Butterfly Knife

by Larry Matthews

Chapter Seventeen

  Malone was satisfied with himself. Once again his instincts had been true. He had guessed that O’Neil would send Dave to the Virginia farm and he had been correct. He nearly jumped up when Dave and Frank walked into the diner, not expecting to see them so soon. He had been sitting with the woman, the one from the store, when the two had come through the door after getting out of Frank’s truck. The woman had been a stroke of luck, a chance meeting of two people who shared a table in a crowded café. Malone had been worried that Frank would recognize him but that had not happened. Frank had warned him to lie low for awhile but he had ignored the advice. His worn farmer’s coat and hat and his decision to sit with his back to the door had kept Frank’s eyes on other things. He caught Dave looking at him and the woman but there was no spark of recognition in his eyes and Malone thought Dave must have been thinking of something else.

  The task was clear. The trap was set. It was time to wait. He found a bed and breakfast near Skyline Drive and settled in with his thoughts. He made a call to bring the man on the other end up to speed on events and took a shower, then he slept.

  The MG was parked behind the inn in a small spot that was hidden from view in the shadow of a holly tree that had been allowed to grow into what amounted to a large bush. Late model cars and SUVs were too large to use the space but old roadster was not much wider than a high-end riding mower and could be tucked in without effort. Father Darius was a guest at the inn under an assumed name and was observed to be a well-educated, well-dressed person of not much interest, certainly not a type to take attention away from the obviously wealthy peacocks who made the inn a destination to impress their arm candy, the fabulously beautiful Seven Sisters grads who found their way to the rich and powerful in Washington, eighty miles away.

  Even on a winter weeknight the restaurant was full, although several of the expensive rooms upstairs were available. All would be occupied on the weekend. Certain influential foodies thought of it as the best restaurant in America and to those who cared about such things, the trip from D.C. was well worth it. For many, the ride was made easier in the back of a limousine. It was not unusual to see a cabinet officer or a Senator dining there. Father Darius knew how to blend in as wall paper in such a place. After all, he had been parish priest in a wealthy community and knew the social codes.

  He sat by himself at a small table set aside for the rare lone diner. It was in a small nook in a corner near a window that looked out at the garden and the holly tree where his car was parked. He liked it here. He had always seen himself as someone who appreciated the finer things in life and the idea of the very best excited him. He saw himself as the very best at what he did and, in his mind, he assumed that everyone else in the dining room would appreciate his personal quality if they could know what he did, which, of course, they could not, given the state of things. He lamented that as he consumed an exquisite first course of a local cheese, greens, and a root vegetable puree he could not identify.

  They were coming, he knew. They might already be here. Or nearby. They were stupid to think he wouldn’t know about the farm. The young woman would be coming; he felt it. He would enjoy the meal and the evening of chamber music near the fire and leave the mundane details to tomorrow.

  Frank’s evening was less elegant. He had a few drinks with Dave and was relieved when the reporter walked back to the cabin to brood. Frank had things to do. He had seen Malone in the café and he was not bothered by the man’s disregard of his advice to lie low. In truth, he was satisfied that things were going as planned, but he did not know the whereabouts of others and it disturbed him. He went to his laptop and opened a program that would allow him to analyze the audio traffic that had been picked up during the day. It gave him the location of the cell phones that had been monitored. A key target was missing and Frank assumed that his phone had been ditched for a new one, a pre-paid device that was a wild card at the moment.

  He sat back and pondered the situation, taking small sips of his expensive bourbon. He liked Dave but he had no respect for the general news media. He believed that they cherry-picked facts and created stories to meet their needs. In that regard he was no different than most law enforcement and security professionals. He had a problem with using Dave as bait. But events had not gone as he had hoped and for that he was sorry. He opened a desk drawer and took out a manila folder in which was contained a photograph of a handsome Italian-American man. He had dark hair, intense eyes, and a cocky smile. Andrew. His partner for seventeen years. A man who could be counted upon in a difficult situation. What a waste. It was a bad idea to send him undercover. It was Andrew who had chosen the street name Peppers. He looked at the photograph. This one is for you, he vowed.

  Elena was trying to sleep but going to bed early was never something she sought. She was a natural night person and the demands of working early morning shifts in a newsroom did little more than make her tired and cranky. She tossed, seeking a comfortable position that would bring sleep, but her thoughts turned to Dave. He had called just as she crawled under the covers and told her again that he missed her and wanted her to visit him. She promised only to think about it. Being with Dave felt both right and wrong and left her troubled and the threat on his life and his need to hide out in the mountains did nothing to make her feel better about their relationship, what there was of it. Still, he seemed sincere, so she would see how she felt in a few days when she got a break at Now News.

  Dave was near panic in the cabin on the mountain. He knew he was in over his head and was part of something he didn’t understand, but he had no idea what it was or what to do about it. He sat at his laptop and wrote long pieces about the murders and what might be behind them, but none of the stories would ever be aired. He was just filling time to occupy his mind. He would call Sid tomorrow for a heart-to-heart talk about what the hell was going on.

  Captain O’Neil was a happy man. He sat and watched television with his family, content in the knowledge that a trap had been set and it was only a matter of time, a short time, before it was sprung. He and his son watched the Wizards lose another game, this time to Phoenix, and acknowledged that another season was going down the drain.

  Sid was at home with his third glass of expensive tequila. He was sitting in an old overstuffed chair whose arms were worn shiny and whose seat was sagged. He was listening to Beethoven’s Symphony #4, considered a troubled creation by some music critics, a kind of bastard work between the more honored symphonies #3 and #5. Sid himself was troubled and the alcohol was not bringing him peace nor was the music. He felt like a man who had wandered into danger but had no idea of its scope or source.

  “Something’s not right!” he said out loud to himself. “Goddam it!” He felt it as surely as he would feel a knife in his back. Things didn’t add up. He had been a reporter for decades and smelled bullshit even in tiny amounts and this had the stink of a major pile. But where? He was convinced that Captain O’Neil knew much more than he had let on and he regretted agreeing to let O’Neil chose where Dave would hide because O’Neil had control. Sid thought about calling a friend, a source, at the Justice Department to see if he could arrange another safe spot for Dave but he didn’t know what he would say to the man. He knew he couldn’t just say he didn’t trust the D.C. Police Department without offering a reason and I’ve got a feeling wouldn’t be good enough.

  It was late but he didn’t care. He called O’Neil, who answered after a single ring. “We need to meet in the morning,” Sid said, without waiting for O’Neil to say anything.

  O’Neil could tell that Sid had been drinking. “I can be at your office at ten.”

  “Fine.” Sid hung up. He poured himself another drink and closed his eyes, hoping clarity would come to him. It did not.