The Camel Club (15 page)

CHAPTER
24

C
ALEB PICKED UP
O
LIVER
S
TONE
near the White House in his ancient pewter-gray Chevy Malibu with a fidgety tailpipe. They headed to Milton Farb’s house near the D.C. and Maryland line, where Reuben would meet them. Stone sat in the front seat holding Caleb’s dog, Goff, a small mongrel of unknown provenance named after the first chief of the Rare Books Division, Frederick Goff. As they pulled up in front of Milton’s modest but well-kept home, Reuben jumped up from the front steps, walked over to the car and climbed in. He was dressed in his usual jeans, moccasins and a wrinkly red-checked flannel shirt; a pair of work gloves stuck out of his back pocket, and he carried his safety helmet in his hand.

“Grabbed some overtime at the loading dock,” he explained. “Didn’t have a chance to go home.” He looked in surprise at Stone’s new haircut and clean-shaven appearance. “Don’t tell me you’re rejoining mainstream America.”

“Just trying to remain incognito and alive. Is Milton ready?”

“Our friend will be delayed a bit,” Reuben said with a wink.

“What?” Stone said.

“He’s entertaining, Oliver. You remember? His new lady friend?”

“Did you meet her?” Caleb asked excitedly. “Maybe she has a friend for me.” Although a confirmed bachelor, Caleb was always on the lookout for new prospects.

“Just got a glimpse. She’s actually a lot younger than Milton and damn nice-looking,” Reuben replied. “Hope the poor fellow doesn’t go and commit himself. I’ve had three trips down the aisle, and there won’t be a fourth unless I am ungodly drunk. Blasted women. Can’t live with them, and they sure as hell can’t live with me.”

“Your third wife was quite a nice woman,” Stone noted.

“I’m not saying that the ladies don’t have their uses, Oliver. I’m just of the opinion that long-lasting relationships are not the product of legal commitment. There have been more good times bashed by the covenant of marriage than I could count in several lifetimes.”

“So your logic is what, ban marriage and you’ll see the divorce rate plummet?”

“That too,” Reuben said gruffly.

They all looked over as the door to Milton’s house opened.

“She
is
good-looking,” Caleb said, peering around Stone.

Milton and the woman kissed lightly on the lips, and then she walked down the steps to her car, a yellow Porsche that was parked in front of Caleb’s Malibu.

“I wonder if Milton’s OCD creates a problem for her,” Caleb said thoughtfully. They had all spent hundreds of hours of their lives waiting through Milton’s rituals. Yet they’d accepted it as an element of their friend’s personality. They all had such “elements,” and Milton had been diligent in seeking help for his disorder. And after years of medication, counseling and occasional hospitalization, he led a fairly normal existence, only resorting to his OCD for brief periods when locking his doors, sitting, washing his hands, or during moments of intense stress.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem for her,” Reuben said, pointing.

They all watched as the woman tapped the pavement with her high heels and then pecked on the car window with her finger, silently counting and muttering before opening her car door. Then she performed a similar exercise checking her seat, before climbing in. She left a considerable amount of rubber on the pavement as she hit sixty miles an hour six seconds later, before she slammed on her brakes at the next intersection. Then she roared off again, the deep-throated decibels of the Porsche’s turbo actually causing Caleb to wince.

“Where the hell did he meet the woman, at a NASCAR event?” Caleb asked as he stared wide-eyed at the smoke still rising off the tire marks on the street.

“No, he told us he met her at the anxiety clinic,” Reuben reminded them. “She was there getting treatment for OCD too.”

Milton closed his front door, went through a brief ritual and came out to join them carrying his knapsack. He climbed into the backseat next to Reuben.

“She’s a real looker,” Reuben said. “What’s her name?”

“Chastity,” Milton replied.

Reuben snorted. “Chastity? Well, for your sake, I hope she doesn’t live up to her name.”

Traffic was fairly heavy, and by the time they got to Patrick Johnson’s neighborhood it was quite dark. This suited Stone well. The nighttime was where he was most comfortable.

He checked house numbers as they drifted down the street. “All right, Caleb, it’s coming up in the next block on the left. Park the car here.”

Caleb pulled the Malibu to the curb and looked at his friend.

“Now what?” he asked nervously.

“We wait. I want to get the lay of the land a bit, see who’s coming and going.” Stone pulled out his binoculars and gazed through them up the street. “Assuming that those Suburbans parked out front are Bureau cars, I’m guessing that the third house up on the left is Johnson’s.”

“Nice digs,” Reuben commented, following his friend’s gaze.

Meanwhile, Milton had been studying his laptop computer. He said, “It was reported that they found heroin in the house. And Roosevelt Island was where Johnson spent his first date with his fiancée. They’re theorizing that he killed himself there symbolically; with his upcoming marriage he couldn’t live his double life anymore.”

“How can you be on the Internet in a car?” Caleb exclaimed.

“I’m pure wireless,” Milton replied. “I don’t need hot spots. You know, Caleb, you really should let me bring you into the twenty-first century.”

“I use a computer at work!”

“Only for word processing. You don’t even have a personal e-mail account, only a library one.”

“I prefer pen, paper and stamps to compose
my
mail,” Caleb responded indignantly.

“Are you sure you don’t mean foolscap and a quill, Brother Caleb?” Reuben asked with a grin.

Caleb said heatedly, “And unlike those Neanderthals on the Internet, I use complete sentences and, heaven help us, punctuation. Is that a crime?”

“No, it’s not, Caleb,” Stone said calmly. “But let’s try to keep the discussion relevant to our mission tonight.”

“You know, you would’ve thought that an NIC employee would’ve been vetted well enough that his drug dealer status showed up,” Reuben said.

“Well, presumably, he was clean when he signed on with them but turned dirty sometime after,” Milton replied. “Look at Aldrich Ames. He had a big house and drove a Jaguar, and the CIA never even thought to ask him how he could afford it.”

Caleb said, “But apparently, Johnson was selling drugs, not secrets. He ran afoul of his business associates, and they killed him. That seems pretty clear.”

“Did those two gentlemen look like drug dealers to you?” Stone asked.

“Since I don’t
know
any drug dealers, I’m not in a position to really answer that question,” Caleb said.

“Well, I
do
know some,” said Reuben. “And despite what damn bigots might think, they’re not all young black gang members with nine-millimeters stuffed in their prison shuffle pants, Oliver.”

“I’m not implying that they are. However, let’s consider the facts. They brought him to a place where he had his first date. That implies intelligence gathering unless he was in the habit of sharing his romantic history with his alleged criminal associates. They carried him in a powered boat that was so
silent
we didn’t even hear it until they reached the island. Now, that may be a technology drug dealers employ in, say, South America where there is a good deal more water. But in the nation’s capital?”

Reuben said, “Who the hell knows what sort of high-tech toys they’re using around here nowadays?”

Stone ignored this. “In addition, the two killers undertook a fairly military-style reconnaissance of the area and used a killing technique that smacks of the professional assassin. And they were well aware of potential incriminating forensic residue and took appropriate steps accordingly. They even had the foresight to bring a plastic baggie to give the impression that he’d used it to keep the gun dry while he swam to the island.”

“That’s right,” Caleb said. “But even drug dealers want to avoid jail.”

Stone ignored this comment too. “And when they realized there were witnesses to their crime, they gave not a second thought to disposing of us. These men are expert killers, but I very seriously doubt that they are drug dealers.”

The other three pondered their friend’s logic as Stone raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

The silence was broken a minute later by Caleb, who asked Milton, “What does Chastity do?”

“She’s an accountant. She used to work for a big firm, but they fired her because of her OCD. She has her own company now. And she helps me with my Web design business. I’m awful with money. She keeps the books and does the marketing too. She’s really terrific.”

“I’m sure she
is
terrific,” Reuben said. “It’s those quiet professional types you have to watch out for. You think they’re mild-mannered and then they just
jump
you. I dated this woman once, prim and proper, dresses past the knees. But I swear to God that lady could do things with her mouth that defied—”

Stone broke in quickly. “Firing Chastity because of her medical condition doesn’t seem right unless it prevented her from doing her work.”

“Oh, she could do the work. They said she embarrassed the firm in front of clients, which was a crock. Two of the partners just didn’t like her, one of them because Chastity wouldn’t sleep with him. She sued and won a lot of money.”

“That’s the country we all know and love,” Reuben said. “The United States of Lawyers. But don’t let the rich pretty ones get away, Milton. I’m not telling you to marry the woman, God forbid, but if a man can keep a woman in these enlightened times, there’s nothing wrong with a woman keeping a man.”

“She does buy me things,” Milton said quietly.

“Really,” Reuben said with sudden interest. “What sorts of things?”

“Software for my computer, clothes, wine. She knows a lot about wine.”

“What sorts of clothes?” Reuben persisted.

“Personal clothes,” a pink-faced Milton said. He immediately looked down at his computer and started hitting some keys. Reuben started to say something, but Stone silenced him with a very severe look.

Finally, Stone said, “All right, here’s what I want each of you to do.”

After laying out his plan, Stone put on an old hat he pulled from his backpack, placed Goff on a leash and got out of the car. Milton’s spare cell phone was in his pocket. Reuben and Caleb would stay in the car and keep watch, while Milton walked on the other side of the street toward Johnson’s home. His task was to note anyone who was paying Stone too much attention. Milton had been chosen for this role because he had remained in the bottom of the boat while they were being pursued, making it nearly impossible for the killers to have seen him. If Milton spotted anyone, he would ring Stone’s cell phone.

Stone strolled slowly along the street, stopping to bag some waste that Goff deposited next to a tree. “Good dog, Goff,” Stone said, petting him. “That’s very helpful in keeping up our cover.” When he reached the front of Johnson’s residence, a man wearing an FBI windbreaker came out carrying a large box wrapped with police evidence tape.

“A terrible tragedy, Officer,” Stone said in an inquiring tone to the man. The man didn’t answer, however, hurrying past Stone and handing the box to a woman who sat in one of the Suburbans. Stone let Goff sniff around a tree in front of Johnson’s house. While the animal did so, he was able to take in many details of the house and the adjacent properties. As he continued down the street, he passed a sedan that was idling at the curb. He managed not to even flinch when he saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

Tyler Reinke’s gaze bored into Stone briefly before returning to his surveillance of Johnson’s house. He obviously didn’t recognize the man he had come close to shooting the night before. Stone inwardly said thanks for his prescience in radically altering his appearance. Now the question became, where was the other man?

Stone continued down the street, turned left at the next corner and immediately called Caleb, relaying what he’d just seen. He then phoned Milton, who joined him a minute later.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Milton asked.

“No doubt. Now I want to know where the other one is.” His cell phone buzzed. Caleb’s voice was taut.

“Reuben just spotted the other man.”

“Where is he?”

“Speaking with one of the FBI agents outside of Johnson’s home.”

“Come and pick us up,” Stone said, relaying to Caleb where he and Milton were. “Don’t come down the street you’re on. I don’t want you to pass the house or the car he’s in. Turn left at the next corner and then make a right. We’ll meet you on the next block.”

As the two men were waiting at the arranged spot, Stone watched as Milton picked up a page from a newspaper that had blown across the street. He folded it neatly and deposited it in a trash can that sat in front of a driveway.

Stone said, “Milton, did you touch the note in Patrick Johnson’s pocket last night?”

Milton didn’t answer right away. However, his embarrassed look was all the response Stone really needed.

“How did you know, Oliver?”

“Those men knew we were there somehow. I don’t think it was because they saw us. I think they must have come back to the body for some reason and noticed that the note had been disturbed or was in a different place.”

“I . . . I . . .”

“You just wanted to check it, I know.” Stone was deeply worried for a very simple reason. Damp paper held fingerprints extremely well. Were Milton’s prints on any database anywhere? He didn’t want to ask him that question right now, for fear of sending his already upset friend into a panic attack.

When the Malibu pulled up, Stone and Milton climbed in. Caleb drove ahead a bit, found a parking spot on the crowded street and wedged in.

“Do we risk following them?” Reuben asked.

“Unfortunately, Caleb’s car rather sticks out,” Stone said. “If they pick up that we’re following them and run the license plate, they’ll be at Caleb’s house waiting before he even gets back there.”