Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (35 page)

“Is that from the cracker?” Mustafa inquired.

“Cracker ain’t been wrong so far,” Darian reminded his comrade. It prevented any further question as to the information’s validity. “You’ll be in the clear. Cheap alarm, no dog. In, out, no fuss, no muss. Brother Moises and I will do the rest Thursday.”

“What about Friday?” Roger asked.

“Friday is the big night,” Darian said, showing teeth without truly smiling. “We do it together that night.”

“Where?” Mustafa inquired.

“Get this—about a half-mile from Vorhees’s place,” Darian answered. It could have been in Tucson, for all he cared. Location was not his concern. But the lay of the land was. “We’re going to need maps to figure the approach.”

“There’s gonna be feds there,” Roger said with wide eyes.

Darian stared down at his comrade, who sat cross-legged on the floor. “Brother Mustafa has something to deal with them.” The NALF leader saw his number two give a slight nod. “And if there’s a fight, we fight. But we will take out the target.”

The target was the secretary of state. The man who would take the reins of power when everyone in the House chamber bit the dust. After that...pure anarchy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to imagine what would happen next, Darian knew. Just like in the tribal conflicts that plagued African and certain European nations, factions would develop. With no legally recognized head of state, and with the black man taking the opportunity to rise up, there’d be governors, and mayors, and all kinds of folks trying to seize power. Lines would be drawn. Us against them, them against us. Him against her. State against state. City against city. The military would have no commander in chief. What would they do? Try and seize power, too? It didn’t matter. Darian had to give credit to the white boys who had put this scheme into play. It was near perfect. Take away the people who wielded the power, and the people would grab what of it they could. Beautiful. It was absolutely beautiful.

“You want us to get the maps?” Mustafa asked.

“No. Brother Moises and I will take care of it. You two have a job to do.”

Mustafa nodded, then looked to the quiet young fighter seated on the bed. “You ain’t said much, Brother Moises.”

“I’ll do my talking Friday,” Moises said. After that he didn’t give a damn what happened. If he was alive he’d fight for the sake of fighting. Tanya wasn’t even the reason anymore. Moises had thought his family was as good as dead because of her murder, but now he realized that he was the one who’d stopped living. Reason didn’t matter now at all. He was on autopilot, and the only instruction his psyche recognized was
kill
.
Kill every white face you see
.

After Friday, that would be enough.

*  *  *

The sixth floor rooms, connected by a door, were comfortable, but far from lavish. Darren entered first, with suitcases in each hand. He laid these on the queen-size bed and walked to the window as Felicia and Anne followed him in. He was stiff, but not tired. His body was still convinced it was seven, not ten.

“This is nice,” Anne commented. She checked the connecting door. It was unlocked, and for a moment she disappeared through it to her room to unload the two pieces of luggage she had brought.

Felicia walked up behind her husband and slid her arms around his waist. She felt the rumble of his stomach on her palms. “You should have eaten something on the plane.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

She knew it wasn’t a case of appetite. Her chin rested on Darren’s shoulder as she looked out the window with him. Across the street the D.C. Courthouse was lit against the wintry night. Snow flurries had dusted the city all day, but nothing had stuck.

Darren was looking beyond the courthouse, though. Far beyond. “He’s out there, sweetheart.”

Felicia hugged her husband tighter. “I know.”

“Maybe he’s old enough to think for himself, but...” Darren’s breath clouded the window as he spoke. It cleared as he was momentarily silent. “I hate being this close and not being able to do anything.”

“What would you do if you could?”

“Find him,” Darren said, his hands coming up to caress Felicia’s on his stomach. “Just find him.”

Felicia would do the same...if she could. But she couldn’t. Their son had taken a road neither of them was familiar with. They could only hope that, at some point, it would lead him home.

Darren looked away from the nighttime D.C. skyline and kissed the side of his wife’s face. “I need to walk or something, sweetheart.” He felt Felicia’s chin move on his shoulder as she nodded. “Five hours on the plane...”

“I understand. There’s a restaurant downstairs. Why don’t you get a piece of pie.” She pinched his waist and giggled. “You’ve got a half-inch to spare.”

Darren turned, facing the only woman he’d ever loved. High school sweethearts they had been. Married right after graduation against everyone’s advice. He went to work for the post office, she for a bank. Then two children, a house that was never big enough but was always
theirs
. They’d had a lot of sun in their lives, and some rain. Some real rain of late. But they had come through that together... “I love you. You know that.”

“Really?” Felicia smiled and kissed him. “I love you, too.” He smiled back, but it wasn’t a whole expression. She knew what was missing. “Go get a bite and relax.”

“Okay.” Darren kissed her on the forehead and left the room, the hotel door clicking loudly as its twin latches closed.

Anne popped back in at the sound. “Where’s Darren?”

“He needed a minute to...” Felicia bit her lower lip to stop the tears from coming. It worked. “It’s Moises. Being here is hard for Darren because he knows Moises is just up the road a ways.”

“That was weeks ago, Felicia,” Anne reminded her.

“I know. Convince Superdad of that.”

You couldn’t talk the worry out of a parent. Not in therapy, and definitely not three thousand miles from the couch.

But maybe you could ease the parent’s fears.
Maybe...

“I have an idea, Felicia. Maybe there’s some peace of mind for Darren.” Anne got the mischievous look on her face that only one person knew. “Did Darren bring that postcard from Moises?”

“I have it,” Felicia said. She retrieved it from her bag and gave it to Anne. Then she got
that
look, too. “You’re seeing him tonight?”

“For a late dinner.” She looked at her watch and added the three hours she’d forgotten to on the plane. “A late, late dinner.”

“Do you think he can find something? From that?”

“We’ll see.”

*  *  *

So it hadn’t been the most romantic of reunions. The restaurant, on the ground floor of the hotel Art had called home for several weeks, was hardly five-star, but it did have a very important redeeming quality: it was open. The late hour and the holiday had combined to limit their dining choices, but they were making the best of it, he with an almost decent eggplant parmesan, she with an average scampi. But together they were. That was what counted.

Anne rolled the last pinkish-orange shrimp in its buttery sauce and bit it off up to the tail. Across the small round table she watched Art lay his fork on the half-finished plate. “Not hungry?”

He leaned a bit closer, over the plate, and spoke softly, his eyes glancing at the food: “Not for this.”

Anne smiled and pushed her plate aside. The shrimp were gone, but the vegetable medley had only warranted a taste. She slid a hand across the table and laid it on his. “Tired?”

He nodded.

“I miss you,” Anne said as she rubbed the back of his hand. His eyes danced between hers and countless other things in sight. Something was on his mind. Something she was pretty certain of. “I wish we could have gotten together when you were back in California last week.”

“It was just a quick stop,” Art said, focusing on her now. He had to say it at some point, and there was no need to fear her reaction. The only thing he had to fear was what came after. Maybe fear wasn’t the right word. Wary. That was better. It was a road he’d taken before, a road he thought he’d never choose to travel down again. Until now.

“You want some dessert?” Anne asked and suggested. “What could they possibly do to ice cream?”

“Anne,” Art said, moving his hand atop hers, looking at her across the remnants of highly average Italian cuisine, “I’m going to take the Chicago job.” At another time in his life he might have waited for a reaction from her. Some validation before making his next declaration. Not anymore. “I want you to come with me.”

Well if that wasn’t direct...
Leaving L.A. Leaving her practice. Leaving the teaching job at UCLA. She had already considered all those possibilities. Los Angeles was a place, a conglomeration of buildings and roads, a smattering of friends, but good friendships would survive some distance. Her practice was a bit harder to envision leaving, but the reality was that she had found it harder to think of healing others after so many of those she had known had lost their lives in the World Center. It was irrational, but that was the way of the human animal. Logic went only so far before emotion kicked in, and she was professional enough to know that she would need to heal before a full load of patients could count on her for the help they needed. Already she had trimmed her list by more than half. As for teaching...that was not an issue. The mention she’d made to Art about Chas Ohlmeyer had been a hint of sorts, but there was more to it than that—a job offer of her own, to be exact. A full professorship at the University of Chicago. Teaching all the time. She easily saw herself doing that. She easily saw herself doing that with Art as a part of her life.

But she saw something else, too. She needed something else. “You know I will...on one condition.”

He knew what that was, and, to be honest, he wouldn’t want it any other way. “I know. Don’t think about that right now, though. I want to do it right. Proper, Miss Preston.”

Anne felt the squeeze on her hand, and the funny feeling low in her stomach. “Whew. Well, I guess this meal will be memorable for more than the food.”

“Thankfully,” Art joked mildly. He tried to look strong, sure of himself, stoic. But he knew the stupid grin on his face was shooting those attempts to hell. Time to set this subject aside until its proper disposition. “So, how are the Griggs’s?”

“Nervous, excited, sad,” Anne answered. “Darren especially, because of Moises.”

“The stupid kid,” Art said.

“Confused, G-Man,” Anne countered. She reached into her purse and pulled out the postcard. “And for that cynical transgression you owe me a favor.”

Art took the card and read it.
At least he wrote home.
“How so?”

“Look at the postmark—Baltimore. Being this close and not knowing exactly where he is is eating Darren up. I know you’re busy, but is there any way you could look into it? Or ask someone to?” Anne noticed a change in Art’s expression. “What?”

No. It can’t be him. “Suspect number four is a young black male, age seventeen to twenty-five, small frame, close-cropped hair.” He fits the description. “Suspect number four was seen in the vicinity of the NALF headquarters on separate occasions.” He fits the profile. “Subjects show evidence of racially tinged hatred, possibly brought on by injustices they have suffered at the hands of a different race, whether perceived or real.” And he’s in the area.
Art quickly flashed on the tape of Trooper Fitzroy’s murder, on the unidentified face of suspect number four. Left rear. A kid. He compared it to the face of the young man he’d confronted that Monday before Thanksgiving. The young, angry man taking off. Dropping out. Just like the NALF did two days later, after doing the damage.

“Art, what is it?”

He couldn’t tell her this. It was only a suspicion. A “wild” suspicion, he tried to convince himself. “Nothing,” Art said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. “I just remember that night at dinner.”

“Right. That was a hard night.”

You stupid, stupid kid
. “He was a snot.”

“So, will you?”

Art fiddled with the card for a second. He knew they could find out some things from it: the postal processing center it was handled at, what stores carried the type of card. That was about it. General information. Beyond that it would take some ground pounding. But first came the question of confirmation—or an attempt at it. “Can I hang on to this?”

“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.”