“I was just going, boss.”
The line went dead.
“Okay, you two—on your way.” The two special agents headed down the dirty gray corridor and into the service elevator. It looked, as always, as if it required a crank to start it. Finally outside on Pennsylvania Avenue, they picked up a Bureau car.
Mark guided the dark blue Ford sedan down Pennsylvania Avenue past the National Archives and the Mellon Gallery. He circled around the lush Capitol grounds and picked up Independence Avenue going toward the south-east section of Washington. As the two agents waited for a light to change at 1st Street, near the Library of Congress, Barry scowled at the rush-hour traffic and looked at his watch.
“Why didn’t they put Aspirin on this damn assignment?”
“Who’d send Aspirin to a hospital?” replied Mark.
Mark smiled. The two men had established an immediate rapport when they first met at the FBI Academy at Quantico. On the first day of the training course, every trainee received a telegram confirming his appointment. Each new agent was then asked to check the telegram of the person on his right and his left for authenticity. The maneuver was intended to emphasize the need for extreme caution. Mark had glanced at Barry’s telegram and handed it back with a grin. “I guess you’re legit,” he said, “if FBI regulations allow King Kong in the ranks.”
“Listen,” Calvert had replied, reading Mark’s telegram intently. “You may just need King Kong one day, Mr. Andrews.”
The light turned green, but a car ahead of Mark and Barry in the inside lane wanted to make a left turn on 1st Street. For the moment, the two impatient FBI men were trapped in a line of traffic.
“What do you imagine this guy could tell us?”
“I hope he has something on the downtown bank job,” replied Barry. “I’m still the case agent, and I still don’t have any leads after three weeks. Stames is beginning to get uptight about it.”
“No, can’t be that, not with a bullet in his leg. He’s more likely to be another candidate for the nut box. Wife probably shot him for not being home on time for his stuffed vine leaves.”
“You know, the boss would only send a priest to a fellow Greek. You and I could wallow in hell as far as he’s concerned.”
They both laughed. They knew if either of them were to land in trouble, Nick Stames would move the Washington Monument stone by stone if he thought it would help. As the car continued down Independence Avenue into the heart of south-east Washington, the traffic gradually diminished. A few minutes later, they passed 19th Street and the D.C. Armory and reached Woodrow Wilson Medical Center. They found the visitors’ parking lot and Calvert double-checked the lock on every door. Nothing is more embarrassing for an agent than to have his car stolen and then for the Metropolitan Police to call and ask if he could come and collect it. It was the quickest way to a month on the nut box.
The entrance to the hospital was old and dingy, and the corridors gray and bleak. The girl on night duty at the reception desk told them that Casefikis was on the fourth floor, in Room 4308. Both agents were surprised by the lack of security. They didn’t have to show their credentials, and they were allowed to wander around the building as if they were a couple of interns. No one gave them a second look. Perhaps, as agents, they had become too security conscious.
The elevator took them gradually, grudgingly, to the fourth floor. A man on crutches and a woman in a wheelchair shared the elevator, chatting to one another as though they had a lot of time to spare, oblivious to the slowness of the elevator. When they arrived at the fourth floor, Calvert walked over to a nurse and asked for the doctor on duty.
“I think Dr. Dexter has gone off duty, but I’ll check,” the staff nurse said and bustled away. She didn’t get a visit from the FBI every day and the shorter one with the clear blue eyes was so good-looking. The nurse and the doctor returned together down the corridor. Dr. Dexter came as a surprise to both Calvert and Andrews. They introduced themselves. It must have been the legs, Mark decided. The last time he had seen legs like that was when the Yale Cinema Club had shown a re-run of Anne Bancroft in The Graduate. It was the first time he had ever really looked at a woman’s legs, and he hadn’t stopped looking since.
“Elizabeth Dexter, M.D.” was stamped in black on a piece of red plastic that adorned her starched white coat. Underneath it, Mark could see a red silk shirt and a stylish skirt of black crepe that fell below her knees. Dr. Dexter was of medium height and slender to the point of fragility. She wore no make-up, so far as Mark could tell; certainly her clear skin and dark eyes were in no need of any help. This trip was turning out to be worthwhile, after all. Barry, on the other hand, showed no interest whatever in the pretty doctor and asked to see the file on Casefikis. Mark thought quickly for an opening gambit.
“Are you related to Senator Dexter?” he asked, slightly emphasizing the word Senator.
“Yes, he’s my father,” she said flatly, obviously used to the question and rather bored by it—and by those who imagined it was important.
“I heard him lecture in my final year at Yale Law,” said Mark, forging ahead, realizing he was now showing off, but he realized that Calvert would finish that damn report in a matter of moments.
“Oh, were you at Yale, too?” she asked. “When did you graduate?”
“Three years ago, Law School,” replied Mark.
“We might even have met. I left Yale Med last year.”
“If I had met you before, Dr. Dexter, I would not have forgotten.”
“When you two Ivy Leaguers have finished swapping life histories,” Barry Calvert interrupted, “this Midwesterner would like to get on with his job.”
Yes, thought Mark, Barry will end up as Director one day.
“What can you tell us about this man, Dr. Dexter?” asked Calvert.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” the doctor replied, taking back the file on Casefikis. “He came in of his own volition and reported a gun wound. The wound was septic and looked as if it had been exposed for about a week; I wish he had come in earlier. I removed the bullet this morning. As you know, Mr. Calvert, it is our duty to inform the police immediately when a patient comes in with a gunshot wound, and so we phoned your boys at the Metropolitan Police.”
“Not our boys,” corrected Mark.
“I’m sorry,” replied Dr. Dexter rather formally. “To a doctor, a policeman is a policeman.”
“And to a policeman, an M.D. is an M.D., but you also have specialties—orthopedics, gynecology, neurology—don’t you? You don’t mean to tell me I look like one of those flatfoots from the Met Police?”
Dr. Dexter was not to be beguiled into a flattering response. She opened the manilla folder. “All we know is that he is Greek by origin and his name is Angelo Casefikis. He has never been registered in this hospital before. He gave his age as thirty-eight … Not a lot to go on, I’m afraid.”
“Fine, it’s as much as we usually get. Thank you, Dr. Dexter,” said Calvert. “Can we see him now?”
“Of course. Please follow me.” Elizabeth Dexter turned and led them down the corridor.
The two men followed her, Barry looking for the door marked 4308, Mark looking at her legs. When they arrived, they peered through the small window and saw two men in the room, Angelo Casefikis and a cheerful-looking black, who was staring at a television set which emitted no sound. Calvert turned to Dr. Dexter.
“Would it be possible to see him alone, Dr. Dexter?”
“Why?” she asked.
“We don’t know what he is going to tell us, and he may not wish to be overheard.”
“Well, don’t worry yourself,” said Dr. Dexter, and laughed. “My favorite mailman, Benjamin Reynolds, who is in the next bed is as deaf as a post, and until we operate on him next week, he won’t be able to hear Gabriel’s horn on the Day of Judgment, let alone a state secret.”
Calvert smiled for the first time. “He’d make a hell of a witness.”
The doctor ushered
Calvert and Andrews into the room, then turned and left them. See you soon, lovely lady, Mark promised himself. Calvert looked at Benjamin Reynolds suspiciously, but the black mailman merely gave him a big happy smile, waved, and continued to watch the soundless $25,000 Pyramid; nonetheless, Barry Calvert stood on that side of the bed and blocked his view of Casefikis in case he could lip-read. Barry thought of everything.
“Mr. Casefikis?”
“Yes.”
Casefikis was a gray, sick-looking individual of medium build, with a prominent nose, bushy eyebrows, and an anxious expression that never left his face. His hair was thick, dark, and unkempt. His hands seemed particularly large on the white bedspread, and the veins stood out prominently. His face was darkened by several days of unshaven beard. One leg was heavily bandaged and rested on the cover of the bed. His eyes darted nervously from one man to the other.
“I am Special Agent Calvert and this is Special Agent Andrews. We are officers with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We understand you wanted to see us.”
Both men withdrew their FBI credentials from their right inside coat pockets, and displayed them to Casefikis while holding the credentials in their left hands. Even such a seemingly insignificant maneuver was carefully taught to all new FBI agents so that their “strong hand” would be free to withdraw and fire when necessary.
Casefikis studied their credentials with a puzzled frown, pressing his tongue over his lips, obviously not knowing what to look for. The agent’s signature must pass partly over the seal of the Department of Justice to insure authenticity. He looked at Mark’s card number, 3302, and his badge number, 1721. He didn’t speak, as if wondering where to start, or perhaps whether to change his mind and say nothing at all. He stared at Mark, clearly the more sympathetic, and began his tale.
“I never been in any trouble with police before,” he said. “Not with any of police.”
Neither agent smiled or spoke.
“But I in big mess now and, by God, I need help.”
Calvert stepped in. “Why do you need our help?”
“I am illegal immigrant and so is wife. We both Greek nationals, we came in Baltimore on ship and we been working here two years. We’ve nothing to go back to.”
It came out in spurts and dashes.
“I have information to trade if we not deported.”
“We can’t make that sort—” began Mark.
Barry touched Mark’s arm. “If it’s important and you are able to help us solve a crime, we will speak to the Immigration authorities. We can promise no more than that.”
Mark mused; with six million illegal immigrants in the United States, another couple was not going to sink the boat.
Casefikis looked desperate. “I needed job, I needed money, you understand?”
Both men understood. They faced the same problem a dozen times a week behind a dozen different faces.
“When I offered this job as waiter in restaurant, my wife very pleased. On second week I was given special job to serve lunch in a hotel room for big man. The only trouble that the man wanted waiter who not speak English. My English very bad so bossman tell me I could go, keep my mouth shut, speak only Greek. For twenty dollars I say yes. We go in back of van to hotel—I think in Georgetown. When we arrive I sent to kitchen, join staff in basement. I dress and start taking food to private dining-room. There five-six men and I heard big man say I no speak English. So they talk on. I don’t listen. Very last cup of coffee, when start talking about President Kane, I like Kane, I listen. I heard say, ‘We have to blow her away.’ Another man say: ‘The best day would still be 10 March, the way we planned it.’ And then I heard: ‘I agree with Senator, let’s get rid of the bitch.’ Someone was staring at me, so I left room. When I downstairs washing up, one man came in and shouted, ‘Hey, you, catch this.’ I looked around put arms up. All at once he start come for me. I run for door and down street. He shoot gun at me, I feel bit pain in leg but I able to get away because he older, big and slower than me. I hear him shout but I knew he couldn’t catch me. I scared. I get home pretty damn quick, and wife, and I move out that night and hide out of town with friend from Greece. Hoped all would be okay, but my leg got bad after few days so Ariana made me come to hospital and call for you because my friend tell they come around to my place look for me because if they find me they kill me.” He stopped, breathed deeply, his unshaven face covered in sweat, and looked at the two men imploringly.
“What’s your full name?” said Calvert, sounding about as excited as he would if he were issuing a traffic ticket.
“Angelo Mexis Casefikis.”
Calvert made him spell it in full.
“Where do you live?”
“Now at Blue Ridge Manor Apartments, 11501 Elkin Street, Wheaton. Home of my friend, good man, please don’t give trouble.”
“When did this incident take place?”
“Last Thursday,” Casefikis said instantly.
Calvert checked the date. “24 February?”
The Greek shrugged. “Last Thursday,” he repeated.
“Where is the restaurant you were working in?”
“A few streets from me. It called Golden Duck.” Calvert continued taking notes. “And where was this hotel you were taken to?”
“Don’t know, in Georgetown. Maybe could take you there when out of hospital.”
“Now, Mr. Casefikis, please be careful about this. Was there anyone else working at this luncheon who might have overheard the conversation in that room?”
“No, sir. I only waiter attend in room.”
“Have you told anyone what you overheard? Your wife? The friend whose house you’re staying at? Anyone?”
“No, sir. Only you. No tell wife what I hear. No tell no one, too scared.”
Calvert continued to interview, asking for descriptions of the other men in the room and making the Greek repeat everything to see if the story remained the same. It did. Mark looked on silently.
“Okay, Mr. Casefikis, that’s all we can do for this evening. We’ll return in the morning and have you sign a written statement.”
“But they going to kill me. They going to kill me.”
“No need to worry, Mr. Casefikis. We’ll put a police guard on your room as soon as possible; no one is going to kill you.”
Casefikis dropped his eyes, not reassured.
“We’ll see you again in the morning,” said Calvert, closing his notebook. “You just get some rest. Good night, Mr. Casefikis.”
Calvert glanced back at a happy Benjamin, still deeply absorbed in $25,000 Pyramid with no words, just money. He waved again at them and smiled, showing all three of his teeth, two black and one gold. Calvert and Andrews returned to the corridor.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Barry said immediately. “With his English, he could easily have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It was probably quite innocent. People curse the President all the time. My father does, but that doesn’t mean he would kill her.”
“Maybe, but what about that gunshot wound? That’s for real,” said Mark.
“I know. I guess that’s the one thing that worries me,” Barry said. “It could just be a cover for something completely different. I think I’ll speak to the boss to be on the safe side.”
Calvert headed for the pay phone by the side of the elevator and took out two quarters. All agents carry a pocketful of quarters; there are no special telephone privileges for members of the Bureau.
“Well, was he hoping to rob Fort Knox?” Elizabeth Dexter’s voice startled Mark, although he had half-expected her to return. She was obviously on her way home: the white coat had been replaced by a red jacket.
“Not exactly,” replied Mark. “We’ll have to come around tomorrow morning to tidy things up; probably get him to sign a written statement and take his fingerprints, then we’ll pick up the gold.”
“Fine,” she said. “Dr. Delgado will be on duty tomorrow.” She smiled sweetly. “You’ll like her, too.�
�
“Is this hospital entirely staffed by beautiful lady doctors?” said Mark. “How does one get to stay the night?”
“Well,” she said, “the flu is the fashionable disease this month. Even President Kane has had it.”
Calvert looked around sharply at the mention of the President’s name. Elizabeth Dexter glanced at her watch.
“I’ve just completed two hours’ unpaid overtime,” she said. “If you don’t have any more questions, Mr. Andrews, I ought to get home now.” She smiled and turned to go, her heels tapping sharply against the tiled floor.
“Just one more question, Dr. Dexter,” said Mark, following her around the corner beyond the range of Barry Calvert’s disapproving eyes and ears. “What would you say to having dinner with me later tonight?”
“What would I say?” she said teasingly. “Let me see, I think I’d accept gracefully and not too eagerly. It might be interesting to find out what G-men are really like.”
“We bite,” said Mark. They smiled at each other. “Okay, it’s 7:15 now. If you’re willing to take a chance on it, I could probably pick you up by 8:30.”
Elizabeth jotted her address and phone number on a page of his diary.
“So you’re a left-hander, are you, Liz?”
The dark eyes flashed momentarily up to meet his. “Only my lovers call me Liz,” she said, and was gone.
“It’s Calvert, boss. I can’t make my mind up about this one. I don’t know if he’s a jerk or for real so I’d like to run it past you.”
“Fine, Barry. Shoot.”
“Well, it could be serious, or just a hoax. He may even be nothing more than a small-time thief trying to get off the hook for something bigger. But I can’t be sure. And if every word he said turned out to be true, I figured you ought to know immediately.” Barry relayed the salient parts of the interview without mentioning the Senator, stressing that there was an added factor he did not want to discuss over the phone.
“What are you trying to do, get me in the divorce courts—I suppose I’ll have to come back to the office,” said Nick Stames, avoiding his wife’s expression of annoyance. “Okay, okay. Thank God I got to eat at least some of the moussaka. I’ll see you in thirty minutes, Barry.”
Shall We Tell the President? Page 3
