Edge

Chapter 31

I DROVE TO DuPont Circle, once the home of cottage industries, a pungent waterway and a famous slaughterhouse. Now the hood was among the more trendy parts of the nation’s capital.

GPS-whose voice I had decided sounded unnervingly like Chris Teasley’s, Westerfield’s assistant-took me to a storefront off Connecticut Avenue. It was a used-CD store, manned by a few slow-moving clerks. The customers were mostly in their twenties, along with a few smudged, bearded music lovers about my age. I walked up to one young man behind the register, flashed my ID along with a security picture of the Asian man who’d collected the gold coins in New Jersey, a perp in the Graham forgery case.

He claimed he knew nothing. I asked four or five other people. Nobody seemed to know anything about funny checks or the Asian.

Finally, with a last glance around the store, I pushed out the door, which had a quaint old-time bell on an armature. I looked around and headed into a coffee shop nearby. DuPont Circle survives on chic and Café Cafe had that aplenty. The accent mark was a clue, as was the $25/LB. sign in one bin of dark beans. I ordered a black filtered Colombian, the cheapest thing on a menu full of exotic concoctions, none of which were to my mind coffee, tasty though they might be.

I recalled an image from years ago, another one I didn’t particularly want. Peggy ordering her favorite, a mochaccino. I was never sure what that was exactly. But I remembered her heart-shaped face turning toward the drink with effervescent anticipation. She’d once commented that she loved grocery shopping because she felt comfort in watching people buy their special treats.

“It’s a tough life,” she’d said. “It’s the little things that get us through the day.”

How true, I’d thought at the time. How true I knew now.

I sipped the coffee, set down the steaming cup and began to compose a text message about my progress on the Graham case, when I heard a squeak-the front door. I was gazing down at the screen of my phone when I felt a shadow over me. I looked up and behind into the face of a man in his early twenties. He was white, good-looking, slim, wearing jeans and a seriously wrinkled striped shirt.

“Yes?”

“I work in the CD store you were just in?”

When I didn’t say anything he repeated, “I work there.”

“What’s your name?”

“Stu.” He eyed me carefully. “You were asking some things? In the store?”

His statements were inflected as questions.

I stared at him. He looked down fast.

“What do you want?” I finally asked.

“You were asking about Jimmy Sun? I know him.”

“You know where he is now? I need to find him.”

“You’re like an FBI agent?”

“Where’s Jimmy? Do you know?”

A hesitation. “I don’t, no.”

“Sit down.” I gestured at the table.

He sat and clasped his hands together in front of him. People I deal with occasionally sit in exactly this position, except that they do so because their wrists are in cuffs.

“How do you know Jimmy?” I asked sternly.

“He comes into the store sometimes. He likes music. Why were you looking for him there? At the store?”

“Traced him through credit card receipts. He shops there.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“He’s in a lot of trouble. It’d be a big help if we could find him.”

“I thought… I mean, I heard there was some problem. Something about a check.”

“A forgery case.”

Stu said, “But, the thing is, the case was dropped. I heard it was dropped. So he’s not in any trouble anymore.” He lifted his hands and offered a shallow smile.

I didn’t smile. “It was dropped by the police department in D.C.”

“Um…”

I went on to explain, “But you see, there are different jurisdictions for a single crime. Jurisdiction can be geographic. Like if you commit mail fraud, you can be guilty of a crime in all the states you scammed people in, all fifty of them, maybe. Separate crimes in each one. Or jurisdiction can be the power of a governmental body. Murdering a federal agent, for instance, is both a federal crime and a state crime.”

“Oh.”

“This Jimmy Sun, he stole the victim’s checkbook in the District. The D.C. police can decide to drop that case. But he used the Internet to launder money.”

“Launder money?”

“He bought gold coins and presumably he sold them to get cash. That’s money laundering.”

“It is?”

“Yes. That’s my jurisdiction. It’s a federal offense and a serious one. Now, Stu, if you have any information about this Jimmy Sun, I advise you to tell me. Lying to a federal officer’s a crime too. And harboring a suspect could result in an obstruction charge. Those are very serious.”

“But if no one was hurt and the victim didn’t want to pursue it… I mean, what’s the problem?”

“The victim’s feelings are irrelevant.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, Stu, let’s say I murder you.” He blinked. “You’re dead. You don’t have any feelings one way or the other. Right?”

“I guess not. I mean, no.”

“But that’s still a crime. Or say I’m a thug, okay? I steal your car but you’re afraid of me and don’t want to report it. But there are lots of witnesses who saw me. The police can still arrest me. You don’t testify but other people can. I go to jail.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I’ve got an arrest warrant for Sun.” I tapped my jacket pocket.

“You do?”

“There were videos in the Post Boxes Plus store where he picked up the coins he’d bought. With the money from the forged check.”

“But-”

“How exactly do you know Jimmy? Be honest, Stu.”

The young man’s head was down again. “He’s my partner. My lover.”

“I see. He lives with you?”

“No. His parents are real traditional. They suspect but they don’t know.”

“You’d be doing him a favor to have him turn himself in. Homeland Security’s already started a file.”

“Homeland Security?”

“The terrorist issue.”

“Terrorist?” Stu appeared horrified.

“It’s looking like Sun stole the checkbook as part of an operation by the North Korean government to blackmail the victim-Eric Graham. He works for the Pentagon.”

“Oh, Jesus. No, no…”

“Is there anything that you’ve seen about Jimmy that would support that?”

“Of course not. He’s a great guy. He’s sweet. His family’s from South Korea!”

I smiled. “Well, terrorists can be very charming. There are a lot of operatives from the north in and around Seoul.”

“He’s not a terrorist,” Stu whispered.

“Well, that’s for the prosecutor and the courts to decide. It’s just my job to bring him in. Without hurting him, I hope. But…”

“Oh, Jesus.”

I leaned forward. “The profile of people like him is that he’s probably very dangerous. We have an assault team active in the area. They were ready to move into the store, if he’d been there. They’re pursuing other leads now.” I glanced at my watch, frowning. “I heard from one team twenty minutes ago. They think they might know where he is. The FBI’s authorized a lethal takedown if he doesn’t surrender immediately.”

The young man gasped.

I regarded the sallow face before me. “If you care about him, you should help us out. If it comes down to a fight, he could lose his life. Our tactical teams are trained to expect suicide bombings and other life-threatening behaviors.”

Stu began to cry, big drops of tears. His voice cracked. “It was all my idea, not Jimmy’s. He was just helping me out… Jesus, call them-those FBI people you were telling me about. Tell them he’s not dangerous.”

I frowned. “You need to explain yourself.”

“I stole the checkbook, I opened the online pay account. It was me, not Jimmy. All he did was pick up the coins at the mailbox store.”

“I’m not following, I’m afraid.”

Stu wiped his face. “The man whose checkbook was stolen?”

“Eric Graham.”

“He’s… he’s my father.”

“So, you’re Stu Graham.”

He nodded. “Oh, I can’t believe how stupid I was. I… Oh, man, have I fucked this up. Please, call them!”

“Not until you explain everything.”

“It’s so stupid!”

“Tell me, Stu. The sooner we know the truth, the better it’ll be for Jimmy.”

He dabbed at his eyes. “Father’s kind of… he’s pretty tough. He always wanted me to go to his school, Princeton. He was a BMOC. Big Man on Campus, you know? He wanted me to be one too. But I hated it. I fit in here.” His hand lifted outward, meaning presumably DuPont Circle. “This is where I belong. I love Jimmy, our friends. I’m not the rah-rah Ivy League sort. But Father wouldn’t listen.”

“What’s this have to do with the forgery?”

“Because I’m a fucking coward.” He grabbed another napkin and wiped his nose. “I couldn’t tell Father I didn’t want to go back to college this fall. I’m afraid of him, Mom’s afraid of him. Everybody’s afraid of him. He was always saying things like, ‘You’re not going to be my third daughter, are you?’ I had to try out for the football team. I weigh a hundred and fifty-two pounds. Me on the football team? But he kept on me all the time. ‘Be a man. Do me proud. Follow in my footsteps.’ I couldn’t say no.”

“So you forged the check so he couldn’t pay tuition?”

“How pathetic is that?”

“You had Jimmy pick up the gold coins you bought.”

Stu nodded. “He didn’t do anything bad. Swear to God. He just helped me out. He’s got family in New Jersey. He’s there a lot. So we figured we’d have the coins shipped there, not to D.C.”

“And your father found out and withdrew the complaint.”

He nodded. “Oh, man, yeah, he found out.”

I imagined that had been one pyrotechnic confrontation.

“What’d you do with the money?”

“It wasn’t about the money.”

“I understand but I want to know what you did with it.”

“We kept a little, the rest we gave to an AIDS research fund and to Amnesty International. I hate it that my father makes weapons for a living. That’s what he does for the Pentagon. He’s so proud of it. So smug. I wanted his money to do something good.”

I said, “Give me the name of somebody at Amnesty who can confirm it.”

Stu looked through his BlackBerry and recited a name and number.

“Got that?” I asked.

He blinked again, frowning.

I said, “I’m not talking to you.”

In my earpiece Claire duBois said, “I’m calling now.”

I said to Stu, “We wait a minute.”

The man slumped, blew his nose again. He looked around the coffee shop and gave a faint laugh. “We come here all the time? Jimmy and me?”

I said nothing.

“You know what he was telling me just the other day?”

“What?”

“Korea, right, you’d think it was tea, tea, tea. Like China and Japan. But the last emperor of Korea, his name was Sunjong, the nineteen twenties, he loved the West and always had coffee at the palace. He and his father would sit around drinking coffee and talking about world affairs. Word got around and the citizens began to drink coffee. They liked to do what their emperor does. There’re more coffee drinkers in Korea than any other Asian country. They even have coffee shop hookers. Dabang girls, they’re called.”

He fell silent. I’d rarely seen anyone looking more miserable.

Tears running again. “Please,” he begged. “Call the FBI. Tell them Jimmy’s not dangerous!”

Then I heard duBois’s voice: “Corte. It checks out. They gave Amnesty International thirty-one thousand.”

“Okay.” Then I said to her, “Tell the troops to stand down.”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“I’ll call you in a minute.” I cut off the com device.

Under other circumstances I might have let Stu spin in the wind a little but I couldn’t forget Graham’s arrogance and his insulting duBois. I said, “I don’t think we need to pursue this any further. I’ll hold off the investigation for now, provided there’s no recurrence.”

“No, sir. No! I promise.”

I rose and started for the door. I turned back. “Next year, your dad could get more money. Or he could get a loan for your tuition. I’m just curious. What’re you going to do then?”

The young man turned his red eyes toward me. His jaw was set. “I’m going to tell him to go to hell.”

I believed him. I couldn’t help but respond, “Good.”

I left the coffee shop.

Well, I had the answer about one of Ryan Kessler’s cases. I called duBois.

“You were right,” she said.

The theory had presented itself in Eric Graham’s den, when I’d looked over the decor and photographs and had studied his reaction when duBois had laid out our theory as to why Loving had been hired. I’d decided he was telling the partial truth-nobody was blackmailing him. DuBois’s computer analysis of his expressions and body language bore this out. On the wall were pictures of the young man I’d deduced was his son, along with a man about the same age of Asian extraction, who closely resembled the suspect on the security video, involved in the forgery scam. Backed up by the ORC computer analysis, she’d run credit cards, DMV information, face recognition analysis, blog and social networking site postings, school records, insurance claims, phone records, dozens of other databases.

The slim Caucasian was in fact Stuart Graham. The Asian was James Sun. No record, active in gay rights, a grad student at George Washington, a resident of DuPont Circle.

I’d learned that Stu had a part-time job at the Music Gallery, also in DuPont Circle.

When I saw that the arrogant Eric Graham had turned his den into a shrine to Princeton University, I figured there could be a major gulf between father and son, and that the young man might be behind the theft. But I needed to confirm my theory, which my visit here had.

“So, can I ask?” DuBois’s voice had an inquisitive lilt to it. “You were threatening with your warrant but I was bluffing with mine.”

Good, I thought. My protégée was feeling her oats.

I explained. “My fake warrant was supposedly in Jimmy’s name. He wasn’t at the coffee shop to call my bluff. Yours would have been in Graham’s. If he’d asked for it, what would you have done?”

“Oh… Paper covers rock.”

Though I keep much of my private life secret, even from her, duBois has heard about my fondness for games. “That was clever,” I told her and I meant it.

“So we’re back to the Pamuk case being the likely reason Ryan was targeted.”

“That’s right.”

“I was-wait.” Her voice had taken on urgency. “I’ve just got an email… a lead to somebody who could treat Loving.”

“Go on.”

“I’m reading… It’s his cousin.”

After Loving killed Abe Fallow, we’d fleshed out his bio and tried to track down family. He’d been born in Virginia, we knew, but had no relatives within a few hundred miles of the capital. His parents were dead. Of siblings he had one sister and he’d kept up some contact with her but she’d died in an accident a few years ago.

I knew of the cousin. “He was the one who went to medical school in New York, right?”

“Right. But he got his ticket here and moved to Falls Church about two years ago. He’s a doctor at Arlington Hospital.” DuBois continued, “I’m looking at phone records now… About a half hour after Loving was wounded at Bill Carter’s place, the cousin got a call on his landline from a blocked number. It lasted three minutes.”

“What’s the story on him?”

“Single, thirty-two. No record, other than a few traffic stops. Name’s Frank Loving. ER background and now he does internal medicine. He had good grades in medical school-he went to SUNY.”

She gave me the address.

I thanked her and fired up the Honda and punched the address into GPS, then pulled into traffic. I called Freddy and told him that I’d eliminated Graham’s forgery as a lead to the primary. But more important I had a lead to where Loving might’ve gotten medical treatment.

“He still there, you think?”

“He’d get in and out as fast as he could. But let’s assume he is. Move in slow and quiet, with a couple of small tactical teams.”

“I’ll put it together.”

“And Freddy…”

The agent filled in, “Don’t tell Westerfield.”

I said, “Exactly.”

“No problemo. Man can be a dick, I’ll give you that. On the other hand, that assistant of his is hot.”

“If you like pearls,” I said.

“That was good, son.” Freddy gave one of his chuckles. “This job’s bringing out a whole ’nother side of you.”