Sweat (18 page)

In the pace of the big city, Marilyn Ford's demise was ancient history. Fewer than twelve hours after her fall, the escalators were back in full motion, people trampling over microscopic blood stains left in the cracks of the tiles, beyond the vision of human eyes. Three days later and half the commuters using the station had forgotten the incident ever occurred.

Detective Wallace tried to recreate the scene. He walked to the top of the escalator, looked down and then turned around. He scanned the urban surroundings from street level and walked down the sidewalk half a block in each direction. With the mid-morning foot traffic passing him, he leaned against the blue mailbox and removed his left shoe. He stuffed his sock into his left Rockport and walked back to the escalator, shoe in hand. To his surprise, the one-shoe-shuffle created a nice limp, a solid simulation of a lost heel on a woman's shoe. Lawyers and businessmen gawked at the detective as he limped down the sidewalk on one bare foot. The detective, deep in concentration, was oblivious.

He turned at the corner of the building toward the subway station, still dragging his bare foot and trying not to step on anything sharp. At the top of the escalator he measured his balance.
A definite possibi
l
ity
, he thought. He was sober, but he knew it wouldn't take much for someone with a few drinks and a couple of pills in them to lose their balance. And not only was he sober, but the good shoe he had on his right foot was flat and made for walking. No heels. Still barefoot, Detective Wallace rode to the bottom of the escalator, stopped, turned around and looked back up. “Man, oh man,” he said aloud. Murder or accident, it was a hell of a way to go.

He slipped on his sock and shoe and approached the subway station attendant's booth.

He flashed his badge and spoke into the pass-through in the thick security glass. “You guys got any surveillance cameras at the street level?”

“Not that I know of,” the attendant replied pointing at the monitors on the console in front of her. “We have one at each end of the platform, one right above your head for evidence against fare dodgers, and another near the ticket machines to prevent vandalism and theft.”

“Does the one near the ticket machine have a view of the escalators?”

“No, it is on the far wall facing the machines head-on. When you buy tickets, your back faces it.”

Detective Wallace bent over and tied his shoe.

“Does this have something to do with the accident Friday night?” the station attendant asked.

“Yes.”

“It happens you know.”

“What's that?” Wallace asked.

“Falling down the stairs.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I haven't had anyone die on my shift, but there are plenty of sprained ankles.”

Detective Wallace was still thinking. “Thanks for your time,” he said.

“Sure, detective.”

Wallace stepped away from the station entrance and again looked down the street in both directions. He scratched his head and gave a dirty look to the delivery driver who pulled his truck a little too close to the pedestrians in the crosswalk. He stood on the corner, eyes darting, mind running through scenarios. As the world passed around him, he found what he was looking for. He was willing to put down his weekend horse track money that he was about to get his first real clue.

Detective Wallace fumbled with the VCR before putting his tail between his legs and asking the young detective for help.

“Detective Nguyen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you lend me a hand for a minute?”

“Sure, sergeant.”

Detective Wallace led the younger, fitter man to the empty break-room.

“Do you know how to hook this thing up?” Wallace asked, pointing to the VCR and a TV on the table.

“Sir, there is a TV in the corner with a built-in VCR.”

“I need two,” Wallace answered flatly.

Detective Nguyen nodded and went to work. “Hooking these up are pretty basic—there are three cords: one red, one yellow, and one white. They go into the holes in the back of the TV with the same colors.”

Detective Nguyen finished the procedure that any twelve year-old could do with their eyes shut and turned the TV on. “What are we watching, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Surveillance tapes,” detective Wallace answered, popping the tape in the VCR.

“Want an extra set of eyes?”

“Grab a seat.”

Both men lit cigarettes and eased into the metal breakroom chairs.

“I'm looking into the fatal accident at the Metro station Friday night. I got this security tape from Fleet Bank this morning. They have two cameras running twenty-four hours a day near their ATM at Fourteenth and Eye Street. One of the cameras is a close-up, focused within five feet of the ATM machine.”

“A mugger camera.”

“Exactly. The other camera is an overhead feed with a footprint that covers the entire corner. This is the surveillance from Friday, five minutes before the call to 911. I watched this one already, but I was interested in seeing the tapes simultaneously.”

A couple strolled in front of the ATM, hand-in-hand, laughing like young lovers do, months before the incessant fighting and bickering sets in. A minute later an older gentleman walked by with a cane and a cigar.

Detective Wallace hit the fast-forward for a few seconds and then released the button. “Then two minutes pass and there is no one until this character appears.”

“Big boy,” Detective Nguyen said.

“And Asian.” Detective Wallace added. As if on cue, Chow Ying turned his face toward the camera and held still for a full three seconds, his pony tail resting on his left shoulder.

Detective Wallace paused the VCR with Chow Ying's face front and center. He hit play on the remote control for the TV in the corner. “Then from the overhead surveillance you see who I assume to be Marilyn Ford stumble, cross the street, and limp to the sidewalk in the direction of the subway station.”

Detective Wallace hit play on the TV on the table. “The Asian guy turns his back to the ATM, looks to his right for a moment at something just outside of the view of the camera, and then follows behind Marilyn. Both of them are out of sight once they go around the corner and under the building, but you can't argue that it seems a little suspicious.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don't know. You used to work the gangs, right?”

“Yeah…used to, when I was on street patrol before becoming a detective. When the Asian gangs started making their mark a few years ago, I was brought in to help. Everyone just figures it takes an Asian to know one. There aren't too many of us in the D.C. Police, in case you haven't noticed. We set up the Asian Liaison Unit before Chinatown got squeezed. Now, the Latino gangs have taken over most of the activity outside the heavy drug turf, which is still black. No offense, Sarge.”

“None taken. You ever see this guy before?” Detective Wallace asked. He rewound the tape and froze it on the black-and-white, grainy shot of Chow Ying's face.

“Can't say that I have, but Christ, you can't miss him. What do you figure he goes, six-four, two-forty?”

“I would say that is about right, give or take a Big Mac.”

“Sorry, I don't know him.”

“That's all right. Let me know if you hear anything, will you?” Detective Wallace asked.

“Sure thing. If you want me to help you out, pound the pavement a little, just give me a shout. I would be happy to lend a hand. Or my Asian face. And I could use the overtime.”

“Ah, the truth comes out,” Wallace said, jokingly. “But you're on. I'll keep you in the loop. In the meantime keep your eyes peeled for a large Asian guy.”

“Will do.”

Jake introduced himself to Marilyn's replacement when he came into the office. Three days in the whirl of Winthrop Enterprises and the new secretary was still over her head. Between a stack of notes on her desk, and a phone with three customers waiting to be transferred, Marilyn's replacement managed to squeak out a “good morning.” Shelly Fink, a formerly out-of-work executive administrative assistant, was recommended by a business acquaintance of Peter Winthrop who trumpeted her as mildly competent and stunningly beautiful. It was a half-honest evaluation. Peter took Shelly in as a favor, and intended to keep her in the office until he could find a permanent replacement. In the meantime, all she really had to do was keep his schedule straight and look good. The latter came naturally. Her long brown hair stood out in an office with a heavy slant toward blondes, and her body put every secretary in the building to shame, even the knockouts two floors below in the youngest corporate law office in the city.

The invitation to after work business came through Shelly, delivered in a scratchy voice that bordered between sexy and emphysematous. “Jake, your father wants to know if you are interested in joining him for drinks after work? It is business related.”

“What's today?”

“Thursday.”

“Yeah, I guess. I was supposed to have dinner with my girlfriend, but she stood me up to go out with some friends. Tell him I'll go, but I don't plan on staying out too late.”

“I'm sure he will be pleased.”

“Yeah, well, who cares?” Jake said with a snap, his mind elsewhere.

Shelly stopped her retreat long enough to look back at Jake, his hostile answer unappreciated. “Humph,” she said on her way back to her desk.

Hasad Bakar got out of the cab and slipped his way through the crowded doorway of Club Mombasa, a funky, semi-techno bar with a smattering of jungle motif thrown in for the happy hour animals. Jake and his father were seated on adjacent chrome stools, Peter slugging his way through his second whiskey and water.

“I'm sorry I am late,” Hasad said with a thick Turkish accent. He had a slightly high-pitched voice, as if his nuts were slowly being pinched. His voice was somewhere between a robot on speed and a Middle Eastern, New York taxi driver. “It is so good to see you again, Mr. Winthrop. So good.”

“Hasad, this is my son, Jake,” Peter said standing from his stool.

“Your son! Fabulous. Yes, he does look like you, now that you mention it.”

Hasad and Jake shook hands as Peter finished off his glass and pushed it away.

“Well. What do you think?”

“Of what?” Peter asked.

“The club—Club Mombasa.” Hasad spread his arms wide as he announced the name with a shrill. “My cousin is part-owner. He is doing very well. Very well. The club opened two months ago and already it is making good money. Very good money indeed. At the rate he is going, he should break even in the first six months. Very good for a restaurant.”

Peter smiled. Like the great businessmen of the world, the Turks love their numbers.

“That's great,” Peter answered.

“What do you think, Jake?”

“It's nice. A good place to hang out,” Jake answered with the authority of a twenty-four-year-old. He knew his father hated it.

“Shall we have something to eat?”

Peter was here on business and he wasn't going to let some techno music, blue neon lights, and a plastic jungle on the patio stand in the way. “Sure, let's get a table,” Peter said.

“Nothing but the best in the house,” Hasad responded with pride, disappearing in search of his cousin.

“He seems interesting,” Jake said, not searching for another adjective.

“He's an idiot,” his father replied. “But he is a rich idiot, and the son of an even richer one.”

“What does his family do?”

“A little bit of everything. His father is Onur Bakar, a shipping mogul worth at least nine zeroes.”

“A billionaire. That's a lot of money. What does Hasad want?”

“I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. The last time I did business with him he was looking for four identical Hummers, outfitted with the usual son-of-a-billionaire security features—bulletproof glass, grenade-proof undercarriage, run-flat tires and of course a one-thousand-watt stereo system.”

“Any money in exporting automobiles?” Jake asked out of earnest curiosity.

“There is money in everything, son. Generally I don't get involved in onesy, twosy type deals. But when a billionaire's son starts asking for upgraded Hummers, I tend to smell a profit.”

“How much did you make?”

“Enough to buy my Porsche, and ten more just like it. All it took was a couple of phone calls. Never even saw the vehicles in person.”

“Couldn't he just buy them himself?”

“Hell, son, most of the people I deal with could do it themselves. But the rich like to pick up a phone, make a call, and let that be that. You know when I first realized how much money you could make in business?”

“No, I don't think I have heard this one.”

“About twenty-five years ago someone heard through the grapevine that I could set up a meeting with the president of the Bank of Shanghai. These days, for those in the right circles, it isn't that big of a deal. Twenty-five years ago, China was just opening its borders, just starting to allow businessmen and students to visit. Being able to reach out and touch the president of the Bank of Shanghai was not something to be taken lightly. Not knowing what I could charge, or should charge, I aimed for the stars. I told the client how difficult it would be, that it might take some time, etc. I asked for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. It took ten minutes to get the meeting. Ten minutes and two long distance calls to China. That is when I realized how easy it is to make money.”

Before Jake could ask another question, Hasad came back to the bar.

“This way, this way. The best seat in the house…” Hasad said, leading Peter by the shoulder.

The doormen and bouncers at Camelot's, one of the city's few mainstream strip clubs, were as large as they were ornery. Two beasts guarded the door with scrutinizing eyes, and both took an immediate disliking to Hasad, who was past the threshold of legally drunk and claiming to be in dire need of a little American entertainment.

Jake found the Turk to be annoying, and hoped the doormen would see it in their hearts to deny entry to Hasad and send them all home while it was still relatively early. A hundred dollars and a promise of good behavior from Peter paved the way down the stairs into the subterranean club. The three men followed a short skirt with an attached bunny tail to a table in the back, directly across from one of the three stages. Hasad pulled out a sizeable money roll, peeled off a few hundred dollars in various donations, and slapped the stack of greenbacks on the table. “The girls are on me,” he said proudly. “And later, if I am lucky, the girls will be
on
me.”

Jake was suppressing the growing urge to punch Hasad in the face in the name of peace. Peter calmly ordered drinks from the waitress, his hand gently caressing her bare shoulder as she bent over. She crouched down to whisper the order back, giving him a full shot of cleavage. He stared. She smiled. Two professionals, neither aware of the other's skill level. A muscled bouncer teetered on a stool next to the stage, waiting for a patron to reach for an unguarded body part, an attempt to touch the untouchable. Tiny yellow track lights ringed the stage, highlighting the establishment's moneymakers in flashing strobes.

The drinks arrived and Peter continued his flirtation with the waitress who batted her eyes shamelessly. She smiled as she placed a bourbon on the rocks, a shot of tequila, and a bottled beer on the glass tabletop. Peter handed the beer to his son and pushed the shot glass to Hasad.

“Tequila, my favorite,” Hasad said picking up his drink with two fingers and offering a toast. “To D.C., and Mr. Winthrop, the greatest tour guide in the city.” Hasad threw his head back with vigor and the tequila disappeared down the hatch. Jake sipped his beer while Peter took a polite swallow of his bourbon.

Over the next hour, Hasad downed three more drinks and shoved miscellaneous amounts of cash into the g-strings of each dancer who came on stage to grind with the pole. He booed when a girl came out hiding her good bits with tassels, and Peter had to calm the stage-side bouncer with a slight hand gesture and a crisp bill.

“Mr. Winthrop, my friends and I have recently taken up hunting.”

“
Now we get down to business
,” Peter whispered to Jake.

Most of his foreign clients were the same. Dinner, drinks, entertainment, and then business. The order varied occasionally, the speed of progression differed by nationality, but a thousand nights on the town with a thousand customers had proven that the elements of the deal were the same. “What kind of hunting?” Jake asked.

“Well, anything we can shoot. Fox, lynx, bear, mountain goat.”

“What do you use?”

“Shotguns, rifles, handguns. Most of them are illegal to own in Turkey, of course, but there are ways around that.”

“How is that?” Jake asked.

“
Baksheesh
,” Hasad answered.

“What?”

Peter interrupted. “
Baksheesh
is a word for bribery originally used in Persia, but its meaning is understood in a lot of locales from Turkey to Eastern Africa.”

“Very good. Mr. Winthrop, you are right as usual,” Hasad said patronizingly. He was putting on his Middle Eastern charm, and Jake quickly saw through the transparent act.

“So, you have taken up hunting?” Peter asked, pushing the conversation forward.

“Yes, hunting,” Hasad answered, his voice trailing. “…And we are thinking about starting a night hunting club.”

“Night hunting?” Peter asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, night hunting. The fox and jackal are very sly, very difficult to shoot during the day. They are night creatures.”

“Nocturnal,” Jake said, cringing at the expression ‘night creatures.'

“Yes, that is right. Nocturnal.”

The reason for Hasad's visit to the U.S., the driving force behind the evening's festivities, the payoff for Peter Winthrop's patience, were all on the tip of Hasad's tongue.

“We are interested in, uh, hmmm, equipment that will allow us to hunt better in the dark.”

“Night vision equipment?”

“Yes, night vision equipment.”

Peter turned his attention to the twirling tassels and gyrating hips and took a sip of his drink.

“How many were you looking for?” he asked without looking at Hasad.

“A thousand.”

“That is a very large hunting group, Hasad.”

“Night hunting is becoming very popular Mr. Winthrop,” Hasad answered with a smirk. “Very popular.”

“It may take some time. That kind of equipment is hard to obtain.”

“Yes, I know. I have been trying to get them for about a year.”

“Does it matter where they are made?”

“I want U.S. military issue. Nothing but the best.”

“That might be tough. And they won't be cheap.”

“How much?”

“I don't know, but if I had to guess I would say at least five thousand dollars apiece. It really depends.”

“Okay. Whatever the price.”

“And legally, they can't be exported,” Peter added for the benefit of his son. “I keep Winthrop Enterprises on the up-and-up.”

Jake did the math in his head. A thousand goggles at five grand apiece came to five million dollars. The cash register drawer opened in his mind and he heard “cha-ching.” Jake wasn't sure of the legality of the deal being discussed, but he was damn certain it was unethical. There may have been a thousand night hunters, but Jake knew they weren't hunting jackals, foxes, goats or anything else on four legs. The deal was shady at best, and wildly profitable. Five million dollars was a lot of money by any standard Jake could come up with.

Hasad, pig-in-slop happy with the possibility of a successful transaction, bought lap dances for everyone. In a back VIP room, Peter finished his hands-on experience and negotiated with the club owner. The owner refused the first, second, and third offer. But when the number hit the estimated price of a pair of military-grade night vision goggles , he caved. He pulled two willing girls off the stage rotation. Peter returned to the table with the women.

“Jake, could you escort the ladies out? Shawn, my driver, should be out front momentarily.”

Hasad and Peter had a short conversation and paid the bill with a stack of money thrown on the table half counted.

Jake walked the ladies through the club, leaving the hormone-driven patrons wondering who he was. He stepped up the stairs from the basement level club, a lady clinging to each arm, and stumbled head first into the path of Kate and her friends who were walking down the sidewalk on their way to the movies. Kate took one look at Jake and the two strippers—the heels, the mesh stockings, one with a push up bra, one without a bra altogether.

“You son of a bitch,” was all she said before slapping him. As Kate broke into a run, Hasad and Peter came up the stairs behind him.

“Now it's time for a little fun,” Hasad said replacing Jake between the strippers. Jake put his hand on his cheek. Peter Winthrop smiled. Business.

Chow Ying boarded the bus from the West Falls Church Metro station heading toward McLean, Virginia. He was dressed in jeans and a dark button-up shirt, as incognito as a six-foot-four Chinese national can be entering the whitest zip code in the country. He got off the bus next to the Riggs Bank at the bustling intersection of Chain Bridge Road and Old Dominion Drive. He took one second to get his bearings and kept moving. McLean was not a town for gawking. He walked four blocks through the center of town, past a sushi restaurant named Tachibana and a small strip of retail stores catering to clients with more money than they could spend. An exotic grocery store with an exotic window display sold everything from rattlesnake meat to jellyfish. Next door, a boutique chocolatier offered chocolate-dipped strawberries made on the premises.