He heard the worn leather chair squeak before the answer came. “Mike, we need to talk.” Starker sat at the end of the small, eight-seat table the task force had taken over for their daily meetings.
Dorado closed the file, picked up his cold cup of coffee and moved to the adjoining seat. “What’s up?”
“Cardell came to me this morning. He’s bitching about how he’s been apexed on the task force.”
“We gave him a job.”
Starker raised an eyebrow, “Looking at all criminal reports that come in on a daily basis?”
Dorado shrugged. “Clues come in the most unlikely of places. NYPD caught a bank robbing ring based on parking tickets.”
“Mike, it's busy work. You know it; I know it and unfortunately, Cardell recognizes it too. What in hell is going on?”
“Captain, you gave me this task force and you said I could pick the members. I didn’t pick that asshole and my people don’t want to work with him. With all the overtime we’re putting in, my people blow off steam once in a while but they're being effective. I don’t need someone coming in and setting them off. They’ll quit if Cardell leans on them too much.”
Starker drummed his fingers for a moment. “I’m sympathetic but Cardell’s high profile. He’s stuck his face in front of the cameras so much you’d think he was a fucking actor. That gives him a surprising amount of pull around here.”
“Then I’ll step aside and give him leadership of the damn task force.” Dorado snapped.
“I’m not going to let you do that, Mike and you know why. You’re the better man here. But I got assholes to placate too. Surely he can take on a more active role somewhere.”
Dorado frowned. “He’d better start understanding I’m in charge here no matter what his rank. I’ve had two blow-ups with him already. He argues with me one more fucking time and he’s out or I am. I don’t care how much pull he has.”
Starker nodded. “Agreed. I’ll talk to him and remind him of the chain of command.”
Dorado returned to the stacks at the far end as Starker left and McAfee and Taylor came in. They both slumped into chairs, files plopped on the table before them.
“You okay, chief?” McAfee asked.
“Yeah,” Dorado sighed and then swiveled to face the two men. McAfee looked tired but he still displayed his usual bounce. Taylor slumped into a chair. Dorado noticed the grimness in his face and that the man kept unfolding and folding his fingers into fists. “How did it go?”
“The Pure Blood kept us waiting an hour before we finally got to see the top priest, leader, or whatever.”
“Grand dragon?” Taylor quipped but didn’t smile.
McAfee snorted, “Yeah. It’s run by a guy named Carl Mitter. We ran his name. He’s ex-skin head; got a record when he was young for vandalism and petty theft, but he’s been upstanding for the past fifteen years. You should see this guy, chief. Real bastard. He wouldn’t even look at Taylor or answer any of his questions. Kept making shitty remarks about inferior races and polluting bloodlines. Of course, he didn’t allow us to search the building. Said something about not disrupting the sanctity of the place.”
“In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the wisest idea to send a black man to talk to them.” Taylor said.
Dorado snorted, “I’m not going to pander to their idiotic bigotry. You’re a cop, that’s all that matters.”
Taylor nodded. He eased back into his chair. “Still, it’s taking us too long to interview these cults. Most don’t want to talk to us and others try to convert us. Most of the time, it’s skin color or culture.”
“You think a white guy alone would have an easier time?”
Taylor replied, “Yeah, with some of them. People automatically assume a higher authority with whites. It's shitty but true. Take the Church of the Pure Blood. Do they have plans specifically for the Fourth? I don’t know. Would a search warrant reveal some dirty laundry? Yeah, no doubt. Would they cooperate more with a white man over a black or Latino? Undeniably yes, particularly if that white guy implies he is sympathetic to their cause.”
McAfee nodded. “Yeah, Charro told me he wasn’t getting anywhere with the Jesus freak fundamentals because they were too scared of him.” He chuckled. “He said some of the girls flirted with him so he had a better chance of getting laid than getting feedback.”
Dorado smiled a little. “Don’t think we need him to go undercover just yet.”
Taylor smiled too. “My amigo will be so disappointed. No, Charro’s good for the gang work though. We need someone with an Asian background to work with the Chinese group. It would help if they also spoke the language.”
Dorado nodded, “Yeah, I think we’re getting good data from that sector but someone’s got to check out these other threats.”
“I can go back to regular work. Let you get another guy in here that’ll be more effective.” Taylor swiveled to face him.
“Do you want to quit?”
Taylor relaxed, “Not especially man, but the job comes first.”
“You’re the best one for the job then. However, I agree that if we’re not getting anywhere with some of the groups due to skin color then we need to rethink our tactics. Cardell wants to be more involved. We can have him take over the Pure Blood investigation.”
Taylor looked up, “I’m not working with him.”
“No, I’ll move you to the Free China group. Let’s pull in Chou from Homicide. We’ve also got a lot of activity through a shut-in up in the Tyson’s area—been making a lot of noise about the Fourth in the chat rooms. Taylor, you can follow up on that. We’ll let Cardell go talk to the Church folks again, this time as a sympathetic ear. I’m sure he’s good at that bullshit. In the meantime Brian, get a search warrant. When it comes time, we’ll pull the group in and raid them.”
The afternoon wore on into evening. Most of the day shift had left and the evening crew came in, throwing him curious glances through the glass walls. Using emails and phone calls, Dorado reshuffled assignments and then turned to the group's case reports. His eyes burned with tiredness by the time he got to the last folder. He flipped through it quickly, perusing more than reading about the roundup of some fake ID producers. Nothing indicated any relation to their task force. The yellow post-it note taped high near the fold line of the folder read, “The Thai Restaurant, Pentagon Row, Wed. night, 8:30. O.”
Dorado studied the note for a moment. He couldn't be sure it was meant for him yet all of the task force knew he looked over the final reports. He glanced at his watch, seven-thirty. He'd make it if he left soon.
Still crowded, hot, humid air filled the subway station long after rush hours along the gray narrow walkways as the white train doors opened at Pentagon City Station. The summer nights brought out the locals and the tourists to celebrate the long daylight hours. Like most of the old stations, the dirty cave-like pedestrian tunnels and stairways functioned but clearly needed renovation to allow for better crowd flow and air handling. Dorado couldn’t remember the last time the escalators worked as everyone trudged up the iron steps to the exit level, itself a subbasement of the aging Pentagon City Mall.
The investigator part of him noticed the flow patterns and choke points around two-man wide stairways, lit plastic signs and dirt-blackened escalators. The air seemed stale despite the presence of several air scrubbers near the two stairways and in the upper floor. God help us if a bomb ever went off in here, he thought. The late 1990s through 2015 saw several bombings and attempted bombings in train and subway stations in Europe, Russia, and Japan and in some of the U.S. cities but so far not in DC. Metro Police beefed up patrols but the stations’ own antiquated, soaring architecture and wide exit areas was the biggest security nightmare.
It only took a few minutes to exit the station into the lower section of the shopping mall. He dodged tourists, children’s groups and commuters through the white and chrome food court area. The lines to each of the food chains were ten deep or more. Pentagon City had lost
some of its upscale image to the malls in Fairfax and Tyson, but was still a frequent stop on most tour groups. He heard five different languages from the crowd as he maneuvered around the edges of the court, past the hair salon and banking area, down the long featureless white corridor and out to the half empty parking garage.
Weaving through the bus lanes, he joined a small steady stream of people as they exited the garage, crossed an active alleyway and walked between two buildings into the open court area of Pentagon Row. The airy quadrangle opened to the sky. The sun, low on the horizon, turned sky colors yellow and orange while a breeze cooled the air. The fifty-year-old Row still touted trendy, zero-lot living in the four stories above and bistros, markets, and health club at ground level creating a circle around a large fountain-decorated garden patch. Foot traffic flowed around the garden and across the street to two older curved condominium buildings.
Dorado stood next to the garden circle near the center of Pentagon Row’s patio area. He hadn’t been there for a while and took a minute to look around. Six restaurant and bar combos dotted the half circle, each offering different ethnic foods. Large open table umbrellas inserted into café tables that obscured the facades of four of the bistros. Those black metal tables were filled with young, well-dressed diners enjoying the sunset near large vases and dividing walls of container gardens. Food smells evolved from spicy pizza to beer and fries, waking his stomach with a growl. The Thai restaurant was off to one side with a few filled tables on the outside and a shifting clientele inside.
Once through the glass front doors, Dorado looked around for Sherrie. The decor included walls painted in muted greens and yellows. Half-walls and tall plants divided the large dining room into smaller areas, blocking most of the customers from view. He stepped to the hostess stand, on the end of the bar. Before he moved to walk through the place, he felt a hand softly land on his shoulder and a warm breath on his ear.
“Hi, Mike. Let’s get out of here and go some place quieter.”
He turned towards her. She smiled and placed the half-filled wine glass in her hand back on the bar. He watched her as she waved goodbye to the bartender. Her blond hair flowed across her shoulders in gentle waves. The transformed Sherrie moved with a relaxed sensuousness that he never saw at work. Her face had only a hint of eye shadow and lipstick. She wore a pale blue cotton button-down shirt tucked into white pants. Two buttons on the shirt were open, revealing the top of her cleavage.
He held the door and followed Sherrie back into the courtyard. They walked north, crossing two more streets until she gestured at a quiet, dark place, half hidden in the bottom of a skyscraper.
“It’s Rocco’s. Do you like Italian?”
“Better than Thai.”
The place was dark inside and only half filled with customers. Most of the tables sat center in formed rounded booths for privacy while candlelight flickered on dark red tablecloths. A few couples sat at tables dotted around the room, glancing at them and then quickly looking away. Quiet murmurings flowed out the door instead of the usually loud background music. The place reeked of subdued rendezvous.
The host seated them quickly and efficiently. They talked of restaurants and weather through the quiet flurry of providing of drinks and a warm loaf of bread. After the waiter took orders and gathered menus, Dorado and Sherrie looked at each other across an uncomfortable silence. Because of the clandestine note, he had assumed the meeting was business. He silently cursed himself for not taking more time to clean up.
“I almost didn’t find your note in time.”
She smiled, “I’m glad you did. I wanted to talk to you privately and quietly.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, well, I wanted to show you something and not be interrupted about it.” She tugged two files from her black-knit oversized bag. His eyes immediately fell onto the police logo stamped on the right hand corner of both.
He stared at the files in her hand. “What the hell? Did you steal those?” Computers sometimes failed, and backups could be altered. Therefore, the administration had become obsessed with keeping unaltered hardcopies. Five years ago, DCPD prosecuted some of its own personnel for taking bribes to tamper with computer records and remove the precious hardcopies. A citywide investigation followed along with several arrests. Eventually the authorities cracked down on anyone removing paper files from secure areas. Most of the time, the files stayed buried in huge metal storage cabinets, gathering dust since officers accessed information via computers and the right passwords. Having them in the restaurant meant the loss of both their jobs and possible prosecution.
“Borrowed more likely,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t hard.”
“Do you know the five kinds of shit that will rain down on us if someone sees those out of the precinct house?” he growled.
“Look Mike, I needed you to see this and I needed it done privately. That’s why I left the note. The files will be safe and secure in the station tomorrow. Please just look at them.”
He sighed and reached over for them.
She sat quietly; nibbling on a piece of bread as he scan-read the first file.
“Okay, I don’t get it. A teenage party gets busted based on a parent tip. The kids had designer drugs in their possession. The supplier, this Thayor, was arrested along with the others, open and shut.”
“He wound up in the hospital two days after the bust.” She replied
“Beaten?”
Sherrie shook her head.
“Okay, so he ate some poisoned drugs. That's not unusual with some of the kitchen-sink designer crap that’s on the market. The report also notes that the kid's got wiring so obviously he is a thrill junkie. There’s nothing in the file about hospitalization though.”
“The medical stuff occurred after he made bail. His parents took him into the hospital right after the arraignment.” Sherrie sipped some of her red wine before continuing. “He’s not in for overdosing. The boy was admitted with an anthrax infection of the lungs. None of that appears in the police report.” She tapped the file with a tapered fingernail, “This city boy, an upper middle class, wirehead kid caught anthrax.
Dorado nodded, “That’s an animal disease, right?”
“Yeah, it’s found in cows but people can get it too, usually by inhaling dried spores. Hasn’t been a case of it in twenty years or more.”
They lapsed into silence as the waiter brought salads. Mike pulled the files into his lap, out of sight.
“Any idea where he got it from?” Dorado said as he picked through his Caesar salad.
“The boy was already sick when he was arrested. The county health department examined and interviewed the other kids at the party but they did not know anything about it. The health department searched the boy’s house the remaining drugs have been analyzed. They found no sign of the spores anywhere except on one set of clothes but not the clothes he wore to the party.”
“You think he’s making it somewhere?”
“I don’t know. The county health officer didn’t think he's bright enough. The police decided not to investigate because it's not related to the drug possession charge."
Dorado paused as the waiter took away the salad dishes. “How did you find out about all this?”
“Let’s just say I’m good with computers and I have other computer friends around. The attending physician called the Center for Disease Control. I’ve been putting out feelers for common bio weapon diseases. My friend told me since the boy was in police custody, she wanted to quietly let the officers know that they may have been exposed to anthrax. She didn’t think the physician cared enough to contact them. Evidently, he's a bit of a bastard. CDC’s investigating but they hushed up this case to avoid panic until a second case shows up.”
Dinner came, chicken alfredo with angel hair pasta for her and pasta penne with prosciutto for him. Dorado picked at his food, brow furrowed in thought.
“Why sneak this to me here. Why not just bring it into the task force
.”
“Cardell's the arresting officer. I started to tell him about the case to warn him that he might be infected. He cut me off, saying the case was closed. The boy’s illness had nothing to do with his drug bust,” she replied. She ate for a few minutes before continuing. “Cardell’s in the meetings sometimes. He causes trouble for anyone that questions his reports. As you can see, nothing relates the disease back to the task force or the Fourth of July. Cardell will think I’m routing around him. But Mike, my friend was right to alert me. Anthrax was the bug of choice in the early 2000s terrorist scares. The spores stay in a white powder form and they don’t activate until they hit something moist like lungs. The powder's too small to see with the naked eye but then terrorists mix it into another fine powder like baby powder or powdered sugar and then mail it to the intended victims. The recipient opens it up and gets a lungful, exposed before they know it. At that moment the spores are in the air, spreading to everyone else around them.”
Dorado nodded. “So this kid or someone around him is cooking up some terrorist-style bioweapon.”
“I thought we should look into it.”
He stirred the noodles around the half-empty plate then put his fork down. “We worried about this kind of thing. A lone wolf.” He sat for a few minutes, rereading the case. “How much do you know about this anthrax?”
She looked up from her plate and took a deep breath before answering. “It comes from a bacterium and doesn't usually move from man to man in its normal form which is lucky for the officers on the scene. The early symptoms act like a cold with muscle aches and a cough. As time goes on, the victim gets sores on his face and has trouble breathing.”
“Where do you get it from?” Dorado waved a hand at the food. “I know bacteria's in dirt, on skin, that kind of thing. Where does someone get a sample of anthrax bacteria to grow?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s not common. You wouldn’t find it in household dust or something like that. It comes from cows and goats but contamination from animals tends to be more the skin kind, not the inhaled kind. The spore kind comes from having contaminated cow manure around that slowly dries out in the sun. Lab researchers get it from some legal stockpile or a business that sells it for research, I suppose. My friend in the hospital says those purchases are heavily regulated.”
Independence Day Plague Page 13
