“Frank, you still there?”
“Right here, Mac.”
“Got something to write with?”
“Shoot.”
“Plate is DPS173. You were right. It checks out. A 2011 Nissan NV van. VIN is XLMCYZQB7GY009472. Registered to Herbert Johnston, 1748 North Sycamore Street, Arlington, Virginia.”
“Got it. What about the prior owner?”
“Umm. Right here. Ramon Hernandez, 11873 Southeast Remington, Cambridge, Maryland.”
“What’s the date of transfer from Hernandez to Johnston?”
“Last year. April 1. Anything else?”
“No. That’s it. Thanks, Mac.”
“So, now we’re even, right?”
“Not a chance. Take care.”
CHAPTER 41
Wednesday, May 7, 8:20 am
HIS COVER last night had worked well. When he arrived at the all-night urgent care facility, he told the receptionist he’d tripped and fallen while out jogging, banging up his hands and ribs. The young woman asked for his driver’s license, insurance information, and credit card.
He produced a D.C. driver’s license in the name of Robert Gerstner. When he said he had no credit cards or insurance, she frowned.
“I have cash,” he said, fingering through bills in his wallet. “I can pay in full.”
She eyed him warily, then sighed. “Fine. Whatever. Take a seat.”
Forty minutes later, he heard his “name” called.
“Here! I’m Robert Gerstner.” He rose from his chair tenderly, the pain in his chest growing worse by the moment.
The doctor approached and offered to help him to his feet.
“I’m Dr. Sangit. Let me assist you to—”
“Tripped and hurt my ribs this morning,” Thomas said, the words hissing through his teeth as he waved the doctor’s hands away. “Hands, too. They aren’t so bad, just scrapes. My chest is worse.”
Sangit led him back to an examining room. He took a quick look at both of Thomas’s palms. “We’ll clean these up, bandage them.” He asked “Gerstner” to remove his shirt.
He leaned forward, adjusted his glasses. “That’s pretty nasty. How did this happen?”
“Jogging along the Potomac in Rock Creek Park.” He tried to take a breath, winced. “Stumbled, fell against a tree. Used my hands to break the fall, but . . .” Another breath, this one much shallower. “A branch was sticking out of the trunk. Jagged, sharp. Actually broke off and was sticking into my chest. Couldn’t stand the sight of it. Pulled it out.” A couple weaker, short breaths. “Didn’t seem so bad. Went home. Cleaned up. But the pain, it’s just . . .”
Sangit returned his attention to probing the wound and listening to Thomas’s chest. “You punctured your right lung. I don’t think it’s fully collapsed, but we’ll take a couple of X-rays to be sure. If it’s not too bad, surgery won’t be necessary. I can just use a needle to aspirate the air trapped between your lung and chest wall and reinflate the lung. With some pressure bandages, we should be able to prevent more air leaking into the wrong places.”
“Okay,” Thomas whispered. “Thanks.”
“That will take care of most of your discomfort, but the wound to the intercostal soft tissue between your ribs will remain tender for a few days. I’ll give you a shot now for the pain and some strong pain meds you can take for the next few days as needed. We’ll also start you on a course of antibiotics to eliminate any possible infection.”
Thomas worked up a smile. “Gee, doc, does this mean I’ll be able to sing in the choir again?”
For the first time, Sangit grinned.
Two and a half hours later, Thomas was $600 poorer and back in the rented cabin. The girl was still asleep in the basement. He slept for a while himself, but not very well.
* * *
Cassie wondered what their next face-to-face would be like. If there would be another. And when it would happen. What would he do to get even with her for stabbing him? She’d only intended to distract him long enough to escape, not to hurt him. She couldn’t believe it when she let go of the tee and saw it there, still sticking out of his chest. Well, he deserved it. She was actually glad she’d done it. Even if she hadn’t meant to. And even if he decided to get even. Not like he had been treating her very well before.
The only question was, how much worse would he be now?
CHAPTER 42
Wednesday, May 7, 8:50 am
LOTELLO PULLED up in front of the Arlington address shown in the DMV records for the current owner of the suspicious van. There were also two Virginia drivers’ licenses under the same name, Herbert Johnston, but neither of them tied to this street. He had a pretty good notion that the name would prove to be phony, and he wouldn’t be terribly surprised to learn that this address was bogus too. This was precisely why he’d asked McGregor for the prior owner’s information as well. Momma didn’t raise no dummy.
Good news, the address actually was real. Bad news, it was a three-story apartment building.
He walked up to the building and wandered around until he found a cluster of mailboxes. Most of the apartment units listed one or two occupants. Herbert Johnston wasn’t one of them. Hardly surprising. There were, however, a few units that didn’t show any names. Presumably vacancies. But maybe not.
A round, balding man poked his head out of the nearest apartment. “Hello. Can I help you?”
“Name’s Lotello. Detective Frank Lotello, Metropolitan D.C. Police.” He handed the man one of his cards. “And you are?”
“Joe Turner. I’m the building super.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m looking for a Mr. Herbert Johnston. He gave this address as his residence, but I don’t see that name on any of the mailboxes.”
“No one living here by that name long as I’ve been around. Three years. He might know one of the other residents, or be related, but you couldn’t prove it by me.”
“He drives a white Nissan van. Seen one around?”
“Nope, not that I can recall.”
“Alright then. Thanks for your help. Please keep my card. Give me a call if you spot that van hanging around. Don’t approach the driver, though. Okay?”
Turner just stared at the card. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Me either. That’s why I want you to steer clear. Don’t play hero. Just call me.”
* * *
Nishimura was at her desk bright and early. Chasing her curiosity, she Googled “Arnold Hirschfeld” and found plenty of hits, but nothing particularly useful. A bio on the Supreme Court site listed his academic and professional histories, as well as a number of professional and charitable affiliations. Digging deeper, she discovered that he and his wife had a married daughter and a young grand daughter. Beyond that the information was largely redundant.
Hirschfeld seemed to live a pretty dull life—no fascination with poker, no love of the ponies, no troubled ex-wife—pretty much what Nishimura expected for a Supreme Court Justice. Still, something was wrong. She intended to find out what it was. Given that there was no way she’d be able to arrange an interview with him, or his wife, that left the daughter.
CHAPTER 43
Wednesday, May 7, 9:15 am
THOMAS HAD BEEN up for almost an hour. With Court not in session today, he was restless. The bandages on his chest were tight. They itched. But at least they diverted his animus away from the 28th Amendment. And the girl. His mind drifted back to her, but he wasn’t sure why. He wondered what she must be thinking, and whether the side of her face was hurting as much as his rib cage.
He stood up, slipped on his mask, and walked toward the basement steps.
* * *
Cassie heard someone unlocking the basement door. The freak? Someone else? She rose to her feet, not knowing what was coming next.
He came in wearing that same stupid thing on his face. They stood there staring at each other. No one spoke.
Was this going to be payback for what she had done to him the n
ight before? Maybe so, but she just wasn’t going to roll over. She wasn’t going to allow him to smell her fear. Finally, she steeled up the courage to say, “Where am I? Why are you doing this to me? I want to go home. Now.”
He didn’t answer. Because of his mask, she couldn’t see his facial expressions; it was hard for her to gauge what was on his mind. Maybe his mask wasn’t so stupid after all, she thought.
“None of your business where you are, or why,” he answered. “Say, brat, how’s your jaw this morning?”
She wanted to assert herself. At least give it a try. After all, he hadn’t killed her last night, and he hadn’t come at her in a rage this morning. She also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much her cheek was pounding. “None of your business.” She even mimicked his tone, and mirrored his stance. And if he could call her a brat, she could call him a creep. Which was what he looked like in that mask. “Say, creep, how’s your chest this morning?”
He suddenly drew and cocked his fist, but just as suddenly stopped, doubling over slightly and moving his raised hand to his ribs. “Watch your lip, girl,” he all but groaned. “Unless you want some more of what you got last night.”
Frightened as she was, his unfulfilled threat encouraged her to goad him even more. “And why your stupid mask? Probably better looking than the real you.”
This time he didn’t stop himself midstream. His exasperated backhand blow knocked her to the ground before she ever saw it coming “Quite the smart aleck, aren’t you, kid? I warned you to knock it off.”
She stubbornly fought back, at least with words, willing her tears away. “Smarter than you, Mister. That’s for sure. And why don’t you pick on someone your own size? We’ll see how brave you’d be then.”
“You think you’re smarter than me? Then how come you’re the one locked in here and not me?”
It actually felt good acting tough, but she knew she couldn’t out tough him like she could out-tough a golf opponent. Sometimes I do better with grownups dumbing it down. Playing the kiddy card. Maybe that’s worth a try. “Well, if you’re so smart, then what’s the longest word in the dictionary? Bet you don’t have a clue.”
He didn’t answer. He just seemed to gaze at her through the eyeholes in his mask.
Then, out of nowhere: “What in the world are you talking about, kid? Why would I possibly care about something like that?”
“Smiles,” she said, completely ignoring his questions.
More silence. Then: “You’re nuts. There’s lots of words longer than ‘smiles.’”
“Uh uh.”
“If that’s all you can say, then you’re definitely the one who’s not very smart, and not worth any more of my time.”
“Yeah? Then name me a longer word if you’re so smart.”
He paused. “Washington.”
“Not even close.”
“Where did you go to school? I’m done wasting my time with you.”
“At least I go to school.”
“Okay, brat, you win. I’ll play along. For one more minute. Tell me why—”
“Because there’s a mile between the first letter and the last letter. Get it, creep?”
His breath came a little more quickly. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “That’s your idea of smart?”
“You have a better one?”
“Yeah. The reason you’re here. That’s plenty smart.”
Despite herself, Cassie felt her knees buckle. Her skin turned cold. She tried to regain her cool. “What’s so smart about that?”
“Told you. None of your business.”
“So how long are you going to keep me locked up?”
“Also none of your business.”
“It is too. Whose business is it if not mine?”
“It’s my business.”
Once more, they traded quiet stares. Then, after a few seconds, the man turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Cassie could not figure out what was going on. She wondered why the man had come down here in the first place; why he almost smashed her in the face, again, but then stopped himself. And why, barely a minute later, he went ahead and knocked her to the floor anyway. Who is this monster? What does he want with me?
CHAPTER 44
Wednesday, May 7, 2015, 10:05 am
LOTELLO HEADED from Arlington to the address he had for Ramon Hernandez, the prior owner of the van. He was surprised that Maryland had only one driver’s license for that name. The address on it was in Cambridge, but didn’t match the Southeast Remington address from the van’s registration. The license seemed more current. It brought him to this shabby two-story wood-frame house.
Just as he was about to get out of his car, his text alert sounded, catching him off guard. He received plenty of emails, but not many texts. It was from Madison:
No worries, but can U meet me in the school cafeteria 4 lunch? My lunch is 11:30-12:30.
He looked at the time on his phone and responded:
Be there about 11:30. Wait for me if I’m a few minutes late. Love, Dad.
He knew he didn’t have to say who it was from, or to add “Love.” She hadn’t, but, hey.
He approached the front door and rang the bell.
A middle-aged woman in a bathrobe and slippers, her face a little short of pleasant, answered the door. “Not buying anything,” she said. “Not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”
“That’s okay, I’m not selling anything. Looking for Ramon Hernandez.”
“Figures. Over the garage in the back. Follow the driveway.”
She stepped away from the door and shut it. Lotello wondered what it was about Hernandez that “figured.”
He walked around back to the garage, climbed the stairs on the side of the structure, knocked on the door. No answer. He waited. Knocked again. This time the door opened to reveal a young barefoot Hispanic male probably in his twenties, wearing boxer shorts, a tee shirt, a sullen pair of bloodshot eyes, and a shaved head that hadn’t seen a razor in several days.
“Yeah? What up? Who’re you?”
“Detective Frank Lotello, Metropolitan D.C. Police. You Ramon Hernandez?
“Shit. I ain’t done nothing, man. ’Sides, this ain’t D.C. You lost or sumpin?”
Lotello said nothing. Then, without warning, he shot his left hand forward, grabbed Hernandez by his right ear and tugged him closer. “Listen, man, you ain’t done nothing wrong yet. This morning, that is. Answer a few questions for me and you may be able to keep it that way. Okay?”
“C’mon, man, you’re hurting me. Let go. Whatcha wanna know?”
Lotello loosened his grip. “Much better, Ramon. You own a white Nissan van?”
“No way, man. Telling you, you got the wrong guy.”
“Ever owned one?”
“Why you asking?”
“Because you’re the registered owner and it was involved in a hit and run.”
“No way, man. Not me. Got rid of that old beat up piece a shit.”
“When?”
“When the hit and run?”
“Doesn’t work that way, Ramon.” Lotello raised his left hand toward Hernandez’s right ear. “You first.”
“Cut it out, man! Sold the van late March. Remember ‘cuz I gave the form to the DMV on April 1st. April Fool’s Day.”
“Who’d you sell it to?”
“Just some dude, all’s I know.”
“Try harder. Did he give you a check?”
“I look like a banker? Dude paid cash, man, fifteen big ones.”
“And you don’t have a name?”
“Just Franklin, fifteen of ‘em.”
“One more time, Ramon. If you don’t give me a good name, I’ll pull you in as an accessory after the fact and let you spend the day looking at mug shots.”
“Aw, man, dude was kinda strange. Don’t want no trouble.”
“I’m already trouble. Name, Ramon. Last time.”
Hernandez h
esitated. Jerked his neck to the side. Lotello heard the vertebrae crack. “Johnston. Dude’s name was Johnston. Kept calling him Johnson like in that commercial ‘You can call me Johnson’ and he didn’t think that was funny. Dude didn’t think nothing was funny.”
“How do you know that was his real name?”
“You think I’m dumb, man? I knew I had to file that DMV form. I made him show me a driver’s license to prove who he was. He had a D.C. license. Picture looked just like him.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Little taller than me, maybe six feet one or two.”
“White or black?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, genius, which?”
“What? That was funny, man. You don’t think nothing’s funny, either. Dude was white as blow.”
“Hair? That’s not a yes or no question, man.”
“Light brown. No buzz cut. No ponytail, either.”
“Eyes?”
“Light.”
“Glasses?”
“Dude wore shades.”
“Thought you said his eyes were light.”
“Took the shades off to count out the Franklins.”
“Any marks on him?”
“Nah. Don’t remember any. Wore sweats. Running shoes.”
“So, how’d you and Johnston hook up?”
“Ran an ad on Craigslist. He made the call.”
“Happen to have a telephone number or email address for him?”
“Nope.”
“Where’d you do business with him?”
“Right here.”
“How’d he get here? Did he have a car? Someone bring him?”
“Just showed up on foot. Don’t know how.”
“Did he say what he wanted a van for?”
“We wasn’t playing twenty questions, ya know? Money in hand, take the damn van.”
“He ask you about any accidents, or repairs?”
“Nope. Just drove it around the block together.”
“What kind of shape was it in?”
“It goes, man. Didn’t make no promises. He didn’t ask for none.”
The Amendment Killer (Brooks/Lotello Thriller) Page 13
