TWENTY-TWO
“Package moving,” Glen Rogers told me before I was halfway to the D.C. line. “Heading northwest. Just came out of Scott Circle into Massachusetts Avenue.”
“How long can you stay on him?”
“How close are you?”
“Twenty minutes at least, probably more. I can’t do this without you.”
“Step on it then … I’ll do the best I can.”
I mashed the pedal, but the traffic got worse and worse.
“Target’s at Sheridan Circle, Puller. Still northwest on Mass Ave.”
Glen paused and I could hear another voice in the background before he came back on.
“Sorry, pal, but I’m outta here.”
“No!” I shouted. “One more min—”
But the line was dead.
I banged the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. Crown was too far ahead. Or Robert Bennett, or whatever else he was calling himself today.
I thought about chasing him anyway, checking out the Sheridan Circle area, and Mass Ave. Looking for the Ford van from Brodsky’s video. But I didn’t think about it long before I started laughing at the idea. Only in a very bad movie would I find it, and once I did the problem would only get worse. I’d still have to follow him by myself, and it would take the same lousy scriptwriter to make that work, too. On my own there’d be no way to stay with him without being made in the first ten minutes. Out here in the real world, it takes at least three vehicles to do the job right.
I picked up my cell phone and called Brodsky, told him what happened.
“I still have to come to town,” he told me. “I’ve got a murderer to catch.” He paused. “And I’ve got to tell the agents in Brookston.”
I stared through the windshield as raindrops began to fall.
“They’ll overreact, Sheriff. We’re too close to this guy to let a mob of FBI agents scare him off.”
“That’s not our call to make.”
“Let’s talk first, is all I’m saying. We’ll meet in the morning, figure out where we are. I want this guy even worse than you do. Trust me, I’m not going to do anything to hurt our chances.”
“Trust you? Where’ve I heard that before?”
“This isn’t Los Angeles. I need you too much to lie to you. Give me tomorrow morning. Just a few more hours.” I paused. “Besides, can you get any closer to him without me?”
I heard him take a breath and blow it out through his lips.
“We’re going to your office tomorrow, Monk. We can talk first, but we’re definitely going to your office.”
“Sorry,” Glen Rogers told me by phone after I got back to the dome. “I didn’t have any choice.”
“I knew that could happen. You told me going in.”
“But you were so close.”
“We’ll do better tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” His contrition evaporated. “Jesus Christ, there is no tomorrow! You told me yesterday this was just a—”
“All you have to say is no.”
“Damn it, you know I can’t do that. You’re really taking advantage here, Puller. A real friend wouldn’t even have asked in the first place.”
He had me there, but the only thing I could do was sweat him. I started by closing my mouth. After a while the silence loomed like a third person on the line.
“That’s it?” he said at last. “You’re not even going to try to bullshit me?”
“What you’re seeing is the turning over of a new leaf.”
He slammed the phone in my ear, but I knew he didn’t mean it.
“Just Brodsky,” the sheriff told me Tuesday morning over Denver omelettes at the Okay Eats, a chain of diners that despite the name continued to flourish around D.C. We’d chosen the one about a block off Massachusetts Avenue near Dupont Circle, and the food wasn’t bad.
“Monk will do for me, too. Brodsky and Monk.”
“Sounds like a men’s store.”
I looked at him. The man had actually made a joke.
“We’ll probably need a clothing shop,” I told him, “with just the two of us out here.”
He nodded. “I brought some gear. Hats and caps, three pairs of sunglasses, couple of jackets, and a reversible raincoat.” He sipped his coffee. “And some fake whiskers to hide my face.”
“Same here. A couple of mustaches and a goatee, from my days on the surveillance squad. Plus a woman’s wig, if it comes to that.”
“Keep the wig in your car, Monk, unless we’re trying to pass me off as a Bulgarian shot-putter.” He actually grinned. “We want to follow the man, not scare him to death.”
Another joke. Christ, the guy was almost human.
“He might like Bulgarian women,” I told him.
“That could be even worse.”
“They say if you’ve never tried it …”
He grunted, attacked his omelette with manly vigor, then took a sip of coffee, spoke with the cup in his big hand. “It was around here you lost him, isn’t that what you told me last night?”
“Almost exactly here.”
“And you first spotted him on K Street?”
“Franklin Park. I told you about the P.O. box in Southeast, so that gives us a third option.”
He frowned. “You can sit a long time waiting for a professional to check his mail drop.”
“Agreed, but how does that explain finding his name on the envelope in his box? A pro would never let that happen, either.”
“Computers. Half the mail is computer generated these days. You don’t have much control over the names in your mailbox anymore.”
I leaned toward him. “Look, Brodsky, about going into the office …”
“Forget it. I thought about that last night. Way I see it, I’m working my own case out here. You’re an FBI agent. I’ve told you. From here on it’s your problem.”
I nodded, but wasn’t about to say anything that might make him change his mind. We finished our omelettes before he spoke again.
“Where do you want to start this morning?”
I gave him the post office address on F Street, and directions for getting there. “The box was full yesterday, so he just might show up today to clear it. Why don’t you give it a shot while I cruise up and down Mass Avenue and wait for Glen Rogers to call.”
“Save it, Puller. You knew damned well I’d do it.”
Glen’s weary tone indicated our little spat wasn’t over yet, but I could mend that fence later. My grip on the cell phone loosened as I asked him to confirm what he’d just told me.
“Northwest,” he repeated, “that’s where we’ve got him right now. Not far from where you lost him last night.”
“How far north? I’m at Dupont Circle.”
“A few blocks. Short street called Riggs Place, heading east toward New Hampshire Avenue.”
“I’ll take New Hampshire out of the Circle. How far’s Riggs Place?”
“Four or five blocks, looks like. He’s getting close to the avenue.”
“Call his turn into New Hampshire.”
“Roger.” Then, half a minute later, “Left turn … heading north again.”
“Washington Heights. Stay by the phone, Glen. I’ll get right back to you.”
I punched the speed dialer for the number I’d entered an hour ago.
“Brodsky,” the sheriff said instantly.
“Package north. Get to Sixteenth Street, take it all the way up to where New Hampshire comes in. Call me when you get here.”
The line went dead. Good man, the sheriff. Professionals don’t waste time on pleasantries. Even a few words use up way too much of it. I speed-dialed Glen.
“New Hampshire,” he told me. “Crossing S Street.”
I hit the accelerator. I was closing, but Crown was still a couple minutes away.
“Left turn, Puller. Straight north on Seventeenth.”
I crossed S, swung north on Seventeenth, slowed down. Best not rear-end him. Until I had to.
“Approaching Florida,” Glen said. His voice quickened. “Check that … quick left into … into Seaton Place, looks like. Small street. Heads up, it’s a dead end.”
I spurred the Caprice toward the intersection, stopped short, and pulled into the curb, grateful for Glen’s warning. More than one surveillance had been burned when seven bureau cars piled into a cul-de-sac together.
“Package stopped on Seaton Place,” Glen said. “And I’m gone.”
The line went dead. I called Brodsky to direct him to my location, then made a quick drive-by down Seaton Place.
The gray Ford E-150 with the same tag number from the video sat half a block down the street on the left side, in front of a small and very attractive apartment building. Used brick, brilliant white woodwork, bright red shutters outlining the leaded glass windows, a bronze eagle over the front doors.
Several things occurred to me as I stared at the building. If he lived here, our gorilla was doing it in style. If he didn’t, we just may have been lucky enough to find his keeper.