“Cleaners?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Okay. Give me more.”
“I don’t have more to give.”
“Try. I got people breathing down my throat, expecting me to explain three wounded people and over a million dollars in property damage. What were they after?”
“Well, judgin’ from appearances, me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“You were meeting someone?”
“Right. I’ve been trollin’ all the low-life hangouts in the vicinity, crook bars and pool halls and stuff. Finally found a guy who said he knew a guy who knew a girl…that sort of thing.” Loving made a strategic decision to delete the one identifying feature that helped him close in on the person he wanted—the red Ford SUV Ben had seen parked at the rear of Thaddeus Roush’s garden. “She was a workin’ girl who supposedly knew a woman who knew the woman who was murdered. Got the impression the victim has some kind of criminal past, so I’m surprised you didn’t get a match on her prints. Anyway, before this lady of the evening could tell me anythin’, those coldhearted assassins riddled her with bullets. Just because she was in the way.” Loving swallowed. “Looked like she wasn’t more than eighteen. Maybe younger.”
Albertson was silent for a moment. “Well, I have to assume you were getting too close to something someone didn’t want you to know.”
“Like the person who’s really behind the murder?”
“Maybe. Or someone who sent the victim to the press conference to be killed. Or someone who doesn’t want you to know who she is for some other reason. Point is—it’s big. Whoever was behind this has some serious money and serious crime connections. Sufficient to bring in a very serious hit man. And a keeper.”
“Yeah. That’s a problem.”
Albertson raised a eyebrow. “Getting scared?”
“Nah,” Loving bluffed. “Gettin’ curious. And a little depressed. If there’s major crime figures in this—maybe even the mob—it’s gonna be a tough nut to crack. Those boys are very good at keepin’ their secrets.” He stopped walking. “So what are we doin’ here, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Why are we out here soakin’ up the sunshine instead of inhalin’ the asbestos fumes in your office?”
Albertson smiled slightly. “Don’t you like to get out on occasion? Feel the rays of the sun warming your face?”
“Cut the crap. There was somethin’ you wanted to tell me in private. So spill already.”
Albertson rummaged through his pockets, presumably looking for something to put in his mouth. “I propose a deal.”
“And that would be?”
“We share information. We’re both working the same case, more or less. You learn something, you tell me about it. I learn something, I do likewise. Sound like a good deal?”
“Well,” Loving said cheerfully, “it sounds like a good deal for you. Since I appear to be on the trail of somethin’ big. And you got nada.”
“Look, Loving, I’ve cut you breaks in the past—”
“Never said otherwise.”
“And I got you that provisional P.I. license so you could work while your boss is playing senator.”
“Most kind of ya.”
Albertson’s eyes lowered. “But I could revoke it just as easily as I got it.”
“I qualified for that license. I’m over twenty-one, got no felony convictions. I passed the psych evaluation and I completed my twenty-one hours of trainin’ to get certified by the Oklahoma Council on Law Enforcement Education.”
“All of which might get you somewhere back home. But Dorothy—you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Oklahoma.”
“Same difference.”
Loving turned to face him squarely. His shoulders were about twice as broad as Albertson’s, so he made a particularly effective roadblock. “Now you’re playin’ dirty pool. I don’t take kindly to bein’ pushed around.”
Albertson stood his ground. “I don’t much care what you like. I got people breathin’ down my neck for a breakthrough in this case. So if you get one, I expect to hear about it. Understood?”
“And what do I get in return?”
“You get to keep your license.”
“Not good enough.”
Albertson frowned. “We’re bound to figure out who the victim was eventually. If we do, you’ll be the first one I tell. And if you get a name first, I’ll let you run it through the FBI databases. You’ll get more info in ten minutes online than you could get from a month of pounding the pavement.”
Loving considered. That was at least marginally tempting.
“And I won’t press charges.”
“Huh? For what?”
“Destruction of private and public property. Assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently you attacked two men and ran over one of them with your automobile.”
“They were tryin’ to kill me!”
“That’s your story. A lot of the witnesses thought you were the bad guy. Thought you were on the lam from the police.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy enough to keep you in jail for a very long time awaiting trial. The D.C. courts are so overcrowded these days.”
“I don’t believe you’d do that.”
“But can you be sure?”
“You’ve always seemed like a kinda sorta honest person. So far.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“Suit yourself.”
“But the threat still stands.”
“All right, already. We’ll share.” Loving poked him with a finger. “But don’t forget. This is supposed to be a two-way street.”
“I won’t,” Albertson said.
“Good. You’ve got my cell number.”
They returned to the police station, having circled the entire block.
“Enjoyed our little chat,” Loving said.
“Likewise, I’m sure. Stay in touch.”
Loving watched as Albertson trotted up the stairs. Albertson was desperate, plain and simple. Didn’t know what was going on, didn’t have a clue how to proceed, so he was grasping at straws. Even the particularly desperate straw of aligning himself with a private investigator. The problem was, Loving really didn’t know what to do next. His only lead was lying in the morgue. The pond scum who had put him on to her had disappeared. He had nothing, except a queasy feeling formed by the knowledge that someone had wanted him dead—and probably still did.
Well, he’d figure something out, right? Back to pounding the streets. He turned and—
The man was standing so close behind Loving that he’d bumped into him before he could stop himself. He took a step back to gain a clearer view.
The man in front of him raised his sunglasses slightly as a sort of salute. His right hand was in the pocket of his overcoat. There was a bulge in the pocket that resembled the barrel of a gun. “Hello again.”
It was Leon.
13
Common Beltway wisdom dictated that in reality, it was not senators, congressmen, or Presidents that controlled Washington—it was lobbyists. Richard Trevor was thinking about having that etched into a paperweight.
“Mr. Trevor,” said his young-and-gorgeous-but-much-too-eager-to-please new assistant, Melody McClain. “Do you want to see my report?”
“Behind me, Melody. At least three steps behind me.”
Trevor didn’t mean to be rude—well, in truth, he supposed he did—but he had to get his point across. He had an image to protect. People saw him as a maverick, a Washington outsider, even when he was very much inside the city limits, jogging his third lap around the Reflecting Pool at the foot of the Washington Monument in the Main Mall. It was a beautiful day; he could smell the cherry blossoms. In truth, he hated jogging, thought it was as boring as anything on earth, except possibly golf. But he liked to maintain a vigorous, youthful image. It was important for the leader of the Christian Congregation, one of the most powerful lobbies in the country, one that helped put the last three Presidents in office, to maintain the proper image. So he jogged. His staff could accompany him, but they had to maintain a respectful distance—which was exactly far enough to ensure that they wouldn’t appear in any photos the stalkerazzi might be snapping.