Cold Frame (11 page)

“FPS?” Miz Brown asked, looking puzzled. “What you doin' out here in a national park, harassing a Metro police detective?”

“We're exercising,” the man said. “We're not harassing anyone.”

Av put away his weapon. “You lose these the other day, FPS?” he called, and pitched the cheap wraparounds at the man's feet.

The man looked down, then shrugged. Miz Brown took a deep breath and launched into what Howie called one of his waterfall monologues. Howie had eased up on his shooting stance and was now lighting up a cigarette while watching Brown envelop the four guys in a perfect cloud of bullshit. He winked at Av.

Av, realizing Miz Brown was in full cry, backed away and walked over to where Rue Waltham was huddled on a park bench. To his surprise, she was looking more interested in the little drama than scared.

“Relax,” he told her, quietly. “They're federal cops, not muggers; some kind of misunderstanding here, apparently. We can go now.”

He took her arm gently and they walked by the four runners, bookended now by Wong Daddy, who was deep-breathing while still muttering and staring fixedly at the smallest of the runners, and Miz Brown, who was lecturing the four men on the rules of interagency procedure within the District of Columbia. Once they cleared the scene on the other side of the bridge, Av suggested they jog back from here. Rue seemed only too willing. The uniforms stared curiously at the two of them as they trotted by.

“Who were all those people?” she asked.

“The four guys say they're Federal Protective Service. You know, the uniforms you see on federal properties, working front-gate security and the X-ray machines inside the lobby?”

“And they were interested in you?”

“Seemed to be,” Av said. “Saw them days ago. Same deal; they boxed me in while I was running. Didn't do or say anything, just let me know they were there, and that they could have done something if they'd wanted to.”

“Did you do something to a federal building?”

“Not that I know of, but, trust me, those four guys will soon be just dying to tell Detective Sergeant Brown what they were out there for.”

 

SEVEN

“Bogus,” Miz Brown declared. “I mean, c'mon, Federal Protective Service? They're a buncha building guards.”

The Briar Patch crew were sitting around the conference table, drinking coffee and rehashing the towpath incident. Av asked Brown if the FPS badges looked real.

“Yeah, they did, but so what? You have to see creds and then run a check, you know? They were packing, or at least two of them were. But WTF? What were they doing out there, screwin' with Brother Av's morning run?”

“They have an answer for that?”

“Nope,” Brown said. “Stone effing wall. Just out for a run, like everyone else. Didn't know nothing about nothing. One of them did want to know the last time anybody fed Wong.”

“Well, I appreciate the assist,” Av said. “They did it twice, and they had me a little spooked.”

“Spooked,” Wong Daddy said. “Shoulda let me spool it on up a little, you wanna see spooked.”

Av laughed. “It was pretty good as was,” he said. “Those four guys did
not
know what to do next, you started in with that Toshiro Mifune samurai shit. Wonderful.”

“Yeah,” Wong said, proudly. “Got that bad boy down cold.”

It was the first time Av had heard Wong speak normally. He realized that Wong was a righteous piece of work, and he wanted to know him better.

“So,” Brown said. “We had some fun, entertained the commuters on Canal Street a little, got to see Mau-Mau in a suit, and ran off some rent-a-cops. Can anybody tell me what started all this shit?”

“
You
talked to them,” Av said. “You really didn't get anything?”

Brown shook his head. “But,” he pointed out, proudly, “I wasn't listening all that much. Not my style, right?”

“I've been running the towpath for years,” Av said. “Never had anyone do what those guys were doing. I keep trying to think of what I've been into lately that might have lit a fuse somewhere.”

“That business up on Connecticut Avenue is the only thing I can think of,” Howie said. “And I see no possible connection between that mess, strange as it is, and the Federal Protective Service.”

“Strange is what we do here,” Brown reminded them.

“Okay,” Av said. “You want strange? Lemme recap: we initially tried to move the sudden unexplained death of one Francis X. McGavin to the Bureau, because he was working for the DHS. They said, thanks, but no thanks. MedStar ER classifies the dead guy as a John Doe. Their pathology people, however, said his name was McGavin. The FBI won't say one way or another if this Ellen Whiting works for them. OCME says they can't figure out the cause of death, other than that every important organ suddenly stopped. The ME has a theory, but he isn't willing to commit to it yet. Then he hinted at poison. But: the guy didn't eat anything at the frog restaurant. Owner of said frog restaurant was observed by his crew being taken away in a black SUV, ostensibly driven by the Food Safety Division of the District government, who supposedly shut the place down with a suspension notice that
is
written on a proper form but was never issued by the District food police. And now I've got federal building guards hassling my ass on the C & O Canal towpath?”

“Who's the hottie?” Howie asked.

“A tenant in my building, wanted somebody to run with 'cause she's new in town.”

Wong Daddy looked interested. “She in play?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Av said. “I can fix you right up. I think. She may be a lawyer, though.”

Wong grunted, his sudden distaste evident. He had his standards, after all.

“Gentlemen,” Precious announced from the doorway. “I've just had an interesting phone call.”

The fearless foursome turned as one to hear what she had to say. She came in and sat down at the head of their conference table. “From the FPS, of all people?”

The four of them looked at each other and then executed a unanimous: oooooh. Precious did not appear to be amused.

“One deputy director for management named Stein called Assistant Chief Taylor, he of the unswervingly happy demeanor?”

There were groans at the table. Assistant Chief Taylor, known unofficially at MPD headquarters as Happy, of the Seven Dwarfs fame, was one of those aging white men who desperately need about a daily quart or so of serotonin reuptake inhibitor medication. Taylor manifested a notoriously perpetual red ass; a broken shoelace was sufficient to trigger a towering rage. They could only imagine what a bitch call from the FPS might provoke.

“Four of Mister Stein's special agents were ambushed—Stein's word—on the C & O Canal towpath this morning while conducting daily physical fitness training, by an equal number of Metro PD detectives, one of whom was acting like Godzilla on crystal meth and who put them in fear for their personal safety.”

“Damn straight,” Wong muttered proudly.

“The description given was sufficient to identify the inmates of the Briar Patch as the guilty bastards. There were also black-and-whites involved? So: WTF, over? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Av took the question and gave her the background. “It was the sunglasses that did it,” he finished up. “Same thing they were wearing, but a Walmart version. Looked like a threatening message.”

“Why would four FPS special agents want to threaten you?” she asked.

“Great question,” Av said. “Sergeant Brown talked to them.”

“And did they enlighten you, Sergeant Brown?”

“Um, I may have done most of the talking,” Brown said. “They didn't say much of anything.”

“No surprise there,” Howie observed. “And since when did federal building guards get special-agent status?”

“Since nine-eleven,” Precious said. “They're no longer just a bunch of rent-a-cops dozing at the front doors of federal buildings. Think counterterrorism. Homeland Security. Like that.”

“Well,” Av said, “for what it's worth, the only weirdness I've been rolling around in the past week has to do with a former Homeland Security ass-bandit.”

Precious started to ask the obvious question, but then stopped, chewing her lower lip for a moment. The detectives watched. Apparently, one did not interrupt Precious when she was thinking.

“Okay,” she said. “Back to basics here: we're the ILB. Our mission is to move tarbabies out of the Metro PD. Detective Smith: can you explain how this FPS drama is related to the McGavin case?”

“No, ma'am,” he said. “I can't make a connection. Right now I think these are probably four ex-rent-a-cops who've been issued gold badges, a new title, and who've been watching too many movies.”

“But why
you
?” she asked.

Av shook his head.

“And it happened twice?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “And the second time I thought we were going to get down to some kind of business, till they got a good look at Wong Daddy cranking up his monster mash.”

Precious eyed the offending monster, who grinned back at her and burped.

“Okay,” she said, getting up. “I'm gonna try to go on the offense here. I'll tell the assistant chief what you told me and that I think MPD should initiate a formal interagency investigation into the actions of the four FPS people. Emphasis on the formal. Make them explain why they were following you on the towpath. In the meantime, Detective Sergeant Smith, I want a full written statement as to what happened out there. What are we waiting for in the McGavin matter, again?”

“Cause of death, manner of death,” Av said. “Some kind of reliable ID on the girlfriend. Really like to talk to her.”

“You gone and got yourself wrapped around a goddamned mystery, haven't you.”

Av threw up his hands.

“Do you have history with the assistant chief by any chance?”

“It's possible,” Av said uncomfortably.

“Super,” she said. “In the meantime, mysteries are not our remit here, Detective Sergeants. This is ILB. You four nutcases put your thinking caps on and make this thing go away. And quit picking on feds. They're fragile these days, with that sequester bullshit and all.”

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later Av and Howie pulled into the physicians-only parking area at the MedStar hospital complex on Irving Street. Howie was back in character as Mau-Mau, the dreads wig in place and casual clothes instead of the morning's suit. They'd stopped for mid-morning coffee near the hospital.

“There's the ER entrance,” Av said. “EMTs oughta be hanging out around the meat wagons somewhere.”

They were on a mission to talk to the EMTs who had responded to the call at the Bistro. Their names were on the incident report, and the two individuals, Castro and Baynes, were supposed to have come on-shift thirty minutes ago. They walked over to where four boxy ambulances were backed into their parking spots near the ER entrance. There was a group of white-coated, mostly young men standing just outside the ER's glass doors, smoking cigarettes. Nobody seemed especially interested when two cops walked up. EMTs and cops got along.

Av introduced himself and asked if they could talk to EMTs Castro and Baynes. Two guys stepped forward, said hey, and asked what was up.

“You guys respond to a man-down at the French restaurant called the Bistro Nord, a week ago, maybe Thursday last?”

Castro looked at Baynes. “Nope,” they said in unison.

Av frowned. He pulled out the EMS report, showed it to the two EMTs. They studied it for a minute, then shook their heads. “Looks right,” Castro said. “And I see our names there. But those are not our signatures, and we never did a run to any restaurant.”

“You telling me somebody arrived at that place in a MedStar ambulance, accompanied by a street patrol cop, and took this guy to MedStar, who does have a record of him, and faked the names on the report?”

“Man, I don't know what to say.” He turned to some of the other EMTs. “Any of you guys do a call at a French restaurant called—what was it?”

“Bistro Nord. Connecticut Avenue. Last Thursday. Guy did a flop and twitch at a table, owner called 911. He was nonresponsive upon arrival. Supposedly MedStar EMS transported him here. ER docs pronounced him a half hour after arrival.”

Blank looks and head-shaking all around. “Another EMS, maybe?” one of them asked.

“But that's our form,” Castro said. “Our names. Just not my signature.”

Av looked at Howie. The next step was obvious: get to the patrol cop who'd come in with them. They looked again at the form. The cop's report was attached, but the block for responding officer's name was blank.

“Fuck,” muttered Howie.

“So what've we got here?” Av asked when they got back in their car. “Are we saying that the Bistro deal is entirely bogus?”

“Sure looks like it,” Howie said. “The meat-wagon guys—why would they lie?”

“Right,” Av said. “Why
would
they lie. You know what? I'm beginning to think this whole thing took some serious organization and planning. Maybe the ME's right: this
is
a fucking homicide.”

“You got a problem, right there, partner,” Howie said. “You still thinkin' like a homicide cop. Ain't our job, remember? We're not detectives anymore—we the tarbaby po-lice now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Av said.

*   *   *

One of the secretaries intercepted them when they got back to the office. “Lieutenant wants a word,” she said. “But first, Mau-Mau, honey? You need to go get some Sunday go-to-meetin' clothes on. Word is Chief Sweetness and Light is inbound.”

Ten minutes later they were summoned into Precious's office. Assistant Chief Taylor was sitting behind Precious's desk; she was standing to one side, her face indicating that she was not too happy to be bumped from her desk.