Guilty Minds

64

Ellen Wiley’s pied-à-terre in Washington was on N Street in Georgetown, a handsome Federal-style town house, redbrick with black shutters. The door was answered by a maid in a uniform of gray dress and white cuffs and bib apron. She took me to Ellen, who was sitting in a high-back tufted wing chair in her library, just off the front hallway. The room was lined with books, floor to ceiling. She was talking on a landline phone. She was wearing a black skirt with a white silk blouse cut low enough to show the cleft of her tanned bosom, and a string of pearls.

“But that’s just it,” she was saying, “he has no idea.” She let out a whooping laugh. “Exactly.” She saw me, smiled, and waved me into a nearby chair. “Sweetie, I have to go, I have a visitor.” She paused. “Yes, a gentleman caller.” She laughed again and hung up.

“There he is, Nick Heller!” she announced. “You’re here a full hour early. He’s not coming until eleven.”

We had arranged for me to come by her house at ten, so I just nodded and said, “This shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, then I’ll be gone.”

“Jorge,” she called out, “can you bring this gentleman some coffee?” To me she said, “He makes the best sticky buns.”

“Not for me, thanks.”

“Are you sure? They’re still warm. If I can’t have them, at least my visitors can.”

“Do you plan to meet him in here?”

“Sure, here or in the front sitting room.”

“I’m going to need you to decide now where you’ll meet him.”

“Oh, heavens, then right here.”

“Okay.” I took out from my pocket an infinity transmitter, a small black GSM bug a couple of inches square. I’d already inserted a cell phone SIM card into it. “It would help if you decided now where you’re going to sit.”

“Ooh, spy stuff. I’ll sit right here. He can sit where you’re sitting.”

“Okay, great.” I looked around. The closest power outlet was some distance away. On the table between the two chairs was a brass lamp. I lifted it up. No room under the base. No drawer in the table. “I’m going to put it under the cushion in your chair. You’ll sit there, right?”

“Honey, I don’t even have to move. Do I have to do anything with it?”

“Ignore it. I’ll call into it just before he arrives, and it’ll go right into transmission mode. I’ll be listening in from my cell phone in my car.”

“Anything you want me to ask him?”

“All I care about is that you seem genuinely interested in hiring Centurion Associates. That you have serious security concerns. The more complicated, the better. Maybe you have a stalker who won’t go away. They pride themselves on being able to handle difficult cases. Just be a tough customer.”

“Oh, that I can do,” she said. There was a flash in her eyes, and she gave a fierce smile, and I realized that I wouldn’t want to negotiate a contract with her.

I’d rented a silver Chrysler 200 because it was the most inconspicuous, anonymous-looking car I could find. I’d parked it across the street from Ellen Wiley’s town house and about a hundred feet down the block.

I sat there and waited. The traffic on N Street was two-way, but it was light. At ten minutes before eleven, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the curb in front of Wiley’s house, slowed, and then moved ahead seventy-five feet or so and parallel parked. I took out my binoculars and focused on the vehicle. I saw two men in the Escalade, the driver and a passenger.

This had to be Thomas Vogel, accompanied by someone from Centurion Associates.

They were early. They knew who Ellen Wiley was and knew she represented an excellent business opportunity.

I continued to watch them through the binoculars. I could see the passenger talking to the driver. The body language indicated that Thomas Vogel was the passenger, talking to a subordinate.

At eleven o’clock exactly, Vogel got out of the Escalade, slammed the door behind him, and walked along the sidewalk to Ellen Wiley’s town house. As he walked, facing me, I could finally see him clearly.

Vogel was tall, but not a giant, maybe around my height, six-four. He was wearing a good navy suit, white shirt, and red tie — very patriotic colors — and appeared to be powerfully built. He had salt-and-pepper black hair and a mustache. He walked with a confident stride. He was a man who was used to physically dominating those around him. I recognized his face from the fishing picture in Curtis Schmidt’s house.

Vogel climbed the three slate steps in front of Wiley’s front door and rang the bell.

The door opened after a moment, and the same uniformed housemaid let him in.

I hit a speed dial button on my phone, which connected to the phone number on the SIM card in the infinity transmitter. It didn’t ring. After a few seconds, I could hear faint voices. Then I heard the maid’s voice.

“Wiley will be right down. May I bring you some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be great.” A booming baritone.

“Please have a seat. Mrs. Wiley likes to sit in that chair, so maybe the one next to it?”

Then, much louder, Vogel’s voice: “Thank you, ma’am.”

Then silence.

At the same time, I kept watch on the white Escalade. The driver was talking on a cell phone. I hadn’t expected a driver. This was too bad, because I’d brought a GPS tracker to affix to the car, and now I wouldn’t have a chance.

Then I heard Ellen Wiley’s voice, also loud and clear. “Mister Vogel, I’m Ellen Wiley.”

“Nice to meet you. Tom Vogel.”

“Stephen speaks very highly of Centurion.”

“He’s a valued client. My card.”

“Oh, metal! How clever. You could cut yourself with this thing.”

“It doubles as a self-defense tool,” Vogel said, and the two of them laughed.

I couldn’t see the license plate on the Escalade, so I studied the rear exterior for any markings that would help me later on. There didn’t seem to be any. The vehicle looked new. There were no scuff marks or dents, as far as I could tell at this distance. No stickers or decals. Non-tinted windows.

Wiley and Vogel talked. He asked about her homes, and she told him about her art collection. He asked her about any thefts she might have sustained. “We’re not like any other security firm you might have heard about,” Vogel said. “There are plenty of good security and guarding firms — Triple Canopy, Aegis Defence Services, Pinkerton, Securitas — any of the top-tier ones. Well, we do VIP protection, but we’re different. The thing you’ve got to understand is — we take care of problems. You want security guards? Hire security guards. You want a rent-a-cop? Rent a cop. We’re not about patrolling a beat. You get me? We play offense, not defense. We don’t stand at a wall and protect you from trouble. We make the trouble go away. It’s a very... specialized skill set. If you’ve talked to your friend Brookhiser, then I assume you have some sense of what we deliver. Problem solving. Taking care of issues so they don’t... exist anymore. And if I’m talking myself out of a job, so be it. It is what it is. What we do, it isn’t for everyone. Not everybody has the need for it. Not everybody has the stomach for it, frankly. Mrs. Wiley, tell me this is making you the slightest bit uncomfortable, and I’ll leave you in peace right now. This meet never happened.”

After thirty-five minutes, Vogel emerged from Wiley’s front door. I watched him descend the three steps and walk the seventy-five feet to the white Escalade and get in. Vogel and his driver chatted for about a minute. Then the Escalade pulled away from the curb and began making its way down N Street.

And I began to follow.