Favors and Lies (6 page)

“Sometimes it needs to be stepped in. Or pushed to the side.”

“Interesting analogy. Is there anyone you won't represent?”

“No one in intelligence and no one in the mob. They can solve their own problems.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Those two categories of people can make you disappear. I'm not afraid of confrontation. But the fight has to be fair.”

“OK. No spies and no mobsters.”

“As far as the job goes, I'm looking for someone who can run the office, run errands, and help me poke around a bit when it is needed. The pay is twenty dollars an hour. Twenty hours a week. If you go over twenty hours, the pay is still twenty dollars an hour. If you need time off, take time off. For school, whatever. Just let me know in advance. I expect you to be on time and I expect you to keep what you may see or hear to yourself. That's it.”

“Sounds easy.”

“Are you offended by foul language?”

“Hell, no,” Sue answered.

“You're going to have to do better than that. I've been known to drop the occasional f-bomb combination and I don't want someone who is going to be upset when I do. But I try not to take the Lord's name in vain.”

“'Fuck' is ok. ‘God damn it' is out. Got it.”

“I may need your help after hours from time to time.”

“Are you looking for an excuse not to hire me?”

“No, why?”

“Because it feels like you are. And if you're looking for a reason not to hire me, I'm pretty sure you're going to find one.”

Dan Lord rocked back in his chair and Sue mirrored his action, leaning back in hers.

“All right. Just so we have it clear: unusual hours, unsavory characters and undefined tasks.”

“Understood.”

“I was thinking you could start after the holidays.”

“I was hoping I could talk you into hiring before the holidays. I could use the money.”

Dan stared ahead in silence for a moment. “When can you start?”

“Tomorrow.”

Dan scratched his chin. “The day after tomorrow. I'll set up the desk in the small room over there, first door in the hall. The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. There is a kitchenette opposite the bathroom. It's all you can drink coffee, and I don't have any decaf, so if you want some, buy some. Also, if you're around for lunch, I'll cover it.”

“I may need you to fill out some forms. For credit at school.”

“No problem. I'll get you a key and the entry codes to the office after I do a background check on you.”

“A background check?”

“Yeah. You already told me you smoke pot, so the hard part is out of the way. It's just a run-of-the-mill background and credit check. I get the results in a couple of hours.”

“You are cautious. I noticed the locks and closed circuit TV.”

“The door downstairs on the street level is steel. It looks like an old wood door, but trust me, it is not. Multi-layer steel with a secret recipe in the middle. Well-lubricated, heavy-duty hinges. You could drive a car through it and the wall around it would collapse first. The doors at the bottom and top of the stairs are made of aluminum oxynitride, known as ALON. Very expensive and very effective. It can stop a fifty-caliber round. It would certainly stop anything that can be carried up the staircase and aimed in this direction. By then, of course, I would have a few surprises. The staircase is not a location an intruder wants to spend any amount of time. At least, not while I'm upstairs on this side of the door.”

Sue nodded, consuming the details.

“There's a motion detector attached to the CCTV at the top of the stairs. If anyone enters the staircase, the light comes on, and we can see that light through the door you just came through.”

“Why so much security?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What about the windows?”

“The windows are also made from ALON, but the real security is in the lack of line-of-sight. The street in front is too narrow for a direct shot up to the second floor. There is a house across the street, owned by a former politician. From there, theoretically, someone could get a direct shot. But it's not likely, and like I said, the windows are made from the same bulletproof material. The building on this block and the one across the street are on the historical registry, so there is little chance of someone modifying the architecture.”

Sue nodded her head with the flood of information.

Dan continued. “There's a room in the corner, just behind the top of the staircase. It is my gadget room. I know where everything is, so don't go getting cute and rearranging things.”

“No housecleaning. Check.”

“There is an art gallery downstairs. The woman's name is Lucia. It's an expensive gallery. All kinds of security equipment. For the life of me, I cannot figure out the prices on her art, but I do like my neighbor. On top of that, Lucia has a dog, Levi. Levi is my friend. Levi likes to bark. He is old and doesn't look like much these days, the kind of dog people walk past without thinking. But Levi and I have an understanding. I watch out for him. He watches out for me.”

“I hope your partners get the same consideration.”

“They do. And sometimes Levi takes his nap up here with me. If you don't like dogs, pretend you do. Get some Zrytec if you need it.”

The phone on Dan's desk rang. He looked at Sue who looked at the phone and then back to him.

“You want me to step out?”

Dan thought for a second as the phone rang for the third time. “No. Stay.”

Dan picked up the receiver. “Dan Lord.”

“It's Cindy.”

“Are you calling from a public phone?”

“Yes.”

“Cindy, I'm going to put you on speaker. Is that ok?”

“Sure.”

Dan hit the red button on the phone panel.

“How are things?”

“They're good. The divorce papers were filed by the court today. He also forfeited any visitation rights for the children. He agreed to the terms of alimony and I get a healthy percentage of the assets we acquired while we were married.”

“That's super.”

Cindy's voice choked and she cleared her throat. “I just wanted to say thank you for your help. I'm outside the bank right now and am going in to wire the money to the account number you gave me.”

“You are very welcome. Let me know if your husband gives you any more trouble.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

“Good luck, Cindy.” Dan hung up the phone and enjoyed the moment of victory. The reward for the risk.

“Interesting,” Sue said, snapping Dan out of his high.

“It's a good day.”

“Who was she?”

“The wife of someone prominent.”

“So I take it you make your share of enemies.”

“Does that scare you?”

Sue fidgeted in her chair.

“When I was sixteen I was in the wrong area of Baltimore, hanging out with people I shouldn't have been hanging out with. I ended up in a backroom with a guy who turned out to be a pimp of sorts. I told him too much, mentioned that I had lost my parents. Basically set myself up. A little while later, out came a knife. An hour after that I found myself locked into a sleazy rent-by-the-hour hotel room. A guy comes in the room a bit later, drinking a bottle of Jim Beam, and threw forty bucks on the bed. Told me what he was going to do to me. I played along. I stood at the dresser to take off my shoes and as the guy was undoing his belt, I pulled the drawer from the dresser and hit him in the side of the head. Nailed him in the temple. He went down. Hard. When the pimp came, I gave him the broken end of the Jim Beam bottle. Nothing really scares me.”

“So, it definitely sounds like I need to run a criminal check on you.”

“Self-defense,” Sue said, standing.

“Be here at nine, the day after tomorrow.”

Dan walked Sue down to the street level and watched as she reached her blue Honda Civic at a parking meter across the street. She sat down in the driver's seat, removed her shoes, and threw them into the back of the car. She slipped on a pair of sandals and, as she flipped her legs into the car, Dan caught a flash of a tattoo on the outside of her left leg.

—

At night, the L'Enfant Promenade was a no-man's land, a desolate stretch of elevated road devoid of cars, devoid of life. The government buildings at L'Enfant Plaza, including the headquarters for the United States Postal Service, were dark. Even on the topside of the Promenade, the mean streets sprouted up from the working streets when the sun went down.

Dan walked up the promenade until he found the concrete staircase that led down to the train tracks. Fresh condoms were on the stairs, adding to the biohazard cesspool he had seen on his first visit. The concrete stairwell was well-guarded. Shoulder-high walls. No foot traffic. No one to hear a scream or a gunshot. The isolation confirmed to Dan why this place was chosen as his nephew's point of departure.

He made the turn on the landing and his neck snapped backwards as his eyes registered the end of a handgun in his face.

Instinctively, he raised his hands and backed up until he was against the wall of the staircase. “Easy,” he said slowly and calmly.

“Wallet and car keys,” the voice said in a cold tone. Dan's eyes focused on the man in front of him. Mid-twenties. Dredlocks. A torn T-shirt. Ratty jeans pulled down to the mid-portion of his butt, a belt the only thing keeping the pants off the ground.

“Ok. Sure,” Dan said soothingly. “Do you want me to pull them out, or do you want to . . . ?”

The metal side of the gun crashed into Dan's head with a sickening clack. Warm blood trickled past his ear as he struggled to regain his posture. He continued speaking calmly through the cobwebs and throbs, supporting himself with the wall behind him. “I am unarmed. I'm reaching into my pocket slowly.”

Dan pulled out his car keys and the man snatched them from his hand. The gun was still pointed at Dan's face at a distance too close for the both of them. “Wallet, motherfucker,” the man repeated, glancing around.

Dan removed his wallet and the man reached for it with the same energy he had shown snatching the car keys. As the attacker moved for the wallet, Dan stepped
forward
, brushing the gun past his head with his right hand in one swift motion. He turned his body 180 degrees and put his left shoulder under the arm holding the gun. Both Dan and the assailant were now facing the same direction, the semi-automatic aimed harmlessly into the darkness. Dan reached up with both hands and pulled down on the mugger's wrist as the assailant tried to retract and re-aim his weapon. It was too late. The elbow of the assailant popped like a chicken wing, Dan's shoulder serving as the fulcrum. The gun hit the ground and the mugger let out a primal scream. Dan turned, stepped on the mugger's drooping pants at the crotch, and pushed his would-be assailant to the ground.

“You picked the wrong person,” Dan said as he picked up the gun, ejected the magazine and the chambered bullet, and threw the gun over the side of the wall. Then he retrieved his keys and wallet from the concrete next to his assailant.

The mugger had turned from fierce to pathetic, sprawled on the ground, tripped by his pants, grabbing his damaged arm with his good one.

“Get up,” Dan said.

“Fuck you.”

Dan kicked in the direction of the mugger's balls through the tangled jeans stretched between his legs. “No, fuck you. Now get up.” The man, cursing, drooling, and spitting through the pain, rose and moved backwards.

“Did you see a white kid around here Monday night?”

“Fuck you.”

“You need some new vocabulary.”

“Fuck you.”

Dan grabbed the assailant's damaged elbow and squeezed. “Fuck who?”

“Aaaaarh. OK. OK. Fuck. No, I didn't see no white kid down here. White people don't come to this part of town at night.”

“I may start.”

“You're fucking crazy.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I ain't white.”

Dan squeezed the arm again. “That wasn't my question.”

“I came down here to make a score.”

“From who?”

The man with the dreadlocks looked over at the train tracks below. “Down there.”

“What's his name?”

“Don't know and don't care.” The man spit and gritted his teeth.

“Tonight is your lucky night. Get the hell out of here.”

Dan watched as his assailant managed his way up the staircase and hobbled, elbow-in-hand, in the direction of Interstate 395. Once at a safe distance the man regained his bravado. “I'll get you, motherfucker. I'll get you.”

“I doubt it,” Dan whispered. He threw his leg over the same wall he had jumped from earlier with Detective Nguyen and landed in the abyss below the promenade.

—

“Hello,” Dan announced soothingly as he approached the blue tarp tied to a promenade support column. The rusted underbelly of the promenade above provided protection from the elements. Privacy was another matter entirely. The angled slope of the tarp created a lean-to shelter, a changing area, a feeling of space. Defining one's own space in a world without walls, windows, or doors was a practice the homeless specialized in.

Light crept from the side of the angled tarp. A green sleeping bag was splayed on the ground. A worn lantern sat on a broken cinderblock. Dan moved closer and announced himself a second time. He bent at the waist as he approached, spreading his legs and taking small strides forward, ready to react, but keeping low enough to see under the tarp into the rudimentary campsite.

Another step forward and Dan could see through the sloping tarp to the darkness on the other side. No one was home. He looked around at the array of bottles. A Shiraz by Yellow Tail. A bottle of Grey Goose. A box of twenty-four mismatched microbeers. A half-finished bottle of scotch.

Someone was having a party.

“What the fuck you doin'?”

Dan stood and spun towards the voice.

The man staggered sideways. His dark pants and shirt made him almost invisible against the shadows of the night.

“Just looking,” Dan said.

“Get outta here. It's
my
home,” he said with an emphasis indicating it was a location that could be taken.

“I'm not interested in your spot.”

“Then get outta here.”

“I just want to talk.”

“Get outta here.”

“You celebrating?”

“Heellllll, no.”

The man stumbled forward and a wave of stench accompanied him—alcohol, body odor, urine. Satan's smelling salts.

“You mind if I ask you a few questions? It'll only take a minute. Then I'll be gone.”

“Fuck you.”

Is it National ‘Fuck You Day' and no one told me?
Dan thought. “I'll pay you for your time.”

The man's staggering halted. “Hoowmmmuch?” he asked, the words slurring together.

“A hundred,” Dan answered, removing a bill from his wallet and snapping it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Three questions,” the man said, moving forward. “I'll give you three questions.”

“Let's sit down.”

Dan extended his hand, the money between his fingers, leading the man forward like a child feeding an animal at a petting zoo.

The man grabbed the money and stumbled again. Dan tried to catch him as he reached the support column and gravity helped him to the ground. Unfazed, the man crawled under his tarp and got comfortable with his back against a large trash bag filled with all of his worldly possessions. Under the light from the lantern, Dan got his first good look at the man. His beard engulfed his face. His clothes were dirty, as if he had spent time habitually rolling about on his patch of God's earth. The man uncorked the top from the bottle of scotch and took a long, deep slug.

Dan cautiously sat on the ground outside the tarp. He felt safer with both of them nearer to the ground. People moved more slowly when they weren't standing. The man sealed the scotch bottle and dug through his trash bag of belongings. If you didn't count the occasional train passing fifteen feet away, the immediate surroundings were as quiet as a church during confessions. The melodic hum of the highway in the distance was the only sound. Depressing beyond words, but great if you were a light sleeper.

“Ok, question number one,” the man said, taking enjoyment in announcing the statement like an inebriated game-show host. He leaned back against his trash bag and opened one of the beers from the box next to him.

“Were you here Monday night, around two in the morning?”

“Nooo,” the man said, taking another swig of beer. “Question number twoooo . . .”

“How long have you been staying here, at this location?”

“Don't know. Moved here when the big snow fell.”

Jesus. That was two years ago.
Last winter had barely any snow, thanks to global warming, for those who believe in that sort of thing.

The man started humming a drunken version of the
Jeopardy
theme song, which faded into a repetitive loop before the man made a mistake and started over.

Dan waited for the song to end.

The homeless guy finished singing and licked his lips. “And now question number your final question,” the homeless man butchered, becoming more drunk right before Dan's eyes.

“Where did you get all the booze?”

“Bought 'em.”

The man took another drink, a more embracing one, and slurred something to himself.

“Thanks,” Dan said, standing. He looked at the arrangement of alcohol, did a rough calculation of the cost, and then his face turned stern.

—

Dan reached his car and called Detective Nguyen.

“I went back to the promenade.”

“Not recommended.”

“You need to check on the homeless man with the camp under there. He probably knows something.”

“Why do you say that?” Detective Nguyen asked.

“He isn't in any condition to talk at the moment but he has enough booze on site to get a sumo wrestling team drunk. Expensive booze. Not the type of brown paper bag crap that you would expect a homeless guy to have. And you know what that means.”

“Sudden wealth.”

“Either someone gave him money, or bought the booze for him. Either paid him not to be there on Monday night, or paid him to look the other way.”

“Or maybe a relative stopped by and gave him some cash. A once-a-year thing. Who knows, maybe it's his birthday.”

“Just check it out.”

“I will. And I have an update for you. I checked your nephew's medical background. He did have multiple broken bones, most of them occurring during sports activities. A few trips to GU hospital. One each to GWU, Sibley, Holy Cross. The injuries were noted as accidents or sports-related. Child Protection Services did an inquiry and found nothing suspicious. So I guess your story checks out.”

“Anything else in the medical history?”

“Besides an abnormally high number of fractures for such a young man there is nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That's it?”

“That's it for the medical record. But I did run into another problem with your story.”

“I'm not sure I like the sound of that.”

“You won't. You said your sister-in-law called you at roughly two in the morning the night she died.”

“That's right.”

“There is no record of that phone call. There is no record of any phone call from your sister-in-law's phone. None from her house phone. None from her cell phone. None from your nephew's cell phone. Nada. Zippo.”

“Did you check my phone records?”

“Yes.”

“And . . . ?”

“Nothing. No call.”

There was a long pause. “You still there?” the detective asked.

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“I think we need to have another chat. You available tomorrow?”

“Give me a call. I have an appointment with an attorney in the morning, but after that I'm free. I'm not hiding from you.”

“I hope not Mr. Lord. In light of your story about receiving a phone call from your sister-in-law—evidence for which there is no record—I'm planning to reopen her case. And you're at the top of my suspect list. Answer the phone when I call. Don't make me come find you. You'll like me a lot less than you do now.”

Dan hung up the phone and thought for a moment. It is
National Fuck You Day.