.

“Sir, with all due respect, I need to think it over.”

“Okay, Jake. Okay. You think about it. Like I said, I'm a patient man. But I do expect an answer, and I do expect a handshake.”

“Let me think about it,” Jake repeated.

Mr. Sorrentino pushed one of the glasses toward Jake. “To making the right decision,” he said raising the other glass.

“Salute,” Jake answered, throwing back the drink with one swallow.

Kate's voice echoed down the stairwell as she ran down the flight of steps. Jake stood from his stool and Mr. Sorrentino gave him a management-busting teamster glare.

“Oh, Jake,” Kate said through forming tears.

He embraced her, closed his eyes, and inhaled her perfume. Mr. Sorrentino looked at Jake's arms around Kate, hers tight around his neck. Jimmy sneered and cleared his throat, bringing the Hallmark Moment to a sudden end. His little girl could do so much better than this, he thought. And she would. As per the impending agreement. Just as soon as Jake came to his senses and dumped her. For his own good.

“Dad, how could you?” Kate asked. “Quit interfering in my life.”

“We'll discuss it later,” Jimmy said to his daughter.

“I would like to leave now,” Jake said, safely in the company of his girlfriend. “And I need a ride,” he added.

“I'll give you one,” Kate answered.

“No, you won't. Tony and the guys will.”

“Then I am going too,” she said.