Cold Frame

FIVE

On Sunday evening Av slid into his rooftop rocker, pulled a patio chair under his feet, and leaned back to enjoy a cold beer after a session with his Exercycle. He hadn’t put much effort into the workout, the day’s-end beer being more on his mind than a cardio blast. It was a gorgeous fall evening in the capital. The city’s atmosphere was beginning to thin out a little after the summer’s endless heat, humidity, and the hordes of sweaty tourists. He was up on the roof of his three-story brick building in the southern precincts of Georgetown, supposedly Washington’s toniest neighborhood. He was probably the only Washington Metro cop with a Georgetown address.

The building had begun life in the early 1840s as a warehouse, morphed into a general store, and then finally a tavern with rooms above. Av’s uncle Warren, his father’s brother, had bequeathed the building to him after succumbing to HIV. Uncle Warren had been ostracized by the entire Smith family after declaring one day that he was gay and that he was leaving his horrified wife. Av had been the lone exception, especially once into his teenage years. He’d refused to join in the familial shunning effort, having developed a better relationship with his uncle than with his own father. When he got back to D.C. after the Marines, he discovered that he was now the proud owner of a very valuable corner property overlooking the remaining vestiges of the C & O Canal and its narrow towpath in downtown Georgetown. His neighbors in the block included several law offices, restaurants, Cannon’s fish market, and three embassies within walking distance. A stand of old oaks behind the building helped damp out the perpetual traffic roar of M Street, just two blocks north.

The bottom floor along Thirty-third Street was now occupied by an import-export company, run by a fussy little Iranian man named Bayamad Kardashian, who was quick to tell you that he was, regrettably, no relation to the young lady who was famous for being famous. Av was not exactly sure what Kardashian imported and exported, but it appeared to involve the usual Middle Eastern display of lamps, rugs, and lots of brass objects. More importantly, the Iranian paid his rent on time every month.

The second floor was a two-bedroom rental apartment unit, recently occupied by a young woman who had listed her occupation as an attorney. His rental manager had handled the details and he’d only seen her a couple of times, usually heading off to work, but she appeared to be quite attractive. The income from the lower two floors allowed him to pay the city’s hefty taxes on the building and bank almost his entire monthly salary. Besides that, the neighborhood was a delightful place to live, with all the bars and fancy restaurants up on M Street offering every kind of company a choosy bachelor might want on any given boring night.

He reviewed Friday’s events. The court order for his John Doe autopsy was “in process.” Even though he actually had a name, he’d left the paperwork as a John Doe, hoping that would add impetus for the duty hizzoner to order it up. Unlike in the cop shows on TV, getting a court order for an autopsy took at least a day, often longer, as did any other emergent requests placed respectfully before their honors of the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. Budget cuts had reduced the number of judges and magistrates to the point where almost nothing happened on a same-day or even second-day basis. Either way, Av had no intentions of attending the autopsy. He’d done enough of those as a homicide detective and now he’d be entirely satisfied by the report from the slicers and dicers.

He still couldn’t figure out how the victim had lost his name in the process of being processed by the ER and then regained it when he showed up in the hospital’s morgue. And where the hell had the girlfriend run off to? Scared off by all the commotion? Knew there’d be cops and EMS there? Had she possibly done something to McGavin? And then it hit him: Precious had said the Bureau was keeping its distance because of some as-yet-undefined federal involvement— Holy crap! Was Ellen Whiting working for the FBI? He let out a low whistle. The chief medical examiner would love that.

“Knock, knock.”

Av turned around to see the pretty blonde from the apartment clambering over the low parapet wall from the building’s fire escape behind him.

“Hi, there,” he said, enjoying the view as she straightened up. She was wearing what looked like a one-piece bathing suit covered with a sleeveless tee and a pair of clingy nylon running shorts. When he’d seen her before she’d been in her go-to-work clothes. He liked this outfit better.

“I’m Rue Waltham,” she said, coming across the flat tar-and-sand roof while rubbing rust off her hands.

“Av Smith,” he said, getting up to shake hands.

“Mister Kardashian said you were a runner and that you had an exercise area on the roof, but I couldn’t find a way up. So I—” She indicated the external fire stairs, then looked around. The roof had two metal sheds, one for utilities and another small storage hut where Av kept his workout gear. A third, outhouse-shaped protrusion contained the stairwell that came up from his loft apartment just below.

“Oops,” she said, when she saw the open stairwell door. “This isn’t part of the apartment deal, is it.”

“’Fraid not,” he said. “I’m your landlord, actually. I have a loft on the third floor, right below, and that’s how I get to the roof. I’d never thought about the fire stairs.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, obviously embarrassed.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well.”

She hesitated. “I was really looking for a running partner,” she said. “I’m new to the city and I’m not sure where the safe areas are.”

“The towpath is a great place for recreational running,” he said. “It’s a pain right along here — too narrow — but once it opens up, it’s great. You just have to watch out for kamikaze cyclists. Rock Creek Park’s another good venue but you’d need to drive there.” He eyed her slim frame. “What’s your level?”

“Five to eight miles, three times a week,” she said. “I’ve done two half Ironmans.”

“Have fun?”

“Damned near died,” she confessed with a grin. “But I did finish the second one.”

“Well, good for you,” he said. “Finishing is everything. I do two easy miles or so for a warm-up, turn it on for three, then turn it back off for an easy jog home. Mornings before work, May until the first snow. Walk-jog in the real winter.”

“And you’re a police officer?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’d love to give it a try if you’re willing. I’d just feel more secure until I get to know the area.”

“Trick is to find and then stay with a crowd if you do decide to go on your own,” he said. “D.C.’s a nice town, but we have our share of predators who especially like to hunt Rock Creek Park. And you’re pretty enough to attract attention.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said. “And there’s no one who’d, um, object to your having me for a running partner?”

“You mean a girlfriend?”

“Or a wife?”

He smiled. “Not a problem. I’ve made it a life rule not to get into permanent relationships with women. You guys are uniformly dangerous.”

She gave him a look that said he had to be kidding. She was maybe five-seven in her tennies, with blue-gray eyes, an athletic figure, and superfine, platinum-blond hair.

“No, actually, I’m serious,” he said. “My last squad had eight detectives — six male, two female. Every damned one of them except me was either divorced or about to be divorced. When it came to women, they were universally miserable. Wait, let me rephrase: the men were universally miserable. The two women detectives were too busy plotting revenge to be miserable, but they were working on it.”

“So this is some kind of a cop thing?” she asked.

“All I know is that as long as I keep women at a professional arm’s length, everything in my life seems to go smoother. I think the term of art is ‘confirmed bachelor.’”

“As opposed to, say, misogynist?” she said, skeptically.

“No,” he said. “I don’t hate women. I simply value my freedom more than the so-called benefits of conventional boy-girl relationships.”

“Wow,” she said. “I really am intruding, aren’t I.”

“You did ask,” he reminded her. “I’ll be warming up on the towpath at seven. In the meantime…” He glanced toward the fire escape.

“In the meantime, I know my way down,” she said. “See you in the morning. I think.”

“I’ll be there, either way,” he said, as pleasantly as possible.

He smiled to himself as he sat back down. The pretty ones were all alike, he thought: they assumed any man would want to be in their company just because they were beautiful. She’d been embarrassed about intruding, and really surprised when he hadn’t asked her to sit down, have a beer, talk. Dude: you turning me down?

Yup. Nothing personal, darling.

She wasn’t there the next morning as Av went out front and began his stretching exercises. It was a gorgeous morning, with bright sunshine spreading across the eastern horizon and temps in the sixties. Even the water pouring from the canal lock looked like actual water for once. The trees were beginning to turn and the air smelled of fresh-roasted coffee beans from the shop across Thirty-third Street. Several other runners trotted by as he warmed up in the parklike wide spot created by the lock. He closed his wrought-iron gate and fell into the flow along the narrow towpath. A cyclist came by, thoughtfully ringing a bell to warn runners ahead. He’d never understood why there were cyclists on this segment of the canal. They had to dismount and then hump their bikes up and over the streets crossing the canal just about every block until they got out of Georgetown.

He set what the Marines had called a route pace, a gentle jog they used to settle out their packs, belts, and other gear. It was designed to cover the ground but not exhaust the troops. He loved his morning runs, but did not miss humping all that gear. The only things he carried now were his badge, pinned to the waistband of his running shorts under the overlong football jersey, and a .38 special S & W Ladysmith wheel gun in a cross-groin fabric holster. He still could hear the lines of doggerel the gunnies would chant, turning words into a nasal invocation to the running gods. Le-o-w-f-t, le-o-w-f-t, le-o-w-f-t right l-e-o-f-t, beedle l-e-o-w-f-t …

He became aware of two runners who’d fallen in behind him as if using him as the pace car. He kicked it up to full cardio speed and they appeared to follow suit. He didn’t bother to turn around; some runners just did better with someone in front of them.

He turned around when he reached lock No. 5 and saw that his “pursuers” were two military-looking guys, with high and tight haircuts and typical runner’s physiques. They were wearing reflective sunglasses, floppy camo hats, dark green tees over black nylon running shorts. He nodded to them as he retraced his steps. They nodded back.

Two minutes later he became aware of them again as they rejoined him for the jog home. Ten, maybe fifteen feet back, keeping perfect time with him. He wondered about it for a moment, thought briefly about doubling back to see what they’d do, and then dismissed them. This town was full of military people; he’d read somewhere that there were twenty-five thousand in the Pentagon alone. Add to that the Secret Service guys, the Bureau guys, who were rumored to run in place at their desks if they couldn’t get outside, other cops, probably even some spooks from across the river. Having two guys who looked like that following behind you was hardly an uncommon sight. If he’d had that blonde as his running partner there’d probably be a small army behind them by now.

About a mile from his building, as he closed in on the passage under Key Bridge, he became aware that the two runners had closed it up. He could hear them breathing now, and their footfalls seemed to be no more than six or eight feet away. He assessed his speed, wondering if he’d slacked off, but he could run this pace all day if he had to. Just like people in a crowded room, every runner had his own sense of personal space, and they were just outside of his. He began to wonder if it was his cop sense that was getting worried. Cops were cops twenty-four/seven, and every cop he knew listened to the hairs on the back of his neck if he knew what was good for him. He slowed his pace fractionally, and the two guys behind him drew closer, now definitely inside his personal space, maybe four feet back.

They ran like that for another hundred yards or so, and then Av raised his right hand, palm out, and dropped into a walk. The two guys behind him kept coming, passing on either side, so close he could smell them. They didn’t touch him, but if he’d swayed a few inches in either direction, they’d have bumped shoulders.

That was truly odd behavior, he thought, wondering if they’d been deliberately following him or were just screwing around. They trotted off ahead of him while he walked, never breaking pace or looking back. When they were fifty yards ahead, he went back up into his own jog pace to see what they might do, like maybe slow down to a walk until he passed them. They didn’t, but then he became aware of a second pair of runners behind him, back about twenty feet, from the sound of them. Same deal: matching his pace, their footfalls distinct but not closing in.

His cop sense was definitely aroused now. Two guys ahead of him, two more behind him, and all of a sudden no other runners around in either direction. He was approaching Georgetown proper so he decided to fake a cramp where the canal bridged a stream that tumbled down to the river. As he came abreast of the bridge wall, he cursed and grabbed at his left hamstring, then stopped and hobbled over to the stone wall, where he sat down. This gave him a good look at the two runners behind him.

Two large black men this time, dressed a lot like the first two runners: floppy cloth hats, the same sunglasses, different-colored shirts and shorts. Av pretended not to look at them as they trotted by, but once they passed, he saw one thing different about these two: they were carrying, their weapons clearly outlined in kidney-bean-shaped black fabric pouches down low just above their hips. He wondered if they’d spotted his own groin pouch when he sat down, but his tee should have covered it pretty well. His weapon was half the size of what they were carrying. They didn’t look at him as they went by, their legs keeping perfect time with each other. Definitely military, he thought. Into that left-right-left shit.

He waited until they were out of sight and two more runners, both attractive young women, had come by, and then he got up and walked the rest of the way back to his building.

So what was all that about? he wondered.

Absolutely nothing. But when he came out later to go to work, he found a pair of cheap reflective sunglasses that looked a lot like his folded over the waist-high cast-iron picket fence that fronted his building. They’d been bent in half — for a better purchase on the iron picket?

He looked at them for a moment. A message? Or someone found glasses and hung them on the fence for whoever might come back for them? No — they’d been mangled. Once again he felt his Spidey sense tingling.

Hiram settled back in his chair and watched the screens come to life with his partners in science, if not, occasionally, crime. Giancomo had called for the teleconference. He announced in his mangled English that he’d made a breakthrough regarding signal transmission paths in a monkshood plant. Then, mercifully, he turned it over to one of his assistants, a very pretty young Italian lady whose English was very good indeed. She gave them a highly technical PowerPoint presentation on what they’d come up with, and Hiram was impressed. So was Archie Tennyson, who commented that if this was true, it might now be possible to manipulate these chemical signals to affect the flow and strength of the plant’s infamous toxin, aconite, or aconitine as it was sometimes called. Hiram observed that the monkshood alkaloid toxin hardly needed amplification. As they all knew, just touching the plant put an animal or a human in jeopardy of death.

“Yes, of course,” Archie said. “But remember, there are circumstances where one would want to concentrate it — because a concentrate takes up much less volume.”

And, Hiram thought, that makes it a much better agent for use as, say, a directed poison. He immediately thought of Kyle Strang and his fanatical boss, Carl Mandeville. Giancomo had also recognized the potential for deadly mischief, and commented that this discovery would be better kept “in the book,” as they called it.

“But that’s a major breakthrough, Giancomo,” Archie said.

“We know, we know,” Giancomo said. “So maybe now we reproduce the experiment, okay? In something not so bad as monkshood. See if some of the other plants can do the same thing, yes?”

They kicked that idea around, but Hiram thought it was wishful thinking. It was the deadly plants — monkshood, belladonna, death cap mushrooms, castor bean pulp — that had the most sophisticated behaviors when threatened by predation, as viewed from the plant’s perspective. At the same time, the discovery excited him, because it reinforced the notion that, at some level within the plant’s physiology, it was reacting to external stimuli, just as if — it had a brain.

They took a vote, and all agreed to bury Giancomo’s findings in their book of experimental data for now. Interesting stuff, but not for publication until one of them could find a way to render the process harmless, or, at least, controllable. And, he hoped to God that no one else had discovered the same thing. Not for the first time, he’d been having second and even third thoughts about what he’d given to the National Security Council.

Thomas, who’d been watching the conference, remarked that the society’s fixation with the world’s most dangerous plants might backfire one day.

Hiram acknowledged the point. “I know,” he said. “We could be viewed as master poisoners in some circles, I suppose, but then, some of our medical contributions would balance that out. Look at what we did with atropine, for instance.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. “Didn’t mean to criticize, of course. Shall we proceed with the vine-pool experiment this morning?”

“I still think it should be called the snake pool,” Hiram said.

Thomas gave him a there-you-go-again look, but Hiram just grinned back at him.