Cold Frame

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.

“Right,” Taylor said, staring at Av. “That’s the one.”

One what? Av wondered with a sinking feeling.

Taylor was a large but not very tall man in an ill-fitting uniform. Av’s mother would have called him a black Irishman: dense black hair, dark eyes, prominent five o’clock shadow, big, unpleasant face, and a loud voice. He was staring at the two of them as if they were notorious criminals. Av had put on a sport coat, and Howie had removed the dreads and changed his shirt. Both of us have shaved heads, Av thought; maybe that’s it.

“The assistant chief has been in touch with his counterpart in the Federal Protective Service,” Precious announced. “There have been — developments.”

“Developments.” Taylor snorted. “That’s one way of putting it.” He pointed at Howie. “Smith I know by reputation,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Wallace,” Howie said.

“Where’s motormouth and the freak?” Taylor asked.

“Detective Sergeants Brown and Bento are assisting with a homicide interview in the Fourth District,” Precious said.

“I said I wanted to see all four individuals involved in that altercation on the C & O Canal,” Taylor said.

“They went out before your office called down,” Precious said. “We can reschedule, if you’d like.”

“I don’t like,” Taylor said. “You — Smith. What started this crap?”

Av told him what little he knew.

“Well, maybe if you spent more time on the job and less on the towpath this kind of shit wouldn’t be happening.”

“My runs are on my time, Assistant Chief,” Av said. “Before or after working hours.”

“Don’t give me lip, Detective. The FPS people are saying you pulled a weapon on them. And I understand that you improperly diverted street patrol units for backup? Were they there on your time?”

“I had four individuals who appeared to be trying to corner me out there,” Av said. “For all I knew this was some kind of get-back deal going down from my time at homicide. I had no idea they were FPS, nor did they identify themselves as such until I got reinforcements.” He turned to Precious. “Do I need my rep here, Lieutenant?”

Precious looked down at the floor.

“You’re his boss,” Taylor said to Precious. “You tell him.”

“For right now, you are suspended, Detective Sergeant,” she announced. “Pending a review by Internal Affairs. I must ask you for your badge and your weapon, please.”

Av stared at the two of them for a moment. Then he produced his shield and his Glock and put them down on Precious’s desk. Taylor stood up.

“Just so you know, Smith, the suspension’s a stopgap measure. Call your rep if you want to, but you’re actually going to be terminated. As in: fired. This has been coming for a while, and happily you just handed me the pinch bar I needed to force your average ass out. Lieutenant Parsons sends his regards, by the way.”

He turned to Precious. “Lieutenant, let me remind you of your principal mission in this department. Take no further action on that so-called John Doe until his own agency makes an inquiry. Then ask them to close their eyes for just a moment while you drop it in their laps. In the meantime, call building security and get this civilian out of my building.”

He waggled three fingers in Av’s direction as he walked out. “Buh-bye,” he chirped.

Av walked back into the squad room and sat down at his desk. Well, he thought, looking around, this gig had certainly been short and sweet. He heard Precious talking to the assistant chief as he was leaving, and then she and Howie came back to the squad room.

“Detective Sergeant,” she said. “I am very sorry to have to have done that. And no matter what the assistant chief says, you will get a hearing and you will have a chance to fight this termination. With my support, I might add.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Av said. “It does seem a little extreme.”

“Plain bullshit, is what it is,” Howie said. “That fat asshole, Parsons? He been layin’ for you, and now he’s talked Happy Taylor into doing his dirty work for him.”

“Actually,” Precious said. “Taylor had to promise the deputy director at FPS that the officer responsible would be fired in order to get the complaint to go away.”

“All that’s good to know,” Av said. “But the fact remains: those guys were putting some kind of move on me. I don’t care which federal alphabet they belong to — I still want to know why. Lieutenant, you want me to leave right now?”

“Hell, no,” she said. “Take your time. Leave your stuff if you want to. You can’t act officially until this is resolved, one way or another, but there’s no need for you to do some kind of perp walk out the front door. Call your rep. Schedule a meeting. Tell him I support you.”

“Thanks again, Lieutenant,” he said. Precious nodded and went back to her office. Couldn’t have a better boss than that, he thought.

Howie reversed the chair at his own desk and sat down. “I’ll fill in Wong and Miz Brown,” he said. “They were there. They saw what was going on. Come hearing time, three of us can help you with this one. Happy makin’ this out like you some kinda loose cannon, but those dudes were definitely fuckin’ with you.”

“I sure thought they were,” Av said. “Look: I think I’m just going to go home for the day.”

“Call your rep, first, man.”

“Yeah, I will. But before I do, I want to see some paperwork, see what the actual charges are. And in the meantime, I’m gonna do a little detecting.”

“No badge, no gun,” Howie pointed out. “Means no detecting.”

“But that’s just the point, bro,” Av said. “No badge, no gun, I can do whatever the hell I want to, just like any other civilian out there. Right?”

Howie’s expression reflected a certain lack of confidence in that theory.

Fuck it, Av thought. I will go running tomorrow morning. Those fucks show up, I will show them what I’m famous for. See how far they can swim with broken arms.