The old apartment was an orchestra of creaks and squeaks, groans and moans. The steps, the banister, the doors, the windows, all kept rhythm. The pipes to the sink, shower, and toilet hit all the high notes in various pitch. When the infamous D.C. summer thunderstorms blew in during the late afternoon and early evening, the whole building rattled and rolled. Jake had been there a month, and had yet to sleep uninterrupted until morning. Even when Kate wasn’t there and he didn’t have an excuse for being up half the night. There were hundreds of haunted jaunts in D.C., a winding trail of supernatural leftovers through the city, and Jake accepted that his building should have been an official tour stop.
Sex usually put him to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but between the thunderstorm raging outside and the noise from his apartment inside, he was wide awake. Post-sex dry mouth led him to the refrigerator where he quickly changed focus from thirst to hunger and choked down two pieces of cold pizza while standing barefoot in the kitchen in his underwear. He washed the pepperoni slice down with milk, straight from the carton, as usual. By the time Jake returned to the bedroom, Kate had taken the pole position on visiting Mr. Sandman. The remote control sat on his pillow, a considerate gesture from someone who was too busy studying how to save lives to watch TV.
Jake turned on the late news, the last edition of headlines for the day in a town with a neverending supply of new ones. Local news focused on the planned development of the Anacostia River front, a filthy stretch of land on the banks of water so polluted, one could do a Jesus impersonation on the cans and dead bodies floating on the surface. The second news story was even worse, and Jake cringed as he listened to the report on the re-entry of an infamous former D.C. mayor into the political fray—a man who once went to jail after being caught smoking crack on an FBI sting video. Framed by a hooker, the former mayor had won his second term, after serving his prison sentence, with the election slogan of “The Bitch Set Me Up.”
And D.C. wondered why it had problems.
The local news broadcast switched over to Rock Johnson, exposé reporter extraordinaire, on camera in front of the Senate Hart Building. He was flanked by a small but vocal crowd, screaming improvised chants and pumping homemade signs into the air. When Senator Day’s face flashed onto the corner of the screen, Jake inched up the volume. Kate, slipping toward sleep, moved closer to him, her head now resting on the edge of his thigh. Jake stroked her hair and turned the volume up one more notch.
The news clip started with glorious views of the surroundings—palm trees swaying in the breeze, seagulls floating in a cloudless sky. It wasn’t until ten seconds into the report that Jake sat up at attention and adjusted the volume yet higher. Standing against a wall, just off-center from Senator Day, was one Peter Winthrop—tall, broad, and smiling like the politician he was with. The camera moved around to another view of the building, followed by excerpts of video taken during a quick tour of the inside and the facilities. Jake was mesmerized. Lee Chang, the face from the file Jake had stolen from his father’s office, was shown shaking hands with Senator Day and good ol’ Dad. Next to Lee Chang, crystal clear, was another Asian man whom Jake immediately recognized. Jake’s pulse jumped and his mouth went dry again, this time from panic. The eyes, the ponytail, the sheer size of the man.
Jake almost choked on the desert in his throat. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” he rasped.
“Nice language, Jake,” Kate murmured through closed eyes.
“Sorry,” Jake said, followed by a much cleaner “Dear God.”
“What is it?” Kate asked, picking up her head and staring at her panicking boyfriend.
“You don’t want to know.”
“What is it?” Kate asked again. “You’re freaking me out.”
“Kate, I think I may be in real trouble.”
The break-room in the First District was the oldest room in a building of old rooms. Brownish tiles that were once white ran four feet up the wall. The original plaster walls bulged and cracked, a relief map without a designated region. The sink in the corner dripped water steadily, and the a/c unit in the window screeched when it ran. If you wanted to have a conversation in the break-room during the summer, lip-reading skills didn’t hurt.
Detective Wallace and Detective Nguyen sat around the wooden table in the middle of the room. Wallace, the big-bellied detective with an infectious laugh, smoked a cigarette, tipping his ashes into the small ashtray that rested on a tabletop with so many scratches it looked like it had been caught in a cat stampede. Detective Nguyen, bored by an incredibly slow week, drank a bottle of water, a rare break from the coffee that kept him alive during the graveyard shift.
“A quick game of five card?” Detective Wallace asked, blowing a cloud of used nicotine, tobacco, and tar across the room in the smoke-free building.
“What are we playing for?” Nguyen asked.
“A gentleman’s bet. Gambling on the premises is against policy. You know that,” Detective Wallace answered, taking another drag from his menthol to conceal his laughter.
“Right, no betting unless the captain is at the table.”
“You young guys catch on quick.”
The senior detective slid the deck toward Nguyen who shuffled the cards without protesting. Detective Wallace flipped the channel to the news and tuned in to the local stories. He picked up his hand of cards, looked at the two aces and pair of jacks, and wished he had money in the pot. He glanced back at the TV at the end of the next news story and for a brief second, he stopped breathing. Detective Nguyen watched the cigarette droop from Earl Wallace’s mouth, and he wrenched his neck around to see a picture of Rock Johnson in front of the Hart Senate Building.
“Forget the game and grab your keys,” Detective Wallace said, throwing his two pair on the table.
Detective Nguyen looked at the cards, and then back up at the TV. “Taking me on a date Sergeant?”
“Yes, and you’re driving. Meet me in front of the building. I’ll be down in a minute. I gotta make a phone call.”
The D.C. affiliate for the ABC network, WJLA-TV, is housed in the old USA Today building in Rosslyn. The twin glass towers stand on the Virginia side of the Potomac River and are regular recipients of unintended near misses with airplanes landing at Reagan National Airport. Restricted flight patterns over the capital city make the approach at Reagan National one of the trickiest in the nation, and the USA Today buildings are the highlight of the pilot’s dexterity test. Planes bank left and right as they follow the Potomac, the flight path a slalom course a stone’s throw from CIA headquarters, the White House, and the Pentagon. Passengers with window seats were known to get close enough to read the computer screen on the reporters’ desks.
Earl Wallace and Detective Nguyen showed their badges to the security guard and walked to the TV studio and broadcast production facilities on the second floor of the building. A middle-aged production manager in jeans introduced herself as Crystal and showed the detectives to the newly appointed “news technology room.” Crystal, a redhead with curly locks down to her shoulders, introduced a young, wire-thin intern wearing an old Metallica t-shirt that looked like it was held together by nothing short of magic.
“This is T.J.,” Crystal said. “He can help you with whatever you need. If you would excuse me detectives, I have to go. News is coming across the wire on a potential terrorist incident in Kuala Lumpur. It looks like I’ll be up all night.”
“Thank you,” Detective Wallace said to the departing woman’s back. He turned toward T.J., who was happy to be helping with official police business.
“What do you have for us?” Detective Wallace asked.
“This is the story you asked to see,” T.J. said, holding the tape in his left hand as if to impress his guests, before shoving it into the machine. “What part are you interested in?”
“The final picture. The one with the senator and a group of people in front of some building.”
T.J. forwarded the tape and pressed stop.
“Go back a couple of frames. Can you do that?”
“This bad boy can define a standard video tape to fifty frames per second. It can also make a perfect digital copy of a two-hour movie in fifteen seconds. It is the best piece of machinery I have had the privilege to work with.”
“So can you show me what I need to see?”
“Sure.” T.J. pushed a button, dragged a small handle to the left and smiled. “There you go.”
“Perfect.”
Detective Nguyen took one look at the screen and realized the reason behind Detective Wallace’s desire for the sudden date.
“Take a look at that guy. Does he look familiar?” Wallace asked with a serious look on his face. He knew the question was rhetorical.
“The big Asian guy from the Fleet Bank ATM.”
“Yeah.”
“Who are the other guys?” Wallace asked. T.J. picked up a note that came with the tape and its untimely, premature circulation. He scanned the handwritten note, words scribbled horribly across the paper at an angle.
“From what I can decipher from this note, this is the rundown. The guy on the left is Senator Day’s aide. The man next to the senator is a businessman by the name of Peter Winthrop. The man on the other side of the senator is a man named Lee Chang. He is the owner of the manufacturing facility in Saipan where the piece was filmed. Next to him on the far side is one of Lee Chang’s assistants. The ‘big Asian guy,’ as you referred to him. No name given.”
“How much did you guys pay for this tape?”
“None that I know of, but I’m a just a techie intern. They don’t let me have control of the checkbook, if you know what I mean. I work here for the cool toys and late hours.”
Detective Wallace let it go. “Can you zoom-in on the face of the big guy and print a picture of it?”
“Sure.”
“Can we get a copy of the tape?”
“I already made you one. I didn’t figure you were coming over to spend your evening with me.”
“Could you also print a picture of the screen with the entire group—the senator, the businessman, the aides, everyone?”
“Consider it done,” T.J. answered. His fingers jumped to life and moved around the million-dollar equipment like a star player from the video game generation.
“What are you thinking?” Detective Nguyen asked.
“I’m not exactly sure yet, but I do have an idea.”
The detectives thanked the gracious intern and left the building past the now-empty security booth.
“Where to, boss?” asked Detective Nguyen, behind the wheel.
“Taco Bell and then back to the station.”
Earl Wallace pulled out the original file for Marilyn Ford and put it on his desk. Detective Nguyen watched the wheels of his mentor’s mind chug through the evidence.
“Humor me for a minute?” Detective Wallace asked without taking his eyes off the file.
“Shoot.”
“Ask me questions about the dead lady and see where it takes us.”
“With pleasure. What’s her name?”
“Marilyn Ford.”
“Age?”
“Forty-six.”
“Marital Status?”
“Single. Never married.”
“Address?”
Earl Wallace looked down and read the answer.
“Phone number?”
Once again he read the number off the information sheet.
“Occupation?”
“Secretary.”
“Place of employment?”
Detective Wallace looked down again at the sheet of paper. “Winthrop Enterprises.”
The two detectives locked eyes.
“What was the name of the American businessman in the news clip?
Detective Nguyen checked his notes. “Peter Winthrop.”
Momentary silence fell on the two as the evidence clicked. “Winthrop Enterprises,” they said in unison.
“I’ll be damned,” Wallace added. He looked at the clock on the wall. “You better get home and get a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow we start knocking on doors. Early.”