“Knock, knock,” a female voice chirped. He looked around. It was Rue Waltham, the lovely rooftop visitor from the other day. She was decked out in running gear, practical and yet just the least bit sexy. It was those filmy white running shorts, he decided. Looked more like panties. She had a small fanny pack Velcro’ed to the small of her back. She grinned when she caught him checking her out.
“Hey, there,” he said. “Ready to try out for the C & O relays?”
She gave him a brilliant smile, and, for just a moment, his rule about getting close to the ladies wobbled a bit. “Try’s the operative word,” she said. “If I hold you back, let me know and get on down the road.”
“It’s not a race,” he said. “Let’s just enjoy the morning. You warm up already?”
“No, but it won’t take a minute,” she said. She then proceeded to stretch and bend, and then bend and twist some more. Av continued through his own warm-up motions while trying not to stare. Had to admit: the young lady had developed a lovely procedure. He grinned when a passing runner bounced into a hedge as he trotted by, gawking. Yeah, dude, he thought. She is pretty, isn’t she.
“Okay,” she said a few minutes later. “Ready if you are.”
They headed up the towpath at a leisurely jog. She ran alongside to his left and appeared to be going at an enjoyable pace. She was fit, he decided after five minutes, with no visible breathing problems. He relaxed. He’d been afraid she might be trying for something she couldn’t really do, but it was evident that she actually was a runner. The morning was glorious, the air clear and smog-free, the towpath traffic light as they jogged in place while waiting to cross the streets. While they were waiting at the second bridge, he heard Rue squeak in surprise. He looked over, saw her staring at something in front of them, and then he saw it, too. “It” was a man’s face looking back at them through the driver’s-side window of a black Mercedes that was stuck in traffic across from them. He was wearing a red ball cap, and there was something really wrong with his face, and with his left eye in particular, which made it impossible to tell how old he was, but that left eye reminded Av of a snake’s eyes. Rue looked away, aware that she was being rude, and then the traffic edged forward, creating a gap through which they quickly crossed the street and then went back down to the towpath.
“Jeez,” he heard her say, and he grunted something in reply. Some weirdo wearing a Halloween mask, right there in broad daylight. They finally jogged out of the urban part of Georgetown and into the park. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; even the canal water still looked better than usual, with no visible floating bodies. He’d decided not to talk: he could maintain this pace for miles and hold a conversation, but he wasn’t yet sure about her.
Once they cleared the downtown area he asked if she was ready to kick it up a bit. She nodded, and they went to work. For the next three miles he concentrated on his own pace and breathing while not paying much attention to her. She’d told him to keep on going if she faltered, but she didn’t. At four miles, near Chain Bridge, he slacked off. He looked over at Rue. She was breathing much harder now, and her face and skin were flushed. She looked back at him and nodded, but obviously had no breath for conversation. He slowed to the jog pace for the next half-mile, watching her out of the corner of his eye as her color faded and she regained her breath. He looked at his watch.
“Turnaround time,” he announced. “Slow jog back, okay?”
She nodded. As they turned around he caught her scent: a touch of perfume, some serious sweat, and a bare frisson of something else. Female exertion, he decided, or some of those lethal female pheromones. Shields up!
As they headed back he became aware of two runners closing in behind them. He wanted to look back but held himself in check. There were lots of runners out by then. Two more behind him meant nothing. Except: they were gaining, running harder than he and Rue were, their feet pounding harder on the towpath than seemed necessary. A moment later they passed him.
Military again. Those same sunglasses, cropped hair, extreme fitness, and passing a little closer than necessary. He’d felt Rue move in closer to him when they’d gone by. Then he realized the runners were slowing their pace a bit now that they were in front. Extra-long black tees, red shorts today, military-style ball caps. Familiar, he thought. Coincidence? Not fucking likely.
Footsteps behind them again. This time he really did want to look over his shoulder, but his cop sense told him everything he needed to know. It was another box. He touched his right hand to his gun pouch, and then remembered he wasn’t alone this time. He glanced at Rue: she was oblivious, head down, putting one foot in front of the other. He had no idea what these guys intended, if anything, but he wished she wasn’t in the mix just now.
He saw the bridge he’d stopped at with the fake cramp coming up ahead. There was a thick stand of scraggly trees on the river side of the towpath. Now there was no one else around, and that in itself was strange—ten minutes ago there’d been all sorts of foot traffic. All of a sudden it was just the six of them, running almost in formation, at a jog pace. He had the clear sense that both pairs of runners were subtly shortening the box. He casually draped his right hand over the groin pouch, ready to draw. And then from up ahead, at the bridge itself, came a loud: Kiyai!
“Walking now,” he murmured to Rue. “Stay close to me.”
“Wha-at?” she said, looking around.
As they dropped down into a walk, Av took her by the arm and veered to the left, walking over to the side of the towpath closest to the canal. The two guys behind, surprised by his sudden turn, trotted by and then slowed down, while the two up ahead had stopped. Then all four turned to stare at the apparition rising on the towpath.
Wong Daddy stood there just on the other side of the bridge like an ambulatory oak tree, beginning his foot-stomping routine and carrying on in the unknown Asian dialect. He was wearing a size fifty-something judo gi pants, a tent-sized Metro PD sweatshirt, and a black band around his forehead. His fists were clenched and he was amping up the volume while staring wild-eyed at the four runners. Each time he raised his arms to balance the next stomp, his gold shield and holstered gun became visible. The four runners backed up a few steps as they realized Wong Daddy was approaching them with each stomp. He had coarsened his voice and was now sounding like the senior samurai in a Kurosawa movie.
“What is that?” Rue asked, pointing at Wong while sticking to Av like glue. “And who are those guys?”
“’Bout to find out, I think,” Av said, pulling up his T-shirt to expose his own gold shield, and drawing his snub-nose. “Go sit on that bench over there, and if there’s shooting, get into the water.”
“Shooting? What?!”
The four runners were in a close group now, and two of them had their hands under the right side of their own extra-long tees. Then, from behind the approaching madman, came the growl of a siren as a Metro black-and-white came crunching slowly up the towpath, blue lights strobing. When it reached the approaches to the arched bridge, the engine shut down and Miz Brown unlimbered his lanky frame from inside the Crown Vic. He was dressed in a suit and tie, with his gold shield pinned to his left breast pocket.
There was nowhere for the four runners to go except back the way they’d come, and by now Av was standing on the towpath in their way. Miz Brown gave Wong Daddy a tender little pat on his bald pate as he walked by, opening his credentials and asking the four men to identify themselves. Wong Daddy stopped his performance and then joined Miz Brown. When he got to within six feet of the four nervous-looking individuals, he growled something, hunched forward, and then began to sidestep around the group of four, his fingers opening and closing as if they were independently seeking something to squeeze the life out of. Miz Brown stepped into the magic circle, and displayed his credentials more prominently.
“Metro PD, gentlemen,” he said. “ID, please? Preferably before I lose control of my troll here?”
Av could see that the four were co
nsidering a bolt, either by rushing Brown, four on one, and taking their chances with Av’s .38, or even executing a scrambling detour down the heavily wooded hillside toward the banks of the Potomac. He heard a noise behind him and turned to find Howie, also in a suit and minus the dreads wig, standing with his coat back and his right hand on his hip-holstered weapon. Traffic up on Canal Street was slowing as people caught sight of the weird tableau down on the towpath. The four guys looked positively worried now, and then two more black-and-whites hove into view behind Miz Brown’s car. Four uniforms got out and spread themselves along the towpath.
That seemed to do it for the four unsubs. The oldest-looking one of them reached down and lifted the hem of his tee, revealing his own gold badge pinned to his waistband. The other three followed suit. Their tees were plenty big enough to accommodate holstered weapons, but no one appeared to be reaching.
“We’re FPS,” the man said. “Our creds are in the office.”
“FPS?” Miz Brown asked, looking puzzled. “What you doin’ out here in a national park, harassing a Metro police detective?”
“We’re exercising,” the man said. “We’re not harassing anyone.”
Av put away his weapon. “You lose these the other day, FPS?” he called, and pitched the cheap wraparounds at the man’s feet.
The man looked down, then shrugged. Miz Brown took a deep breath and launched into what Howie called one of his waterfall monologues. Howie had eased up on his shooting stance and was now lighting up a cigarette while watching Brown envelop the four guys in a perfect cloud of bullshit. He winked at Av.
Av, realizing Miz Brown was in full cry, backed away and walked over to where Rue Waltham was huddled on a park bench. To his surprise, she was looking more interested in the little drama than scared.
“Relax,” he told her, quietly. “They’re federal cops, not muggers; some kind of misunderstanding here, apparently. We can go now.”
He took her arm gently and they walked by the four runners, bookended now by Wong Daddy, who was deep-breathing while still muttering and staring fixedly at the smallest of the runners, and Miz Brown, who was lecturing the four men on the rules of interagency procedure within the District of Columbia. Once they cleared the scene on the other side of the bridge, Av suggested they jog back from here. Rue seemed only too willing. The uniforms stared curiously at the two of them as they trotted by.
“Who were all those people?” she asked.
“The four guys say they’re Federal Protective Service. You know, the uniforms you see on federal properties, working front-gate security and the X-ray machines inside the lobby?”
“And they were interested in you?”
“Seemed to be,” Av said. “Saw them days ago. Same deal; they boxed me in while I was running. Didn’t do or say anything, just let me know they were there, and that they could have done something if they’d wanted to.”
“Did you do something to a federal building?”
“Not that I know of, but, trust me, those four guys will soon be just dying to tell Detective Sergeant Brown what they were out there for.”
SEVEN
“Bogus,” Miz Brown declared. “I mean, c’mon, Federal Protective Service? They’re a buncha building guards.”
The Briar Patch crew were sitting around the conference table, drinking coffee and rehashing the towpath incident. Av asked Brown if the FPS badges looked real.
“Yeah, they did, but so what? You have to see creds and then run a check, you know? They were packing, or at least two of them were. But WTF? What were they doing out there, screwin’ with Brother Av’s morning run?”
“They have an answer for that?”
“Nope,” Brown said. “Stone effing wall. Just out for a run, like everyone else. Didn’t know nothing about nothing. One of them did want to know the last time anybody fed Wong.”
“Well, I appreciate the assist,” Av said. “They did it twice, and they had me a little spooked.”
“Spooked,” Wong Daddy said. “Shoulda let me spool it on up a little, you wanna see spooked.”
Av laughed. “It was pretty good as was,” he said. “Those four guys did not know what to do next, you started in with that Toshiro Mifune samurai shit. Wonderful.”
“Yeah,” Wong said, proudly. “Got that bad boy down cold.”
It was the first time Av had heard Wong speak normally. He realized that Wong was a righteous piece of work, and he wanted to know him better.
“So,” Brown said. “We had some fun, entertained the commuters on Canal Street a little, got to see Mau-Mau in a suit, and ran off some rent-a-cops. Can anybody tell me what started all this shit?”
“You talked to them,” Av said. “You really didn’t get anything?”
Brown shook his head. “But,” he pointed out, proudly, “I wasn’t listening all that much. Not my style, right?”
“I’ve been running the towpath for years,” Av said. “Never had anyone do what those guys were doing. I keep trying to think of what I’ve been into lately that might have lit a fuse somewhere.”
“That business up on Connecticut Avenue is the only thing I can think of,” Howie said. “And I see no possible connection between that mess, strange as it is, and the Federal Protective Service.”
“Strange is what we do here,” Brown reminded them.
“Okay,” Av said. “You want strange? Lemme recap: we initially tried to move the sudden unexplained death of one Francis X. McGavin to the Bureau, because he was working for the DHS. They said, thanks, but no thanks. MedStar ER classifies the dead guy as a John Doe. Their pathology people, however, said his name was McGavin. The FBI won’t say one way or another if this Ellen Whiting works for them. OCME says they can’t figure out the cause of death, other than that every important organ suddenly stopped. The ME has a theory, but he isn’t willing to commit to it yet. Then he hinted at poison. But: the guy didn’t eat anything at the frog restaurant. Owner of said frog restaurant was observed by his crew being taken away in a black SUV, ostensibly driven by the Food Safety Division of the District government, who supposedly shut the place down with a suspension notice that is written on a proper form but was never issued by the District food police. And now I’ve got federal building guards hassling my ass on the C & O Canal towpath?”
“Who’s the hottie?” Howie asked.
“A tenant in my building, wanted somebody to run with ’cause she’s new in town.”
Wong Daddy looked interested. “She in play?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Av said. “I can fix you right up. I think. She may be a lawyer, though.”
Wong grunted, his sudden distaste evident. He had his standards, after all.
“Gentlemen,” Precious announced from the doorway. “I’ve just had an interesting phone call.”
The fearless foursome turned as one to hear what she had to say. She came in and sat down at the head of their conference table. “From the FPS, of all people?”
The four of them looked at each other and then executed a unanimous: oooooh. Precious did not appear to be amused.
“One deputy director for management named Stein called Assistant Chief Taylor, he of the unswervingly happy demeanor?”
There were groans at the table. Assistant Chief Taylor, known unofficially at MPD headquarters as Happy, of the Seven Dwarfs fame, was one of those aging white men who desperately need about a daily quart or so of serotonin reuptake inhibitor medication. Taylor manifested a notoriously perpetual red ass; a broken shoelace was sufficient to trigger a towering rage. They could only imagine what a bitch call from the FPS might provoke.
“Four of Mister Stein’s special agents were ambushed—Stein’s word—on the C & O Canal towpath this morning while conducting daily physical fitness training, by an equal number of Metro PD detectives, one of whom was acting like Godzilla on crystal meth and who put them in fear for their personal safety.”
“Damn straight,” Wong muttered proudly.
“The
description given was sufficient to identify the inmates of the Briar Patch as the guilty bastards. There were also black-and-whites involved? So: WTF, over? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Av took the question and gave her the background. “It was the sunglasses that did it,” he finished up. “Same thing they were wearing, but a Walmart version. Looked like a threatening message.”
“Why would four FPS special agents want to threaten you?” she asked.
“Great question,” Av said. “Sergeant Brown talked to them.”
“And did they enlighten you, Sergeant Brown?”
“Um, I may have done most of the talking,” Brown said. “They didn’t say much of anything.”
“No surprise there,” Howie observed. “And since when did federal building guards get special-agent status?”
“Since nine-eleven,” Precious said. “They’re no longer just a bunch of rent-a-cops dozing at the front doors of federal buildings. Think counterterrorism. Homeland Security. Like that.”
“Well,” Av said, “for what it’s worth, the only weirdness I’ve been rolling around in the past week has to do with a former Homeland Security ass-bandit.”
Precious started to ask the obvious question, but then stopped, chewing her lower lip for a moment. The detectives watched. Apparently, one did not interrupt Precious when she was thinking.
“Okay,” she said. “Back to basics here: we’re the ILB. Our mission is to move tarbabies out of the Metro PD. Detective Smith: can you explain how this FPS drama is related to the McGavin case?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I can’t make a connection. Right now I think these are probably four ex-rent-a-cops who’ve been issued gold badges, a new title, and who’ve been watching too many movies.”
“But why you?” she asked.
Av shook his head.
“And it happened twice?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “And the second time I thought we were going to get down to some kind of business, till they got a good look at Wong Daddy cranking up his monster mash.”
Cold Frame Page 8
