by Theo Cage
“Who are you and what do you want?” asked Med, both hands on the gun.
“I was just after your purse. I haven’t eaten in days. Don’t shoot.”
“If you wanted my purse, why not just take it. Why try to kill me?”
“Really, lady. I wasn’t thinking. Please don’t call the cops.”
“No one is calling the police,” said a voice from the alley. Med recognized it immediately. It was David, stepping out of the shadow at the opening to the alleyway. She stepped back slowly, her eyes still on the man on the ground, emotion starting to well in her throat. David’s voice had boomed in the narrow alley, the echo still ringing in her ears. She was surprised by the harshness of it. Another side of the man she didn’t know.
David stepped up to Med and touched her shoulder. He growled at the man on his knees. “You’ve got three seconds to get out of here, asshole.” With that, the other man stood up painfully, awkwardly crawled over some garbage, and stumbled out into the street. When he was gone, David turned to Med and put his arms around her.
After a few seconds, Med asked. “I thought you were out of town?”
“Change of plans,” was all he said, “and please put that gun away before you shoot someone. More precisely, me.”
She looked up at his face. He seemed pleased, having saved the day. “Why did you let him go? He attacked me. He could have killed me.”
Xavier smiled at her. “He looked like a homeless guy to me. Desperate for his next meal. Maybe he has a family to feed. Hardly seems to deserve jail time.” He raised his hand and wiped her cheek where she had connected with the brick wall. She was mad, fighting off tears.
“You didn’t see what he did? I almost passed out. He — he — seemed like he wanted to hurt me. Like he was on a mission. And he looked pretty well fed to me.”
David smiled. “I admit I missed most of the excitement. I went looking for you when I realized you weren’t home, and I figured you’d head here for dinner. I heard the commotion in the alley and stepped in just when you … stomped on him. Impressive. But you also made him angry.”
Med slipped the .38 back into her purse and wiped at her sleeve where she had hit the grimy brick wall. Then she pushed Xavier back with both hands.
“I made him angry? You’re defending him? You weren’t here.”
Xavier shrugged, looking surprised. “OK. I’m sorry. I wasn’t here. You handled yourself like a pro. I should have stayed out.” He took a deep breath. “Are we alright then?” She didn’t answer. She just shivered once and let out a sigh.
“I don’t know what that was, David. It wasn’t a mugging. And I could have killed him tonight. I was ready to.”
Xavier carefully took her hand and led her out of the alley. “I worry about you in this neighborhood, Mary Ellen. There’s been a rash of rapes in the area lately.”
Med shivered again visibly. “I didn’t know that. But thanks for coming to check on me.”
Xavier shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. If I had got back on time today, we’d probably be sitting in a nice Italian restaurant somewhere drinking your favorite Shiraz. Planning our weekend.”
Med felt the sting of the abrasion on her cheek for the first time and touched it carefully. She had broken the skin. It was beginning to sting. “We can still go for dinner.”
Xavier stopped on the sidewalk. “My God, Mary Ellen. You were just mugged five minutes ago. Look at yourself. Torn slacks. Grease all over your coat. Blood on your cheek.”
“I’m not skulking back to my apartment after this. Screw him. He’s not going to wreck my Friday night.”
Xavier grabbed her arm. “I have a solution. Let’s catch a cab to the Fairfax on Embassy Row. We’ll book the penthouse suite, order room service and spend all night in the hot tub.” He was already searching for the hotel number in his smart phone address book when she kissed him on the cheek, one hand on her purse for reassurance.
CHAPTER 12
I was walking over to the Sex Crimes Unit to visit Wishnowsky when my cell phone vibrated. I checked the text message. No one in my department used texting, so I knew it had to be Kyla or her mother.
Daddio – don’t forget Jazz
Thurs 8 PM
Luv K
It was my daughter Kyla. She was reminding me of her Jazz concert at school.
I put the cell phone back in my jacket pocket, thankful that Kyla was nothing like me. The world had enough cynics. She was a happy kid who did well in school, was obsessed with music and majored in band and Jazz Club. Somehow I had managed not to mess her up as a child. I’m not sure how.
I’m also not the least bit musical, and neither was her mother, whereas she’s an accomplished trumpet player and not bad on the piano. One thing I’ve done well is I’ve never missed one of her recitals or concerts in all the years she’s been playing music. And that’s saying a lot. It’s a joke around here – don’t get killed on the night of the Rhapsody in Blue concert — because Hyde won’t be there to go over the crime scene.
Every time I think about Kyla, I can’t help but think about what I’ve missed over the years fighting an endless crime backlog. Birthday parties. Sleepovers. Friday nights watching movies. I’m not regretting what she’s missed because she has a full life, lots of love and a step-dad who’s not a total loser. But I’ve missed a lot. I left the show to go get some popcorn and missed some the best parts of the movie. And it’s not playing again. So I’m trying to find a way to squeeze everything I can out of any time we have together, and not infect her with my cynicism and surprise at the emptiness of people.
At her concerts, I’m like any parent, proud of her accomplishments. But I also feel like a ghoul. Like people can sense I’m not human; that they can see my alienness in the hard edge of my eyes or the set of my mouth. People are shocked when I smile. They don’t expect that from a vampire. It reveals my true nature too much.
So I calm myself by just focusing on the rhythm of the music. Sometimes I count off the beats, anything to take my mind off the most recent half-dozen unsolved homicides.
Kyla sends the occasional odd text message throughout the day. They are like small gifts.
I just dropped my books down the stairs at school.
OMG.
But I don’t mind. I feel more connected to her. I just don’t know what to respond with, so I don’t. And that feels again like a missed opportunity.
Putting the phone back in my coat pocket, I start getting what Emile calls a paranoia buzz. Anger, conflict, even the threat of violence was like a shot of amphetamines for anyone who survived more than a few years in the District. It wasn't that I enjoyed seeing people getting hurt or even got any pleasure from a fight; it was just that the anticipation was something like a runners high. The chase was everything.
When I first saw the old crime report on our victim, Scammel, the hairs had gone up on the back of my neck. A doctor had told me once that was my amygdala acting up — a tiny organ about the size of a walnut in the back of my brain, the gland that produced those fight or flight responses. I figure I have an amygdala the size of a football. It was rockin’ and rollin’ now, trying its damndest to get through to me.
As I walked over to Wishnowsky’s department, I went over the file. Scammel was picked up five years ago on a sexual molestation and kidnapping charge. The record showed he was arrested based on a call from the parents. The father was a Washington lobbyist and connected to the Republican Party. A powerful guy in Washington circles. Yet they pleaded the sex crime down to a misdemeanor. I’m surprised they didn’t just make Scammel disappear. That would have been more plausible.
Even more surprising, Scammel’s file says there was a sperm sample that somehow went missing. So the parents dropped the beef. That was crazy. I couldn’t imagine giving up on something like that if it had happened to my daughter.
When I arrived at Vice, Wishnowsky was sitting at an old beat-up metal desk halfway through a corn beef on rye. We were
both old timers at Metro headquarters, so he wasn’t that surprised to see me. When I sat down on the corner of his desk, causing a stack of his files to lean over and scatter onto the green linoleum, I got his attention. Wishnowsky looked up at me and narrowed his eyes. "Shit" was all he said.
I started with "So you guys in Vice actually have time to eat lunch? Cushy bloody job if you ask me."
Wishnowsky took a bite and chewed it slowly, looking me over with his puffy eyes. “Doesn't look like you're missing too many meals, Hyde."
I looked down at my barrel chest. "This? This is all muscle." Then I leaned in. "Want me to use some of it on you?"
"Ha. Your midsection is a real threat. I’m terrified. This is my lunch break, Hyde. You're makin' me lose my appetite. What do you want?"
"This'll only take a sec." I pulled a crumpled victim report out of the Scammel file I brought with me. "We’ve got a body you had a nodding acquaintance with." Wishnowsky drank from a Coke can, his mouth still full. "Now don't get too excited. This was purely platonic."
"Get to the point," he said, still chewing his food.
"Scammel! Frank Scammel!"
Wishnowsky didn't blink. If anything, he just chewed faster. "Doesn't sound like anybody on my top ten."
"This guy was picked up years ago on a pervert beef. For some reason never charged with a felony."
"So?"
"I called the parents." I thought that would get his attention. He just belched.
"It's your nickel. Are you going to get to the point here?"
"This guy, Lance. He says you delivered a check for $35,000. Some sort of out-of-court settlement. Doesn’t sound like standard police procedure. You don't remember giving some guy a check for almost forty G's?"
Wish wiggled in his chair. He seemed to wince. We all knew he had health problems, but no one knew the details. "It wasn't cash, asshole. It was a check in an envelope with a legal document. I only did it because the case shook me up. My daughter was the same age at the time. The perp was a certified creep, but there was no way we could nail him. No evidence. Just the word of a spoiled rich kid looking for attention."
I knew bullshit when I saw it. "You're full of it, Wishnowsky." A poker player told me once the best way to recognize a bluff was to look at a player’s feet. His were jiggling like a three-year-old who needed to pee.
"Glad you think so, Greg. Everyday I wait on pins and needles to find out what your opinion of me is."
"Scammel was CIA.” I offered. This stopped him for a second. It seemed to throw him off. He looked like he didn’t know anything about Scammel’s real employer. And his feet stopped moving.
"Yeah, right. Did you see this guy?"
"I didn't say he was an agent. He was a low-end techie."
"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know? They don't carry membership cards. This guy looked like your classic pervert. No eye contact, bad hygiene and a greasy pony tail."
"You're saying it wasn't the CIA that put pressure on your department to knock this case out of the loop?"
Wish had gone from reserved to angry. He had real color in his face for a few seconds. "I just said I didn't know he was CIA. He was a disgusting pig. CIA didn’t come immediately to mind."
"There’s a note in the murder file about a confession."
Wish put down what was left of his sandwich. I could tell that he had made it himself. Everyone knew his wife had died a few years before in a car accident with a drunk driver. "Greg, you're a funny guy to have around. If there was a confession, why the hell would we have pleaded him out? It was a shitty investigation. No one was happy. Especially me.”
Wishnowsky swallowed hard. It seemed to cause him pain. “I would have cashed his chips in myself, but I was deluded into thinking I had a career at that point. But I gave it serious thought. What kind of idiot does that make me? Don't fuck with this one."
I glared at the beanpole of a cop. "Was that a threat?"
"It was a reality check."
"I'd love to pop you one. Just once, right there in the forehead. Might straighten you out." I was just playing with him. He looked like a strong wind could carry him away.
Wish smiled. I guess the only fun he had lately was when someone paid attention to him — even someone like me. "I'm not the one who needs straightening," he added, and then burped again. The CIA connection was obviously a dead end. A secret like that would have shaken the guy up, and he wasn’t great at covering up. I got up to leave.
“Hyde, wait. Look. I know you’ve worked with the FBI in the past and I hear it was a nightmare. The CIA makes the fibbies look like candy stripers. This guy Scammel was their golden boy, and they were throwing around serious 9/11 homeland security shit to back it up.”
I was puzzled. I would be willing to bet he had no idea the CIA was involved. Now it was his excuse. Wish added, “And Scammel was no golden boy. I thought he was a sack of shit.”
I went along. “I get it. You didn’t like him.”
Wish continued. “They couldn’t have him locked up with a bunch of other child molesters apparently. He was needed, they said. National security.” Nice lie, I thought.
I was still playing the bad cop. “Wishnowsky, get your head out of your ass. Scammel was no code breaker or genius computer freak, he was an artist.”
“Well, they pulled in markers for their boy. Maybe they were just embarrassed. Doesn’t look good when CIA employees are caught twiddling little girls.”
“What about the parents. How’d you buy them off?”
Wishnowsky hesitated. “I didn’t buy anyone off. The CIA paid $60,000 to have their daughter enrolled in some fancy therapy program. And the CIA promised. If Scammel ever surfaced again, they would slice his nuts off in a public square. That’s the gist of it. Look. Let it be. They don’t call those Intelligence freaks ‘spooks’ for no reason. They could make us both disappear, and even your ex-wife would forget you ever existed. And they’ll never admit to it.”
“What about your partner? The guy on the case with you?” I asked.
“Peeps was his name. He had a heart attack about two weeks after that case came up. We were giving chase to some hype in a stolen car, hit a parked truck, the air bags went off and the force hammered his ticker so hard, it stopped. He was two years from retiring.”
I stared at Wishnowsky, noticing that his head looked too big for his shrunken body. “How much you got till you retire, Wish?”
Wishnowsky smiled with his gray lips. “I’ll never retire, Hyde. I’m like you. We’re goin’ down with the ship.”
“If you’re going down, man — you’re going down on your own.”
“Just let it be, Hyde. Honestly. It’s over. The guy saved the state a lot of money by offing himself. Just let that pervo go to hell where he belongs.”
CHAPTER 13
The judge at the sentencing hearing in Canada, the one who thought Roger deserved two years in a minimum-security prison, said something that the programmer would never forget. She declared that Roger’s interest in hacking was pathological. When he looked up the word on Wikipedia, he was surprised to find an article on disease. The other definition? A mentally disturbed condition. He felt like she had rendered a diagnosis more than a judgment.
Roger had always felt that his hacking obsession was just a manifestation of his curiosity. Not a disease. When he was a teenager, he hacked into his High School’s computer network to find out what his teachers really thought about him. He cracked his friend’s home networks so he could find out how much their parents made and what they were buying on eBay. He just couldn’t stand secrets.
So that led to the obvious question. Who’s David Xavier? And what does he do? What does he look like? What’s his interest in Med?
Roger did the standard searches. Google had hundreds of David Xaviers. A basketball coach. A plumbing contractor. An environmental activist who chained himself to a Sequoia for a week, which included an award-winning photo. He realized this was going to take
a while.
Roger had convinced himself he was interested because Xavier was an outsider. Most of the CIA computer mayhem involved company personnel. Xavier wasn’t CIA. Of course, neither was the nanny dropping ‘War and Peace’ on the baby in the crib, but Xavier was far more interesting. He wanted to know what Med’s friends were all about. Why she hung with this guy.
Roger tried LinkedIn and a number of other professional social network sites as well as Facebook. He was surprised to find that Med wasn’t part of any social media. Even the Washington Metropolitan Police had a Facebook page. Could be a CIA regulation although he couldn’t find any evidence of that in his searches. Or maybe she just had a noticeable absence of a social life or a friends’ network since she seemed to spend most of her waking hours on GIPETTO scanning for foreign troop movements.
Going back to Google, Roger narrowed the search to Xaviers in Washington DC. After only a few minutes, he found what he thought he was looking for. David Xavier. President and CEO of MicroFlight, a company that developed UAVs, unmanned aerial vehicles. Basically small remote control planes used in aerial recon and surveillance. He found the link to the MicroFlight website. There wasn’t much there. Basically one page with a few pictures. The company’s biggest client was the US Army but they also had clients all over the world. MicroFlight apparently had offices in Washington, London, China and Dubai. No picture was posted of Xavier.
According to a brief bio, Xavier was a marathon runner and a triathlete — chair of several charitable organizations and sat on a number of corporate boards.
Roger was intimidated by this man already. A wealthy businessman. World traveler. Athlete. Well-connected. What did Med and him have to talk about?
Roger tapped his fingers on the keyboard. Despite all the finds on the Internet Roger couldn’t find a photo. How does Buzzworm get Xavier’s picture and use it to harass Med when it’s not publicly available? Whoever is behind Buzzworm knows they’re connected somehow and yet there is no obvious online connection. And images to copy.
