Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3)

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “You want us to get the maps?” Mustafa asked.

  “No. Brother Moises and I will take care of it. You two have a job to do.”

  Mustafa nodded, then looked to the quiet young fighter seated on the bed. “You ain’t said much, Brother Moises.”

  “I’ll do my talking Friday,” Moises said. After that he didn’t give a damn what happened. If he was alive he’d fight for the sake of fighting. Tanya wasn’t even the reason anymore. Moises had thought his family was as good as dead because of her murder, but now he realized that he was the one who’d stopped living. Reason didn’t matter now at all. He was on autopilot, and the only instruction his psyche recognized was kill. Kill every white face you see.

  After Friday, that would be enough.

  * * *

  The sixth floor rooms, connected by a door, were comfortable, but far from lavish. Darren entered first, with suitcases in each hand. He laid these on the queen-size bed and walked to the window as Felicia and Anne followed him in. He was stiff, but not tired. His body was still convinced it was seven, not ten.

  “This is nice,” Anne commented. She checked the connecting door. It was unlocked, and for a moment she disappeared through it to her room to unload the two pieces of luggage she had brought.

  Felicia walked up behind her husband and slid her arms around his waist. She felt the rumble of his stomach on her palms. “You should have eaten something on the plane.”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  She knew it wasn’t a case of appetite. Her chin rested on Darren’s shoulder as she looked out the window with him. Across the street the D.C. Courthouse was lit against the wintry night. Snow flurries had dusted the city all day, but nothing had stuck.

  Darren was looking beyond the courthouse, though. Far beyond. “He’s out there, sweetheart.”

  Felicia hugged her husband tighter. “I know.”

  “Maybe he’s old enough to think for himself, but...” Darren’s breath clouded the window as he spoke. It cleared as he was momentarily silent. “I hate being this close and not being able to do anything.”

  “What would you do if you could?”

  “Find him,” Darren said, his hands coming up to caress Felicia’s on his stomach. “Just find him.”

  Felicia would do the same...if she could. But she couldn’t. Their son had taken a road neither of them was familiar with. They could only hope that, at some point, it would lead him home.

  Darren looked away from the nighttime D.C. skyline and kissed the side of his wife’s face. “I need to walk or something, sweetheart.” He felt Felicia’s chin move on his shoulder as she nodded. “Five hours on the plane...”

  “I understand. There’s a restaurant downstairs. Why don’t you get a piece of pie.” She pinched his waist and giggled. “You’ve got a half-inch to spare.”

  Darren turned, facing the only woman he’d ever loved. High school sweethearts they had been. Married right after graduation against everyone’s advice. He went to work for the post office, she for a bank. Then two children, a house that was never big enough but was always theirs. They’d had a lot of sun in their lives, and some rain. Some real rain of late. But they had come through that together... “I love you. You know that.”

  “Really?” Felicia smiled and kissed him. “I love you, too.” He smiled back, but it wasn’t a whole expression. She knew what was missing. “Go get a bite and relax.”

  “Okay.” Darren kissed her on the forehead and left the room, the hotel door clicking loudly as its twin latches closed.

  Anne popped back in at the sound. “Where’s Darren?”

  “He needed a minute to...” Felicia bit her lower lip to stop the tears from coming. It worked. “It’s Moises. Being here is hard for Darren because he knows Moises is just up the road a ways.”

  “That was weeks ago, Felicia,” Anne reminded her.

  “I know. Convince Superdad of that.”

  You couldn’t talk the worry out of a parent. Not in therapy, and definitely not three thousand miles from the couch.

  But maybe you could ease the parent’s fears. Maybe...

  “I have an idea, Felicia. Maybe there’s some peace of mind for Darren.” Anne got the mischievous look on her face that only one person knew. “Did Darren bring that postcard from Moises?”

  “I have it,” Felicia said. She retrieved it from her bag and gave it to Anne. Then she got that look, too. “You’re seeing him tonight?”

  “For a late dinner.” She looked at her watch and added the three hours she’d forgotten to on the plane. “A late, late dinner.”

  “Do you think he can find something? From that?”

  “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  So it hadn’t been the most romantic of reunions. The restaurant, on the ground floor of the hotel Art had called home for several weeks, was hardly five-star, but it did have a very important redeeming quality: it was open. The late hour and the holiday had combined to limit their dining choices, but they were making the best of it, he with an almost decent eggplant parmesan, she with an average scampi. But together they were. That was what counted.

  Anne rolled the last pinkish-orange shrimp in its buttery sauce and bit it off up to the tail. Across the small round table she watched Art lay his fork on the half-finished plate. “Not hungry?”

  He leaned a bit closer, over the plate, and spoke softly, his eyes glancing at the food: “Not for this.”

  Anne smiled and pushed her plate aside. The shrimp were gone, but the vegetable medley had only warranted a taste. She slid a hand across the table and laid it on his. “Tired?”

  He nodded.

  “I miss you,” Anne said as she rubbed the back of his hand. His eyes danced between hers and countless other things in sight. Something was on his mind. Something she was pretty certain of. “I wish we could have gotten together when you were back in California last week.”

  “It was just a quick stop,” Art said, focusing on her now. He had to say it at some point, and there was no need to fear her reaction. The only thing he had to fear was what came after. Maybe fear wasn’t the right word. Wary. That was better. It was a road he’d taken before, a road he thought he’d never choose to travel down again. Until now.

  “You want some dessert?” Anne asked and suggested. “What could they possibly do to ice cream?”

  “Anne,” Art said, moving his hand atop hers, looking at her across the remnants of highly average Italian cuisine, “I’m going to take the Chicago job.” At another time in his life he might have waited for a reaction from her. Some validation before making his next declaration. Not anymore. “I want you to come with me.”

  Well if that wasn’t direct... Leaving L.A. Leaving her practice. Leaving the teaching job at UCLA. She had already considered all those possibilities. Los Angeles was a place, a conglomeration of buildings and roads, a smattering of friends, but good friendships would survive some distance. Her practice was a bit harder to envision leaving, but the reality was that she had found it harder to think of healing others after so many of those she had known had lost their lives in the World Center. It was irrational, but that was the way of the human animal. Logic went only so far before emotion kicked in, and she was professional enough to know that she would need to heal before a full load of patients could count on her for the help they needed. Already she had trimmed her list by more than half. As for teaching...that was not an issue. The mention she’d made to Art about Chas Ohlmeyer had been a hint of sorts, but there was more to it than that—a job offer of her own, to be exact. A full professorship at the University of Chicago. Teaching all the time. She easily saw herself doing that. She easily saw herself doing that with Art as a part of her life.

  But she saw something else, too. She needed something else. “You know I will...on one condition.”

  He knew what that was, and, to be honest, he wouldn’t want it any other way. “I know. Don’t think about that right now, though. I want to do it right. Pro
per, Miss Preston.”

  Anne felt the squeeze on her hand, and the funny feeling low in her stomach. “Whew. Well, I guess this meal will be memorable for more than the food.”

  “Thankfully,” Art joked mildly. He tried to look strong, sure of himself, stoic. But he knew the stupid grin on his face was shooting those attempts to hell. Time to set this subject aside until its proper disposition. “So, how are the Griggs’s?”

  “Nervous, excited, sad,” Anne answered. “Darren especially, because of Moises.”

  “The stupid kid,” Art said.

  “Confused, G-Man,” Anne countered. She reached into her purse and pulled out the postcard. “And for that cynical transgression you owe me a favor.”

  Art took the card and read it. At least he wrote home. “How so?”

  “Look at the postmark—Baltimore. Being this close and not knowing exactly where he is is eating Darren up. I know you’re busy, but is there any way you could look into it? Or ask someone to?” Anne noticed a change in Art’s expression. “What?”

  No. It can’t be him. “Suspect number four is a young black male, age seventeen to twenty-five, small frame, close-cropped hair.” He fits the description. “Suspect number four was seen in the vicinity of the NALF headquarters on separate occasions.” He fits the profile. “Subjects show evidence of racially tinged hatred, possibly brought on by injustices they have suffered at the hands of a different race, whether perceived or real.” And he’s in the area. Art quickly flashed on the tape of Trooper Fitzroy’s murder, on the unidentified face of suspect number four. Left rear. A kid. He compared it to the face of the young man he’d confronted that Monday before Thanksgiving. The young, angry man taking off. Dropping out. Just like the NALF did two days later, after doing the damage.

  “Art, what is it?”

  He couldn’t tell her this. It was only a suspicion. A “wild” suspicion, he tried to convince himself. “Nothing,” Art said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. “I just remember that night at dinner.”

  “Right. That was a hard night.”

  You stupid, stupid kid. “He was a snot.”

  “So, will you?”

  Art fiddled with the card for a second. He knew they could find out some things from it: the postal processing center it was handled at, what stores carried the type of card. That was about it. General information. Beyond that it would take some ground pounding. But first came the question of confirmation—or an attempt at it. “Can I hang on to this?”

  “Sure,” Anne said. She sensed something in his tone, almost a reluctance to ask the question. But why would... Let him do his job, Anne. “Do you think you can use it?”

  Art slid the card into a pocket and toiled over the truthful answer, wishing more than anything that it could be a lie. “I’ll do what I can.”

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Staging

  Art sat next to the ID technician as the woman manipulated the controls on her powerful computer workstation, trying to make the already enhanced image of suspect number four even clearer. Behind them Special Agent Rogers stood patiently.

  “It’s the glare,” the technician said with resignation and apology, leaning closer to the twenty-one-inch monitor. On it the face in semi-profile was a far cry from identifiable. The lines that should be there to define the boundaries of the cheek and forehead were blended into the shadow deeper in the car’s exterior. This was further exacerbated by the reflection of Trooper Fitzroy’s spotlight off the back window. “I can’t make it any clearer. Even this wouldn’t hold up in court.”

  “What do you think?” Rogers asked. “Could it be the Griggs kid?”

  Art refreshed his memory by glancing at the police mug shot of Moises Griggs that LAPD had transmitted to FBI headquarters an hour earlier. That had been taken after the boy’s first and only arrest, for vandalizing the cars parked at a Beverly Hills church. Mild payback, Art thought. The Griggs kid was just getting his feet wet. Had he decided to dive in now? “It could be, David. I can’t definitely say it is, and I can’t definitely say it’s not.”

  Rogers stared at the face for a moment, then shifted his attention to the postcard in his hand. “I can’t disrupt what we’ve got running and shift a good deal of our resources to look for this kid based on a less-than-absolute ID.” The agent looked again to the screen, but this time saw another face: the reflection of Art’s. “Unless you’re certain, I can’t.”

  Art continued looking at the fuzzy image of what could be a young life thrown away. Could be. “I can’t be sure.”

  “Sorry,” Rogers said. “Thanks for the rush, Sue.” He put a hand on the technician’s shoulder.

  “I appreciate you looking at this, David,” Art said.

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Rogers patted Art on the back, the action jogging his memory. “By the way, I’ve got some good news for you.”

  “How so?”

  “The secretary of state is going to be away from the State of the Union address and Director Jones is going to be with him,” Rogers explained. “Boys’ night out, I guess. Anyway, the director wants you to join them.”

  “Me?”

  Rogers nodded. “Somewhere, Art, you made an impression on the man. He heard you were in town and, well, when the director asks the likes of me if I can spare you for one night, I don’t see myself saying no.”

  “David, that’s—”

  “And if I were an agent about to move up in the world, I wouldn’t say no to the invitation.” Rogers punctuated the suggestion with a cautionary glare.

  “I don’t like it,” Art said.

  “Go,” Frankie prompted.

  “Aguirre will be at the Capitol,” Rogers said. “Part of our supplement to Service security.”

  “I’ll send you a postcard,” Frankie joked.

  “Amusing, partner.”

  Rogers suppressed a grin at the exchange. “So I’ll convey your acceptance?”

  “Convey away,” Art said. He’d had to give in to worse things in his life. One boring night with D.C. types wouldn’t kill him.

  * * *

  Number 4387 Monroe was an extremely comfortable two-story colonial done in red brick on the outside and tasteful shades of white on the inside. Mustafa Ali was admiring the latter as he let Roger in the back door.

  “Man, I hate this,” Roger said as the door closed behind him. “This breaking-in shit.”

  Mustafa walked back to the kitchen countertop he’d crawled carefully over after having broken one pane of glass in the window to the left of the sink to gain access to the latch. He made sure the latch had been reset, then brushed some of the shattered glass onto the tiled floor, making a pattern that stretched to the refrigerator across the room. He reached into his pocket and removed a baseball, laying it on the floor near the large appliance. “Stupid kids should be more careful,” he said, then headed off through the house. Roger followed with a longish gym bag under his arm.

  The bedrooms were obviously upstairs, so that was where they went first. There turned out to be three on the second floor, one of which was set up as a music room of sorts, with stereo equipment and a collection of old vinyl LPs and CDs that covered the breadth of the big band era. The next room they checked had to be the one Vorhees used. Its centerpiece was a surprisingly small bed with sheets and covers tossed haphazardly up over the pillows. The congressman wasn’t a neat freak at home, it appeared.

  “Check it out,” Mustafa directed, pointing to the adjoining bathroom. He went to the dresser and, with gloved hands, slid each drawer out carefully. Nothing. Next was the closet. It was to his right and was closed off by twin doors. He parted them and, holding the mini-flashlight in his teeth, lit up the space. What he was searching for was there, leaning in the corner like an old umbrella. “Brother Roger. I got it.”

  Roger hurried to the closet and lifted the artificial limb, examining it in the light. “It’s close. It looks close.” The obvious difference between it and the one they had in the b
ag was the series of straps that wrapped the upper portion, connecting it to a semi-rigid knee brace that itself was topped by more straps to affix the limb securely to the thigh. It was a clunker, all right. Roger had seen better on some of the brothers back in L.A. But the added gear was not a problem. They had expected it, and simply transferred it to the prosthesis they had brought with them.

  “There’s some marks by the ankle,” Mustafa pointed out. He held the leg now while Roger opened the small makeup kit they’d brought along. A few strokes of a non-oily foundation prepared the area of their leg, and a dab of an eyebrow pencil did the rest. This they repeated for every blemish that they could find, until the difference between the two limbs was almost nil. “How does it feel?”

  Roger hefted it up and down a few times, comparing the weight and balance to the real one now tucked in the bag. “About the same.”

  “Good,” Mustafa said. “He’ll never know the difference.” Until it’s too late. “Okay, put it back. Right where it was.”

  Roger leaned the limb back in the corner, made sure nothing was disturbed, then closed the closet door. “We did it.”

  “We did this,” Mustafa said. He let the light fall from his mouth to his hand. “It comes Friday.”

  Roger agreed with a nod. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here now.”

  “Nervous, Brother Roger?”

  “Cautious, Brother Mustafa,” Roger countered. He saw that it didn’t convince his comrade. “Come on.”