His client appeared on the patio and walked to Dhar’s table. “Welcome,” Dhar said with a smile. “Sit down. Can I order you some tea, something stronger, perhaps?”
“No. Do you have an answer for me?”
Dhar nodded. “What you want will cost a lot of money, but it is obtainable.”
“How much?”
“Seven hundred thousand, U.S.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“A bargain, I promise you. The product we’re talking about is well guarded. We’re talking about Russia, you realize. There are bribes, special transport requirements. … ”
The client hesitated for a moment. “Yes, I can see that. But you can get it? You’re certain.”
“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have brought you here. In my line of work, customer satisfaction is a matter of survival. So, what is your answer?”
“Go ahead. We will pay you.”
Dhar slid a piece of paper across the table. “My bank and account number. Once you have deposited half my fee, I will start. I will call you in sixty days with an update. Only one thing remains. Where do you wish to take delivery?”
The man’s answer was immediate. “Russia, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny.”
Dhar nodded. “Very well. I’ll begin.”
The man stood up and walked away.
Curious choice, Nakhodka, Dhar thought. So much easier to take it out via truck or plane. Why choose a harbor?
1
Tonight was to be Jerome Morris’s first solo duty shift in Rock Creek Park, and before it was over he would find himself questioning his decision to trade his post at Shenandoah National Forest for the urban sprawl of the capital’s largest park.
A backwoods boy and third-generation cop from rural Georgia, Morris found the best of both worlds with the USPP: Not only did you get to catch bad guys, but you got to do it in some of the most beautiful places in the country.
Tonight, Morris was part of a two-officer team patrolling the West D-3 Station, which included the 1800 acres of Rock Creek, plus Meridian Hill, Fort Totten, and portions of the C&O Canal.
Morris’s radio cracked to life. “Station to Three-One.”
Morris keyed the handset. “Three-One.”
“Head on over to Pierce Mill, will ya? Got a report of a car in the parking lot.”
Probably kids making out, Morris thought. There were plenty of entrances and exits to the park and amorous teenagers rarely paid attention to signs. He’d give them a lecture and send them packing. “On my way.”
It took him ten minutes to get there; the Suburban handled the park’s occasionally rough roads well enough, but Morris was still unfamiliar with much of the terrain, so he took it slow. An accident on his first night wouldn’t do much to impress his supervisor.
He swung into the mill’s parking lot and his headlights immediately picked out a red Lumina sitting beside the waterwheel. Morris stopped, turned on his spotlight, and shined it on the car, expecting to see a pair of heads pop up from the backseat. Nothing happened.
Morris honked his horn. Still nothing.
“Three-One to Station, I’m ten-ninety-seven at the mill. I’m getting out to check.”
“Roger.”
Morris climbed out, clicked on his flashlight and undipped his holster strap. He didn’t like walking up on cars at night. No cop did. Too many things could go wrong — too easy to get ambushed.
Walking along the car’s rear panel, he shined his beam over the interior. Nothing in the backseat … There was a figure in the driver’s seat, though: a male, with his head resting on the headrest. He extended his flashlight away from himself to misdirect a gunshot should it come, then shined it on the driver’s face. “Sir, this is the Park Police.”
No response. Behind the glare of the flashlight, the man remained still.
Morris tapped on the glass. “Sir …”
Again there was no response. Now Morris felt the cold sheen of sweat on his face. Should he call backup? Maybe — Jesus, Jerome, just do it …
Very slowly, Morris reached out, lifted the handle, and opened the door. The stench of feces and urine washed over him.
Suddenly the man was moving, tipping toward him.
Morris backpedaled, fumbling for his gun. The flashlight clattered to the asphalt. The beam danced wildly over the car, then rolled to a stop, illuminating the man’s head. Still buckled in his seat, the man lay half out of the car, his arms touching the ground.
The top of his skull was missing.
The watch supervisor arrived four minutes later and found Morris squatting a few feet from the Lumina. “Jerome? You okay?”
“Yeah, Sergeant, I think so….”
“Just stay there, lemme take a look. You touch anything?”
“No … uhm, yeah, the door handle.”
The supervisor shined his flashlight over the man’s head and knew immediately it was a gunshot wound. The roof upholstery was covered with blood. A revolver lay on the floorboard below the man’s right knee.
“He’s been dead awhile, I guess,” Morris called.
“Why’s that?”
“No blood on the ground; any more recent and he would have bled when he tipped over. Plus, his ankles are fat.”
“Yeah, probably. Well, whoever he is, he picked one hell of a place to kill himself.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’re standing in the middle of a jurisdictional black hole, that’s why.”
While all national parks are overseen by the department of the Interior and its law enforcement body, the Park Police, a homicide on federal property tends to wreak havoc with standard procedure.
Within an hour of Morris’s initial call, the Lumina sat under the glare of five sets of headlights and was surrounded by the USPP Duty Commander, an investigator from the USPP’s Criminal Investigations Branch, a Special Agent of the FBI, a city Medical Examiner and, because Rock Creek’s roads and parking lots are regulated by metro traffic laws, a pair of patrol officers from the DCPD.
“The car’s got a government parking sticker,” the CIB investigator called to the FBI agent. “Commerce Department. Dead fed on fed property. Looking like yours, Steve.”
“Yeah.” The agent opened the glove compartment and extracted the registration. “Owner is a Larry Baker.” He handed it to one of the cops. “You wanna — What’s your name?”
“Johnson. My partner, Meade.”
“You guys wanna check the house?”
Meade, the rookie of the pair, took it. “Jesus, you don’t think he …”
“Hope not,” said the agent, “but it’s best we check.”
“Man drives away from home, parks his car, and blows his brains out … God.”
The agent understood Meade’s trepidation. Either Baker had come here so his family wouldn’t find him, or he’d come here because he’d done something at home he couldn’t bear seeing.
The address took the officers to Parklawn Drive, a neighborhood in Randolph Hills, three miles from Rock Creek. The Baker home was a two-story Chesapeake with a pair of maple trees bracketing the driveway. A bug zapper glowed purple on the front porch.
“No lights on inside.” said Meade. “Asleep, you think?”
“Yeah, probably,” replied Johnson.
They got out and walked to the door. Meade raised his finger to press the doorbell. Johnson stopped him. “Wait,” he whispered, then pressed his knuckle against the door and pushed. It swung open a few inches.