by M. A. Lawson
39
DAY 7—8 A.M.
Prescott had told Brookes to look for reports in the Miami area of young women being killed within the last twenty-four hours. Brookes reported back that the only female homicide victim had been a woman named Maria Gomez, and she’d been killed by her husband.
“Where are Hamilton’s cell phones?” she asked Brookes. Brookes reported that Hamilton’s personal cell and the NSA iPhone were both in her apartment. Neither phone had moved in the last twenty-four hours and no calls had been made. The NSA cell continued to broadcast static, which made Brookes want to jam toothpicks into his eardrums.
• • •
THE REST AREA construction workers found an abandoned black Toyota Tundra pickup. They also found a cane. They called the sheriff in Collier County, who sent a deputy. He didn’t find any paperwork in the glove box of the Tundra to identify the owner. He called in the license plate number, but the plates belonged to a Mazda minivan owned by a man from Jacksonville.
Then the deputy got called away to a three-car pileup farther west on I-75. On the way, he told the dispatcher to send a tow truck to the rest area to haul away an abandoned vehicle. He told himself he would run the VIN number later—but he never did.
• • •
PRESCOTT HAD MADE a mistake by calling Beckman back to D.C. too soon. She should have kept her watching Hamilton. She figured that Hamilton was most likely dead, but she couldn’t be sure. Frustrated, she decided to try calling her. She was shocked when Hamilton answered.
“Hello,” Hamilton said.
“Where are you?” Prescott said.
“My apartment. Why?”
“What did you do about Otis?”
“Nothing,” Hamilton said.
“You’re lying,” Prescott said. But she couldn’t tell Hamilton that the reason she knew she was lying was because Beckman had seen her in Miami.
“Hey, believe what you want, Olivia. But I’m done with you and Callahan and this whole mess,” Hamilton said, and hung up.
• • •
BUT KAY WASN’T FINISHED. Not yet.
Fang Zhou still had to pay for what he’d done.
40
DAY 8—8 A.M.
Kay tucked her hair under a baseball cap, put on shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt, and running shoes. In her fanny pack she put ten thousand dollars in cash—money she’d taken from Otis. She’d been pleased to find seven hundred and fifty thousand in the gym bag she’d removed from Otis’s truck. She’d use some of the money to deal with Fang; the remainder she considered her severance pay for leaving Callahan’s employment. She wasn’t about to return the money to its rightful owner: the Chinese.
She didn’t take her cell phone. She left the building and, while stretching, looked around to see if she could spot anyone watching her. Then she started running—fast. She figured if Prescott had anyone following her, they were going to either have to run to keep up with her or they’d have to tail her in a car, which would be moving slowly and she’d spot it. She constantly switched directions, and an hour later, sweating like crazy, she figured that she’d lost a tail if there’d ever been one. She entered an office building on New York Avenue and took the elevator to the fifth floor to the office of the Goreman Agency.
She didn’t know anything about Frank Goreman other than what she’d read in the Washington Post. He was a private investigator, and a couple of days ago he caught a rapist the police hadn’t been able to catch. The paper said that Goreman had been a decorated detective when he was on the force, and although he was usually a one-man shop, he used other retired cops whenever he needed extra hands. But the information in the article was all Kay really knew. She’d been hesitant to research detective agencies online because she feared that Prescott’s elves would be able to see what she was doing.
Goreman looked surprised to see a tall, striking blonde enter his office, albeit a sweaty blonde. To make sure she had Goreman’s undivided attention, Kay took the ten grand in cash from her fanny pack and plopped it on his desk. Goreman was short for an ex-cop—only about five-foot-eight—but he was strongly built. He had a forgettable face and was neatly attired in a white short-sleeved shirt and tie, and Kay thought that he’d fit right in with the sales reps at Sears.
Kay told him she wanted Fang Zhou followed for the next five days. Five days should be long enough for her to learn about his routine.
“You want me to follow a Chinese diplomat? I’m not sure I want to do that,” Goreman said.
“This isn’t about Fang’s position at the Chinese embassy,” Kay said. “It’s personal. And all I want you to do is follow him and report back to me. I want to get a sense of his habits, where he goes after work, what he likes to do, where he likes to eat, and so forth.”
She would have followed him herself, but she was afraid Prescott’s people were watching her.
“Am I going to have a bunch of FBI agents crawling up my ass if they see me tailing this guy?” Goreman asked.
“No,” Kay said. “I’m telling you this doesn’t have anything to do with the U.S. government, and I’m not asking you to do anything illegal.”
“Okay. My rates are—”
“That’s ten thousand dollars,” Kay said, pointing to the stack of bills on Goreman’s desk. “That should be enough to cover five days. If it’s more than enough, you can keep what’s left over.”
“How do I get hold of you?” Goreman asked.
“You don’t. I’ll come back in five days.”
• • •
FOR THE NEXT FIVE DAYS Kay did nothing that might alarm Prescott.
She went for her morning jog.
She went shopping, and with Otis’s money, bought herself an absurdly expensive pair of Jimmy Choos. She was sort of a shoe freak.
She called her daughter and had to listen to her describe, in graphic detail, the heart transplant she had seen. She couldn’t believe how excited Jessica was about it. When she asked if Jessica was dating anyone, she said she didn’t have time for boys. Her daughter was wonderful, but weird.
She also spoke to Eli. The last time they’d spoken was when she’d asked him to line up the charter flight to Miami. He had called her cell phone while she was in Miami, but her phone was in her apartment, and his call went to voice mail. After she returned to D.C., he had called her a couple more times, but each time she ignored his calls. So, when she finally called him back, he was mightily pissed.
She called him on her personal cell phone, and the first thing he said when he answered was, “Why in hell haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m sorry, and you have every right to be angry with me, but I can’t talk about this over the phone.”
“Then let’s meet. Now.”
“We can’t. Not today.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have to go down to Duke to see Jessica. She’s sick. She has the flu and just needs a little TLC.”
Instead of saying he was sorry to hear her daughter was ill, Eli said, “Are you telling me the truth?”
“Of course. Why would I lie about something like that? But as soon as I get back, we’ll get together and talk. I promise. I can tell you right now that it’s all over with and that I’m safe and I don’t plan to do anything else.” She said this mostly to make Prescott, who she was certain was listening in, think that she was going to leave Fang alone.
When he didn’t respond, she said, “Please, Eli, just give me a few days.”
He hung up. Oh, boy. But she was doing the right thing. She didn’t want to see Eli and possibly put him at risk until everything with Fang was settled.
• • •
FIVE DAYS AFTER her initial meeting with Goreman, Kay returned to his office, once again sweating after her run. Goreman offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted. Sh
e took a long drink, then said, “Well? What did you find out?”
“I don’t know what this guy does all day inside the embassy, but when he’s not working, he chases tail. I’m sorry, I mean women. The first night, he went to a party at the French embassy and took this stunning black woman back to his place. The gal looked like a model, but I didn’t get her name or attempt to follow her when she left. The next night, he went to a pricey bar in Georgetown and picked up a woman about his age, a good-looking professional type, like maybe a lawyer or a government executive. The third night he just went home after work and stayed in. The fourth night, he met with a guy in a bar in Alexandria. The guy looked familiar, like maybe I’d seen him on the news, but I don’t know who he was. Anyway, after he met with the guy in Alexandria, he stopped off at a bar in Georgetown and tried to pick up some girl who looked like a college kid, but she brushed him off. Last night, he went to another party, this one at the Venezuelan embassy, then went back to his place by himself. So as near as I can tell, the guy’s just a hound.”
“Did he take drugs?”
“Not that I saw.”
“How much did he drink?”
“Not much. He drinks, but he’s not a drunk.”
• • •
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Kay went for her morning run and used a pay phone to call a DEA agent she’d worked with in Miami who was now stationed in D.C. He was delighted to hear from her—until she told him what she wanted.
That night she took several cabs to a club in the Adams Morgan district of D.C., which was packed with young people, all dancing and drunk or high, and found the man she wanted—the man the DEA agent had told her about.
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, Kay left her apartment at ten and again took several cabs to reach her destination, which was only a few miles from her apartment: a Hertz rental agency. She didn’t want to drive her own car in case Prescott had installed a tracking device.
She drove to Philadelphia, two hours away. She could have found what she needed in D.C. or Baltimore, but figured it might be safer to use someone who didn’t live too close to D.C. Safer for the person she planned to hire, that is, not safer for her. She checked into the Sheraton on North 17th Street and used the hotel’s Internet to find what she wanted: escort services. The websites all had the escorts’ pictures and disclaimers that said the women did nothing illegal and simply offered wholesome companionship.
She made appointments with three escorts, all stunning young women in their twenties.
The first escort turned her down. The second one—a busty, long-legged, dark-haired beauty—didn’t. The escort, who claimed her name was Heather, was a bit surprised to see that her date was a woman—but not too surprised. Heather smiled at Kay and asked, “Would you like me to get undressed?”
“No,” Kay said. “Just sit down. Would you like a drink?”
“Sure. Champagne if you have it.”
Kay took a bottle from the minibar and poured a glass for her.
“How many dates do you have in a day?” Kay asked.
Heather shrugged. “Two, sometimes three.”
“Which means you make about three to five grand a day. I’m willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars for a job that will take no more than two or three days,” Kay said.
“Fifty thousand?”
“Yes,” Kay said. It wasn’t like she was spending her own money.
“Is it something illegal?” Heather asked.
“Definitely,” Kay said. “Why else would I be paying you so much?”
Heather hesitated, but then asked, “What’s the job?”
And Kay knew she’d found the right girl. “You’ll go to D.C., check into the Four Seasons in Georgetown, pick up a man in a bar, and take him back to your room. You can say you work for an ad agency in New York, or you’re a model from California on the East Coast for a fashion shoot. Whatever. Anything that makes you comfortable.”
“Then what? What happens after I pick up the guy?”
Before Heather left, Kay gave her a prepaid cell phone. She’d also bought one for herself.
After they were finished, Kay called Goreman. “I want you to follow Fang for the next two nights. I’ll send another five grand. When he arrives at a bar, immediately call a woman named Heather and tell her where he is. I’ll give you her number. Do you have a pen?”
• • •
THE NEXT NIGHT, Fang ended up at the Café Milano on Prospect Street in Georgetown, one of the more expensive watering holes in the District. He’d only been there fifteen minutes—the service was so slow he hadn’t even been served a drink—when a stunning brunette walked into the bar. She was wearing a black suit—the skirt ending about three inches above her knees—and a white blouse with enough buttons undone to show a remarkable bit of cleavage. She saw him and smiled, and Fang thought that it was going to be a wonderful night.
Two hours later, after a delightful dinner, Heather and Fang left the Café Milano and they drove to the Four Seasons, only a few blocks away. As soon as they arrived in Heather’s suite, after a few passionate kisses, Heather took a bottle of Dom Pérignon from the small refrigerator and poured glasses for her and Fang.
Half an hour later, Fang was lying on the bed. Unconscious. Heather had placed a roofie in Fang’s drink—Kay had bought it at the club in Adams Morgan from a dealer the DEA agent had told her about. As soon as Fang was out cold, Heather called Kay. Kay was already checked into the Four Seasons, and she pushed a wheelchair to Heather’s room.
Kay and Heather undressed Fang, and Kay took several salacious photos of him with Heather. In some of them she was nude; in others she wore a black thong, a garter belt holding up black stockings, and stilettos with four-inch heels. In all the photos—some with Heather on top of Fang simulating sex, some with Fang tied to the headboard with white silk scarves—Heather’s face was covered by her long dark hair and Kay made sure the butterfly tattoo on her ass wasn’t visible.
Heather then helped Kay dress Fang, which wasn’t easy, and they put him in the wheelchair. Kay pushed it to the nearest elevator and descended to the garage. They made sure they were alone, and quickly dumped Fang into the trunk of his Jaguar. Kay had gotten the keys before they’d left the room. She slid into the driver’s seat and placed a brown paper bag containing twenty-five thousand dollars in the glove box—money Fang had given to Otis.
Heather, to Kay’s delight, stayed cool throughout the operation. She didn’t babble or act frightened; she did what she was told and moved quickly and efficiently. Kay knew nothing about Heather’s past but she got the impression that the young woman had been in dicey situations before.
They drove toward Fang’s house on Utah Avenue. It was close to midnight so the streets weren’t filled with people. A block from Fang’s place, she ran the Jaguar up over the curb and placed the nose of the car against a fire hydrant. She would have rammed the Jag into the hydrant but she didn’t want the air bags to deploy because it would be harder to get Fang into the driver’s seat. She and Heather got out of the car and transferred Fang from the trunk to the driver’s seat and strapped him in. The last thing Kay did was slip a small clear plastic envelope into the right-hand pocket of Fang’s suit coat, and got a surprise—a small .380 caliber automatic. She and Heather had been in such a hurry that they hadn’t noticed the gun when they dressed Fang back at the Four Seasons. She left the gun in his pocket.
She and Heather walked away quickly, not running, but walking fast. At the first pay phone she saw, Kay called 911, saying that she’d just seen a drunk run his car into a fire hydrant and the guy appeared to be unconscious. A few blocks later, Kay thanked Heather for her help, and Heather caught a cab back to the Four Seasons. She would drive back to Philadelphia that night, tired, but fifty grand richer. Kay caught the next cab she saw and headed home, tired but satisfied.
41
The day after Fang’s “accident,” Olivia Prescott was sitting at her desk, having a cup of coffee, thinking that maybe everything would be okay. She’d thought about having Tate and Towers watch Hamilton after she returned from Miami but then decided she didn’t need to. What she needed to do was watch Fang to make sure Hamilton wasn’t stalking him. So she had assigned Tate and Towers to follow him, and told them that if they spotted Hamilton, they were to call her immediately.
After three days, Prescott decided to stop the surveillance on Fang. It appeared that Hamilton wasn’t a total maniac.
She’d also spoken to Admiral Kincaid, who said the technical modification he was working on—the one he intended to embed in Chinese sonar systems—was proceeding well. She loved it when a plan came together.
Prescott turned on her computer, glanced at her schedule for the day, then went to the Washington Post’s website. She’d just taken a sip of coffee when a short article caught her eye—and caused her to choke on her coffee.
The article said that a Chinese diplomat named Fang Zhou had been found in his car last night, passed out but uninjured after running into a fire hydrant. The police had also found two grams of cocaine in Fang’s pocket and an unregistered pistol. Prescott immediately called Eagleton at D.C. Metro and told him to find out if there was anything else about Fang’s accident that hadn’t been reported in the Post.
Half an hour later, Eagleton said that, yes, there was much more.
“They found twenty-five grand in cash in the glove box,” Eagleton said, “but the weird part was that Fang said the money didn’t belong to him. When we tried to give it back to him after he was released, he refused to take it. But that’s not the big news. The gun Fang had was a .380, which he claimed had been planted on him. Well, a .380 isn’t a common weapon, and about a week ago, a gangbanger named Jamal Howard was killed with one. They found Howard’s body in a park in Anacostia, and Homicide figured that he was probably whacked by some other gangbanger, but gangbangers don’t usually use .380s. They like 9s in general. So ballistics did a check and it looks like Fang’s gun was used to kill this moke, Howard.”
