Washington DC

by A. C. Fuller

  Cole stood suddenly. She wanted to get out of there, to get back to Warren, but he caught her arm. “Back in my office you asked why I told you the thing about the Watergate, Nixon and Bush.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Think of it as a cautionary tale. I like you, Jane. Reporters often forget to ask themselves an important question in their madness to get the scoop.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Why am I being leaked to? Who benefits from this story?’”

  “We ask ourselves that question all the time.” It came out more forceful than she’d intended, but she wasn’t keen on a journalism lecture from a D.C. lobbyist.

  “Hey, hey. Don’t get defensive. I’m just saying, half of the big stories that leak are misdirections from another, bigger story. If you look at the actual crimes Nixon got busted for, they weren’t in the top ten worst things he did. None would crack the top twenty list of the things the Bushes did. And I’m no Democrat. They’re just as bad. Oh, the stories I could tell.”

  He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back, elbows out, as he had in his office. In her study of body language she’d learned this was called “Hooding.” It’s what king cobras did to intimidate other animals, and it’s what men often did when they felt comfortable and powerful. Goldberg had given her nothing. He’d steered the conversation from the moment she’d walked in, and now he was...what was he doing? “Marty, what are you driving at?”

  “You’re in D.C. now, Jane. I know, New York is New York, but the spin down here is some next level shit. New York is checkers. D.C. is chess. With social media alongside the papers and news networks, it’s now speed chess. Don’t get in over your head.”

  * * *

  As the sky darkened from gray to black, Warren paced the street to stay warm, passing occasionally under the single streetlamp a few doors from the townhouse. Wind shook snow loose from the trees overhead, giving the scene the feel of a lonely forest more than a rich suburb. After five minutes, he banged on the door again, louder this time.

  No response.

  He leaned on a snow-covered car and, on his phone, opened Google Earth and entered the address. It showed the building in daytime, but no other useful information. Next he entered the address into Zillow, where he learned that it had last been purchased for $1.2 million in 2012 and was now valued at $2.1 million. Two more searches turned up interesting historical information, but not the owner’s name.

  A creaking sound came from behind him and he turned quickly. He didn’t see anything. Had it been a tree branch buckling under the weight of snow? A rooftop?

  The night was silent again. He stared up at the sky, and Sarah appeared in his mind, standing in front of Yankee Stadium in a yellow dress. Bakari Smith appeared in his mind next to her, and he shook them loose and turned to study the house again. The ground floor had no windows, just the red door in the center. The upper floor of the two-story house had one small window. As he stared at it, a light turned on. A figure appeared.

  Warren stood motionless, watching the fog of his breath in front of him.

  The window screeched open. A head emerged, backlit so Warren couldn’t make out a face. “You Cole?” It was a man’s voice. Some accent he couldn’t identify. Maybe European.

  “Yeah, I’m Cole.”

  “Thought you were supposed to be a woman?”

  Warren shrugged. “You have what we need?”

  “Smith didn’t say anything about a ‘we.’ What gives?”

  “Why didn’t you open when I knocked?”

  The man ignored the question, turning his head to peer up and down the block. His head disappeared back into the room. Warren contemplated. From the sound of the guy’s voice, he was older. Warren could bust through the wooden door if need be, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t commit any crimes if he could help it.

  He didn’t need to make a decision. An arm emerged through the window, then the man’s head. “Catch.”

  A small black bag flew through the air, right to Warren, who caught it up against his chest. The window screeched shut. The room went dark.

  Warren opened the bag and pulled out a device. Three flat computer chips, each the size of a credit card, were stuck together with narrow screws that left about an inch of space between each layer. A six-inch wire ran from the chips to a single plastic card the size of a standard hotel keycard.

  Snow crunched behind him and he swiveled.

  It was Cole. “Smith leaked our meeting. Everyone is about to know what we know.”

  “I got the reader, I think.”

  “If we want to be first, we need to get there now, before anyone else finds out.”

  Cole opened the Uber app, but Warren stopped her before she entered an address. The gray SUV he’d seen earlier still hovered in the back of his mind. “Get them to take us to my car. It’s only a few minutes out of the way, and if Smith leaked the story, he could…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Earlier, when we were at the café, I saw a suspicious SUV. Had me thinking about Mazzalano’s guys. And now Smith. You know he can track us through the Uber app and, I don’t know…”

  Cole ordered a car to take them to K Street, where they’d left the Cougar that morning. “You can drive in this?”

  “Snow has almost stopped. I don’t know what happens next, but we need control over our movement.”

  17

  Warren struggled to keep the ’69 Cougar between barely-visible paint lines as he navigated the George Washington Memorial Parkway. After a few harrowing minutes, during which the car fishtailed twice, a plow pulled onto the road at an entrance a quarter mile ahead of them. He settled in about forty yards behind the plow, driving slowly but safely along the newly-cleared road.

  In the glow of her cell phone’s flashlight, Cole examined the keycard device. “Ever seen one of these?”

  “Never.”

  “Think it’ll work?”

  “No idea.”

  As they passed the Pentagon, Cole stared at the Potomac, a wide black patch flecked with silver moonlight. She plugged her phone into the charger sticking out from the cigarette lighter and opened the official Twitter account of The Washington Post. The article Goldilocks told her about had posted seven minutes earlier.

  “Smith leaked it.” She scanned the story. “He screwed us.”

  “Can’t exactly blame him. We walked into his place of business and threatened him.”

  “Technically I threatened him, but yeah.”

  Warren glanced over, trying to see the screen.

  “Keep your eyes on the road. I’ll read it out loud, but it’s probably just a summary of what we told Smith. The gun on the rooftop, as seen from the helicopter, can’t have made the shot. Probably—”

  She closed her eyes when she saw her own name. She opened them for an instant, then closed them again when she saw Warren’s.

  “Damnit!” She struck the glove compartment with her free hand.

  “What?”

  “Smith didn’t just give them the story. He gave them our story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll read you the part.” She let out a long breath and read. “‘According to the source, the FBI was alerted to the discrepancy in the appearance of the rifle by Jane Cole, formerly a reporter with The New York Sun, and Robert Warren, an NYPD officer currently on paid administrative leave for striking a handcuffed suspect. Though the source declined to say whether he believed Cole and Warren to be involved in the murder, it’s unclear what involvement they have in the case, or how they initially came upon the information. “If you ask me,” the source said, “a disgraced cop and a fired reporter shouldn’t be down here getting in the way of the FBI and the local police as they investigate this appalling crime.”

  Warren shook his head. “He just made us suspects.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “Probably not, but you can bet the cops are reading that and are, at l
east, wondering about it.”

  “I’m glad we aren’t in an Uber right now. Reporter went with a single source because he wanted to be first.”

  “In all fairness, Smith is a damn good source. That’s why we went to him. But why leak it right after we left?”

  “Payback. Also, it’s a genuinely huge scoop. Reporter is gonna owe him big.”

  Cole returned to her phone and checked her go-to politics accounts. Five minutes ago, the official CNN account announced “MAJOR BREAKING NEWS” coming up. Probably a report on the story from The Post, likely featuring an interview with the reporter who’d broken the story.

  She pulled up the CNN live news feed. “There’s breaking news on CNN. Probably a recap.” She turned the volume up all the way and held the phone up so Warren could hear. The anchor was already halfway through a report.

  “…Unclear at this time what impact this will have on the investigation. But to repeat, stunning breaking news tonight.”

  The video and audio froze. Cole shook her phone, then held it up to the window.

  Warren chuckled. “You think shaking it will help?”

  “Shut up. I don’t know.”

  After a long silence, the video kicked in and the anchor’s voice filled the dark car.

  “According to sources, the coroner in charge of the body of the dead man from the roof said he could not have taken his own life. The angle of the gunshot indicates he was shot by someone else. This upends the version of events we’ve been hearing since Vice President Meyers was killed. Further, a new story from The Washington Post cites an FBI source who claims that an analysis of the helicopter footage shows that the rifle by his side could not have made the fatal shot. What does all this mean? Put simply, the real killer of former Vice President Meyers is still on the loose. Stay with us and, after the commercial break, we’ll bring in our panel of experts and commentators to discuss what is quickly becoming the biggest news story in years.”

  The video froze again. Cole shook her phone. Nothing.

  “Try rebooting it.”

  Cole powered down her phone and, while it powered up, Warren said, “I know how this works. Police will say they were looking into the possibility of multiple shooters all along, as well as the possibility that the dead guy on the roof wasn’t even involved.”

  “They’ll cover their asses.”

  “Sure, and chances are, at least some people were looking into other options. It’ll probably take police half an hour, maybe an hour, to put two and two together and get to the hotel, but not longer.”

  “Then let’s hurry.”

  Warren pulled around the snowplow, which had slowed to five miles per hour, and increased his speed.

  18

  Cole scanned the valet area in front of the Potomac View Hotel, then studied the cars parked up and down the block. “No police cars.”

  “At least none that are marked.”

  “You think there could be detectives here or—”

  Warren shrugged. “No way of knowing until we go in. If they put the news reports together with the video, they’ll show up with black-and-whites, SWAT. Hell, they might send in the National Guard.” He turned into an underground parking garage, took a ticket, and found a spot near the elevator. “Got the reader?”

  Cole held up the small black bag. “If it doesn’t work?”

  “Let’s not go there yet.”

  “The man I saw was on the top floor. I think I’ll be able to tell which room when I’m inside.”

  Warren gave a look she read as Really?

  “Got any better ideas?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Cole pointed at the elevator panel as they entered. “Damn.” Instead of taking them onto the floors where the rooms were, the only options were the other parking garage floors and the hotel lobby.

  “I was worried about that,” Warren said.

  “When we get to the lobby, follow me.”

  “Maybe you should go up alone.”

  Cole tapped the “L” button. “No. I need you up there. Like it or not, you’re in this now. That story in The Post, the piece about us...if you were trying to stay on the periphery, it’s too late.”

  The elevator stopped to pick up a man dragging two large suitcases. He got on and pressed “L” even though it was already illuminated. Cole eyed Warren as the elevator ascended, trying not to make eye contact with the man, who seemed to be staring at her.

  When they reached the lobby, she hung back as the man exited. “So?” she asked Warren, grabbing his forearm. “You in?”

  He met her eyes and offered a single, firm nod. She looped her arm through the crook of his elbow and put on a smile. Guiding him confidently through the lobby, she nodded at the front desk manager and waved a credit card in his general direction as though showing her hotel keycard. He nodded back, pretending to recognize her. She’d read once that “People see what you tell them to see.” It was usually true.

  Inside the elevator, Cole opened her phone to a series of screenshots she’d taken from the video. When they reached the top floor, she navigated the hallway to the section of rooms facing northeast, the only ones with windows facing the Watergate. She stopped before a row of three doors—rooms 2010, 2012, and 2014. “Which one do you think?”

  Warren looked nervously up and down the empty hallway. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I said I knew about where it would be located.” She glanced at the screenshot again, then closed her eyes, imagining the internal geography of the building they’d walked through and comparing it to the view from the exterior. “The one on the left, 2010,” she said, handing Warren the black bag. “That’s the year Matt and I moved to New York. Maybe it’s lucky.”

  Warren pulled the keycard device from the black bag. Cole held her breath as he slid the single plastic card into the slot. The lock clicked and flashed green.

  It worked.

  Exhaling, Cole turned the door handle and pushed slowly.

  “What the hell!” A man’s voice, surprised and angry. “Who’s there?”

  She pulled the door shut quickly.

  “Housekeeping at night?” he called. “What the hell?”

  “Sorry!” Cole called through the door, trying on a terrible European accent. “We thought you’d checked out.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Sorry,” she called again, moving to the center door, 2012. Then, to Warren, “Better be this one.”

  Warren moved next to her. “Think he’ll call the front desk?”

  “Hope not.”

  There was a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on the doorknob of room 2012. Cole tapped the door gently. No answer. “Try it,” she said.

  He slid the card in and, again, it worked. Slowly, Cole pushed the door open only a crack. “Housekeeping,” she called quietly.

  No answer.

  She opened it another crack. The room was dark.

  Stepping in, she held the door open for Warren to follow. “Hello?”

  No response. Empty.

  They stood in the entryway, a bathroom to the left and a closet to the right. The entryway led into a large room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked across the Potomac and, to the east, the Watergate Hotel.

  By the window, a rolling office chair sat neatly under a desk. To the right, another small closet and an armoire of faux-wood. All in all, it was a typical hotel room. She stepped past the threshold that divided the entryway from the main space, then froze.

  The bed was neatly made, a paisley bedspread smooth across the top. On the bedspread sat a rifle.

  Warren bumped into her when she stopped suddenly. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

  19

  Together, they took in the weapon.

  It sat on tripod legs, facing the window, as though ready to take out another target across the river. Matte black, it was larger than she imagined. Long, with a large scope and a thick barrel that grew even thicker a
t the end. Actually, it wasn’t that the barrel grew thicker. It seemed to be some sort of attachment.

  Warren leaned in, careful not to touch the bed. “Custom fifty cal suppressor. Won’t silence the weapon, but it’ll dampen the sound.”

  She took out her phone and snapped a picture, then walked around the bed and snapped more from every angle.

  “There likely aren’t any identification markings,” Warren said, inspecting the rifle. “They would have shaved off any serial numbers, but this is one of the nine custom jobs. I’m sure of it.”

  “There’s something about the room,” Cole said, stowing her phone and looking around. “It’s too clean.”

  Warren walked along the wall beside the bed, moving his head from the floor to the ceiling methodically with each step. He went into the bathroom and knelt over the tub, inspecting the drain. Using a piece of toilet paper, he pulled the drain stopper out of the sink. “No hairs. Everything smells faintly of bleach. This guy was a pro.”

  Exiting the bathroom, he used his elbow to open the closet, inspected it, then continued around the perimeter of the room to the windows. He knelt and, again using his elbow, cracked a low window that opened outward on a hinge. It opened only a few inches before stopping. A safety feature. Next Warren lay flat on his belly and scooched back, extending his left arm outward and cocking his right elbow back. The shooting position. He pivoted his head and the angle of the invisible rifle to the right, then back to the left. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  He stood. “Lay there and take some pictures of that view.”

  Cole dropped to her belly and took the position. From the floor, the shooter would have had a perfect angle to the roof of the Watergate. She took a few photos.

  “Now pivot to the right,” Warren said.

  She did. To her right was another building, slightly lower, maybe three stories below them. It was the rooftop of the Virginia Suites Hotel, where the dead body and the rifle had been found. She snapped a few photos and stood.