“How were you able to connect Menendez with me?”
“We fear you have not appreciated the seriousness of this task, so let us make it clear for you. You saw the jolly group by the pool. They are applicants to fill new positions. As the rich get richer, our services are ever more in demand. We are growing faster than we ever expected, becoming a force far beyond even our rosiest hopes. And the new teams will need new handlers. Never has there been such room for advancement in our ranks. It is a boon for us all. But if we cannot complete this one task, this one simple task, it could all go awry. Perhaps of all the things you did not appreciate, the most telling was the honor the Principal bestowed when she gave this crucial task to you.”
“I’ll get it done.”
“What else would you say? But if you don’t get it done as quickly and as surely as we require, then our Mr. Preston will have no choice but to take matters into his own hands. We chose you, Mr. Kubiak, you are our man, but Mr. Preston has recovered from his wounds and seems to have talents you lack. We’re sure you have what it takes to develop just those talents; we are less sure you will develop them in time. The question, Mr. Kubiak, as the Principal told you, concerns evolution. Are you ready to take the next step in your journey?”
“I’m ready to do what I have to do, but not with Tom Preston trailing behind me like I’m a bitch in heat.”
“His path is laid out. If you want to defeat him, beat him to the punch.”
“I sense, Mr. Maambong, a lack of trust. If we’re going to continue to work together, if we’re going to be partners in this growing enterprise, we need to trust one another. I have something to show you.”
I turned and put my briefcase on the chair behind me, clicked it open, grabbed hold of my hardware purchase, then turned around again and raised my arm. I had thought about this many times in the past months; it was time to make the thought a reality.
“There you sit,” I said, “in this house of windows, presiding over a desk of glass. And here I stand with a hammer in my hand.”
There was a moment when disconcertment flooded his cold features and it was as if his beetle-eyed glasses seemed themselves to flinch, but then his face broke into a wide smile. “A good one, Mr. Kubiak. One thing we’ve always admired about you was your dry wit. It undoubtedly helps you get through the most trying times.”
He was still smiling when I slammed down the hammer, not onto the surface of the tempered glass, where it would have bounced futilely, but smack into its edge. The glass turned instantly pale before it crackled into irregular shards that hovered in the air for the barest moment before crashing down.
“If Preston stays,” I said, “there is going to be blood.”
“Blood you say?” said Mr. Maambong, who had impressively kept his composure even as the glass rained upon his white suit pants and shiny black shoes. “Excellent. That’s exactly the spirit we hoped to see.”
When I arrived at Reagan National, back from Miami, I didn’t head straight to the hotel. Instead I took the Metro to Union Station and then I hit a bar just down Massachusetts for a quick drink. The joint was beneath street level, the lights were low, the power crowd was flush faced and well suited, the Scotch in my glass was rich and peaty. And somewhere out there, stalking me like a panther, looking to make his mark at my expense, was Tom Preston. I had to figure out how to squash the Scarlett Gould investigation speedily enough so that I could then go about squashing him.
It was enough to drive a man to drink.
“Can I ask you something?” I said to the woman two stools down from me at the bar.
“Only if you want an answer,” she said without looking at me. Her voice had an undertone of rough in it that exposed an inner fault line of misery. She was pretty enough, blonde hair glossy and just kissing her shoulders, blue eyes, thin waist, not young but not yet broken by life, although she was bending. I had noticed her legs as I took my place at the bar. The skirt of her suit was long enough so that she wasn’t drawing attention to them, but they were good enough to draw it on their own.
“What are you drinking?” I said.
“Is that your question?”
“That’s just me being polite.”
“Skip the polite,” she said. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Tough day?”
“Is that your question?”
“That’s not my question.”
“I like a man who gets right to it. Too bad I don’t see anyone like that around here.”
“Maybe I’ll keep the question to myself.”
“Good idea,” she said.
“Are you always so difficult?”
“Is that your question?”
“So you’re still interested,” I said as I scooted over to the stool next to hers. “Good. So here it is. You ready.”
“I sit here with bated breath.”
“What does that mean, anyway? Is it a fishing metaphor?”
“Do you want me to answer that?”
“No. This. Is love overrated?”
For the first time she turned and looked at me. It wasn’t a casual glance; her cold blue eyes stared at me like they were knives and she was flaying my surface to get a better look. And then she laughed, and her laughter was soft and bright, like she meant it.
“Where the hell did that question come from?” she said.
“Someone asked me it recently and since then it’s been on my mind.”
“Someone blowing you off?”
“I don’t get blown off.”
“Then tonight will be a first.”
“The night’s still young.”
“Not that young. No night in the history of the world has ever been that young.”
She turned back to her drink, something clear in a martini glass with two olives on a little plastic sword, and took a sip and then another. As she did, I motioned to the bartender for another round for the two of us.
“Romantic love, you’re talking about,” she said after she had finished her drink and snatched down the olives, “because I have a daughter, and that love is definitely not overrated.”
“And I love bacon.”
She laughed again. “As for romantic love,” she said, “I’d like to think it’s not overrated. I’d like to think there’s some huge thing waiting for us out there. But the truth is, it’s not. That kind of love is nothing but hype.”
“Hype,” I said. “That’s exactly the right word. They make their movies and write their songs and we pay our good money to want what they’re selling. Along with the diamonds. But it feels like a fantasy being peddled to the masses. Like a light saber, or a time machine, or—”
Just then the bartender brought us another round. “Anything else I can get you two?” he said.
I shook my head.
“Or a bartender who dispenses the wisdom of the ages,” she said after he left.
“Or a transporter.”
“Or mind-blowing sex.”
“No,” I said. “That really exists.”
“Mind-blowing?” she said, expanding the words of if they described some fantasy monster.
“Oh yes.”
“Really? Truly? Like your mind is truly blown?”
“The universe shifts on it axis.”
“I doubt that. It sounds as fantastical as a hover board.”
“Hover boards. Yes. We were all promised hover boards by now, but the closest things they have for us don’t float and spontaneously combust.”
“Talk about comedowns.”
“Popular culture just exists to make us feel like we’re missing out.”
“Facebook,” she said. “It’s funny how no one ever shows the dust balls on the stairs or the dishes in the sink or the tantrums and tears over the divorce.”
“Whenever I see someone so goddamned happy on Facebook, so thrilled with their wonderful god-awful life, I’m just thankful that we all end up dead.”
She laughed again and then trained her gaze back onto me.
“Mind-blowing?”
“I guess the night’s younger than you thought.”
“What do you do for a living, if I may ask?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I said.
“That’s too bad. The night just got older. What kind?” She gave my suit the once-over. “Corporate?”
“Heavens no. I have standards. All-around troubleshooter. Of a sort. You have a problem, I’ll solve it.”
“You’re a fixer?” she said.
“I can solve any problem but disappointment in love, because love, as we both agree, is overrated.”
She smiled warmly. I reached out a hand and she took hold.
“My name’s Phil. Phil Kubiak.”
“Linda,” she said, her smile attractively cockeyed. “Linda Pickering.”
20. Pork Chops
She’s a lush who sleeps around, at least that’s her reputation,” said Riley. “Pickering’s husband divorced her after an affair with her captain was made public in a tabloid scandal. It’s why she was shunted from Homicide to the cold case division. One child, a daughter. Her husband currently has custody based on the publicized infidelity and the demands of her job; Pickering has her every other weekend when the job permits.”
I was still in my suit the next morning as I breakfasted with my team. I purposely hadn’t yet been back to the suite Mr. Maambong had arranged for us. Now we were in a booth at a greasy spoon on Florida Avenue. There were rows of photographs above the counter, pink plastic plates, fried pork chops and spiced stewed apples with our eggs. I had texted Riley the time and place and she had brought the others. The waitress kept filling our coffee cups.
“Any romantic relationship we should know about?” I said.
“Nothing that matters,” said Gordon. “But they do tend to talk about her at her apartment building. Say there’s a steady stream flowing in and out.”
“I love neighbors. What about her finances?”
“A mess,” said Riley. “She’s been late on her child support. She owes some taxes. Her checking account is an embarrassment and the custody case is draining her retirement accounts. But she lives mostly within the limits of her salary, and there are no unexpected deposits.”
“So she’s honest.”
“Apparently.”
“That’s always such a disappointment.”
“And she’s pretty good-looking, too,” said Kief. “Man, I’d crush that.”
“She’d crush you,” said Gordon.
“What about her phone?” I said. “Any calls related to our case?”
“She has a home phone and a work phone, and I’ve been checking those records, but I’m having a difficult time getting hold of her cell. It’s seriously unlisted.”
I pulled a piece a paper from my shirt pocket, slid it past the dirty dishes to Riley. “Try these digits.”
Riley didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.
“Weren’t you due to come home last night?” said Kief.
“I got delayed.”
“And weren’t you wearing that suit yesterday?”
“It was a serious delay.” I turned and gave a Kief a cold look as I said, “What about her partner?”
“Detective Booth’s story has a bit more meat on its bones for our purposes,” said Gordon. “He’s living higher than his salary, there are some deposits that look suspicious, and he seems to have a role in a club of sorts that has a reputation.”
“As what?”
“A purveyor of pleasures. More like a bordello.”
“Bordello,” I said, emphasizing the vowels. “Such a sophisticated word. Bordello.”
“A sophisticated word for a sophisticated joint,” said Gordon. “The Chadwick Club, it’s called. They meet every month or so, lately at an exclusive Georgetown address. It’s got itself a high-toned clientele: lobbyists and the marks they lobby. Very la-di-da, very protected. Actually, a little too high class for an MPD detective sergeant.”
“I guess that’s where the protection comes in. Is there a club meeting coming up?”
“In a few days, actually, according to our sources,” said Riley.
“Good. Let’s visit him there. Who can get me in?”
“I might know someone who knows someone,” said Gordon.
“And let’s try to put a squeeze on the detective’s finances. Riley, see if you can alter his mortgage records so it seems like he missed a payment. I’d like an overdue notice sent as soon as possible. And Kief, I think Detective Booth’s car is ready for an expensive repair. Timing belts are surprisingly expensive to replace. And it’s perfectly okay if it looks like the belt was cut. Let’s get him a little hungry. Now what about the Davenports in their swanky Connecticut Avenue penthouse? Any link between either of them and our detectives?”
“Nothing yet,” said Riley. “Maybe there’s something in the number you gave me. But I got the dope you wanted on the wife. She’s been married to Rufus Davenport for seven years. They have one child, Jason, four years old. It must be nice to have a grandpop who’s the senior senator of the great state of Rhode Island.”
“Is that a great state, really?” said Kief. “It’s kind of small. They should call it the petite state of Rhode Island. And what kind of parents name their kid Rufus?”
“Maybe he was named for an old family dog,” I said.
“Rufus,” said Kief.
“Melissa Davenport works for some fancy foundation, handing out funds to worthwhile nonprofits,” said Riley. “Her husband works for a lobbying firm, pretty much getting paid so he can have lunch with his daddy.”
“Rufus.”
“He’s got the usual vices,” said Gordon. “Porn, strip bars, whores.”
“In this town that’s almost wholesome,” I said.
“And he hits his wife now and then.”
“Oh, Rufus,” said Kief.
“Melissa has an old college friend named Adele she confides in,” said Riley. “I was able to access Adele’s e-mails. Adele was quite original with her password.”
“Password?” I said.
“Close. In the e-mails Mrs. Davenport is pretty damn frank about the marriage being in ruins. At this point she’s staying with Rufus because of the kid.”
“Just the kid?” said Kief.
“Well, that and the prenup.”
“At least her priorities are in order,” said Kief.
“Did she say anything to this old college friend about Scarlett Gould?” said Gordon.
“Nothing in the e-mails.”
“Anything at all about the murder?”
“No, which I found a bit puzzling, because it was big news. But this is interesting. You’ll like this. Right after the murder, Melissa started writing about how terrified she was in the marriage. Afraid for her life. Adele urged her to leave, said she would have a place for her and the kid if she needed one. Melissa wanted to run but couldn’t. She feared if she went up against the Davenports, she’d lose custody.”
“And the money,” said Kief.
“What’s Adele’s story?” I said.
“Divorced. Living in Seattle. Two kids of her own.”
“Anything specific about the relationship with this friend?” I said. “You get any vibes.”
“They’re close,” said Riley. “They used to be closer.”
“Because I’m wondering what Scarlett Gould’s involvement was with the Davenports. Was she a nanny? Was she screwing Rufus? My guess is neither. What’s the one thing Scarlett Gould wouldn’t have shared with her dear friend Denise?”
“An affair with another woman,” said Riley. “For Denise that would have been crushing.”
“And maybe that’s the same reason why Melissa wasn’t sharing the news with her old friend Adele,” I said.
“Lot of vagina action going on,” said Kief.
“If you know where to look, there always is,” said Riley.
“I think the thing to do,” I said, “is to check and see if the foundation Melissa Davenpor
t works for ever gave money to Scarlett’s wildlife nonprofit. Maybe they had lunch, maybe they had drinks, maybe they had some late nights, just one nonprofit working out the funding with another nonprofit, until it became something else. Maybe when Bradley thought there was a lover breathing down Scarlett’s neck as she spoke to him, that lover was Melissa Davenport. And maybe Rufus found out, and maybe Rufus, with his violent temper, did something about it.”
“Bad Rufus,” said Kief.
“Let’s go with the assumption that Senator Davenport hired the Hyenas a year and a half ago to kill the investigation because he feared it would end up pointing at his son. With the case having gone cold, his vote was owned by the Principal, but then someone pushed the police commissioner to send the file to Pickering and Booth and give it new life and here we are.”
“Who’s pushing?” said Gordon.
“If my guesses are correct, the pressure is―” I stopped speaking and waited as a waitress refilled our coffee cups, and then I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I think the pressure is coming from Senator Davenport’s daughter-in-law. She also thinks Rufus did it, but unlike the senator, she wants him found out. It would let her run into Adele’s welcoming arms safe from Rufus, and still with her son and the Davenport cash.”
“So what do we do?” said Gordon.
“Follow her,” I said. “Discover her routine. Find a button to push. We need her to back off. And we still need to protect Rufus. Kief, did you figure out how to mess with the DNA?”
“I have a plan if we need it,” said Kief. “It will be expensive, but if you get me the sample you want in there, it should work. Of course, fire is always a neater option. There is something so cleansing about a nice little fire. How was the trip?”
“Smashing,” I said.
“I miss Miami,” said Kief. “The house, the bikinis, Bert making me mojitos. He makes a good mojito. Not too sweet and he never bruises the mint, that’s the key.”
A Filthy Business [Kindle in Motion] Page 17
