“Was Charlie sick or injured that you know of?”
“Down here, we’re all sick and injured,” said Popeye. He turned, and rolled away.
Robert headed for the Crossroad’s Rescue Mission. He vaguely recalled the mission’s late night commercials soliciting used vehicles and contributions. From R Street he could see the building from nearly three blocks away. Its loud lime paint and huge green and white florescent sign “Crossroads Rescue Mission” stood out even in the daylight, an oasis in a trash-heaped desert.
Something sparked Robert’s senses. A wiry, weasel-looking man stared at him from across the street. He’d been stared at all afternoon, but this guy stood out. When Robert’s eyes fixed on him, the man abruptly looked away. His clothes were tattered, but his shoes barely worn. His face looked pampered, not weather-beaten and heavily lined like most people in the area.
Robert stepped into the street, but a fast-moving Federal Express truck cut him off, splashing mud and slush on his pants and shoes. The truck passed. The weasel was gone.
Except for it’s bright hue and long food lines, Crossroads appeared more like a four-story office building than a shelter. Unlike the rest of the area, nobody slept on the sidewalk out front or in its alleys. The space around it-clean, immaculate. Not a candy wrapper or empty cigarette pack in sight.
A nondescript truck with a trailer the size of a forty-foot container pulled up, and a mangy, but orderly crowd lined up at the trailer’s back door. A group Robert pegged as volunteers, about college age, wearing green polo shirts that matched the building, streamed out of Crossroads, all smiles and waves, greeting some of those in line by name. Brown paper grocery bags, filled with canned food and produce were passed out, and Robert wondered if even so large a trailer could feed such a long line of people.
Inside, the mission buzzed, as more lime green shirts scampered about well-lit hallways like leprechauns, discussing, laughing and pointing people in all directions. Robert noted a room filled with computers, a well-stocked library, and a bustling free clinic. Bronze plaques lined the walls naming benefactors, from Microsoft and McDonald’s, to Barbra Streisand and Kirk Douglas.
At the end of the hallway, at the back of the building, a large cafeteria fed row after row of hungry mouths-chomping, chewing, and drinking.
It seemed the perfect place for Charlie to hide. One face looked like another. Everyone minded their own business. Secrets remained buried, buried alive.
Robert asked where he could find Patrick Miller. A gregarious Bahamian woman wearing a white lab coat and stethoscope directed him to the fourth floor. The top level, a lively sea of cubicles greeted him; as men and women, some in suits, but most in Crossroads signature polos, hurried about with purpose and determination. He heard someone on the phone ordering supplies, while others solicited donations.
“Now there’s a look I’ve seen before,” a smooth baritone voice said behind him.
Robert accepted the outstretched hand of a tall jovial fellow who introduced himself as Executive Director of Crossroads, Patrick Miller.
“Most people are a little surprised when they see the operation at work,” he said, a broad smile pinned to his face. “We don’t all stand on corners panhandling, Mr. Veil.”
“You already know who I am?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Most people don’t have cell phones or e-mail out here on these streets, but our system is almost as fast.”
“Then you know why I’ve come.”
“Yes,” said Miller, dropping his voice. “You’re looking for Charlie Ivory.” He looked around, then signaled Robert to follow him.
What Miller’s office lacked in size, it made up for in substance.
Plaques, commendations, and celebrity pictures lined the walls like a hall of fame, including a picture of Miller playing golf with the President, William Claymore, at Pebble Beach. Robert took a closer look.
“Great President,” said Miller, “ Not a very good golfer. I’m going to miss him when he’s gone. He made me look good out on the links. You play?”
“It’s more like golf plays me,” said Robert, wincing at the thought of his last game.
Miller offered Robert a seat and some jellybeans from a large jar on his desk, next to a copy of a popular novel about a young wizard growing up into his own.
“I’d tell you that book was my ten year old daughter’s, but I’d be lying,” said Miller, popping a few jellybeans into his mouth, leaning back in his chair. “So, what does a gun toting bounty hunter want with a beat-up homeless veteran?”
Robert made a mental note. So, Charlie was in the military. “He’s not in any trouble with me. In fact, he came to me for help, then vanished.” He gave Miller a few more details than he’d given Popeye.
“I need to follow-up and make sure he’s okay.” Miller stroked his chin, grabbed a few more jellybeans, and shook them like dice.
“It’s kind of strange,” he said, as if thinking to himself. “Charlie’s been coming and going for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been working on these streets for almost twenty-five years. Hell, I spent two or three sleeping on them myself. But as long as I can remember, I’ve never known Charlie to reach out to anyone.” Miller’s face colored with uncertainty. Robert looked him directly in the eye. “You don’t know me from Adam,” he said. “But trust me.
Charlie needs my help.” He grabbed a fistful of jellybeans from the jar and tossed a couple in his mouth. I haven’t eaten all day.
Miller hesitated, tapping his desk. “He stays here sometimes,” he finally said. “We haven’t seen him in awhile. That’s not unusual for most of the people around here. We only allow them a bed for forty-seven consecutive nights before they have to move on, sixty if it’s a woman with a child. If they get lucky, they may get back in after three or four months. So they come and go.”
“What about Charlie?” asked Robert, finishing the jellybeans and grabbing a few more.
“Oh he’s as regular as clockwork. He shows up every spring and stays as long as we let him, then moves on. Sometimes we see him twice a year. From time to time he even helps out around here.”
“Helps out?” asked Robert.
Miller’s eyes flashed upward, narrowed, then relaxed. A sign of truth. “Yes,” he continued. “Charlie’s quite a unique fellow. We get all kinds in here, stockbrokers, government workers, business executives, even one or two White House aides over the years. Talented people who for some reason end up on the street burned out.” Robert wanted more jellybeans but didn’t want to be greedy. “And Charlie?”
“That’s what makes him so different,” said Miller. “Most of the time he’s very sharp, clear headed, even shows signs of extreme intelligence.
He’s never told anyone what he did for a living, but I imagine he was good at it.”
Yeah, Robert thought. Real good. “Are there any other places, other missions, where he may have stayed occasionally?”
“None that I know about, but like I said, people come and go. Some make their way across country and back, year after year. There’s no telling where Charlie is when he’s not here.” Robert grabbed more jellybeans anyway. “Did he have any friends or groups he ran with?”
“Now that was one thing strange about Charlie,” said Miller. “Most people out here run in groups, or at least have a partner who’ll have their back in a pinch. Know what I mean?”
Robert thought of Thorne. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Charlie kept to himself,” continued Miller. “He’d help out, but never seemed to get close enough to anybody to say he had any real friends. Miller smiled and popped a jellybean in his mouth. “Then again, I don’t know everything.”
The phone rang and after the call, Miller asked Robert to join him down in the kitchen where the cooks and kitchen staff, all dressed in white, moved at a pace just short of frantic. From what Robert could surmise, they were getting ready for the dinner rush.
Miller glided through the kit
chen tasting food from several pots, smiling, and patting workers on the back. The rich smell of beef stew, baked bread, and apple pie made Robert’s stomach rumble violently.
Miller offered him a small bowl of stew, which he scarfed down while the director dealt with questions from the staff. The stew was surprisingly good.
Miller looked around the kitchen and smiled. “This is what it’s all about,” he said. “We serve over a thousand meals a day. When you’re out on the street, a decent meal is like gold.” Robert didn’t share Miller’s enthusiasm for housing and feeding the poor. For him it was the law of the jungle. Eat, or be eaten. “Do you know if Charlie was injured or sick?” he asked, as a whiff of hot bread teased with him. He recounted to Miller an edited version of the scene at his office. The overturned chair. The drops of blood.
Miller’s face flashed concerned. “I’m afraid…” Robert’s cell phone interrupted. Thorne. The Bear. More dead bodies. Judge Jonathan Weiss and his wife.
Robert hung up cursing loudly. Miller and the others froze. He apologized, but didn’t mean it. He pulled out a business card and a small roll of bills, and handed them to Miller. “I have to run. If you come up with anything, or see Charlie, call me right away.”
“You don’t have to oil me,” said Miller. “Like I said, no one has seen Charlie in awhile. He stretched out his hand to give back the money.
“Keep it anyway,” said Robert, heading for the exit.
“Remember, Mr. Veil, even the unforgivable deserve forgiveness.” Robert glanced back. So he does know.
He hustled outside and noticed the same weasel-looking man he saw earlier standing across the street from the mission sipping from a bottle and talking to himself. Pressed for time, Robert kept going, reached his car, then drove back by the mission. The weasel stood directly in front looking lost. Miller came outside, put his arms around the derelict and gave him a big bear hug. From his rear view mirror, Robert saw Miller lead the man inside. Jumped the gun. Just another lazy drunk looking for a free ride. Robert hit Pennsylvania Avenue and headed west toward Georgetown.
He shifted gears away from the Kennedy case and Charlie, and focused on the matter at hand. The Bear killed again.
Ten minutes later, he pulled through a swarm of media trucks, reporters, and nosey bystanders, past a young policeman who examined his temporary Justice Department credentials and waved him through.
Police black and whites, the coroner’s wagon, and a crowd of unmarked government vehicles sat in every available space. He spotted Thorne’s Rover parked on a lawn next to a gated swimming pool and managed to squeeze in beside it.
Detectives and agents, their game faces on, scoured every inch of the area, some with dogs. Each townhouse loomed large and impressive, sand-colored in rows of five, about four thousand square feet each.
Eight-foot English-style lamps, the kind one might expect to see in a Jack the Ripper movie, stood sentry in front of each unit. The judge’s lamplight, shattered, posed for the police photographer snapping pictures from multiple angles. The officers and agents barely acknowledged Robert’s presence.
Thorne appeared at the front door, a digital video camera in one hand, a notebook in the other, and quickly walked his way.
“It’s him for sure,” she said. “He broke their necks. Mrs. Weiss was raped.”
Broken neck. A message. Fuck you guys. You’re vulnerable.
“Did you get everything on film?” Robert asked. “We can load it in the computer. Maybe find something these guys missed.”
“That’s a problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“The guys are acting a little stranger than usual,” said Thorne. “I was told not to take any pictures and they’ve kept me out of the loop. They won’t even let me get a close look at the bodies. All my information has come second hand.”
“But we’ve been given complete access,” said Robert, grinding his teeth.
“Tell it to them sweetheart,” said Thorne, pointing to the agents working the grounds.
Robert stormed inside the townhouse. Agent Sams appeared, arms across his chest, a smirk on his face. “Sorry Mr. Veil, we’ve been ordered to keep the place clear. You and the Mrs. will have to wait outside.”
Thorne stepped forward. Robert held her back. The officers and agents working the crime scene stopped to look.
“Who issued that order Agent Sams? You?” asked Robert.
“Like I told you and this android you call a woman…” Throne slapped the words back down his throat. Even the agents watching winced.
“Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” snapped Thorne, staring him straight in the eye. Agent Sams stood with his mouth open, stunned.
“I’d pay close attention to her,” said Robert. “Next time she may not be so nice.”
Furious, Agent Sams stepped forward. “I could arrest you for that,” he bellowed.
Robert backed away. “Go ahead,” he said. “I haven’t seen her bend up a fool like you in quite some time.”
Thorne smiled and blew the agent a kiss. “Come on sugga. Let mommy teach you how to dance.”
Agent Sams took another step.
“Agent Sams, stand down,” a stern female voice ordered.
The agent abruptly fell back.
A leggy blonde in a plain charcoal gray business suit approached them. Before she spoke, Robert knew she was FBI or Secret Service brass. Definitely not CIA. Company agents would have let Thorne and Sams fight, then sort it out later.
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Marilyn London, FBI. This morning the Bureau assigned me as lead on this case, and told me to make sure you were given full access.”
Agent Sams sneered and stormed outside.
“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Agent London continued. “You know how it is when you piss in somebody’s pond.”
“We’re invited to this party,” said Robert, shaking her hand. Her grip impressed him. “This is no way to treat a guest.” Agent London smiled, extended her hand to Thorne, and was left hanging.
“I’ll get started Robert,” said Thorne, eyeing the agent suspiciously.
Agent London stood there, mouth agape.
“She’s not one to insult,” said Robert, a sarcastic smile on his face.
“Well, maybe she should get laid,” Marilyn responded, abruptly walking toward the den. Robert eyed her figure. Nice. He shook off the trance. I’m the one who needs to get laid.
The den, as Robert expected, housed columns of shelves, floor to ceiling, lined with walls of books. Loose papers cluttered a round oak table and the judge’s desk. Judge Weiss, clad in a half buttoned tropical shirt and khaki pants, lay dead on the floor behind the desk next to a computer workstation, his head twisted grotesquely to one side, eyes open. Photographers snapped pictures, while Thorne moved about the carnage with her camcorder.
“As you can see, His Honor and Mrs. Weiss were on their way out of town,” said Agent London. “We found two tickets to the Cayman Islands on the dresser upstairs.”
“Anything missing?” asked Robert
“Credit cards and ten thousand in cash were found untouched on the dresser next to the tickets. We checked the judge’s bank records and it’s the exact amount he withdrew on Friday. This is definitely our guy.
Besides, he left us a little gift on the bed next to Mrs. Weiss. I’ll show it to you later.”
Robert removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and knelt down, gently lifting the judge’s head off the floor. It felt loose, like a tetherball on a string. The esophagus, crushed. He lowered the head back down on the emerald green carpet; the crunch of vertebrae vibrating in his hand. Deep black and blue bruises covered the throat. The eyes, open, blank and glassy, glistened like a couple of well-matched marbles.
Robert detected the scent of cologne, Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men.
The half buttoned shirt exposed a small amount of salt and pepper hair on the judge’s chest. Robert opened it all the wa
y. An Air Force skull and crossbones tattoo, surrounded by the words “Mess with the best, die like the rest. AF 463 Vietnam” sat cold. One navy blue deck shoe clung to the judges’ right foot; Robert saw the other underneath the desk. A diamond encrusted wedding band shimmered on the magistrate’s finger. Out of place in such a gruesome scene.
Thorne knelt down to get a better shot of the bruises.
“The judge tried to defend himself,” said Marilyn. “In addition to the broken nose, bruised face and neck, you’ll also notice bruising and swelling around the knuckles.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t go as easy as the others,” said Robert. “I bet he caught our Russian friend off guard, but never had a chance.” Marilyn agreed and stepped over to the gun cabinet. “He picked the lock and came in through the back door. We believe things started upstairs.”
“What about the alarm?” asked Robert, a smirk on his face. He knew the system the judge installed to be grossly inferior. He’d inspected it himself only a few weeks earlier and suggested an upgrade.
“He beat it without a hitch,” said Marilyn, smiling as though she could read his mind. “No wonder. I think he bought it at Toys R Us.” Robert returned the smile then examined the gun cabinet. Impressive.
He counted fifteen guns. Several immediately caught his eye, including a very rare Model 1803 U.S. Flintlock rifle dating back to the Lewis and Clark Expedition, an almost extinct Israeli Mauser, and a Colt Z 40 semi-automatic, highly prized by collectors and nearly impossible to find.
Robert shook his head in sad disgust.
“Yeah, I know,” said Marilyn. “All this firepower didn’t do the poor bastard a bit of good.”
“Anything missing?”
“No, nothing was taken,” said Marilyn. “We found the gun inventory in his desk. Every weapon is accounted for.” Robert smiled. He liked Agent London. Beautiful and smart, she appeared to be tough. None of which hurt if a woman wanted to succeed in a man’s world.
“Looks like Mrs. Weiss walked in on them, dropped her packages and ran upstairs,” she continued. “Obviously the Bear wasn’t expecting her.” Robert examined the packages. Neiman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Prada, spread randomly in front of the study’s door. “Well, let’s have a look at the Mrs.,” he said, standing.
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