A Brewing Storm

CHAPTER THREE

Through the bullet-resistant windows of the black limousine, Storm saw the U.S. Capitol dome rising before them as they rode east on Constitution Avenue. It was an impressive sight, especially brightly floodlit at night.

The car passed the Russell Senate Office Building (SOB), which was the first of three ornate office buildings used by the nation’s one hundred elected U.S. senators. In a city obsessed with acronyms, Storm had always thought the shorthand SOB seemed a fitting description for where senators did their business.

The Dirksen SOB was next. Opened in 1958, it had been known for nearly two decades simply as SOB Number Two, until Congress decided to name it after the late Illinois Republican Senator Everett M. Dirksen, an orator so famous that he’d been awarded a Grammy for an album of his patriotic speeches called Gallant Men.

Senators loved naming buildings after their own.

When the limo stopped at the Dirksen SOB’s western entrance, the SPS security officer in the front seat jumped out and darted inside to alert the Capitol Hill Police officers on duty that two VIPs were arriving. Jones and Storm would not be delayed by security checks. There would be no walk-through metal detectors, no searching of briefcases and emptying of pockets. Instead, both men were quickly escorted to Senator Windslow’s office, where a secretary immediately led them into the senator’s inner chamber.

As with most other things on Capitol Hill, senate offices were doled out based on seniority and power. The bigger the office, the more important the senator. Windslow had been assigned the largest office in the Dirksen. His private domain had fifteen-foot-tall ceilings, ornate carved wooden bookcases, and thick carpet. Expensive brown leather sofas and overstuffed chairs faced an executive desk made of polished mahogany that had clearly not come from some General Services Administration warehouse. One wall was covered with framed photographs that showed the senator posing with foreign presidents and dignitaries. It was proof that Windslow relished his power and clearly enjoyed taxpayer-funded junkets to exotic locales. Another wall was decorated with the Texas state seal and a pair of mounted longhorns from a Texas steer.

The senator rose from behind his desk but made no effort to walk forward and greet them. He let them come to him with outstretched hands.

“About time you got here, Jedidiah,” Windslow snapped, as he shook the CIA spymaster’s hand. “You’ve kept me waiting ten minutes.”

Windslow looked at Storm, and the two men immediately sized each other up, like two schoolboys squaring off during recess.

Tall and thin, Windslow was in his early seventies and instantly recognizable. He was a familiar face on Sunday morning television talk shows and evening newscasts. But it was his haircut and voice that made him memorable. He had pure white hair that he wore in an outdated, carefully coifed pompadour swept back from his forehead and held firmly in place with a glossy shellac spray. He spoke with a slow, deliberate Southern drawl that was sprinkled with homespun sayings that he frequently used to remind voters that he was one of them, a yellow-dog Democrat. In Texas, which he had represented for more than thirty years, he was considered undefeatable.

“So this is your man,” Windslow said.

“Senator Windslow,” Jones said, “this is Steve Mason. He doesn’t work for me, but he occasionally does piecework for me. He’s a private detective.”

“You’re the fixer?” Windslow asked bluntly. “You’re the man who gets things done no matter what — am I right?”

Storm didn’t like the fact that there were three others in the office. He’d identified FBI Special Agent April Showers as soon as he walked in. A telltale bulge under the jacket she was wearing had given her away. He’d recognized the senator’s wife from news articles. But he had no idea who the twenty-something-year-old girl was sitting nearby.

“I’m here to lend a hand,” Storm said, dodging the senator’s questions.

“I’ve already got enough hands,” Windslow replied. “I’ve got the entire FBI lending a hand, and so far, it hasn’t done any good. What I need is someone with a fist.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then the senator’s wife said in a quiet voice, “My husband seems to have forgotten his manners. My name is Gloria Windslow.” She rose gracefully from her seat, showing the emotional control of a well-trained politician’s wife. Even in times of great emotional stress, she knew that she needed to be composed.

Her grip was soft. Her fingernails manicured. She was at least thirty years younger than her husband and was dressed in a pricey New York designer outfit that had been tailored to accent her figure.

Storm had read about her in the media. As soon as she’d finished high school, Gloria Windslow had fled the poor, rural Texas town where she’d been born. Her ticket had been her breathtaking good looks and unbridled ambition, which had led to her winning a spot on the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading roster. She’d gotten pregnant, married a star NFL quarterback, and then divorced him two years later, after claiming that he’d abused her. She and her newborn had made the covers of both People and Us magazines, where she’d been portrayed as a determined single mom who’d refused to be bullied by her famous husband. Gloria and the senator had met two years later at a Dallas political fund-raiser where supporters had paid three thousand dollars a plate to hear him speak. She’d arrived on the arm of one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, a prominent lawyer, but had traded up, leaving with Windslow. A month later, he hired her to work in Washington as his personal secretary. A year later, Windslow filed for divorce from his wife of thirty years, causing a dustup back home. The new couple’s age difference raised eyebrows, but Windslow hired a Manhattan public relations firm to salvage his well-crafted reputation as a good Christian family man, and by the time the Madison Avenue spin masters were finished, Gloria was no longer a home wrecker. She was now a confident and trusted advisor to her husband, with a passion about education, libraries, and women’s issues. At Christmas, she invited special needs children to a party at their estate, and gave them pony rides in a heated barn.

She was still stunning in her mid-forties, thanks to a strict starvation diet, cosmetic surgery, and regular Botox injections.

After introducing herself, Gloria directed Storm to the other women in the office.

“This is Miss Samantha Toppers,” she said, directing his attention to the youngest. “She and my son, Matthew Dull, are engaged to be married.”

As Toppers rose from her seat on a sofa to meet him, Storm realized that he was looking at an architectural marvel. She weighed less than a hundred pounds and was under five feet tall, but she was so top-heavy that Storm wondered how she kept herself from tumbling facedown when she reached out to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Toppers said in her childlike voice.

When he finally got around to looking at her face, he saw that her eyes were swollen and red from crying.

“And this is Special Agent April Showers,” Gloria continued.

In her green eyes, Storm saw a look of irritation. She couldn’t have been any more opposite in appearance to Toppers. The FBI agent was six feet tall and had a world-class marathoner’s body, which meant she averaged two pounds per inch. In her mid-thirties, she had porcelain white skin and wore her red hair tied in a bun.

“Now that you’ve met everyone,” Senator Windslow said, “let’s get to it. My stepson, Matthew, has been kidnapped. They grabbed him while he and Samantha were walking across the Georgetown campus.”

“Fortunately,” Gloria interrupted, “they didn’t bother Samantha, but they did kidnap my son.”

For the first time since Storm had entered the office, he saw a crack in Gloria Windslow’s veneer. Tears began to form in her eyes. She removed a tissue from her purse and dabbed them.

“The kidnappers,” Windslow continued, “left Miss Toppers hysterical on the sidewalk.”

Storm looked for some sign of sympathy in Windslow’s face, but there was none. Had he expected the top-heavy Toppers to fight the assailants?

Toppers lowered her eyes, avoiding contact with Windslow’s glare.

“I think it would be best,” Gloria said, between sniffles, “if Special Agent Showers gave you the details. It is difficult for me to discuss the facts without becoming emotional.”

Taking her hint, Agent Showers said, “The kidnapping happened three days ago. A white van pulled up at an intersection on the edge of the Georgetown campus where Mr. Dull and Miss Toppers were waiting for a red light to change. It was shortly after fourteen hundred hours. Three men, all wearing ski masks, leaped out of the vehicle. One stayed behind the wheel. The first assailant fired an automatic weapon in the air to scare onlookers. The other two overpowered Matthew and forced him into the van. We found the van abandoned six blocks away.”

“No fingerprints or trace evidence, I assume?” Storm said.

“That’s right. Wiped clean.”

“How about the shell casings left behind?”

“It’s all in my report,” she replied curtly.

“Which she’ll be happy to give you after we are done,” Windslow declared. “I spoke to FBI Director Jackson this morning, and he has instructed Agent Showers to cooperate fully with you. No questions asked. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes,” Showers said. “I’ve been ordered to help you.”

“Agent Showers doesn’t think bringing you into the investigation is a good idea,” Gloria Windslow said. “My husband and I feel differently.”

“That’s because the FBI hasn’t done a damn thing so far,” Windslow declared.

Storm saw Showers’s jaw muscles tighten. He suspected she was biting down hard to keep her response from slipping out.

“I got a ransom note,” Windslow said, “the day after those bastards snatched him. They demanded a million dollars, which I immediately agreed to pay.” Windslow shot FBI Agent Showers a disgusted look. “Agent Showers here assured me that if I played along with these sons-of-bitches, the Bureau would be able to catch them when they picked up my money.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Gloria Windslow said, cutting in on his account. The two of them made quite a tag team. For not wanting to discuss the case, both seemed eager to do it.

“The Bureau here screwed up,” Windslow said.

“With all due respect, Senator,” Showers replied. “We followed standard procedures. The ransom was left exactly where the kidnappers had told us to put it. The entire place was under surveillance.”

“That money just sat there,” Windslow said, “and no one showed to get my million dollars. They knew it was a trap. Someone tipped off the kidnappers. I just know it.”

“We don’t know that,” Showers said.

“Well, young lady, something spooked them — like a mule deer sniffing the air when you’re hunting,” Windslow said. “The next morning, I got another ransom note; only now these bastards have decided to play hardball.”

Gloria began to quietly sob. Toppers left the couch and knelt down next to the chair where her future mother-in-law sat. Rising from behind his desk, Windslow walked over, too, and put his right hand on Gloria’s shoulder. “This is a terrible thing for my wife to be going through.” He stroked her hair.

Continuing, Windslow said, “Those bastards pulled out four of Matthew’s front teeth and sent them to me in that ransom note, along with a photograph. That’s when I decided to talk to Jedidiah. That’s when I decided we needed your help.”

Storm looked at Agent Showers. She had placed her right leg over her left one and then wrapped them so tightly together that she now had her right toe tucked behind her left ankle. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Even someone completely unfamiliar with body language would have recognized how frustrated she was.

“I’d like to see the two ransom notes,” Storm said.

“Agent Showers will get them for you,” Windslow said. “Now, I’d like all the women folk here to skedaddle for a few moments so I can talk to Jedidiah and his man in private.”

“C’mon, ladies,” Gloria said, rising slowly from her seat. Toppers instantly fell in line, but Showers didn’t move.

“Senator,” she said sternly, “as head of this investigation, I need to be involved in every discussion that you might have that involves the kidnapping.”

“I have things to say in private, Miss Showers,” Windslow snapped. “I was assured earlier today by Director Jackson that I would have your total and full cooperation. Do I need to have him replace you?”

“For the record,” Showers said, “I think you are making a mistake bringing this outsider into the case.”

“For the record,” Windslow replied, mimicking her, “I asked you to leave my office.”

Showers walked out the door.

“Jedidiah tells me,” Windslow said to Storm when she was gone, “that you’re a man who knows how to find people who don’t want to be found and that you can handle yourself in extremely difficult situations.”

Jones said, “He’s my go-to guy. If it were my stepson, I’d call him.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Windslow said. “I need someone who can track down these bastards and do whatever is necessary to free my stepson. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Storm said, “You want results and you don’t care how I get them.”

Windslow smiled. “Finally, I’m getting the sort of answers I wanted. Yes, this is exactly what I want from you, Mr. Mason, or whatever the hell your name might be. I asked Jedidiah to get me someone who isn’t worried about legal niceties. I asked him to get me the best.”

Storm didn’t respond.

“First, I want you to track down these bastards, and then, I want you to kill every one of them. I’m not worried about you reading them their legal rights and arresting them and getting them some fast-talking lawyer whose going to bottle this up in some long, drawn-out trial. I want them dead. I want you to get it done before they send more of my stepson’s body parts to my wife.”