Below the Belt

by Stuart Woods

  36

  ERIK MACHER ARRIVED at his office in Washington, D.C., at nine sharp. His secretary, Ilsa, was already at her desk in the small office building where Christian St. Clair housed his lobbyists and other D.C. personnel.

  “You’d better sit down,” she said, pouring him a cup of the strong coffee he liked.

  Macher sat down. “Okay, I’m sitting, what is it?”

  “Drake and Solberg got themselves arrested in Virginia last night.”

  “What?”

  “Breaking and entering. Apparently they weren’t exactly renting the house they were using to surveil the Rawls place. They’re being held in a sheriff’s substation in a wide-place-in-the-road village in Fairfax County.”

  “First, find them a lawyer.”

  “There’s one on the way. I told him we’re good for bail money.”

  “Good, now find out who owns that house and get them on the phone for me.”

  “A couple named Mark and Debby Denton. He’s an attorney on the legislative staff of the American Bar Association. She does something not too big at State. Before I call them, Solberg told me their story to the deputy was that the Dentons were on vacation in the Bahamas, and they offered them the house while they were gone.”

  “Do we know anybody who knows the Dentons?”

  “My sister works at State. Want me to call her?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I already did. Debby Denton has offered to call the sheriff down there and tell them that she and her husband just got back from a vacation in the Bahamas and loaned the house to the couple for a tryst.”

  “Why did she agree to say that?”

  “My sister is her boss.”

  “Tell her to make the call,” Macher said, “and tell Solberg I want her and Drake in this office by ten-thirty.”

  “Right.”

  Macher looked up from his coffee. “You’re a gem, you know.”

  She grinned. “I know.”

  —

  AT TEN-THIRTY SOLBERG and Drake were in Macher’s outer office. “Send them in,” he said to Ilsa.

  The two didn’t look very fresh. Solberg’s hair needed doing, and Drake needed a shirt and a shave. Macher didn’t ask them to sit down. “You broke into that house? Why?”

  Drake shrugged. “Because it was there, exactly where we needed it, and we didn’t have time to find the owners and rent it.”

  “You know how long it took Ilsa to find the owners and get them to back your story?”

  Neither spoke.

  “Ten minutes.” Macher wasn’t sure if it happened that fast, but it sounded good.

  “We’re sorry,” Solberg said.

  “Were you two screwing when the deputy arrived?”

  “We were not,” Solberg said. “He caught us out when I said we’d been watching TV. There wasn’t a TV in the house, and the deputy knew that.”

  Macher shook his head in disgust. “What about Rawls?”

  “No sign of him,” Drake said, “but he’s there.”

  “And what evidence do you have of that?”

  “He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. And besides, I can feel him there.”

  “You can feel him there?” Macher demanded. “Are you psychic or something?”

  “Sort of,” Drake replied.

  “Define that.”

  “I look at the available evidence, and my mind forms a conclusion from that.”

  “And how much available evidence did you have?”

  “Rawls owns the house, his only other home burned down. It’s familiar territory for him, he would be drawn to it. Rawls is also known to be cheap, and it wouldn’t cost him anything to go back to his own house.”

  “And that’s enough evidence to conclude he’s there?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not trying to convict him of anything, just establish his whereabouts. What I’ve got is enough for that, and there is no contradictory evidence to put him anywhere else. Ergo, the house is our best shot.”

  Macher looked at the young man with new respect. “You’re right,” he said. “What do you propose we do from here? And no breaking in—we don’t need more trouble.”

  “We can either surveil the house by a live satellite feed, or we can go back down there and sit on it until he shows his face. The satellite is too expensive.”

  “Has Rawls seen you two?”

  “We were in the house with the real estate agent. He might have watched us from some hiding place.”

  “And being an old spy, he might just have such a place in the house,” Macher said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, you two go home and get cleaned up, get a good night’s sleep, have some breakfast, if you haven’t already. I’ll put somebody else on the place.”

  The two thanked him and shuffled out.

  “Ilsa, please get me a longitude and latitude of the Denton house, will you?”

  Ilsa walked into his office and placed a slip of paper on his desk. “There you go.”

  Macher turned to his computer, opened a program that gave him access to satellites, and entered the coordinates. The program looked for a satellite, found it, and Macher watched the screen as the eye in the sky zoomed in on the Denton house. He clicked a couple of times on the zoom-out tab, and lo, the Rawls place appeared on the other side of the road. Then he zoomed in on that. There was a car parked between the garage and the house, hard up against a hedge. It wouldn’t have been visible from the Denton place.

  “Ilsa, bring me Solberg’s report on their visit to the Rawls place.”

  Ilsa placed a file on his desk, and he read it. Rawls or his ex-wife owned an old Mercedes that was reported in the garage. Ilsa was still standing there. “Please check the Virginia DMV and see if a car or cars is registered either to Rawls or his dead wife, and if so, make and model.”

  Ilsa returned to her desk, and he could hear her computer keys clicking. She returned and handed him a slip of paper.

  “A 1985 Mercedes E500 station wagon,” he read aloud. “Tan metallic paint.” Macher zoomed in tight on the car on his screen. “Bingo!” he said.

  “You want me to put another team on the place?” Ilsa asked.

  “He’s there,” Macher said. “Put two teams on him. If he drives someplace, follow him.”

  “How far?”

  “To the ends of the earth, but my guess is he’ll just go out for groceries.”

  37

  ED RAWLS WENT GROCERY SHOPPING. There was no car in sight when he pulled out of the driveway, and he headed for the village. Fifteen minutes later he was patrolling the aisles of the supermarket with the store’s biggest shopping cart. He loaded the goods into the station wagon, went into the liquor store and bought a mixed case of booze, half of it Talisker.

  He drove back to his house, and as he passed the Denton place he saw a van parked out front, emblazoned with a logo: “Jiffy Window Washers.” He was suspicious, but there was actually a man on a ladder washing the windows, so he continued home and put the car into the garage. It took four trips to get all the boxes and bags into the kitchen and the liquor into the study bar. He put everything away, then went into his study, switched on his reading lamp, and got out his throwaway cell phone.

  “Martin Real Estate,” a woman said.

  “Good morning, this is Edward Rawls. You have my house listed.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rawls, we showed it a few days ago. I’ve been expecting an offer, but I’ve heard nothing. The couple loved the place.”

  “Well, I’ve decided I love it, too, so I’m going to take it off the market with immediate effect.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll move the file to our inactive list.”

  “Just shred the file, and we’ll say no more about it. Thanks very much. Oh, and don’t forget to pick u
p your sign.” He hung up. On the drive home from shopping, he had begun to feel like a free man. He got up and walked around the house, opening the blinds and curtains, letting the light in. What the hell, he thought, what do I care if they know I’m here? I’m not going to spend the rest of my life running from these bastards.

  He called the phone company on his cell and asked them to reinstate his old number, and an hour later it was working. He was reading the Washington Post when the doorbell rang. He got up, took his pistol from its hiding place, and tucked it into his waistband at the back, pulling his sweater over it. When he opened the door a man in white coveralls stood there.

  “Good morning,” Ed said.

  “Good morning,” the man replied with a ready smile. “We’re doing some window-washing in the neighborhood, and I wondered if you’d like us to do yours. I’d be happy to look around and give you a price, inside and out.”

  “Thanks, but I have a contract with a local firm that takes care of the place, including the windows.”

  “I see.”

  “Apparently not. If you’d seen, you’d know the windows are clean.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. May I ask your name?”

  “No, you may not. Good day.” Ed closed the door and watched through the sidelight as the man walked away. Ed noted that he was wearing well-polished wingtips, instead of the rubber boots a window washer would more likely wear. Well, he thought, I’ve now announced my presence here, let’s see what they do about it. He went back into his study and picked up his book, Conrad Black’s biography of Franklin Roosevelt, which he thought was pretty damned good.

  He had been reading for nearly two hours when his phone rang, nearly lifting him out of his seat; he had forgotten that it had been reconnected. He picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Rawls, I’m glad to catch you,” a man’s voice said.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Erik Macher. I operate a security service out of Washington, D.C.”

  “I’ve already got an alarm system and a monitor,” Rawls replied.

  “No, I’m not calling about that.”

  “Then tell me why you’re calling, and stop wasting my time.”

  “I wish to make you an offer for the strong case.”

  “What strong case?”

  “The one you have hidden in your house. I have a client who is willing to pay you half a million dollars for the case and its key.”

  “Then your client is a goddamned fool,” Rawls replied, “and you can tell him I said so.”

  “That’s very foolish of you,” Macher said.

  “I’m old enough to figure out for myself whether or not I’m a fool,” Rawls said, “and I find myself of sound mind and superior judgment. What was your name again?”

  “Erik with a k, Macher, spelled the German way.”

  “I’ll make a note of that so I can hang up on you immediately if you should call back,” Ed said. “And if you send your fucking window washer around here again, I’ll shoot the son of a bitch on sight.”

  “That would be unwise.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s unwise,” Ed said, “burning down my house, that’s what. But I appreciate your calling, because now I know who the bastard is who did it. Tell me, do you have a nice house somewhere that I can burn down for you? And I promise not to leave a corpse in the living room.” Ed hung up.

  He was angry, and he needed to blow off some steam. He looked up the number of the builder in Islesboro who had built his house there.

  “Bill Haynes,” the man said.

  “Bill, it’s Ed Rawls. How you doing?”

  “Just fine, Ed. I heard about your house.”

  “Yeah, so did I. You want to rebuild it for me?”

  “Sure, glad to.”

  “You still got the plans?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, get out there and get to work. By the way, there’s a secret cellar next door, with a tunnel running from the house. I’d like that sealed off, please. It’s of no further use to me.”

  “It will be done.”

  “How long is it going to take to finish the place?”

  “Well, let’s see, I’ll get some people out there tomorrow to clean up what’s there, and, assuming the pad is in good shape, we’ll start framing early next week. After that, I’ll need a couple of months, I guess, if you want it built exactly like before.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’m on it, Ed. It’s going to cost you more per square foot than it did when I built it the first time, but that’s just inflation.”

  “I’m okay with that. Give me a price.”

  Haynes did.

  “Agreed. You can send me a contract at my place in Virginia.” He gave the man the address and phone number. “Call if you have any questions as you proceed.”

  The two men said goodbye and hung up. Ed felt better than he had in weeks. He went to the little study bar and poured himself a drink, then turned on the TV. The satellite was still working; he had forgotten to turn off that service. He switched to the D.C. CBS station for the news, just in time to see a promo for 60 Minutes. They were devoting the entire show to Nelson Knott. He went to the listings and set the show to be recorded on the DVR.

  This is going to be interesting, he thought.

  38

  STONE AND HOLLY took an afternoon run, and when they got back to the house the message light was flashing on his phone. “Don’t miss 60 Minutes tomorrow,” Will Lee’s voice said. “If you’re going out, be sure and record it. I’ll be in town tomorrow. I’ll call you for lunch.”

  “What’s on 60 Minutes?” Holly asked.

  Stone switched on the TV and looked it up. “Financial skullduggery, baseball, and children with wild pets.”

  “I wonder which of those Will found so fascinating.”

  “We have only to wait until Sunday at seven to see.”

  “By the way, I’m headed back to Washington tomorrow,” Holly said. “Maybe I can get a ride with Will. Will you ask him?”

  “Have you served your sentence already?”

  “Almost. I’ve got some things to do around the house that I’ve been postponing for nearly four years. Here’s my chance to do them without guilt.”

  They got undressed and into the shower together. Somehow, being clean was a turn-on for them both. When they had exhausted each other they talked.

  “Here’s a thought,” Stone said. “Don’t go back to Washington at all.”

  “That’s a surprising thought.”

  “After all, they’ve had time to forget about you at the White House. If you didn’t go back they’d never miss you.”

  “Thank you so much, what a compliment!”

  “I’d rather have you here with me.”

  “On what basis?”

  “All the sex I can manage at my advanced age.”

  “And that’s it? That’s all you want from me?”

  “Didn’t I mention marriage?”

  “You did not.”

  “Funny, I thought I did.”

  “You could mention it now, if you’re so inclined.”

  “All right, marriage.”

  “What about it?”

  “Doing it.”

  “Doing it is sex, not marriage.”

  Stone searched for the words: “Marriage, together.”

  “You just can’t bring yourself to say the words, can you?”

  “If I do, will you accept?”

  “Try it and see.”

  “Oh, all right. Will you marry me?”

  “No.”

  “You were just leading me on, weren’t you?”

  “Certainly not. I just needed to know your clear intentions before—”

  “Before turning me down?”

 
; “Stone, you know I love you, and I know you love me.”

  “That’s right, I do,” Stone said, sounding surprised.

  “But we lead such different lives.”

  “Not for the past two weeks. We’ve led pretty much one life together, and I think we did it very well.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Holly said.

  “Then what are you arguing about?”

  “You know I love my job.”

  “All right, I propose a compromise.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do the job for the rest of Kate’s term, then ditch Washington once and for all and devote yourself to me forever.”

  “Devote myself to you, instead of to my country?”

  “I’m a better catch.”

  “I’ll concede that, for the purposes of argument.”

  “We’ll live a free life in New York, Santa Fe, England, and Paris,” he said. “We’ll see the world, live well, and fuck each other’s brains out.”

  “I’ll tell you what—if Kate isn’t reelected, I’ll marry you and we’ll do everything you just said, especially that last part.”

  “Now you’re putting me in an impossible position,” Stone complained.

  “How so?”

  “I can no longer support Kate for reelection, or even vote for her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “That would be against my own self-interest,” he said. “I may even have to support another candidate.”

  “That’s crazy talk.”

  “I know it is, but how could I want her to be reelected if that caused me to lose you.”

  “I didn’t say you’d be losing me.”

  “But I’d have to wait another four years, when she can’t run again.”

  “Four years isn’t such a long time,” she said.

  “You sound as though you don’t believe that.”

  “All right, it’s a long time, but there’s the promise of something new for me, if she’s reelected.”

  “A promise from Kate?”

  “Sort of a promise.”

  “You mean a hint of a promise.”

  “If you like.”

  “And what is Kate dangling before you, like a ball of yarn before a kitten?”