“Does this have anything to do with the East-West Airlines attack?” Nearly a week ago, an as yet unidentified bad guy had launched a Stinger antiaircraft missile into a fully loaded 747 as it climbed out of its takeoff from O’Hare International Airport. The perfect shot had scattered burning aircraft and human parts over a mile-long swath of Lake Michigan.
“We don’t yet know that that was a terrorist attack,” Kane said. That was the official line of the government to stave off panic, but insiders knew the reality. Whether Kane was too young to be among those insiders was a topic for the future.
“Okay,” Jonathan announced. “We’ll come with you.”
Boxers’ eyes popped. “We will?”
Jonathan shrugged. “If Director Rivers requests the pleasure of our company, it’s only polite that we accept the invitation.”
Boxers smiled and scowled. Simultaneously. It was an odd combination of expressions that was unique to him. Jonathan read it as a kind of amused tolerance — and perhaps a touch of anticipation that he might get to shoot something after all.
Before the smile could fully form on Shrom’s face, Jonathan added, “But you come with us, not the other way around. In our vehicle.”
“Absolutely not,” Kane said.
Jonathan didn’t drop a beat. “Then this conversation is over,” he said. He turned on his heel and started walking back toward the bags they’d dropped.
Boxers followed.
“Wait,” Shrom said.
Jonathan stopped, turned.
“What are you doing?” Kane asked, aghast. His ears turned red when he was upset. Jonathan found that amusing. Cute, even. Like he needed a hug and a teddy bear.
“We’ll do it your way,” Shrom conceded.
Kane’s jaw dropped. “We will?”
Jonathan winked at the Big Guy. “Déjà vu,” he mouthed.
Shrom said to his protégé, “I have orders from as high up as I can imagine. If you were Mr. Grave, would you climb into a car with us?”
“I would do what a federal agent told me to do,” Kane said. Way to defend your position to the very end.
“Then you’re an idiot,” Shrom said.
Jonathan laughed. So did Boxers, and he was a much tougher audience. When Kane turned purple, it was as good as it got.
“Follow me,” Jonathan said. He turned again, walked to the dropped duffels, and picked them up, Boxers with him every step. He led the four-man parade to the Batmobile and waited while Boxers thumbed the remote to unlock the doors. He called over his shoulder, “Don’t get in until I tell you.”
He didn’t look back to confirm compliance because that would have telegraphed weakness. From this point on, the Fibbies needed to do exactly what he instructed them to do.
With the cargo bay doors open, Jonathan and Boxers heaved the heavy duffels onto the floor.
“Do I even want to know what’s inside those bags?” Kane asked.
“I’m sure you do,” Boxers said. “Which is sort of a shame.”
When purple transitioned to grape, Jonathan actually started feeling sorry for the guy.
“Here’s the deal,” Jonathan said. “My friend will drive. Agent Shrom, you and Agent Kane will ride in the middle row of seats, and I will sit behind you.”
Kane opened his mouth to say something, but Shrom put a hand on his arm. They all ended up in their assigned seats.
Jonathan boarded last, taking the spot behind everyone. He didn’t really expect the agents to try to hijack the ride, but if they did, he’d nail them both. One could never be too careful.
“So,” Boxers said, once the doors were all closed. “Where are we going?”
David Kirk never picked up his phone on the first ring. Or the third ring, for that matter. He was a fifth-ring guy. He figured that if someone really wanted to speak to him, they’d wait at least that long. On the sixth ring, the call would have gone to his voice mail.
“Washington Enquirer,” he said as he snatched up the receiver. “This is David.”
“Yo,” a familiar voice said. “This is DeShawn. Have you got a few minutes?”
David rolled his eyes. DeShawn Lincoln was one of David’s bar buddies. He was also a disgruntled rookie in the Metropolitan Police Department, which made him a reliable source for the kind of salacious news that city editors publicly decried yet secretly loved because it sold a hell of a lot of newspapers.
“Hi, Deeshy,” David replied. “What’s up, man? I’ve always got a few minutes for you.”
The usual smile was missing from DeShawn’s voice. “What’s up is my bosses’ heads. Completely up their own asses.”
David’s Spidey-sense tingled. “Are you calling because I’m a friend, or because I’m a reporter?”
“Can I choose both?”
“Absolutely.” As he spoke, David donned his telephone headset and pushed the button to connect it. This way, David’s hands were free to type notes. “Does this mean you have a lead for me?”
“Lead, no,” DeShawn said. “Whole friggin’ story, yes. It’s not for the phone, though.”
“Ooh,” David said in his spooky voice. “Sounds scary.” DeShawn’s criticality sensor was dozens of degrees out of phase with David’s.
“It is scary, David.” Deeshy was rattled. David could hear it in his voice. “Do you want to meet with me or not?”
The elevated angst got his attention. He closed his e-mail screen to reduce distraction. “When and where?”
“You know where the merry-go-round is on the Mall?”
“Of course. And I believe they call it a carousel.” Located outside the original Smithsonian Castle, it was also known by locals as one of the most sublime ripoffs in Washington.
“Whatever. Meet me there at eight o’clock tonight.”
“Oh, Christ, Deeshy. It’s cold and windy, and that’s like the coldest and windiest spot in town.”
“Don’t be a pussy. See you there at eight?”
David groaned. The problem with DeShawn Lincoln was that he became a cop to break huge cases — the kind that only came up once or twice in a thirty-year career — or every week on network television. This was Deeshy’s fourth imagined career-maker in eight months. When his bosses pushed back, Deeshy turned to his newspaper pal for support. Even in as corrupt a town as DC, sometimes the smoke you thought was a fire was really a cigar that was really a cigar.
“Give me a hint,” David said. “You’re talking about pulling me out of a warm apartment when I could be devoting my evening to Internet porn. What’ve you got?”
DeShawn hesitated. David imagined that he was checking his surroundings to determine if he could speak freely. Finally, he said, “What I’ve got is what Washington’s best at: a cover-up.”
David’s neck hairs rose. “Of what?”
The answer came as a whisper. “Murder. I think the Secret Service is involved, and that means it goes to the very top.”
David felt blood drain from his head. “Say that again.”
“Did you hear about the shooting last night at the Wild Times?”
David prided himself at being a devoted reader of the newspaper that employed him. “Yeah. Secret Service was there. They lost a couple of people.”
“And what is the Secret Service doing in force at a bar in the middle of the night?”
“Was the first family there?”
Deeshy paused. “I’ll see you tonight.” The line went dead.
David laid the receiver in its cradle, but his hand stayed in place for a long time.