Read A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short Online
Authors: Richard Castle
Toppers’s cell phone rang as soon as he returned to the driver’s seat. It was Darth Vader again.
“Time for the next drop.”
Storm sensed that they were being watched. It was a sixth sense that had served him well in combat. There wasn’t anyone near the Lee house, but there was a large group of people several hundred yards down the hill. Storm had been to enough funerals to recognize that the departed had just been given full military honors. The flag-draped coffin had been carried on a horse-drawn caisson to the grave site. A color guard had escorted it there. A military band had sounded a farewell, followed by a three-rifle volley. It was dusk and that was late for a graveside service, which meant someone important had pulled strings to arrange it. The evening sun was setting, but from the grave’s vantage point, a mourner could glance up the hill and see the white cargo van.
Had one of the kidnappers blended into the crowd of mourners? Was Darth Vader among them?
The scrambled voice said, “Head to Georgetown. The canal on Thirty-first Street. Walk down the path to Wisconsin Avenue. The first trash can on the right. Leave the second bag in it.”
Storm exited the cemetery and crossed the Potomac back into the District, where the van was immediately stuck in traffic. A woman talking on her cell phone nearly collided with them when she cut in front of the van.
“Stupid broad,” Toppers snapped. “It’s against the law to use a cell phone in the District unless you’ve got a hands-free device. Someone should arrest her. She could have killed us.”
An accident was all that they needed. A cop further stalling traffic.
A fender bender disrupting their delivery schedule.
“Senator Windslow said you were a trust fund baby,” Storm said, casually probing. “That’s one reason why he knew you wouldn’t run away with his six million.”
“It’s not polite to talk about money,” Toppers said. “My parents had houses in Connecticut, Spain, and in Palm Beach, too. I loved it there. You ever been?”
“It’s too rich for my blood,” Storm replied. “I was there but not during the Season.”
“The summer,” she said. “That’s the best time. Me and a friend of mine had a wild time there. Actually, we had a bet to see who could lose their virginity first!” She took a stick of gum from her purse and offered him a piece.
“No thanks,” he said. She put two in her mouth and began chewing.
The Season. In Palm Beach, that term had special meaning. It was a five-month whirlwind of parties, balls, and charity events that no one who was anyone dared miss. It was a timeless ritual for America’s most wealthy, the Old Guard’s most treasured social event. It was a tradition carefully passed down from generation to generation. And it was not during the hot summer months. It was when the snowbirds ventured south to escape the cold.
When they reached 31st Street NW, Storm slipped into an alleyway and left Toppers in the van while he walked briskly to the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. The man-made canal had been constructed because the Potomac was considered too unpredictable for safe travel. Merchants needed a safe way to transport tobacco and other commodities some 185 miles west. By the time the canal was dug, it was already obsolete because of the railroad. Now couples used the pebble-strewed path next to the canal for evening strolls, while bicyclists and joggers hurried by them.
Storm waited until the path was empty, and then he stuffed the gym bag into the trash receptacle, covering it with discarded cups, cans, bottles, and papers.
As had happened after the first delivery in Arlington Cemetery, Rihanna’s voice greeted Storm as soon as he returned to the van.
Four kidnappers had abducted Matthew. Was it possible that a different one of them was monitoring each delivery? How else would they know where he was?
“What took you so long?” Darth Vader asked.
“There were people on the path,” Storm replied. “What happens if a stranger gets one of the gym bags by accident?”
“Your boy dies.”
Darth Vader told them to drop the third bag at Hains Point, located at the southernmost tip of East Potomac Park—a good twenty-minute trip from Georgetown during rush hour.
Bordered by the Potomac River on one side and the Washington Channel on the other, Hains Point was at the tip of a man-made island composed of dirt dredged from both rivers. When they reached it, Storm hid the bag in a public trash container just as he had hidden the others.
The final drop-off point was at Battery Kemble Park, a tiny area of grass and woods in Northwest Washington, smack in the middle of expensive homes. The park was a former Civil War battery built on high ground so that Union troops could look down during the fighting and fire canons if enemy soldiers attempted to cross the Potomac and enter the city. Now it was popular with local dog walkers. Storm dumped several bags of discarded poop onto the gym bag.
Samantha’s phone rang as if on cue.
“Okay, we’ve done our part,” Storm said. “Where’s Matthew?”
“Wait in Union Station for my next call.”
“We’ve played by the rules,” Storm told the caller. “If you don’t, you’ll never live to enjoy your money.”
The line went dead.
He looked at Toppers. She’d pulled down her skirt. She was still chewing her gum.
She had no idea that he had been interrogating her.
Storm and Toppers found seats at a bar on the main floor of the Union Station terminal. She placed her cell phone in front of them so they would not miss any calls. She was jittery.
All around the bar, there was motion. Commuters rushed to catch trains. Tourists gawked at the restored rotunda, wandered from shop to shop in search of souvenirs, and snapped photographs. A homeless man begged for quarters. Neither Storm nor Toppers paid attention to the whirlwind. Their eyes were on the pink cell phone resting on the bar. They were waiting for Rihanna’s voice.
“What’s taking them so long?” Toppers complained.
It had been nearly a half hour. Something caught Storm’s attention. It was a news reporter on the flat-screen television behind the bar. Storm motioned for the bartender to turn up the volume.
“Park police do not believe the explosion was the work of terrorists,” the petite blond news reporter breathlessly announced. As the camera pulled back, viewers could see that she was standing outside the Robert E. Lee mansion. Red and blue strobe lights from emergency vehicles flashed against the house’s marble columns.
The reporter said, “Once again, this does not seem to be a terrorist attack. However, a spokesman for the National Park Service said the explosion was not the result of some natural cause, such as a garbage fire. An explosive device was put into the trash can, but it was more like a powerful Fourth of July firecracker than a bomb, the spokesman said. At this point, we don’t know why someone would want to blow up a trash can here. There’s speculation it might be part of a protest against the memory of Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy. However, no damage to Lee’s home was done. The explosion was loud and strong enough to destroy the trash can and all of the trash inside it. But there was no serious damage.”
An anchorman’s face appeared on the screen, and it looked as if he were about to make a joke when his face turned somber. “I’ve just been told there has been a second explosion in a trash receptacle,” he said. “This one in Georgetown on the C and O Canal path. There are no apparent injuries, but the blast has alarmed businesses and homeowners in the area. A bomb disposal unit is en route to the scene, and police have roped off the area and urged people to stay away from the canal path. Bomb-sniffing dogs are being sent in to search for other devices that may be hidden in trash cans by the canal.”
The anchorman paused and then said, “A third explosion has been reported. This one in a trash can at Hains Point. I repeat, this is the third confirmed report of an explosion in a trash can. We have been told that the chief of police, the National Park Service, Homeland Security, and the mayor have agreed to hold an emergency meeting, but, once again, it is not believed that this is a terrorist attack. There have been no injuries because of the explosions, which the police have stressed are more like giant firecrackers than they are bombs. The purpose of the explosions, according to one fire department official, was to make a loud noise, destroy the containers, and burn whatever was inside them—rather than to injure persons or cause property damage. One source speculated that this could be a misguided prank by someone who understands basic chemistry and simply wanted to do something to frighten this city.”
Because Battery Kemble Park was more isolated, it took a few more minutes before the fourth blast made the news. When the anchorman announced it, Toppers said aloud, “They’re destroying the money.”
The bartender and several customers gave her curious glances.
“Let’s go,” Storm said, gently taking her elbow and maneuvering her through the crowd that was now congregating around the bar’s television.
By the time that they reached the terminal’s exit, Toppers looked terrified.
“This was a mistake,” she said. “Something horrible is going to happen to Matthew. I just know it!”
Storm and Toppers went directly from Union Station to Senator Windslow’s SOB. Agent April Showers was already there. So were Senator Windslow and his distraught wife, Gloria, who was crying in her husband’s arms.
“We found Matthew Dull,” Showers said quietly.
“Is he okay? Where is he?” Toppers asked.
Then she realized why his mother was in tears. Toppers gasped and whispered, “Oh my God!” She collapsed on the floor. Storm helped her to the couch, and Gloria hurried over to hug her. The two women held each other and sobbed.
“His body was found floating in the Anacostia River,” Showers said.
“Executed?” Storm asked.
Before Showers could reply, Gloria turned on them.
“You two were supposed to keep my son alive! I trusted you!” she shrieked.
Senator Windslow stepped between his angry wife and the targets of her fury. “It would be better if you two left us alone for right now,” he said.
Both started to leave, but the senator asked Storm to stay behind for a moment. When he did, Windslow leaned in close to his ear so that neither his wife nor Toppers could hear what he was whispering.
“What the hell happened?” he asked. “I saw the news flash. Why did you let those bastards blow up my money?”
“Later, Senator,” Storm replied.
“Easy for you to say. You just didn’t have six million bucks blown to pieces.”
Agent Showers was waiting to ambush Storm in the hallway outside Windslow’s office.
“You went behind my back,” she said, her eyes ablaze. “We might have been able to save that kid if we’d worked together. The shit is going to hit the fan when the media finds out that Matthew Dull is dead.”
Continuing her tirade, she said, “You need to tell me what the hell happened after you ditched my men in that parking garage on K Street this afternoon.”
“Are you arresting me?”
He already knew the answer. Jedidiah Jones would not allow Storm to be arrested. Or interrogated. Survival of the fittest. Jones would not permit it because it would tie him and the Agency to this mess.
“Not yet,” she snapped. “But if you don’t come with me right now to headquarters and tell me what happened—I am going to recommend to my superiors that you be arrested.”
She was bluffing. He knew it.
“I’m not going with you,” Storm said quietly. “I have more important things to do.”
He wanted to tell her, but he was not yet ready. There were still a few pieces that he needed to gather.
“I hope you have a damn good lawyer,” Showers said, “because I’m going to nail your ass to the wall.”
Now she was beginning to irritate him.
“Since you mentioned it, what do you think of my ass, Agent Showers?” he asked. “Most women like it.”
For a moment, he thought she might actually slap him. Instead, she walked away enraged, her three-inch heels smacking the marble floor like a stick beating a snare drum.
Showers finally got it. She understood that he was right. She knew that she was on the bottom of the totem pole. She was in line to become the scapegoat, the fall guy, the weakest link. It wasn’t fair, but it was what would happen. What she still didn’t seem to realize was that Storm was the only person who could save her.
The J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue was considered such an architectural eyesore after it opened that there had been talk for years about demolishing it and moving the FBI’s headquarters into the suburbs. Hoover, himself, had reportedly bullied the architects into adding several unusual safeguards to the building’s boxy design. At the time, race riots were rocking Washington and other major cities, and 1960s antiwar protestors were threatening the tear down the “establishment.” Fearing the FBI building might come under siege, Hoover demanded that the street level of his new headquarters be constructed without any windows or offices. Built of concrete mixed with crushed limestone for extra strength, the first level resembled a castle wall. It protected an open mezzanine where there were a limited number of elevators leading to the upper floors. There was no second floor. Instead, the second level was an ugly open gap with only structural supports and reinforced elevator shafts and stairways linking the ground and third floors. The second floor was missing to deter rioters from using ladders to scale the building. At one point, rumors surfaced that Hoover had put razor wire in the branches of the trees that lined Pennsylvania Avenue outside his building to stop attackers from climbing them to reach the headquarters’ upper floors.
It was two days after the trash can explosions had alarmed the city and Matthew Dull’s body had been found floating in the river. Storm was sitting alone in a conference room on the FBI headquarters sixth-floor, waiting for Agent Showers. In an upside-down move that would have been unthinkable in any major city except for Washington, D.C., Storm had come to the headquarters today—not to be questioned—but to interrogate Agent Showers.
Things had played out much as Storm had anticipated. Within minutes after Dull’s corpse had been found, Jedidiah Jones had started pulling strings. FBI Director Jackson had guaranteed Jones that Storm would remain invisible and untouchable—at least for now. Senator Windslow had circled the wagons around Samantha Toppers.
Agent April Showers had been stonewalled.
At a news conference held on the morning after Dull’s body was found, an FBI spokesperson told reporters that the senator’s stepson had been kidnapped, held for ransom, and murdered, apparently by a foreign gang. The spokesman said Senator Windslow had cooperated fully with the FBI during the tragedy. The lead investigator on the case, Special Agent April Showers, had been removed from the investigation and was going to be reassigned to a field job.
There was no mention at the press conference of the four trash can explosions that had happened that night, no mention of the six-million-dollar payment that had been destroyed by the blasts and fire. Instead, the agency mouthpiece had said that Dull had been executed by gang members, possibly from Mexico or Ukraine—even though the Windslows had agreed to negotiate.
Agent Showers walked into the conference room where Storm was waiting, with a thin file in her hands and a scowl on her face. She dropped the paperwork in front of him, where it landed with a thud.
“Are you going to sit down?” he asked.
Showers pulled a chair from the conference table and took a seat across from him.
“They’re sending me to Tulsa,” she said.
“You’re not gone yet,” he replied.
Storm carefully thumbed through the documents that she’d brought him. The first was her final report about the kidnapping/murder. In the classified, secret section of her report, she theorized that Dull had been kidnapped because of a sour business deal between Senator Windslow and Ivan Petrov. She claimed that the Russian oligarch had paid Windslow a “fee,” believed to be six million dollars, but the senator had later broken their deal. Petrov had reacted in typical Russian fashion, by abducting the senator’s stepson as a threat to force Windslow to comply. Petrov also had demanded his six-million-dollar payment back in the form of a ransom.
Although Agent Showers had been kept from interrogating Storm and Toppers, the clever FBI agent had figured out the link between the ransom demand and the exploding trash cans. In her report, Showers explained that destroying the cash had dovetailed perfectly with Petrov’s criminal mind-set. Not only had he taken revenge by killing Windslow’s stepson, Petrov had destroyed the original six-million-dollar bribe that he’d paid the senator.
While Showers’s report was nice and neat, it did not contain any evidence to justify her theory or an arrest. Her account mentioned that immigration records from the night of Dull’s murder indicated that four Ukrainians had boarded an international flight for London. Yet no one attempted to stop them from fleeing. Further investigation showed that all four were former KGB agents.
When Storm finished reading Showers’s analysis, he asked, “Do you feel confident that Petrov was behind the kidnapping and it was carried out by hired thugs?”
“That’s what I wrote, isn’t it?” she replied in a sarcastic voice. “Not that it matters. It doesn’t appear that anyone is really interested in the truth.”
Storm removed a second report from the case file. It was an autopsy. Dull had been shot twice, once in the back of his skull and once in his heart. Both rounds had been fired behind him at close range, based on the entry and exit wounds. The shot through his head had passed completely through his skull and had not been recovered. However, the damage caused by the slug revealed it had been made by a hollow-point round. This meant the bullet’s tip had mushroomed upon impact so it would cause maximum damage as it ripped through brain tissue and destroyed Dull’s once handsome face. The bullet fired into his skull had been shot at a downward angle, which suggested the gunman had been standing behind Dull, who was most likely sitting in a chair. The location of the two wounds further suggested that Dull had been shot first in the back of his skull and then fallen forward onto the floor, where the gunman had fired the second shot straight down while standing over him. The second slug had entered through Dull’s back, caused his heart to literally explode, and had exited through his chest. Because Dull had collapsed onto a hard-surfaced floor, the slug had been stopped when it attempted to exit his body. In an odd move—most likely caused by its mushroom shape—it had ricocheted back into Dull’s chest, where it had lodged. The FBI had recovered this slug and discovered attached to it microscopic slivers of tile and concrete that had come from the floor. An examination of Dull’s lungs confirmed that he had been dead before his body had been dumped into the river.
The report found that the bullets that killed Dull had been 9mm rounds. FBI ballistic and firearm experts had determined that the bullets had been manufactured by the JSC Barnaul Machine-Tool Plant in Russia, a leading maker of Russian military ammunition.
Storm returned the autopsy to the folder and closed the case file, which he pushed across the table to the still bitter Agent Showers.
“Do you have any files about the four trash can explosions that happened that night?” he asked.
“Why would you want to see them?” Showers asked, not trying to hide the contempt in her voice.
“Don’t play dumb,” he said. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Are you now telling me that those four explosions were related to the kidnapping?” she asked. “Are you admitting that you and Toppers put money in those trash cans?”
“Let’s just say I’m curious about everything odd that happened that night. I want to be thorough.”
“Then you should contact the D.C. police,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe someone stole an elephant from the National Zoo or ran naked down Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Stolen elephants and naked people do interest me,” he quipped. “Naked people more than stolen elephants, unless midgets and butter are involved. But for now I’ll settle for the file about the four explosions.”
A clearly irked Agent Showers left the conference room. When she returned, she jabbed another case folder at Storm as if it were a knife.
“You and I both know,” Showers said, “that the kidnappers blew up the ransom money after sending you and Toppers on an elaborate goose chase. Ivan Petrov spit in Windslow’s face. Petrov took back his bribe money and killed his stepson. But I can’t prove any of this—thanks to the higher ups protecting you, Toppers, and Senator Windslow.”
Storm took the file and asked, “Did the FBI work the blasts that night or was it some other agency?”
“The explosions happened on parkland so the National Park Police and the District of Columbia police were responsible for the investigation. The actual bomb investigation was done by the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives because of its expertise.”
Storm removed the BATF analytical report. All four explosions had been caused by identical homemade devices. The explosions had come from small amounts of ammonium nitrate packed tightly into plastic bottles. A cell phone had been used as the trigger. The devices resembled the improvised explosive devices (IEDs) used against U.S. troops in Iraq, but they packed much less power. This similarity prompted BATF investigators to speculate that the bomb maker had some military training. The IEDs were missing the projectiles that insurgents normally used to cause maximum damage. Instead the bombs had been designed to cause a loud noise and ignite fires.
Included in the report was a list of debris that had been collected at each blast site. Despite the explosion and resulting fire, numerous remnants of one-hundred-dollar bills had been found. Newspaper fragments had been collected, too, along with other debris from items commonly found in trash cans, such as plastic bottles and aluminum soda and beer cans.
Although the four cell phones used to trigger the bombs had been destroyed, investigators had been able to glean that they were identical Motorola models.
With the report still in his hands, Storm asked, “Did you read this list of remnants?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Do you think you’re the only one who wants to be thorough?”
“Did you notice anything odd?”
“I assume you’re talking about the large amount of newsprint.”
“The report says there was four times more newsprint found at each blast site than there was remnants from hundred-dollar bills,” Storm said.
“At first, I didn’t think that was significant,” Showers admitted, “but then I remembered that newsprint is made of wood pulp.”
“And currency is made from cotton and linen,” Storm said, completing her sentence.
“Which means,” she said, “that the newsprint should have burned faster than the currency. Less newsprint should have survived. But there was more of it.”
Storm closed the file and handed it to her.
She said, “What are you saying—that something happened to the money?”
“I’m saying this case is far from over.”
He stood to leave.
“Hey, where are you going?” she asked. “What do you mean, 'This case if far from over’? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’ll be in touch. Thanks for your cooperation.”
“You can’t just walk out of here like this,” she said.
But that was exactly what he was doing.
“You’re a son of a bitch—whatever your name is,” she said.
The coldness in her voice was strong enough to have chilled shots from an entire fifth of Jack Daniel’s.