“Sure,” Anne said. She sensed something in his tone, almost a reluctance to ask the question. But why would… Let him do his job, Anne. “Do you think you can use it?”
Art slid the card into a pocket and toiled over the truthful answer, wishing more than anything that it could be a lie. “I’ll do what I can.”
TWENTY SEVEN
Staging
Art sat next to the ID technician as the woman manipulated the controls on her powerful computer workstation, trying to make the already enhanced image of suspect number four even clearer. Behind them Special Agent Rogers stood patiently.
“It’s the glare,” the technician said with resignation and apology, leaning closer to the twenty-one-inch monitor. On it the face in semi-profile was a far cry from identifiable. The lines that should be there to define the boundaries of the cheek and forehead were blended into the shadow deeper in the car’s exterior. This was further exacerbated by the reflection of Trooper Fitzroy’s spotlight off the back window. “I can’t make it any clearer. Even this wouldn’t hold up in court.”
“What do you think?” Rogers asked. “Could it be the Griggs kid?”
Art refreshed his memory by glancing at the police mug shot of Moises Griggs that LAPD had transmitted to FBI headquarters an hour earlier. That had been taken after the boy’s first and only arrest, for vandalizing the cars parked at a Beverly Hills church. Mild payback, Art thought. The Griggs kid was just getting his feet wet. Had he decided to dive in now? “It could be, David. I can’t definitely say it is, and I can’t definitely say it’s not.”
Rogers stared at the face for a moment, then shifted his attention to the postcard in his hand. “I can’t disrupt what we’ve got running and shift a good deal of our resources to look for this kid based on a less-than-absolute ID.” The agent looked again to the screen, but this time saw another face: the reflection of Art’s. “Unless you’re certain, I can’t.”
Art continued looking at the fuzzy image of what could be a young life thrown away. Could be. “I can’t be sure.”
“Sorry,” Rogers said. “Thanks for the rush, Sue.” He put a hand on the technician’s shoulder.
“I appreciate you looking at this, David,” Art said.
“That’s what I’m here for.” Rogers patted Art on the back, the action jogging his memory. “By the way, I’ve got some good news for you.”
“How so?”
“The secretary of state is going to be away from the State of the Union address and Director Jones is going to be with him,” Rogers explained. “Boys’ night out, I guess. Anyway, the director wants you to join them.”
“Me?”
Rogers nodded. “Somewhere, Art, you made an impression on the man. He heard you were in town and, well, when the director asks the likes of me if I can spare you for one night, I don’t see myself saying no.”
“David, that’s—”
“And if I were an agent about to move up in the world, I wouldn’t say no to the invitation.” Rogers punctuated the suggestion with a cautionary glare.
“I don’t like it,” Art said.
“Go,” Frankie prompted.
“Aguirre will be at the Capitol,” Rogers said. “Part of our supplement to Service security.”
“I’ll send you a postcard,” Frankie joked.
“Amusing, partner.”
Rogers suppressed a grin at the exchange. “So I’ll convey your acceptance?”
“Convey away,” Art said. He’d had to give in to worse things in his life. One boring night with D.C. types wouldn’t kill him.
Number 4387 Monroe was an extremely comfortable two-story colonial done in red brick on the outside and tasteful shades of white on the inside. Mustafa Ali was admiring the latter as he let Roger in the back door.
“Man, I hate this,” Roger said as the door closed behind him. “This breaking-in shit.”
Mustafa walked back to the kitchen countertop he’d crawled carefully over after having broken one pane of glass in the window to the left of the sink to gain access to the latch. He made sure the latch had been reset, then brushed some of the shattered glass onto the tiled floor, making a pattern that stretched to the refrigerator across the room. He reached into his pocket and removed a baseball, laying it on the floor near the large appliance. “Stupid kids should be more careful,” he said, then headed off through the house. Roger followed with a longish gym bag under his arm.
The bedrooms were obviously upstairs, so that was where they went first. There turned out to be three on the second floor, one of which was set up as a music room of sorts, with stereo equipment and a collection of old vinyl LPs and CDs that covered the breadth of the big band era. The next room they checked had to be the one Vorhees used. Its centerpiece was a surprisingly small bed with sheets and covers tossed haphazardly up over the pillows. The congressman wasn’t a neat freak at home, it appeared.
“Check it out,” Mustafa directed, pointing to the adjoining bathroom. He went to the dresser and, with gloved hands, slid each drawer out carefully. Nothing. Next was the closet. It was to his right and was closed off by twin doors. He parted them and, holding the mini-flashlight in his teeth, lit up the space. What he was searching for was there, leaning in the corner like an old umbrella. “Brother Roger. I got it.”
Roger hurried to the closet and lifted the artificial limb, examining it in the light. “It’s close. It looks close.” The obvious difference between it and the one they had in the bag was the series of straps that wrapped the upper portion, connecting it to a semi-rigid knee brace that itself was topped by more straps to affix the limb securely to the thigh. It was a clunker, all right. Roger had seen better on some of the brothers back in L.A. But the added gear was not a problem. They had expected it, and simply transferred it to the prosthesis they had brought with them.
“There’s some marks by the ankle,” Mustafa pointed out. He held the leg now while Roger opened the small makeup kit they’d brought along. A few strokes of a non-oily foundation prepared the area of their leg, and a dab of an eyebrow pencil did the rest. This they repeated for every blemish that they could find, until the difference between the two limbs was almost nil. “How does it feel?”
Roger hefted it up and down a few times, comparing the weight and balance to the real one now tucked in the bag. “About the same.”
“Good,” Mustafa said. “He’ll never know the difference.” Until it’s too late. “Okay, put it back. Right where it was.”
Roger leaned the limb back in the corner, made sure nothing was disturbed, then closed the closet door. “We did it.”
“We did this,” Mustafa said. He let the light fall from his mouth to his hand. “It comes Friday.”
Roger agreed with a nod. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here now.”
“Nervous, Brother Roger?”
“Cautious, Brother Mustafa,” Roger countered. He saw that it didn’t convince his comrade. “Come on.”
Mustafa followed Roger down the stairs. They waited ten minutes at the front door, until it was just fifteen minutes shy of midnight. They then let themselves out, making sure the latch was set to lock when closed. Only the deadbolt remained unlocked, but that was of no concern. An oversight on the congressman’s part when leaving that evening. A state dinner, a dead friend. He had a lot on his mind. Such a minor slip was to be expected. A simple mistake. It wouldn’t have been his first.