Fatal Harbor

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nearly twelve hours later, the next morning, I got off a Greyhound bus at the company’s terminal in Washington, a few blocks north of Union Station. I was stiff and felt grimy and greasy after spending so many hours sitting down or dozing. The bus had lumbered its way down the Northeast corridor, and it was full of people either like myself — wanting no official record of their travel — or those who couldn’t afford anything quicker, like a train or airplane. There were a crying baby or two, an old man who snored loudly, and a couple of soldiers going home on leave, still wearing their camos. They kept to themselves and stared a lot out of the windows as they passed through the country they had sworn to defend.

I strode out to the street, which had a lot of traffic and taxicabs backed up. Eventually I got in the back seat of a Diamond taxi with an older African-American male driving. He had on a cloth jacket and cap, with a beefy arm and hand draped over the steering wheel. I got in, and he murmured, “Where to?”

I handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “If you don’t mind, just drive around, show me the sights. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.”

He grunted, put the cab into drive. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Over the next half hour, I sat in the rear of the clean cab as we drove around the city, passing Capitol Hill, the Supreme Court building, the National Archives, and the Smithsonian along the Mall. The Air & Space Museum, the Museum of Natural History… so many beautiful buildings with beautiful and historical objects within. The monument park to World War II veterans, then a swoop and drive past the Jefferson Memorial. The Washington Monument, the reflecting pool, and Old Abe, staring out at the Union he had sacrificed himself to save.

And a drive at a distance from the White House, once upon a time called the People’s House. Lots of memories and thoughts and melancholy swirled through my mind in that taxicab.

At a stoplight, my quiet tour guide swiveled around and said, “You satisfied?”

“Pretty much.”

“We could go across the river, check out the Pentagon and Arlington National Cemetery if you’d like.”

“No, I would very much not like,” I said. I passed over another fifty-dollar bill. “How about a motel or hotel that’s near D.C., safe and clean and reasonably priced? Can we go there?”

He deftly pocketed the bill. “We can do that.”

A few minutes later, he pulled into a small lot adjacent to a two-story motel called Lincoln Arms, just on the edge of D.C. “This will suit you just fine, mister.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you any more?”

He laughed, a pleasing sound. “Shit, man. No, we’re doin’ fine.”

“Feel like earning a bit more?”

“Why the hell not?”

I opened up the door. “Come back in an hour, all right?”

“You payin’, I’m comin’.”

“Thanks.”

An hour later, I was back outside, freshly washed, shaved, and dressed, wearing a nice fall uniform of slacks, shirt, tie, and blue blazer. My Bianchi leather holster kept my 9mm Beretta in place. Right on the dot, the Diamond cab pulled up and the driver looked me up and down and said, “Man, you clean up nice.”

“Thanks, that was my plan.”

Back into the cab, and he said, “More monuments, museums?”

“How about a cesspool?”

That made him pause. “Plenty of places to choose from.”

I gave him an address on K Street. A chuckle from him. “That’s a good choice.”

In the K Street area of D.C., my guide drove around and found an empty spot to park for a moment. The buildings here were large, some fairly new and built with clean stone and glass. He kept the cab idling, looked around him. He suddenly spoke. “My boy came back from Afghanistan last year. Body didn’t have a scratch but something’s going on inside of him, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“He’s not crazy, mind you. He’s just changed… real, real quiet. Used to go out clubbing, hanging with his boys… now all he wants to do is sit in his bedroom and read. That’s all he does, read old, old books, about spaceships and trips to the moon, and he eats three meals a day and sleeps twelve hours a night. He’s back, but not really back.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. He sighed and I slipped over two twenties. He waved the two bills up at the gleaming buildings. “Think anybody who works there has a boy like mine?”

“Not for a moment.”

“Don’t think that’ll change anytime soon, right?”

“Afraid not.”

Another sigh. “We can dream, I guess.”

I liked my cabbie but I also liked keeping things quiet, so I walked two blocks until I got to the address I was looking for, that of Munce, Price & O’Toole, Professional Associates. Before I made the long bus ride down to D.C., I had spent a few minutes at the Tyler Public Library, using one of their computers to do research on Munce, Price & O’Toole. And my research came up pretty thin. They had been in business for nearly two decades, were considered one of the most influential lobbying firms in the capital, and had a range of interests from agriculture to energy to pharmaceuticals to arms dealers and about everything else in between.

What I couldn’t find out was who they specifically represented. Their client lists were very confidential and, unlike other lobbying firms whose reach exceeded their grasp, they rarely made the pages of the Washington Post and The New York Times, and in those appearances there was never any mention of scandals, arrests, or payoffs.

Meaning they were either very lucky or very good, or a combination thereof.

On this part of K Street, the buildings were a mix of old eight-story brick buildings, next to eight- or ten-story newer office buildings. There were four lanes of road in the middle, two local lanes on either side, with median strips and lots of trees. The sidewalks were quite busy with well-dressed men and women, striding along, doing their business, most of them with cell phones pushed up against their ears. So much power, so much money, so much wrong. For decades, both parties had declared this particular street the source of all evil in government, but neither had done very much about it. It was like two sets of mechanics, facing a car that wouldn’t start, with one set insisting that a new windshield would make it all right, with the other set equally insisting that four new tires would do the trick.

I missed the address of Munce, Price & O’Toole and had to circle back to find it. It was a simple glass door with gold lettering. I tugged open the door and walked into a lobby.

A small lobby.

A very small lobby.

It had a light-blue luxurious carpet, indirect lighting, and a curved counter where a receptionist sat. She was in her late twenties, early thirties, and excuse my old-fashioned observation but she was drop-dead gorgeous. A mane of blond hair that was expertly done, soft red lipsticked lips, and a clinging black dress that showed off a very taut and curvy body. She had a wide smile as I approached, and she was wearing a Bluetooth headset in her left ear.

Before her was a telephone that struck me as very odd. There was no keypad, no buttons, nothing. Just a handset. To her right was a plain wooden door that had the firm’s name in gold letters, along with a doorknob with a keypad lock.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” she asked in a soft Southern voice.

I looked around, took the place in. Another very odd thing: no coffee table with magazines, no comfortable chairs or couches for clients or salesmen to cool their heels.

Munce, Price & O’Toole looked like a very tightly wrapped place.

I showed her my press pass, issued by the N.H. Department of Safety, which had my name, photo, and the name of my former employer, Shoreline magazine. I held it for just a second or two, long enough for her to recognize it as a press pass, and hopefully not long enough for her to memorize my name.

“I’m working on a story about different lobbying firms in Washington and what their clients feel about deep-sea fishing rights.”

Her smile didn’t change a bit, but her voice seemed shaky. “Deep-sea what?”

“Deep-sea fishing rights. Haven’t you heard about the fishing quota controversies in the Northeast?”

“I can’t say I really have, sir.”

“That’s my point. More people need to know about these issues, and I’m looking for information about possible lobbying actions that your firm has conducted. Is there a spokesman I can talk to?”

The receptionist quickly regained her composure. “I’m afraid there isn’t.”

“Really? Nobody to interact with the news media?”

“Our firm rarely interacts with the news media. We find that our clients prefer it that way.”

“How about community outreach?”

“We don’t do community outreach.”

“Oh. Well, can you tell me which clients may have an interest in deep-sea fishing rights?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

“But what kind of clients do you have?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

“Really, I mean, can’t you tell me—”

A quick buzz on her phone. She toggled something and nodded, speaking into her Bluetooth. “I see. I see.”

Then she looked up at me, widened her smile some. “You know, Mister… ”

“Smith.”

“Smith,” she said. “Someone’s coming right now who might be able to help you.”

“I’m sure.”

I turned and got the hell out.

I was about ten feet down the sidewalk when I realized my earlier mistake. The place looked quiet, small, and non-threatening. All of which were quickly proving to be false. I was certain that when I’d walked into that lobby, I was being observed and recorded, both by sound and vision. Plus I wouldn’t doubt that there were hidden metal detectors or X-ray devices around the doorframe through which I’d gone.

Which meant to someone sitting in a room, deep in the building, that an armed man was in the lobby, asking lots of probing questions. Hence the call to the receptionist, to encourage her to keep me in place.

I got to the corner, glanced back. Two men had emerged from the doorway of Munce, Price & O’Toole, one breaking left, the other breaking right. They strode quickly and purposefully.

So did I. I went down and crossed the street, dodging through traffic, all of the drivers no doubt conducting the people’s business, and I got a barrage of honking horns for my trouble. Another glance back.

There. An alleyway behind the building hosting Munce, Price & O’Toole. Two more men emerged. Their heads swiveled as they scanned the streets, and then they were looking at something in their hands.

Another good guess. Print-outs of my face, from hidden cameras in the lobby.

I kept on moving, trying to keep the fast-moving pedestrians between me and the sharp eyes of the wolves trying to pick up my scent. I had no illusions. If those men or others were to catch up with me, all it would take would be a long-distance Taser shot, or some sort of device to shoot a projectile with a nerve agent, or something else equally impressive to drop me. A few seconds after that, I would be bundled into an unmarked van or an ambulance, and then I would be gone. I’d probably end up in a basement or a lonely farm somewhere, about to receive an interrogation from folks thinking waterboarding was just a passing fad. I could try to get a shot off first at my pursuers, but who would I shoot? The guys following me, or people about me who might be working for the same employer?

My pace picked up. I went past a Starbucks and a number of other buildings with open, inviting doors.

But those invitations were all traps.

I couldn’t chance ducking in someplace, to be cornered.

My hand was under my coat, on the butt of my Beretta.

Still moving.

Was that a shout?

Still moving.

A horn blared.

Honked again.

Another shout.

I spared a half-second glance to my right.

A Diamond cab was pulled to the side, with a familiar-looking driver.

A set-up? An ambush? Could I trust him?

I went to the cab’s rear door, opened it up.

I was tired of being paranoid.

He was accelerating before I even had the door closed, and made a sharp left corner, blasting through a red light, causing a screech of brakes and another blast of horns. I caught my breath and looked out the rear window. None of my pursuers seemed to be after me. Even then, my driver took no chances. He made a couple more turns before we were traveling at a steady pace along J Street.

“Thanks,” I finally said.

“Glad to be of service.”

“How the hell did you end up there?”

I could see his strong shoulders shrug. “You’re a man who likes passing around the green. I like guys like that. So I figured I’d hang around the neighborhood for a while, see if you needed another ride.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that all?”

A chuckle. “The way you asked me for a place. Most folks ask for a joint near the Metro station or the monuments or museums. You just wanted someplace close, clean, and inexpensive. Means you were here on a job. But most guys I ride, if they’re on a job, someone else is paying the freight. So this is something personal for you… and the way you moved, way you kept quiet, don’t think you were applying to the State Department or something like that.”

I settled back into the seat. “Good observations.”

“Spent many years in this man’s Air Force, looking at radar screens. I was trained to look at things, m’man. And when you got out of my cab a few minutes ago, I told myself that you were going into harm’s way, and I’d better be around to scoop you up if you come out of a building at a fast pace.”

I looked at his license, caught his name. “Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate that.”

He pulled up at a stoplight. “So how did the job go?”

“Managed to apparently piss off some people.”

“Means you’re doing something right.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” I wiped at my forehead. It was cool and dry. First real big surprise of the day.

“What kind of job are you up to, anyway?”

“Trying to make things right for a friend.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

The light changed. We moved ahead. “Hah, I think I know what you’re saying.”

“And you’d be wrong. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. Just… best friend I’ve ever had.”

“She in trouble?”

“She may be dying. And I’m looking for the guy who did that to her.”

The back of his neck tensed up. “Then go get the fucker. Where do you want to go next?”

“Nearest Metro station will do.”

“You sure? I don’t mind driving you to your next place, if it’s part of your job.”

“I appreciate that. But those bad guys… they might be waiting for me at the next stop. You were lucky once, Frank. I don’t want you to be unlucky the next time.”

He turned to me. “You could let me worry about that.”

“Yeah, but there’s your son, right? He needs you.”

Frank took a turn. Up ahead I saw the familiar sign for the Metro. “There’s that. All right, good luck, whatever you’re doing. You seem like a good guy. Make me happy to see the good guys win one for a change.”

“Me too.”