“We worked together years ago. At the Commerce Department, actually. I spent two years there, getting what I still consider priceless hands-on investigative experience before making the move over to the private-sector law firms. Matter of fact, Wesley was on the interview panel that recommended hiring me.”
“But you weren’t buddies?”
“He was decent enough at first. We’d sort of bonded in the wake of meeting in my interview because we both had law degrees from UNC. But it seemed like things got weird between us when things started going well for me at Commerce. I did a few things right on a high-profile case, and the high command took notice. They fast tracked me for some special work in the assistant secretary’s office. Gave me some choice assignments. As corny as it sounds to say it of a grown man, I always suspected that Wesley had grown jealous of me. Suffice it to say, he developed a habit of talking down to me at meetings, in front of our co-workers and managers. It chapped me, but I didn’t think it was worth addressing head-on. Before long, I was out the door to the law firms anyway. Still, a couple of years ago, he was the lead investigator in a case I was involved with. When he dealt with me he was always professional to my face, but cold. And while I don’t have any hard evidence to prove it, it seemed to me that a certain animosity surfaced in his treatment of my client. In his questions to them. In his analyses. In his conclusions. I mean, in antidumping cases, there is a lot of room for discretion and flexibility. Granting extensions to deadlines. Allowing respondent companies multiple opportunities to provide all the information and data the investigators request. That sort of thing. But Wesley was entirely inflexible. It was frustrating. I’m digressing.”
“Your comments may prove illuminating, nonetheless,” Severin said.
“Anyway, back to the story. After a few pointless minutes of Kristin pleading with him to get back in the van, we left Wesley on the roadside and sped off to try to get Kristin and Bill to their flight at Qingdao Airport. Now, as I mentioned, the driver seemed tense. Kept giving me funny looks. Maybe he was worried about Wesley. I don’t speak more than a few words of the language, so I couldn’t ask him if there was a problem. Anyway, it took us a long time to get to the airport. I told the team they weren’t likely to make the last Shanghai flight, and that they should just let us take them to the hotel. But they insisted they’d be fine, and that if they missed the flight, they’d just take a cab to the hotel. I wished them a safe trip home at the airport drop-off curb, and the driver and I continued on to the hotel. That was the last time I ever saw them.”
Severin thought Holloman looked genuinely sad. “Did you work with Kristin or Bill when you were at Commerce?”
“No. I’ve been in the private sector for 10 years. I don’t think they were hired until long after I left. Nice enough people though. Reasonable. Polite. Quick studies. I’m not a terribly sociable person, but I liked their company.”
“What were Kristin and Bill like, physically?”
“Sorry?”
“Were they big, small, athletic, weak-looking?”
“Oh. Keen was probably, I don’t know, 5-foot-9. Not overly muscular, but not slight either. Not intimidating, but not an obvious pushover. Average, I guess. Seemed coordinated enough. Kristin was about the same height, but meek.”
“How about Wesley?”
“Maybe 6 foot. Wide frame. I don’t remember him being particularly athletic or strong when we were both at Commerce. And I didn’t have much time with him in China. So I guess I really don’t know.”
“And the company van driver?”
“Short, but thick. It stands out over there. Most of them are so slight.”
“Capable of throttling Keen?”
Holloman’s face looked all the more troubled at Severin’s question, as though it underlined a possibility he hadn’t wanted to think about.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d be a good judge of something like that.”
They had Holloman go back over his story, filling in more detail as he went. But it didn’t give them any more useful information than they already had. Then they thanked him for his time, and made to leave. But something in Holloman’s expression held Severin in his chair.
“Is there something else?” Severin asked. Holloman, who’d been staring through his own desk, looked up to meet Severin’s questioning gaze.
“I’m not certain that I … .”
“You have a hunch you’re reluctant to voice because you’re so unsure of it?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’d encourage you to share it. In my experience, gut feelings prove relevant, often as not.”
“Well, it’s about Kristin and Bill.” His face flushed again. “I feel half silly mentioning this, because the truth is I’m not good at reading people. And I have limited experience with, uh … .” His eyes looked to the ceiling. “It’s just that I think there might have been something going on between them.”
“Of a romantic nature? Between Kristin and Bill?”
He nodded. “Really, I have nothing concrete to base it on. Just maybe body language. Their facial expressions. A familiarity. But to be honest, romantic relationships aren’t really my province.”
“I’m glad you mentioned it,” Severin said, bolstering him.
“Just—I would ask that you not tell the family. It’s conjecture, after all. Conjecture on my part. I wouldn’t want them to think something was going on if there wasn’t.”
TEN
“Of a romantic nature?” Zhang said to Severin as the elevator doors closed and they descended to the lobby of Holloman’s office building. “Are you kidding me? Is that really how you talk to people?”
“Holloman is the awkward, proper, bookworm type. How would you have had me ask the question? If I’d used your crude dialect, he’d probably have clammed up out of embarrassment.”
“Uptight guy.”
“You’d be uptight too if you’d been a bookworm playground wimp who had to claw his way from white trash Central Florida to a corner office and partnership at McElroy, Steen & Duff. He’s alright.”
“Whatever. I didn’t like him.”
“Of course you didn’t. He represents everything you and I don’t. Goals. Follow through. Accomplishment. Living somewhere other than your parents’ basement.”
“I just realized something.”
“What?”
“You’re an inferior remake of Travis McGee.”
“A what of who?”
“Travis McGee. Hard-drinking philosopher and unlicensed, world-weary private investigator of the John D. MacDonald mystery novels. A knight errant who has a deep understanding of just about every personality type in the world.”
“Must have missed that one.”
“There are more than 20 of them. Some of the best ever of the mystery genre.”
“Who reads anymore?”
“I do.”
“Well, I guess I’m just culturally illiterate.”
“That’s the least of your problems. Where the hell are we going?”
“The Office of the United States Trade Representative. Workplace of eager beaver Byron Edwards, former Assistant Secretary of Commerce.”
“His secretary stonewalled us, probably on his instruction. And Tracy Fiskar said she was sure he wouldn’t talk to us.”
“Unless we have a way to compel him.”
“The guy may be a self-concerned political jackass,” Zhang said, “But you can’t seriously suspect him of being involved with the killings.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Anyway, he can certainly tell us what Elaine Danielson told him. He can tell us what was said in the investigators’ email from China that got Danielson so freaked out.”
“How are you going to compel him to talk to us?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose, as a last resort, we can always twist his scrotum. Always works in the movies, right?”
They zig-zagged a few blocks to Pennsylvania Avenue, then passed between La
fayette Square and the White House. Zhang insisted on pausing at the White House fence so that Severin could take his picture there. Then they turned down 17th Street, finding themselves at the main entrance of the USTR building after walking another short block. It was an ancient Italianate building of white painted brick, clearly of 19th century construction, with an unusual wrought-iron balcony wrapping around the second of its five floors.
“Okay,” Severin said, whipping out his smartphone. “Let’s see what this son of a bitch looks like.” He Googled Byron Edwards and found several official photos of him. In one, he was giving a speech at a podium in front of a large American flag. In another, he was shaking hands with some foreign dignitary across a long table surrounded by other suits. In yet another, he was touring a seaport’s intermodal container yard, wearing a hardhat, trying to look like he understood what his host/tour guide was talking about. Trying to look like he gave a crap. Yet despite his power suit, good posture, and probably bleached teeth, he retained, in each photo, the facial expression of a half-wit. Severin and Zhang studied the photos so that they’d be able to spot Edwards when he emerged from the building.
“So you think a big cheese like Edwards is just going to walk out the main entrance like a regular Joe?” Zhang asked. “You don’t think some black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows is going to whisk him home after emerging from a secret underground garage?”
“You heard Tracy Fiskar say this agency is strapped for cash. That they can barely afford to keep the heat on. I seriously doubt anyone other than the USTR himself gets to have a private car. No. Edwards may be too good for the Metro. He may take a cab. But he won’t be in any Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows.”
“Why not just wait for him at his house?”
“I tried to Google his home address as we were walking here. There are enough B. Edwardses in this town to fill a bus.”
For the next hour and half they sat on the edge of an immense concrete planter box that probably doubled as a car bomb security barrier, keeping their eyes locked on the USTR main entrance. Dozens of people came and went, none of them looking happy, many of them looking downright miserable. Finally, just after 6 p.m., they spotted Edwards, looking as unhappy as any of his colleagues. He strode out the door, turning north up 17th Street, ignoring a panhandler who asked him for spare change before telling him to have a “blessed day.” Severin and Zhang followed behind at a distance of about half a block as he led them through town, across the George Washington University campus, and into a residential area around the intersection of 25th & I streets. Worried Edwards would suddenly duck into a house or apartment building, Severin and Zhang closed the gap, nearly catching up with him just as he turned up the front steps of a skinny red brick row house.
“What do we do?” Zhang asked.
“Mr. Edwards,” Severin said as they came to a stop 10 feet from the man, not wanting to frighten him.
Edwards stopped and turned. “Who are you?”
“We’ve been hired by—”
Apparently Edwards had already heard enough. He turned away, quickly making for his front door, his right hand reaching into his overcoat pocket, presumably for his keys. Before Severin knew it, an overexcited Zhang was in pursuit.
“Wallace, wait,” Severin said. But it was too late. He’d made it as far as Edwards’ front porch, brashly clapping a hand down on Edwards’ shoulder, before Edwards, looking startled, turned around, pulled his right hand from his overcoat pocket, reached out and pressed a stun gun right into Zhang’s unguarded rib cage. Severin heard the zap, then heard Zhang make a sound that reminded him of someone trying to spit bile residue out of their mouth after vomiting. He fell to the ground. Edwards pocketed the stun gun, then pulled a pepper spray canister from his other pocket and blasted Zhang in the face. Zhang’s shout of agony got Severin laughing so hard he almost couldn’t focus on what was happening. But through the blur of his hysteria, he saw Edwards open his door, retreat into the dark hallway of his home, and slam the door behind him. Trying to breathe between fits of laughter, Severin climbed the steps to help get Zhang to his feet. Zhang’s face was as red as a Bing cherry. Water poured from the corners of his swollen shut eyes. Snot poured from his nostrils. Drool ran off the protruding lower lip of his open mouth.
“I guess Edwards didn’t want to talk to us,” Severin said, barely able to finish his sentence before laughing again.
“Mah! Wuh!”
“Come on, Mike Hammer. Let’s get out of here before the cops come.”
“Bah! Thah fuggah son of a bih!”
“Yeah, yeah. Just put your arm over my shoulder and I’ll guide you out of here. Keep walking.”
Severin half dragged Zhang several blocks until he found a drugstore where he left Zhang just outside the front door with instructions to try to keep his inflamed face turned away from passers-by. He purchased a pair of large aviator sunglasses, a can of lidocaine spray, and a travel size bottle of baby shampoo. Then he led Zhang into a bathroom at the rear of some sort of cheesy, dark sports bar. There, Zhang used all the baby shampoo, spending 10 minutes doing his best to wash his face and hair in the sink. After that, Severin sprayed his face with the lidocaine.
“Look at my hair,” Zhang said. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”
“No.”
“It hurts,” Zhang said, his nose still running, his eyes reduced to inflamed slits.
“I know. Best thing for it now is to get a drink.”
“Give me a break.”
“Really. It’ll help. Aside from that, we’ve done everything we can for now. It just takes time for everything to calm down.” He put the sunglasses on Zhang. “There. Now you look like a Sigma Chi frat boy,” he said, grinning. “You’ll fit right in in this cheeseball bar.” Severin shook his head and almost started laughing again. “Damn, Wallace. You’re a piece of work. What were you thinking grabbing hold of that guy?”
“He was going to get away.”
“Are you out of your mind? You’re lucky he didn’t have a gun.”
Severin bought them both double bourbons on the rocks, and they sat in a booth in a dark corner, sipping their drinks as Zhang’s face slowly returned to normal. Zhang sat silent, scowling. “Well,” Severin said. “I have to thank you. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in 20 years.”
“That’s great, Lars.”
*****
Once Zhang regained his composure, they walked to the Farragut North metro station and boarded a Red Line train.
“Where are we going now?” Zhang asked.
“Our day is done. I’m going to take you to an old haunt where we can decompress. A bona fide hole in the wall. You’ll love it.”
The rumble of an approaching train filled the station, which seemed as though it were designed to magnify the echoes and noise. A compression wave of air blasted them as the front of the train roared by. It finally screeched to a stop, and they got on, sharing a side-by-side seat and facing the same direction.
“So,” Severin said. “Aside from you having your own ass handed to you by pencil-neck Byron Edwards, we made some headway today, didn’t we? The plot thickens.”
“You don’t think Powell and Keen were picked up and murdered by a random taxi cab driver.”
“No.”
“Do you think Wesley caught up with them and did them in?” Zhang asked.
“If Keen and Kristin were really having an affair, and if Wesley was aware of it, then he’d have motive. But those are two big ifs. And what opportunity would he have had? If he managed to catch up with them at the airport in Qingdao, he couldn’t have killed them there, with people everywhere.”
“Maybe he caught up with them at the airport after they missed their flight, was apologetic, and talked them into sharing a ride to the hotel. Then he did them en route.”
“Or maybe the company driver doubled-back, tracked them down at the airport, and offered to take them back to the hotel—all the while intending to knock th
em over the head and take their money, passports, and credit cards.”
“Yeah, but he was probably handling their bags all the time, loading and unloading the van wherever they went. Why not just grab their wallets out of their luggage, hand the luggage over to them at the airport curb, and take off. They’d never have been able to pin it on him.”
“News flash, Wallace. Most criminals are gap-toothed morons. Plus, we’re talking about a couple of sheltered Americans traveling in rural China. They were probably paranoid enough to be carrying their money, passports, credit cards and whatnot in money belts. Or somewhere on their person, at the very least. No, if the driver wanted their stuff, he would have had to take it off of them.”
“But could the driver have overpowered Keen, let alone both of them?”
“Maybe he had a weapon.”
“What about Holloman’s feeling about Kristin and Keen having something going on?”
“Like I said, it would give Wesley a motive. I think we’d be remiss if we didn’t look into it. Speaking of which, I think it’s time we had your hacker friend take a stab at a few email accounts for us. Both Powells, of course. And let’s throw in Keen, for grins.”
Zhang looked uneasy. “Their federal government email accounts, or just their private ones?”
“Both, if he can manage it.”
“I take it the words federal prison don’t worry you?”
“Ask your guy to be careful. If he can do it without undue risk, great. If not, he can stick to their private accounts. And what did you say your guy’s name is?”
“I didn’t.”
*****
They ascended yet another unbelievably long but broken escalator at the Dupont Circle station, turning north once they reached the surface of the earth, and, after pausing to catch their breath, made their way to a block of 18th, just north of U Street. There, Severin stopped in front of the old brick façade of what appeared to be a very small sports bar. He stared in perplexity. “Damn.”
“What? Is this it?” Zhang asked.
Chasing the Monkey King Page 9
