by Tinnean
“Mark?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m looking forward to this week.”
“Yeah.”
We got in and buckled up, and I started the engine and turned on the windshield wipers.
This was going to be a great week.
XVIII
“ALL right. Spill the beans.”
“Gregor was able to learn that Wexler and Holmes are working together against me.” If I hadn’t known Quinn, hadn’t known the kind of man he was, that would have sounded like paranoia in the extreme. “Wexler because I stand between him and Mother….”
“Bastard. And Holmes?”
“He’s never stopped blaming me for that debacle with Prinzip.”
“Goddamnit!” Not that it wasn’t anything I hadn’t learned days earlier than Novotny had, and in more detail. Matheson was shaping up to be a thorough senior agent.
“Yes. I knew Holmes was involved; I just didn’t realize to what degree.” He went on to tell me of his meeting with his uncles.
“So neither of them were able to come up with a plan to deal with Holmes.” I growled under my breath. Quinn needed someone with WBIS expertise—me, dammit—to take care of this mess.
He reached over and squeezed my thigh. “I’m a big boy. I can handle Holmes.” He changed the subject. “Tell me about the suite you reserved for us at Taylor House.”
“Big bed, big bathroom…. Hurricane season hasn’t ended, so it shouldn’t be too crowded.”
“Hurricane?”
“Nah, the seven-day forecast is for really good weather.”
“Do I have your word on that?”
I turned my head to grin at him. “Always.”
The rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers was a soft counterpoint to our conversation.
We were about five blocks from my place, sitting at a traffic light, when Quinn’s cell phone rang. He studied the screen in the light of the dashboard and smiled.
“Hello, Mother. We’re almost at Mark’s. How’s traffic on your end? That bad?”
“How bad?” I asked.
He covered the receiver. “Gregor’s just now merged onto the Beltway. This miserable weather. The trip home should take half an hour at most, and now it will probably be more than an hour before they get there. … I’m sorry, Mother. You were saying? Oh?” He put his hand over the receiver again, which I thought was cute. “Gregor reminded her that Uncle Jeff wants the family at the manor next Sunday. Of course Mother has no idea why.”
“And you do?”
“Certainly. I am an officer of the CIA, I’ll have you know.” He grinned and resumed his conversation with his mother, relaxed and teasing.
What would it be like to have such a fantastic woman for a mother, to have such unconditional love? How different would my life have been if my old lady had cared at least as much for me as she did for Johnnie Walker Black?
There was no sense in wondering about that. Things were what they were.
The light changed, and I drove on.
Abruptly, Quinn swore.
“Quinn?”
His eyes met mine. There was shock in them. He pressed a key and put the phone on speaker, and I could hear what he was hearing.
Novotny, swearing first in English, and then in Czech.
The sound of angry horns and protesting brakes.
And then the sound of the Lexus—Quinn’s Lexus—being hit again and again, metal crashing, smashing into metal, glass shattering….
And a single, painful cry.
“Mother!”
I jammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, sending my car spinning on the slick street. I had it under control even as it fishtailed, and I headed toward the road that would take us to the Beltway.
“Mother, answer me!”
There was no response.
“Jesus. Mark….” His voice was tight and hovering on the edge of control.
“I’m on it, Quinn. I’ll get us there. Now listen to me. There’s a red light in the glove compartment. Get it out and slap it on the roof.”
Not even asking what I was doing with that in my glove compartment, he obeyed me.
“What… what should I…?”
“Call 911, baby.” Others at the scene had probably done that already, but it would give him something to do.
“I don’t know where they are.”
“You said Gregor had just merged onto the Beltway. Give them that to start with.”
“Yes.” His voice was shaking, and a quick glance showed me his hands were as well as he made the call. “I’m… I’m sorry….”
“Don’t worry about it.” I leaned on the horn and wove through the streets, swearing under my breath whenever anyone got in my way.
XIX
GODDAMNED DC traffic. In spite of the red light on the roof and my lead foot on the gas pedal, it was all over by the time we got there.
The Lexus was upside down, the roof crumpled by the weight of the car. It was giving a fair impression of an accordion. The driver’s side passenger door was gone, replaced by a gaping hole. Other cars were scattered on the median, dented and dinged, but none so badly.
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t….” One of the cops tried to keep us back.
“I’m Quinton Mann. That’s my car, officer. My mother was riding in it.”
“Oh! Um….”
“How is she?”
“You just missed the ambulance. She’s being taken to GW. Uh… George Washington University Hospital.”
What did he think we were, tourists?
“How is she?” Quinn demanded.
“She was trapped in the backseat, and they needed the Jaws of Life to get her out.”
Quinn was paper white, and his hands were shaking again.
“And Novotny?” Not that I cared, but Quinn would want to know. Eventually.
“Who? Oh, the driver? He was hurt, but not as badly as Mrs. Mann.”
“Thank you, officer….” It was raining harder, and Quinn turned to me, his expression sick in the flashing lights of the cop cars. “Mark. If she doesn’t make it….” He brushed the rain out of his eyes. I wanted to put my arms around him and hold him, but there were too many interested onlookers.
“She’ll be okay, Mann. She’s one tough cookie, and she’s gonna be pissed when she learns you were giving up on her.”
“You’re right.” He looked around as if he wasn’t sure what to do next.
“Get in the car, Quinn. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
Again he obeyed without question. He was starting to shiver, and I turned the heater on full blast.
“It’s been just the two of us for so long.” His voice started to break. “Mark…. Jesus….”
“We’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Are you listening to me, Mann?” I waited until he nodded. “I’ll let you off at the ED so you can go right in. I’ll be with you as soon as I park the car.”
“Thank you.” His voice was under control once more.
“If you thank me one more time, I’m gonna kick you in the ass. Don’t get soft on me.” The brakes screeched as I pulled to a stop in front of the ED. “Now, get going!”
“Okay, Vincent.” A brief squeeze to my arm, and he was out of the car and heading into the ED on the run.
There was a tap on my window. A police officer was standing there, and I lowered it.
“I’m sorry, sir. You can’t…. Oh, Mr. Vincent. I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was you.”
“Not a problem, Samuels.” Samuels was one of my sources on the DCPD. “What are you doing here?”
“My partner and I are investigating that crash on the Beltway.”
“Yeah? What can you tell me about it?”
“Not much right now, sir, beyond the fact that it looks like a hit and run. We do have a partial plate.”
“What is it?”
He told me, and I made a mental note.
“We were hoping to talk to the victims, but the lady is out
of it right now. Her driver was being bandaged up, and as soon as we get the okay, we’ll see what he has to say. Maybe he can tell us something.”
“Hey, Sammy!” It was Samuels’s partner.
“I have to go.”
“Okay. Get in touch with me as soon as you find out anything else.”
“Yes, sir.” He jogged over to his partner, and they disappeared through the brightly lit doors of the ED.
I found a parking spot, put the car in neutral, and pressed and twisted a knob on the dash. What looked like a PDA slid out. It had been created by Romero in R&D, and he called it a “Seek & Find.”
This particular S&F was programmed to work only for me. I fitted my thumb in the shallow depression on the right. It identified not only my thumbprint, but my DNA through epithelial cells, and it lit up.
“Good evening, Mr. Vincent,” it said in a mellow tenor.
“Yeah, yeah.” I keyed the department I needed the information from and punched in the numbers and single letter of the plate Samuels had given me. “Just tell me who that baby belongs to.”
“Working on it, Mr. Vincent.”
“You do that,” I muttered. Having this gadget address me by name was too 2001: A Space Odyssey for me, even if Romero did swear by it. I kept expecting it to tell me it wouldn’t open the pod bay doors.
I turned off the engine, knowing the S&F had its own power source and would keep sifting through the Motor Vehicle Bureau’s records until it found something. At that point my car remote would emit a discreet beep, informing me the search had been completed.
I got out, keyed the remote to lock the car and slid it into the pocket of my tux, and headed for the emergency department.
Quinn and his mother were nowhere in sight, but before I could grab any of the men and women hurrying past and ask where they were, I heard him.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Mother! Do you hear me?”
I went toward the curtained area and pulled aside the heavy beige material. A male nurse taking vitals frowned at me. I frowned right back and dismissed him.
Portia Mann was lying on a stretcher, as pale as the sheet that covered her except for the bruise that bloomed on her shoulder, probably caused by her seat belt. There was a swelling on her left temple. A tube ran from beneath the sheet at her side to a bottle that was partially filled with drainage.
Jesus, this felt like a bad rerun of what had happened last spring with my friend Paul Stark. He’d still been hustling as Pretty Boy, and Sperling, the son of a bitch who’d been head of Interior Affairs at the time, rented him for an hour. Sperling drugged him and beat the shit out him, all in an effort to make sure I’d be at the emergency department and away from my apartment. Karma was a bitch, especially since my door had blown to kingdom come, taking Sperling with it.
I’d make sure whoever had done this to Mrs. Mann paid as heavily, for her, sure, but mostly for my lover.
“Will she be all right, Doctor?” Quinn was holding onto his mother’s hand.
“She’s been fading in and out of consciousness—”
“She’ll be fine, Quinn.” I gave the doctor a look that dared him to contradict me.
He glanced at me and then turned back to his clipboard. “Does she have any allergies, Mr. Mann?”
“No. Generally she’s—”
My remote began to beep softly.
“What is that?” The doctor was irritated. “You can’t have a cell phone in here.”
I ignored him. “Listen, Quinn. I’ve got some stuff to do. You’ll be here, right?”
“I’ll be here. Mark.” His mouth was a grim line. “I’m not going to ask what you’re going to do.”
“Good. You know I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”
He let go of his mother’s hand long enough to clutch at my lapel.
Trust me, I mouthed, and he nodded and let me go.
“Mrs. Mann?” I leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You heard Quinn. You’d better damn well be alive when I get back!”
I thought I saw a smile crease the space between her eyes, but the beep was becoming insistent. I thumbed it off and left the ED.
XX
IT WAS Sunday night. Quinn and I should have been in Key West, naked, sweaty, and supremely satisfied on the big bed in our suite in Taylor House. Instead, he was sitting in a hospital room beside his mother’s bed, his uncles from both coasts there with him, and I was here, outside the small house Peter Lapin sublet in Georgetown.
I’d come up with a plan, gotten the supplies I would need, and then waited for dark, which would conceal my actions. A little patience would see that everything worked as smooth as butter.
It was an overcast night, and the moon was obscured. The street light was conveniently out.
Not that it would have made much difference if it had been a clear night and the light had been working.
Lapin’s BMW—kind of a rich car for a senator’s aide—was parked in a narrow alleyway between the houses. A glance around told me I was unobserved, and I eased under the car and set to work on it, a small flashlight held between my teeth. When I was finished, it would seem like mechanical failure led to the accident that resulted in his death.
It took me about ten minutes. I added something to cause a little distraction, then rolled out from under the car and dusted off my hands.
I stripped off the overalls I’d worn to protect my suit and stuffed them into a plastic trash bag in one of the garbage cans that were kept at the rear of the alley. Once that was done, I smoothed my hair, straightened my jacket, and made sure the cloisonné American flag was in place on my lapel. Yeah, nothing was ever what it appeared to be. I strolled up the walk to the shallow steps that led to his front door. Another casual glance revealed no one in the vicinity or peeking through their curtains.
Peter Lapin answered my knock.
“Vincent!”
“You recognize me.”
“God knows you were driving the senator crazy enough last night. To what do I owe this… pleasure?”
“I thought it might be a good idea for us to talk.”
“Yes?” He smirked. “Why would I want to do that?”
“You were behind Portia Mann’s accident last night.”
He seemed taken aback for a second, but then his features smoothed out. “Nonsense.”
I didn’t reply.
“It is nonsense.” His lips twisted, and he shrugged and said, “But do come in. The night air is a little damp, and I can think of better places to be having this conversation than on my doorstep.”
He might have graduated first in his class, with enough honors to choke a horse, but inviting me to freely enter his house…. That was like inviting Nosferatu to come on in and not expect him to chow down on your neck.
I stepped in and waited while he closed the door. He led the way into a small, dark room furnished with overstuffed armchairs and tables that made the room seem even smaller and darker.
“Have a seat. Can I offer you something?” He flipped on a light switch and went to the liquor cabinet. “Whiskey? Scotch? Gin?”
“No.” I sat down and crossed my legs.
“That’s right, you’re not inclined to drink, are you?”
“How do you know that?”
“I know a lot of things.” He smirked again and poured himself a glass and then sat down in the chair across from me. “The walls of the WBIS are not as impenetrable as you might like to think. And don’t imagine you can get any information from me, Vincent. I’m not like some of those pathetic clones who take one look at you and piss their pants. I’ve dealt with men like you before; I’m not afraid of you, and I have no intention of telling you who the senator’s source is.”
Maybe not right then, but he would soon.
He was raising his glass to his lips when his car alarm went off, right on schedule. His expression became irritated, and he said, “Excuse me.” He set down his glass, rose, and went to shut it off.
I used his abse
nce to snap open a capsule and drop its contents into his drink, and was back in my armchair when he returned, grumbling under his breath.
“Everything all right?” I asked, the epitome of innocence.
“Fucking Beemer. You’d think a car as expensive as that would have the fucking bugs worked out.” He picked up his glass and took a deep swallow, then sat down.
“Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you deliberately ran it into Quinton Mann’s Lexus last night.”
“There isn’t a scratch on my car!”
“Not now, at any rate.” I stared at him, bored, and I waited to see how he would respond.
“You can’t touch me,” he stated flatly. “I’m Senator’s Wexler’s aide. Senator Wexler is—”
“I know what he is.”
“No, you don’t.” His smile was condescending. “He’s going to be president!”
“You think so?”
“Well, not in ’04 perhaps, but definitely in ’08! I’ll see to that! And once he’s in office there will be some changes made.”
“Like the disbanding of the WBIS?”
“You’re aware of that? Yes.” He shrugged, not even smart enough to realize it wasn’t a good thing to admit that to the man who had been promoted to senior special agent earlier and stayed alive to keep the position longer than anyone else on record in the WBIS. “There’s no need in this day and age for such an antiquated organization!”
“I see.”
“I thought you would. You know, Vincent….” His tone was considering. “You’re a smart man. There could be a place for you in the new order.”
“Could there? I hadn’t thought….”
“Oh, yes. We’ll need people who have no problem taking out the opposition.”
“I’m—”
“Flattered? You should be.”
Like hell I was.
“What I don’t understand….” I pretended to find my fingernails fascinating, but in reality I was watching him. “… is why the senator wanted to get rid of Portia Mann. I was under the impression that he… liked… her.”
