Cold Frame

by P. T. Deutermann

  “You should, Detective,” the colonel said. “Carl Mandeville, Logan’s dinner date? He’s the executive director of the DMX committee. Logan was the Treasury rep to the DMX committee. Francis X. McGavin of Bistro Nord fame was the DHS rep to the DMX committee. And the one thing that links those two guys, beside being dead and being members of the DMX committee? Is you guys.”

  “Seriously?” Mau-Mau exclaimed. “You think we had something—”

  The colonel raised a hand. “No, no, no. Of course not,” he said. “But once it gets out within the CT world that two members of the DMX have died within days of each other, inquiring minds are going to start asking questions—and doing pattern analysis. I understand you guys want nothing to do with this, but I wanted to warn you that ILB may get swept up if a shitstorm starts.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to that,” Mau-Mau said. “We’ll just do what we’re paid to do in dear ole ILB, and that’s bounce said shitstorm right back on the first federal agency comes makin’ trouble for us. Now, I got one for you—what’s a DMX?”

  “Kick-ass black rapper,” Wong offered.

  “Hardly,” the colonel said. “It’s just one of a hundred classified committees related to counterterrorism. What makes it different is that members are relatively senior officials.”

  “What’s it do?” Av asked.

  “It’s a Washington committee, Detective Sergeant,” the colonel said. “It doesn’t do anything but talk. I’ll bet you’ve got some committees in MPD just like it.”

  Av wasn’t entirely satisfied with this answer. The way the colonel had uttered the word “DMX” earlier was now being papered over as if DMX was no big deal. Then he suddenly understood: the whole purpose of this little beer muster had been for the colonel to find out if they knew what they’d bumped up against. “We surely do,” Av said. “So: what would you want us to do if somebody does comes knocking?”

  “Call me?” the colonel said. “I can get the heat off you mosh skosh. In return, I get a leg up on the pack of hounds that’s probably going to get into these two deaths.”

  That’s two, Av thought. First the Professional Standards guy from the Bureau, now this colonel from Jay-something, wanting to be “kept informed.” Or was it three? His fairy godmother had said something along the same lines, hadn’t she?

  “Sounds reasonable,” he said. “Right, guys?”

  The other three nodded. Miz Brown hadn’t said anything else, which was good, because if he got going they’d be here all night. That did not mean he hadn’t been listening, though. Mau-Mau had told him that Brown had a tape recorder in his head, which was probably where he got all those words once one of his verbal waterfalls started. Right now, though, there was more important business: the colonel had just ordered a third pitcher of beer. Wong fielded a phone call, smiled, and then had some more beer.

  “So how’s the War on Terror going these days?” Av asked, just to be sociable.

  They sat there drinking beer and indulging in general-purpose BS for the next half hour, and then Wong’s current main squeeze made her entrance. She was Chinese, highly made-up, wearing a clingy, gold lamé dress with slits in all the appropriate places, shiny red heels, and a hairdo that looked to be made of black lacquer. Has to be a joke, Av thought—she looked like something out of a Charlie Chan movie. Wong beamed.

  It being a Marine bar, the denizens didn’t embarrass themselves by making rude noises, as would have been the case in any army bar. Instead, a wave of appreciative silence moved with her as she approached their table and smiled down at Wong. He made a noise that sounded to Av suspiciously like a whimper, which made perfect sense to Av. There was a quick exchange in an unknown dialect, and then Wong rose, excused himself, bowed to the colonel, thanked him for the drinks, and then followed his dragon lady out of the bar, while two dozen grown marines tried not to cry.

  Wong’s departure seemed to be the signal for the beer muster to close up. Miz Brown said he had to get ready for night school. Mau-Mau followed, saying he had a really hot date lined up.

  “What’s her name?” Av asked.

  Mau-Mau actually looked sheepish. “Her name is takeout,” he said. “Haven’t decided what kind yet, but the Knicks are on tonight, and, well … that’s gonna have to do.”

  Av and the colonel laughed, saluted with their beer glasses, and watched him go.

  The colonel poured out the last of the pitcher and then sat back in his chair. “So, Detective, whad’da you think about the situation in general?”

  Av considered the question for a moment before answering.

  “With all due respect, Colonel,” he said, finally, “I think you’ve been blowing a fair amount of smoke. That in turn makes me think that there is some kind of serious shit going on here in River City.”

  The colonel’s face settled into a disturbingly stark stare. His mouth flattened into a straight line, and his eyes seemed to almost freeze over. Av recognized a game face when he saw one. He thought he heard a marine at a nearby table give out a low “whoa.”

  “Great minds think alike, Detective Smith,” the colonel said, quietly. “Washington is full of people playing games, almost always for personal, financial, or professional advantage. You guys have bumped up against the DMX, which is the sharp end of the counterterrorism spear. Think black widow, okay? Multiple eyes and venom as powerful as a cobra. DMX produces the Kill List, which goes to the President. Once he approves it, the big gray drones leave the Midwest for faraway places and people incandesce in the night. Yes, it’s just a committee, but it’s unlike ninety-nine point nine percent of Washington committees. This one kills people.”

  “You said a moment ago that it was just another committee, that they talk but don’t actually do anything.”

  “You’re not cleared to know any of this, Detective,” the colonel said. “So appreciate it and then forget I ever said anything. You were right about being careful, though. Guys like Mandeville take no prisoners. You get the slightest indication that Mandeville or anyone on the DMX for that matter is taking an interest in you, personally, put your papers in and get the fuck outa Dodge.”

  “Just like that?”

  “No, Sergeant. Faster than that.”

  * * *

  An hour later Av was ensconced on the rooftop of his building, enjoying a beer and the beginnings of another lovely sunset. Their little séance with the colonel was much on his mind. He couldn’t decide if all these encounters—the runners on the towpath, the mysterious Ellen Whiting, the Bureau rat-squad supervisor, and now this cold-eyed colonel—represented nothing more than a bunch of self-serving federal officials trying to protect their respective turfs. Or: perhaps it was something more sinister?

  He considered calling each of his brand-new best friends and telling them about the other two. Throw some shit in the game, and maybe that way they’d all get their cloaks and daggers out and go after each other. The Briar Patch solution—move the tarbaby. He decided to pitch that idea at the morning meeting; see what Precious thought of that. He grinned when he imagined her response: what the fock are you thinking, you focking fock?

  The phone rang. The caller ID read “out front now.” When he picked up, there was only a dial tone. He went to a front window and looked down at the street. There he saw a white Harley Low Rider parked in front of his gate, and a woman, her helmet in her lap, looking up at him and beckoning. He recognized that face: Ellen Whiting. She was talking to Rue Waltham, of all people. He grabbed his wallet, creds, and his off-duty Glock and then headed downstairs.

  Rue passed him on the stairs and gave him a nice smile. Once out front, Ellen complimented him on his choice of tenants and then handed him a white helmet. She waited while he fit it, put it on, and fixed the strap. She was wearing black leather pants, a white T-shirt under a sleeveless leather vest, and black gloves with steel antiroadrash buttons. The Harley’s engine was running at idle, encouraged by an occasional throttle bump to let everyone know what brand of bike was prese
nt for duty, and then he climbed onto the backseat. She slapped her visor down and he did the same. He looked for handles, thought briefly about her waist, and then found the two grips just in time. He was surprised to hear her voice in the helmet telling him to hang on tight as she U-turned and then goosed the bike up Thirty-third Street, and then right on M Street.

  When they got to Wisconsin she turned left and they rumbled up through the residual evening traffic to the National Cathedral. They parked in the almost empty public lot out front since the parking garage was closed. She extracted two coffee smoothies from a saddlebag and handed one to Av. They then walked back into an area called the Bishop’s Garden, taking their helmets with them.

  She looked different from the other night. No more glam makeup and seductive lips. In fact, she looked scared. And, this evening, no more mass of blond hair. She had close-cropped dark hair. She’d been a platinum blonde the other night. Hairpieces?

  “I had a Harley when I was in the Marines,” he said. “Didn’t get to ride it much, so I finally sold it, for just about as much as I’d paid for it. Got another one a few years after I joined the force. Still have it. Gotta love that sound.”

  “Foreign travel get in the way?” she asked.

  “It was like the recruiters said: Join the Marines. See the world. Meet lots of interesting people. And kill them.”

  She smiled and sipped her smoothie, but he noticed that her hands were clasped together and her knuckles were medium white. Lady was scared of something. He gave the gardens a quick scan, looking for guys in running gear and mirrored glasses.

  “So what’s the occasion, godmother?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining. But you look—worried?”

  She didn’t reply for a moment. “You read about the guy who played bullfighter with the Mercedes over in Georgetown the other night?” she said, finally.

  “Happened right in front of me,” he said. “Wish I’d been elsewhere.”

  She stared at him. “You’re shitting me.”

  “Not one pound,” he said. “What about him?”

  She sighed. “His name was Hilary Logan. He was the assistant secretary of the treasury for international trade. He was also Treasury’s rep to the DMX. Do you know what that stands for?”

  “In fact, I do,” Av said. “Got a tutorial just this afternoon from some guy calling himself Colonel Steele. You know him by any chance? Says he’s from Jay-shit or something like that. Fort Bragg, North Carolina.”

  “Jay-SOC,” she said. “Joint Special Operations Command. Military. Operational headquarters for the snake-eaters. And no, I don’t know him, but I’ll bet I could describe him to you.”

  Av smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “They do all look kinda alike, don’t they. Anyway, he invited all four of us for beer at a Marine dive down near Eighth and I. Then he warned me to watch our collective asses, because whatever’s going on involves this darkside committee called DMX. Is that for real, by the way? They order up assassinations and shit?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “We—they—”

  “Whoa,” Av interrupted. “‘We’?”

  She sighed. “Truth in lending time, I guess,” she said. “I am also a member of the DMX. I represent the Bureau.”

  “Which Bureau?”

  She gave him an impatient look. “The Bureau, smartass.”

  “Okay, so not Bureau of Indian Affairs, then. Right. You know a guy named Tyree Miller by any chance?”

  She stared at him again. “You do get around, don’t you,” she said. “Tyree Miller? Not willingly. A tap on the shoulder from Tyree Miller means your day is about to turn to shit. Why?”

  “Well,” he said. “We had a chat after you took off in that cab.” He told her about his little séance in the Bureau car, emphasizing the fact that Miller had implied that she, Ellen Whiting, did not work for The Bureau.

  She leaned back on the bench and stretched her legs straight out, as if trying to straighten out a cramp. “And you agreed to call him and tell him about any further contact you and I might have?”

  “I did,” Av said. “What the hell, Ellen Whiting: who am I to tell some senior-looking dude in the Bureau’s Professional Standards Division to fuck off? And, oh-by-the-way, ever since our brave little band touched the McGavin tarbaby, I’ve had encounters with three people claiming to be federal high-poobahs, all either warning me to be careful or wanting to be filled in on any ‘developments,’ whatever that means.”

  “Claiming.”

  “Yeah, claiming—you and Colonel Steele. Miller at least showed me creds, as did the agents with him. Colonel Steele first claimed to be working for State. And you? I have no idea who you work for.”

  She unzipped a pocket in her leather jacket and produced a credential folder, which she opened for him. Senior Supervisory Special Agent Ellen Whiting. Shitty picture, but the creds and badge looked real. He also was pretty sure he was seeing the bulge of a compact semiauto outlined in the other pocket of her biker jacket.

  “Okay,” he said. “So why would Miller even imply that he didn’t know who you worked for? And why didn’t the guys he had watching us inside the restaurant that night just grab you up and take you to see Miller?”

  “Because he was being careful, Detective Sergeant,” she said. “And, of course he knows who I am and where I stand in the headquarters hierarchy. But you’re right about the mystery: why didn’t he just call me in if he wanted to know something.”

  “If they asked about what you’re doing at DMX, could you tell them?”

  She shook her head. “My boss’s boss could,” she said. “Whether or not she would is another question altogether. Don’t get me wrong: Miller holds a powerful position at Bureau headquarters, but these days, because of the counterterrorism mission, the Bureau is getting more and more compartmented in terms of who knows what. Damn, this is getting complicated.”

  “Complicated makes me thirsty,” he said. “Let’s go get a drink. Then you can tell me what’s going on, or not.”

  “A public bar is not the place for what I need to tell you,” she said.

  “This bar is,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later they were ensconced in a corner booth of the Ye Olde Fairy Queene, a fern bar on Connecticut Avenue, complete with real ferns and a truly sweet-mannered bartender named Eli. Av had a beer; Ellen Whiting had ordered a ginger ale. When he raised an eyebrow, she told him that Elit vodka and Harleys don’t play well together.

  Ellen looked around. “This is a—”

  “Yes, it is,” Av said with a mischievous grin. “It’s an old murder po-lice tactic. If you’re sensing a tail or some other complication, chances are he or she is going to stand out in a gay bar, right? And Eli over there knows a lot of the gay feds in town, so he’d give me a high sign if you just happen to be part of a tag-team program tonight. So, now—what the fock is going on here, please?”

  “‘Fock’?”

  “Inside joke. Stop stalling.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I’m the Bureau’s rep on the DMX. I represent the assistant executive director of the Bureau for counterterrorism. The DMX is part of the National Security Council interagency system. Are you familiar with what people call the interagency?”

  “Nope,” he said. “Sounds like a tarbaby factory, though.”

  She smiled. “One way of looking at it,” she said. “But basically, since national security involves issues which cross many different agencies’ remit, the National Security interagency system is a series of groups which meet to sort out courses of action and jurisdictional issues.”

  “Series?”

  “Yeah. ‘Layers’ is maybe a better word, like in a parfait. It’s based on seniority. Say you get two agencies facing a common issue. First the worker bees try to solve it. If that doesn’t work, the issue rises through a series of meetings between more senior layers of the bureaucracy until it gets to a level, say deputy secretary, where they get tired of messing with it and make a decision.”


  “Okay. And if they don’t?”

  “Then the National Security Council itself meets, first without the President, and then, if necessary, with the President.”

  “And all this takes how long?”

  “An entire career can be made and spent working one issue through the NSC Interagency process.”

  “And this is what you do at this DMX thing?”

  “No. DMX starts at the principals level. Each agency represented on the DMX committee comes to the meeting with a single name, which that agency is proposing for something called the Kill List. Each rep makes the case for why their ‘candidate’ merits being elevated to the status of enemy combatant and killed without notice or even due process, say, like the case of an American who’s gone over to Al Qaeda.”

  “Wow,” Av said. “And does this committee reach a decision?”

  “Sort of. DMX is technically an advisory committee, not an executive committee. They can only nominate candidates for the Kill List to the President, usually one per meeting. The chairman is Carl Mandeville, whose title is special assistant to the President and senior director for counterterrorism on the National Security Council staff.”

  “Damn,” Av said. “Can he say all that in one breath?”

  “He makes the final decision on whether or not to put a name forward, based on what he hears at that meeting. If there’s any serious pushback on a name, then he’ll usually tell the agency that nominated that individual to go back and bolster their arguments for taking him out. If we all agree, yeah, that’s a true badass who needs to die, then that’s usually how it goes.”

  Av remembered the name from his conversation with Colonel Steele. “So these meetings aren’t usually about turf issues?” he asked.

  “Not visibly,” she said. “Deciding which agencies were going to get to play on the DMX took a year and a half. Now that was all about turf. No, this is serious shit, and turf wars aren’t allowed in the room, although sometimes it feels to me as if agencies are competing to see who can get a name onto the list. We’re all professional bureaucrats, so I guess we can’t help it even when we’re making decisions like this. But it’s Mandeville who makes the final call on putting someone in America’s crosshairs.”