Favors and Lies (15 page)

“That's bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You could have gotten rid of me anytime. You are just using today as an excuse.”

“Today was the tipping point.”

“Today was not the tipping point for you. I watched you in there. I saw your reaction. You weren't surprised by anything you saw. You already knew the CIA, or whatever other agency designation you pick, was involved in this ghost chase of yours.”

Damn, I hate good intuition on everyone but myself.
“I suspected it.”

“So what changed in Tobias's house?”

Dan was stumped. Sue was right.

Sue continued. “We didn't just pass a tipping point. A point of convenience maybe. A point where you could say to me, ‘Things are about to get dangerous.'”

“Well they are.”

“They already were. In fact, I should be pissed. If you knew you were involved in something dangerous, you should have told me earlier. We didn't have to go through the charade of some great discovery that suddenly made things dangerous. They were dangerous before and they are dangerous now.”

“Now I remember why I am single.”

“This is not a joke.”

“No, it is not. Are you aware there are at least four dead bodies? My nephew, his mother, his girlfriend, and a police officer?”

“I am aware.”

“And do you have any idea who could kill four people, especially a police officer, and get away with it?”

“Professionals.”

“Let me tell you what a professional is. A professional is someone who can put a bullet in your head and then have dinner. Someone who can take a single mother and string her up in her own closet and watch her twitch with her last breath. Someone who can kill a young man just starting out in life and run over his girlfriend in broad daylight with no witnesses.”

Dan released a primordial yell and punched the ceiling of the car. The veins in his neck pulsed and his eyes watered. He looked at Sue, whose expression hadn't changed. “You have any next of kin? Any brothers? Cousins? Anyone? Anyone who is going to miss you if you get yourself killed?”

“No, Dan. I am just like you. Alone.”

—

Dan and Sue parked between Third and East Capitol, three blocks behind the Rotunda. The neighborhood was still dark, streetlights illuminating the sidewalk in patches. Capitol Hill, the neighborhood, was the original heart of the now political district. Running behind the Capitol and the Supreme Court and pinched between Independence and Constitution Avenues, Capitol Hill—before it became a political lair—had been home to the working class and immigrants. Blistered hands that had built the Capitol stone by stone. The eclectic mix of craftsmen who toiled at the largest munitions plant in the late-nineteenth century world, just down “the hill” on the banks of the Anacostia.

Today's Capitol Hill was a mix of million-dollar row houses, small businesses, and the burned-out remains of part-time crack shacks. Most of the shacks had been bought during the housing boom, later to be reclaimed by public funds, and ultimately returned to their former abandoned glory. The real estate was now on its third upswing in a decade. Living on Capitol Hill was hit or miss. A trip to the neighborhood market was just as likely to end in a conversation with a congressman as it was a mugging.
Real America
, down the street from those who made the laws for it.

Dan walked behind Sue as they ambled down the narrow brick sidewalk.

“Thanks for letting me stay on with you,” Sue said over her shoulder.

“Don't thank me. It's against my better judgment.”

“I wrote and signed a waiver of liability last night. You could have signed it this morning. It exonerates you of any injury, illness, accident, death, or dismemberment that I may incur as a result of my semester-long, credit-generating, real-work experience internship—of sorts.”

Dan changed the subject. “You know, at the peak of immigrant labor in the city, this street used to be a horse track.”

“So the horseshit never really cleared the air,” Sue said.

Dan laughed as he fought to avert his eyes from Sue's silhouette in the passing light of the street lamp.

“You feel safe back there?” Sue asked.

“I feel better with you in my sights, and with the two guns I'm illegally carrying within the DC city limits.”

“I feel better with you back there.”

“I'd feel better if there were someone covering my back with a couple of illegal firearms, too.”

“Teach me how to shoot.”

“We'll see.”

“You any good?”

“You could say that.”

“Where did you learn?”

“From a neighbor. The first gun I fired was an M40. It's a marine sniper rifle.”

“And . . . ?”

“Turn left at the next corner.”

The Supreme Court stood on First Street—its final resting place decided after a decade-long game of Marco Polo. The Supreme Court, its need determined long before its location, originally met in New York and then bounced around the country like a traveling carnival. New York, Philly, Washington. From a committee room to a senate chamber to a tavern down the street. In 1935 the cornerstone was laid on its current location and the nine men and women who determine the supreme law of the land had a place to hang their gowns.

Dan and Sue approached the Supreme Court building from the same direction as the lantern-run tavern where the justices of yesteryear made their cases and drank their share of them in the process.

Dan nodded forward and Sue looked up to see the line of people snaking down the massive steps. Bodies wrapped in warm clothing. Small makeshift tents and sleeping bags splayed on the ground. Flashlights flickered on waiting faces and their belongings. In the darkness, before most of the world stirred from their beds, people were camped out on the steps of the highest court in the land as if waiting for a Black Friday sale at Walmart. Sue pointed at the police on horseback at the foot of the Court.

“Yes, the Capitol Police still use horses. They have a stable in Rock Creek Park.” Dan reached the bottom of the stairs and turned upward next to the meandering line. On the fourth step, the first voice of rebellion yelled out. “Back of the line.”

It was followed by another voice, “No cutting, asshole.”

Ahhh. A local
, Dan thought.

The police officer on horseback whistled and Dan and Sue retreated back to the first step. “At 8:30 we allow for swapping of places, but there is no cutting in line and no swapping before then.”

“I just need to have a quick word with someone in line and then we'll be gone. Two minutes.”

The cop looked down at Dan. Sue was staring into the eye of the massive horse. “Two minutes,” the officer agreed. “I will be watching you from here.”

The horse moved back as if he understood the conversation and Dan and Sue again started to climb the marble stairs. Sue watched with curiosity as Dan peaked under hooded sweatshirts and examined exposed faces popping from sleeping bags. He whispered the name of the person he was looking for under his breath and then gradually raised the volume.

Nearing the front end of the line, Dan had used a minute of their allotted time.

“Jerry Jacobs,” Dan yelled, looking upward.

“Why don't you just use the phone?”

“Because he doesn't want any phone records. I usually contact him via pay phone.”

“Now that's convenient.”

Dan yelled again for Jerry, and two steps from the top a face popped out from beneath a black hoodie. Jerry pulled the headphones from his ears. A wool army blanket draped from his waist to his knees. A stash of newspapers was wedged into one armpit.

“Dan Lord,” Jerry said. The two exchanged an elaborate handshake that was more for show than for reason. “Who's the girl?”

“My assistant, Sue.”

“Since when do you have a partner?”

“Been busy. Needed some help.”

“You always are.”

Dan turned towards Sue. “Jerry here works in the Office of the Clerk at the DC Circuit Court. He has access to public information in a more expedient fashion than I do.”

“He does your dirty work.”

Jerry jumped in. “SShhhhhh. Don't say dirty. I deal with public information. Public. It's just that Dan here can't wait for public information to be officially public.”

Dan nodded. “I was hoping I would find you here.”

“At two hundred bucks an hour, where else would I be?” Jerry motioned downward towards two acquaintances huddled on the ground under a red blanket. “Two hundred a piece.”

Sue looked at Dan for an explanation.

“Lawyers, and others who can afford to, pay people to wait in line for them. It's officially unsanctioned, but accepted. Just another shortcut in a city that lives on loopholes. Anyone who wants to listen to the entire argument before the Supreme Court has to wait in line. If you only want to hear a few minutes, usually done as part of a tour of DC, you stand in the other line. It's much shorter.”

Dan turned back to Jerry. “Who's on the docket?”

“Lewis and Leaven. A revisit of automatic weapons and the second amendment.”

Dan felt the weight of his weapons, one in the small of his back, the other on his ankle. “Appropriate. How much longer are you here?”

“Doors open at eight thirty. Whoever I'm holding a spot for needs to be here by then. Have to be at work by nine.”

Sue interrupted. “You haven't met the person who hired you? How are you going to know them when you see them?”

“He'll be the person with a thousand dollars in his hand.”

“Each,” a voice rained out from beneath the red blanket.

Dan glanced down the stairs at the police officer who was still watching him. “I need your help looking into something.”

Dan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a copy of the paper from Tobias's house. He handed the map of the cell coverage area and the physical address of the cell tower on Chesapeake Street.

“I need to find property ownership records for addresses in this circle.”

“Man, you can do that online.”

“You can't if the files have been deleted.”

Jerry rolled his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to look at the hard copies on file at the courthouse. I need you to check the physical paper files on properties located in the red circles. Then I need you to see if there is anything online. I am looking for properties that are not online but have a paper record.”

“That won't be easy.”

“I need it done for every address in the red circle.” Dan pointed at the map.

Jerry looked at the address and the circle. He turned the map once, turned it back, and got his bearings. “Shit, Dan. That is a highly populated area. The University of DC. American University. Rich. Poor. Condos. A ton of apartments. It will take time.”

“I don't have time. I'll make it worth your while. Recruit some help. I'll pay you double what you are making here.”

“Triple,” a voice boomed from the blanket.

“Dan, if you need this now, I will have to take time off from work. I do have a job you know. I have to use sick leave. That ultimately costs money. And if I am going to have to dig around online, I need a new laptop. Mine got swiped a few days ago.”

“OK. You're hired. You and your friends. Triple what you are making. Six hundred an hour, per person. And three new laptops. I don't want any excuses.”

Jerry felt like he should have asked for more. “You got it.”

“No Happy Hours until it's done. I catch you out on the town, any of my bouncer friends tell me they saw Jerry bellied up to the bar hitting on some GW student, and you and I will have words. And no smoking weed until you are done, either. I can't afford something being overlooked.”

“Hey, that's uncool. I don't smoke dope,” a voice called out from under the blanket.

Jerry grabbed Dan by the elbow and pulled him close.

“What are you into? You look nervous and I've never seen you nervous. Quite frankly, it upsets me.”

“Just get me the information.”

“A needle in a haystack.”

“At eighteen hundred dollars an hour and three new laptops for you and your friends, you won't find a better job.”

“Let me call in sick.”

—

Detective Wallace sat in the forensics office in the basement of Police District 2. The forensic analyst left with the task of locating Dan Lord's fingerprints was organizing his information, preparing for a presentation of his findings. Wallace was seated across the desk from the young man with a clear complexion and brown hair. The analyst finished making three short stacks of folders, cleared his throat, and began.

“The individual you asked me to find is definitely unusual. I spent a week calling in favors. Breaking some rules. Breaking a few laws.”

“For a good cause. Welcome to real police work.”

“Easier to say when you are a bit closer to retirement than I am. I barfed twice yesterday from the stress.”

“If anyone gets you in trouble, tell them I forced you to do it. I have a long list of people who don't like me, including a Senator and an unknown terrorist organization. Tell them I made you do it. They would much rather have my balls on a platter than yours.”

The forensic analyst looked down at his crotch.

“No offense,” Wallace added. “I am sure your balls are attractive.”

“Thanks. And I am not complaining about the work. Just providing some background.”

“You stuck your neck out, I get it.”

“More precisely, I stuck my neck out and I got nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not exactly nothing. More than nothing. But nothing. The suspect is a chameleon.”

“Explain.”

“Well, he does not have a criminal record that I could find. And he definitely has not worked for the US government, or the US military.”

“Are you sure? Detective Nguyen thought perhaps he had a military background.”

“I am confident in the results I got back. There are no prints in the military database for a Dan Lord fitting the description you provided. There were two Daniel Lords who were killed in the line of duty in World War II. One in France. One in the Pacific on some island I have never heard of. But unless your guy is in his nineties, neither of those is him.”

“I agree. Continue.”

“You told me this guy was a private detective in Virginia. All private detectives have to be fingerprinted. Those fingerprints are checked against the criminal database before the person can get a license. Dan Lord passed that inspection—as you would expect given I couldn't find prints for him in the criminal database. Virginia, fortunately, is one of the few states that also keeps an electronic copy of those fingerprints on file after the application is processed.”

“So you found some prints?”

“Don't you want to know what it cost me?”

“Not really.”

“I am going to tell you anyway. Turns out that Sherry Williams, who handles the fingerprinting for private detective licensing in the Alexandria courthouse, lives in DC. She has a parking issue. And when I say parking issue, I mean that she can't seem to read the parking signs. She has over thirty outstanding parking tickets and has been booted a dozen times. For a copy of Dan Lord's prints, I had to make those parking tickets disappear. In order to make those tickets disappear, I had to agree to a date with Olga's sister.”

“Olga in parking enforcement?”

“Yes.”

“I hope her sister is better looking than she is.”

“So do I.” The forensic technician slid a photocopy of the prints to Detective Wallace.

“So these are his prints?”

“Those are printouts of his electronic record. But not exactly.”

“Contrary to what you may think, I assure you I am not into riddles.”

The forensic analysts nodded. “Dan Lord also has an active conceal and carry permit. This, too, required a background check and fingerprinting. Getting access to this information required another favor regarding a cousin of someone charged with indecent exposure in Georgetown at two in the morning. To make that charge go away, I am now taking a Boy Scout troop to a Washington Wizards game. It is a long story.”

The forensic technician sighed and then slid another set of prints across the desk. “As you can see with the naked eye, the electronic prints on file are not the same.”

“WTF?”

“Indeed.”

“This story is not going to have a happy ending, is it?”

“No, it is not. The third print was obtained from the Virginia Bar Association application. All applicants taking the bar and applying for a law license in Virginia are required to undergo the standard background check—with fingerprinting.” The forensic technician slid the third set of prints across the desk. “And I cannot tell you what I had to agree to in order to get those prints.”

“Dressing up in heels and running the DC Drag Queen race?”

“Not far from it.”

Detective Wallace looked at all three prints in turn. “So this guy leaves us a water bottle with no prints and then leaves three different prints for three different civilian applications?”

“Yes. And those applications are not trivial. We are not talking about taking an electricity bill to the DMV to get an ID. Those applications require multiple forms of government issued ID, in addition to the prints.”

“So how did he do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Whose prints are we looking at?”

“I don't know. But you are dealing with someone who may require more care than usual.”

“I guess I'm going to have to get a print another way.”

“How is that?”

“Old school detective work.”

“Good luck. Oh, and by the way, none of those three prints match the prints found on the gun that killed Detective Nguyen.”

“Of course they don't.”