Patriot Lies (Jack Widow Book 14)

by Scott Blade

  Not only was there a charred outline of Eggers' legs, but he could also make out what looked like Eggers' arm, maybe. It was raised above where his head would've been. It was an awkward position to lie in.

  Widow couldn't imagine that position being very comfortable. Being that he had slept on public benches before, he knew that they were already uncomfortable enough. You wanted to make them as comfortable as possible. Park benches were not big, comfy beds, which were always comfortable even when they weren’t.

  Then, Widow saw something else. He’d almost missed it.

  Underneath the armrest, underneath where Eggers' head would've been when he died, Widow saw something in the charred grass. He knelt and reached into the grass, moved the remaining scorched blades aside, and grabbed it. He wasn't worried about prints for the same reasons as he hadn’t been with the broken glass. When he felt it in his pinched fingers, he pulled it up out of the grass and into view.

  It was burned and warped, but identifiable. He was staring at a used zip tie.

  The tie was clipped.

  It meant that Eggers was murdered. Someone had zip-tied him to the bench and lit him on fire.

  Ten

  Widow looked around and saw no convenience stores in sight. He was too afraid to leave behind the evidence he’d found long enough to go walking, searching for a place where he could buy unused zip lock bags to put the teeth in.

  If the Escalade parked down the block was the same one from the church and the guys inside it were watching him, then chances were they were the same guys who had done this to Eggers. Probably.

  He didn’t want to risk going away, buying a zip lock bag somewhere, and then returning to find all the evidence gone. So, Widow returned to the teeth, knelt, and scooped them up out of the crack.

  He did it fast and slipped the teeth into his coat pocket, opposite from the bottle label and the zip tie.

  He wished he owned a cell phone. This was one of the few times it would come in handy. He could’ve used the camera to photograph everything.

  Widow decided to go back to his hotel. He needed to call Aker. They needed to chat.

  He headed out of the park and walked back down the street. He glanced at the Escalade. It was still parked. The engine was still running idle.

  He wasn’t sure if whoever was in it had seen where he was staying or not.

  He didn’t recall seeing any black Escalades following him the night before or parked in the hotel’s parking lot. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a surveillance team.

  There could’ve been another player in another car, maybe one that wasn’t so suspicious.

  Maybe they had seen where he was staying the night before, but they didn’t make a move because he didn’t know anything yet. But now that he was carrying evidence that might change.

  Widow was a formidable fighter; he knew it. But he was unarmed. Guys who drove around in black Escalades with tinted glass everywhere were not unarmed. He knew that too.

  Widow walked along the sidewalk, heading the wrong direction from his hotel. He kept walking along the sidewalk with traffic on the same street that the Escalade was parked. Then he crossed over to the other side, their side of the street. He stopped at a corner and looked in every direction like he was lost and searching for a path to take. Then he turned right. He continued along the sidewalk, walking casually, walking slowly. He kept checking the reflections from windows of parked cars and glass from the windows of nearby apartment buildings. He searched for the Escalade to follow him.

  He walked to the next block, waiting at the crossing. No cars were coming, but he turned and looked every direction just so he could glance back and see if the Escalade was there.

  This time it was. It drove slowly, the minimum limit. It followed another car. And behind it was a car that was tailing close enough to hit the bumper if the Escalade hit the brakes.

  They were following him. No doubt about it. The night before they must’ve seen him, clocked him, made the proper notes of his existence. Maybe they even got a photo of his face. Then they’d let him go.

  Widow walked on until he came to an alley. He glanced down it and saw the right opportunity.

  Suddenly, he turned and took the alley, vanishing from their sightline for a moment.

  Once he was behind the buildings, he took off sprinting all the way to the end of the alley, which forked into two separate drives back to the streets. Widow turned right again and got lucky. He saw a woman buzzing herself into an apartment building, and he ducked into the closing door right behind her.

  The lady had thick blonde hair. She had her teenage daughter with her. The teenager was probably thirteen, maybe closer to twelve than fourteen. They carried groceries.

  They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared at Widow.

  He said, “Sorry, ladies. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  They stared at him blankly.

  Widow saw the concern on their faces. The building wasn’t very large, which meant they probably knew all the tenants. And they didn’t recognize him, which meant he didn’t belong.

  A large stranger who looks the way he looks following two smaller females into a door off an alley—what would anyone think?

  Naturally, they showed fear. He knew all the signs: the sudden look of surprise that turned to concern, the fidgeting hands, and the staggering knees.

  The mother slowly started to reach into her purse, one-handed. Widow presumed she was reaching for a can of mace or a cell phone or possibly a handgun.

  He said, “Is either one of you Ms. Daniels?”

  The mother’s hand stopped cold inside the purse. Whatever she had been grabbing for in there was already in hand.

  Widow saw the muscles in her forearm tighten as her hand gripped something. He guessed it was either a can of mace or the handle of a firearm. Until she pulled it out and sprayed him in the face or shot him in the face, he couldn’t be sure just by watching her wrist.

  The mother shook her head but didn’t give a verbal response.

  The teenage daughter asked, “Who’s that, mister?”

  “It’s my real estate agent. I’m here to check out the building.”

  The teenage daughter asked, “Are you moving into old man Hogan’s apartment? He died in there, you know? Your real estate lady is supposed to tell you that. It’s the law.”

  “Hogan? He died in the unit? I didn’t know that. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Your real estate lady is supposed to tell you.”

  Widow nodded along.

  “Thanks for telling me! That’s good to know. Some people aren’t as honest as you are. It’s a good trait to have. Never lose that.”

  The mother finally spoke.

  “The unit is on the top floor. You’ll have to take the stairs. The lift is busted.”

  She signaled at a lift behind Widow in the foyer with a glance. She never took her hand out of her purse. The other hand was carrying a heavy brown paper bag filled with groceries. Widow saw produce sticking out the top.

  Widow asked, “Oh, cool. Do you ladies need help with the bags?”

  The mother said, “No! No, we can handle it. Why don’t you go outside and wait for your agent?”

  “Oh, I prefer to wait in here. I like to get a look at the quality of the building first.”

  Widow didn’t give the mother the opportunity to reject him.

  “It’s not a good sign; the elevator is broken. How long has it been down?”

  The teenage daughter said, “For two weeks!”

  “Two weeks?”

  The mother said, “It’s an old building. The elevator, although it has a sticker in it that says it’s up to code with a date on it and official city inspector seal and all, it’s as old as the building.”

  “Really?” Widow asked. He opened his palm and made an imaginary pen with his other hand. He mimed like he was writing that down on a pad.

  “That’s going into my notes. Thank you for sharing. Any other
issues with the building?”

  Just then, Widow heard the sound of a vehicle passing the front door. It was the Escalade. He slid on his feet to the right so that he was out of the line of sight of the window glass on the front doors.

  The Escalade’s engine roared in the tight space between the brick walls in the alley. He heard it but didn’t look back.

  The teenage daughter said, “Mrs. Moore on the second floor has too many cats.”

  “She does? Well, that might not be copacetic for me. I’m allergic to cats,” Widow lied.

  The teenage daughter asked, “What’s copacetic?”

  “It just means it may not be good with me. Because of the allergies.”

  The teenage girl nodded along like she understood, which she only half did.

  Widow could hear the Escalade’s engine still humming as if they were there, waiting, watching him, but they couldn’t see him. He was sure.

  A moment later, the engine roared as the driver gassed the Escalade and they drove off, turning left, from the sound of it.

  The mother said, “We appreciate your offer to help with our bags, but we can make it.”

  “Of course. Then I’ll just wait down here until Ms. Daniels arrives.”

  Widow looked at the teenage daughter.

  He said, “Thanks for the info!”

  “I’m Silvia. This is my mom. Hope to see you around the building.”

  “I’m sure you will. Be safe now.”

  Widow waved them off. The mother led the way up the stairs. She never took her hand off the mace can or the gun in her purse.

  Eleven

  Widow waited another five minutes in the foyer. He ducked into a nook for the building’s mailboxes and waited there for the sound of the Escalade’s engine, in case it returned through the alley.

  It never came back through.

  Widow checked the portal on the door before exiting. Nothing. He stepped back out into the alley and into the morning sunlight.

  He saw no sign of the Escalade or whoever was inside it.

  He cursed himself for not getting a plate number. He didn’t dwell on it. Whoever they were, they would show up again—no doubt about that.

  Widow went into the alley. The Escalade had gone right, so he turned left and retraced his steps the way he had come.

  Widow found his way out to the street and thought about returning to his hotel to check to see if Aker left him a message, but he decided against going back to it just yet.

  The guys in the Escalade might be gone, and they might not. He was certain that they weren’t watching him right then, but that didn’t mean they weren’t tracking him somehow.

  He thought of the teeth in his pocket. As sci-fi as it sounded, he had heard of the CIA using tooth implants to track their agents in the field. He had no idea if it was true or not. He hoped not. It sounded clever because what enemy force would think to check a guy’s teeth for GPS chips? But if the word ever got out, then every bad guy on the planet would be pulling out the teeth of anyone they suspected of espionage.

  Widow shook off the thought and went back to the park. He turned and walked the streets, following the same route as the day before. He checked his six and kept his head on a swivel, looking for any sign of surveillance. He saw none.

  He glanced in each commercial store he passed: cafés, restaurants, a book store, an insurance agency, a law firm, and just a multi-office complex. He was looking for something in particular. It was something that was a relic of the twentieth century.

  Then, right as he passed a grocery shop, he saw it in the corner of his eye. He entered the grocer and walked over to a short hallway with two doors, leading into two public bathrooms, men’s and women’s restrooms. In between was a public water fountain, but after both restrooms, there was a public payphone.

  Widow stuck his hand into his pocket and fished out a quarter. He was lucky because he only had the one.

  He slipped the coin into the box and listened to a dial tone. At first, he almost dialed the hotel to check for a message, but then how would he return it? So, he just dialed straight to Aker’s phone.

  The phone rang, and he got an answer.

  “This is Michael Aker, attorney.”

  “Aker, It’s Jack Widow. We met last night at your client’s wake?”

  “Mr. Widow. I just left you a message at your hotel. Did you get it?”

  “No. I probably won’t be going back there.”

  “Okay. Well, I had called you back to say that I’m very interested in your help finding an heir for Mr. Eggers. We’ll need to do this on the up and up. So, you’ll have to work with my guy. He’s a licensed PI in DC, Maryland, and Virginia. And pretty much all of the neighboring states.”

  “Just a head’s up; there’s more to it than just finding an heir.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain in person. Where are you?”

  “I’m at home right now. I was just saying goodbye to my kids before heading out the door.”

  “Where’s your office? I’ll meet you there.”

  “My office is in North Bethesda. Where are you? I never heard of the hotel you were staying at.”

  “I’m in Capitol Hill.”

  There was a pause.

  Aker said, “Do you have a car?”

  “No car. I can take public transportation.”

  “No. Don’t do that. My office is nearly an hour away from you with DC traffic and all. I’ll have my PI pick you up. We’ll need him anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  “Tell him to meet me in front of this café nearby.”

  Widow gave him the name of the same little coffee shop where he’d gone nearly twenty-four hours earlier.

  “Okay. He’ll meet you there. His name is Tunney.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s an older gentleman. Gray hair, but lots of it. He’s probably my height, but he’s got a little belly. He’s retired FBI.”

  “Okay. Good enough. I got it.”

  “Okay. He’ll meet you there. I’m guessing it’ll be twenty minutes.”

  “Good. See you soon.”

  Widow hung up the phone without waiting for any more from Aker. He turned and walked out of the grocery. On the sidewalk, he looked both ways, up and down the street. No sign of the guys in the Escalade, unless they had gotten out and were watching him on foot, which would’ve been the right move if they knew where he was, which they didn’t. He was pretty sure, anyway.

  Widow walked on to the café to wait for this Tunney guy. Occasionally, he checked his six and maintained readiness in case the guys in the Escalade were smarter than he figured them for.

  Twelve

  It didn't take twenty minutes for Tunney to show up in front of the café as Aker had predicted. It took forty-one minutes. That was fine with Widow because in the extra time, he drank two large coffees, which was the catalyst that sent him for a pit stop in the men's room once before Tunney showed up.

  Widow came out of the men's room to find a gray-haired man sitting in his seat when he stepped out.

  Widow walked back to his table.

  "You must be Tunney?"

  The guy had the thick gray hair that Aker mentioned and a bit of a retirement gut, but he also dressed like a retired FBI agent-turned PI. He wore a gray suit and no tie. The suit was sleek, but worn and probably machine-washed many, many times. A PI working in DC probably couldn't afford to dry clean every suit he owned, Widow figured.

  The gray-haired man said, "I am. It's Brigs Tunney. And you must be Jack Widow?"

  "Brigs Tunney. That's quite a name."

  "So is Jack Widow."

  Tunney stood up from Widow's chair and offered a hand to shake. The effort exposed a shoulder holster rig under Tunney's right arm, meaning he was left-handed.

  The weapon in the holster was a Smith and Wesson Revolver Model 686 Plus, which was a fat weapon. His had a black rubber
grip and chrome everything else. Widow knew none of this because all he saw was the grip. But he figured it was a gun comparable to a .38 Police Special because Tunney was as police-looking as they came.

  Widow took Tunney's hand and shook it. He added a warm smile to the mix to show that he was friendly.

  In Widow's mind, it was better to be friendly with a man who could legally carry a concealed weapon than not be.

  "You got huge hands, Widow."

  "A gift from my father, I suppose."

  "You suppose?"

  "Never met him."

  "You adopted?"

  "No. Raised by a single mother. Just never knew my father. He left before I was born."

  "Sorry to hear that. It happens more often than it should."

  "It's okay. It doesn't affect me one bit. Besides, I don't think he abandoned us. I think he never even knew of me."

  "Oh. That sucks."

  Widow shrugged.

  Tunney pulled his hand away and left it by his side.

  "So, you ready to go?"

  "Let me get one more for the road."

  "Let me get it for you," Tunney said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thick wallet, not because it was filled with dollar bills, but because it was stuffed with pieces of paper. At first, Widow thought they were receipts. Some people kept all that stuff for tax write-offs. But when Tunney opened his wallet all the way at the register to get out cash, Widow saw many of the scraps of paper were actually handwritten notes. Maybe they were case notes that Tunney wrote to himself.

  Widow got a refill of the same large black coffee, only it was from a fresh pot. He put a lid on it this time because they would be in a moving car.

  Tunney ordered a small coffee, black. Which told Widow he was definitely retired law enforcement. It wasn't the black coffee alone, but all the other aspects of Tunney combined with the black coffee.

  The guy looked like a stereotype of a retired FBI agent. The only thing missing was a metal flask with alcohol in it. There was still time for that to appear. Maybe he did have one stuffed in his inside coat pocket.