Cold Frame (31 page)

*   *   *

The pitcher did its job almost too well about an hour before dawn, crashing down onto the floor and apparently scaring the shit out of whoever had just come through the door. It did sound like a woman's voice, so Av turned on his bedside table light and slipped the automatic just under the covers. A moment later Ellen Whiting appeared in his bedroom doorway.

“That was dirty pool,” she announced. “I think I wet my pants.”

“More than I needed to know,” he said with a grin. She was wearing running clothes, of all things, with an FBI ball cap and a bulging little fanny pack. “Welcome to my high-tech world.”

All the chairs in his bedroom had clothes or other stuff piled on them, so she came over and sat down on the corner of his bed.

“I just heard,” she said. “Late yesterday afternoon, in fact. I got a call from Mister Miller to come down for a little chat. He told me that the CT division had picked you up and that you were now being held in a ‘secure location.'”

“What'd he want from you?”

“I don't actually know,” she said. “He asked me what I thought of that, and since I couldn't think of anything clever to say, I asked him why and for how long. That's up to your division, he said. Claimed to just be the messenger; said he was surprised I didn't know about it, seeing as you and I had been keeping company.

“How'd you get out?”

He described his having milk and cookies with Carl Mandeville, and then the Marine colonel's decision to let him leave.

“Why'd he do that?” she asked.

He told her about the colonel eavesdropping on the conversation with Mandeville and getting what looked a lot like cold feet. He also described what he'd said to encourage said cold feet.

“And Mandeville offered you your freedom in return for—what? Helping him save the DMX?”

“That's about it, Ellen,” Av said. “I told him to fuck off, in so many words, and I also told him that if he was murdering people he'd get caught. I don't know if he knows that I've been sprung, but we picked up a tail on the way up—that guy from Rock Creek Park?—so I guess he does. Assuming he works for Mandeville, tomorrow, well, I guess today, I'm gonna go up my chain in MPD and lay this whole fucking thing out to the chief, herself, including the two homicides, the one pending homicide, and who's behind them and why.”

“God,” she said. “That ought to do it.”

“Should have done it as soon as you told me the story,” he said. “I know we don't have much of a case, but I suspect the light of day will be as dangerous for Mandeville as anything
I
could do to him.”

She pressed her lips together and stared out the window, where the dawn's early light was trying its best to gleam.

“He has—assets,” she said, slowly. “People from the serious-business division of the Agency, and anything he wants from the Special Operations Command, I'm guessing. He's obviously gone through that Chinese wall and now has some action executives on his side. But: that means it wasn't Mandeville out there, personally killing McGavin and Logan.”

“Sure about that?” Av asked. He really wanted some coffee, but also wanted to make damned sure she hadn't come around to tie off a suddenly dangerous loose end. Anyone who could get through locked doors like that had a skill set that fairly cried out previous clandestine ops service. “
He
was the one at dinner with Logan,” he said. “And
you
were the one at lunch with McGavin. You're both on the DMX. You say Mandeville's gone rogue. But what if the two of
you
have gone rogue?”

She looked back at him, her face suddenly grave. “That why you have a gun under the covers there, Detective?”

“Damn straight. Until I know who you are and, more importantly,
what
you are, I'm all done taking chances. Next spook who materializes out of a storm drain is gonna take a couple for the team.”

She nodded. “I think,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “that you need to meet somebody, preferably before you go turning over the Mandeville anthill at MPD. His name is Hiram Walker, and he has had a role to play in these murders.”

“Just give me his full name and I'll include it in the bucket list for the chief,” Av said.

“No, Sergeant, that would be a mistake. Look: he's willing to help, and he has some extraordinary assets that he can make available. I spent some time with him this weekend and you have to see this to believe it.”

“He a Mafia don or something?” Av asked. “What kind of assets?”

“Plants that can kill people?” she said softly. “He calls them his smart weeds.”

“Now that's some creepy shit,” Av said, trying to imagine what a smart weed looked like.

She looked at her watch. “Let's you and me have some breakfast, then I'll call him and we'll go out there to Great Falls. If after that you still think I'm out to get you, then, by all means, go climb the mountain. But I think it's very important that you meet Hiram Walker
before
Mandeville acts on the fact that you're out of his clutches.”

“Breakfast sounds fine,” Av said. “Coffee in particular. But first, take that fanny pack off and toss it over here, if you don't mind.”

She smiled, reached for the snaps, and pitched the pack onto a pillow. It landed with a thump that told Av there was indeed a weapon in the pack. Then she stood up and stretched.

“Anything else you want me to take off, Detective?” she inquired, innocently. “It's still early. I do need some exercise, but it doesn't have to be outside.”

“Oh, c'mon,” he said. “We're supposed to, what: fall in l-u-u-v now?”

“You still seem to think I'm dangerous,” she said, smoothing the flimsy fabric of her running shorts across her thighs. “Hell, I might have a stiletto strapped to my thigh for all you know.”

“Not in those shorts,” he said, then realized he'd just admitted to checking her out. She smiled again, then folded her arms across her stomach. In one smooth and obviously practiced move, she removed her T-shirt, halter bra, shorts, and then her underpants. She put her hands on her hips in a clear, what-do-you-think-about-this posture.

Av swallowed and then nodded in wide-eyed appreciation. “That's unfair,” he said, trying to keep his voice from squeaking. “But I'm glad to see there's no stiletto down there.”

“According to your rules, there is something infinitely more dangerous than a stiletto, though,” she said, glancing down. “Right, Detective?”

This time he did squeak. Dammit.

The next moment she was right next to him on top of the covers, like a fast-moving snake. He felt a moment of panic—her fanny pack was now back in reach. Then he heard it hit the floor on the opposite side of the bed. “That's not the gun I want right now, Detective,” she whispered. “It's this one.”

He was doomed. No other word for it.

She giggled like a girl. “Why don't you let
me
take charge for a little while,” she said. “What is it they say in the U.K.? Lie back, think of England, and do your damn duty.”

Then she pulled the covers down, pushed his gun out of the bed, and draped herself on top of him, pressing her lips to the hollow of his neck while the rest of her body melted into every square inch of his. For some reason he recalled Mau-Mau's worried refrain: we're all going down. Apparently he muttered those exact words, because she broke contact for just a second, looked deep into his eyes, and said in a thickening voice: “Well, I sure as hell hope so. Got some serious horns to deal with here.”

*   *   *

Sometime later she pushed the hair out of her eyes, looked down at him, and said: “Gotcha, scaredy-cat.”

He opened his eyes, saw that there was real sunlight outside now. He tried to remember his name. Damn. Yup, that was it. Damn! He thought he could feel every blood vessel tingling in his body. “Amen to that,” he said. “I have been well and truly got. Get enough exercise?”

She leaned forward, pulled his face into her breasts so he could listen to her heartbeat. Definitely cardio range, he thought. Had to admit, he thought—that beat the hell out of jogging. Then she slid out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. “You said something about coffee,” she said over her shoulder. “And breakfast?”

“Um,” he said. “Coffee for sure. Breakfast, we may have to go out.”

“Typical bachelor,” she said. “Beer, charcoal, coffee, ammo, but food? Never.”

“What's in your pad?”

“Same,” she said, turning on the shower now. “Assuming you can walk, get in here. I'm going to need my back done.”

“Never assume,” he mumbled as he got out of bed.

Fortunately he had a Keurig and a basketful of fully aged K-Cups. He'd been right about the food problem, but she'd fired up her phone, found a Georgetown bakery that would deliver from seven to ten in the morning, smart businessmen that they were. They ended up on the roof with warm croissants and high-test coffee. Below them the morning traffic was already up and running. It was almost eight o'clock, and Av wondered if he was going in to work today, or if he should wait for Precious to call. The Petersburg interlude now seemed to be some kind of bad dream. The sun felt good, though, and there was a tentative fall breeze hunting loose leaves through the big oaks out back.

“Who's this someone you want me to meet, again?” he asked.

“Older dude, named Hiram Walker,” she said, attacking her third croissant. She'd borrowed one of his football shirts, put her panties back on, brushed her hair, and declared victory. The croissant collapsed and she ended up with a chin full of crumbs. That made her giggle, and, suddenly, Av felt a dangerous emotional twinge, upon which he instantly stomped.

“That's a whiskey,” he said. “Canadian whiskey?”

“His father named him that for a reason, apparently,” she said, pinching and then flopping the T-shirt to get all those crumbs off her bobbling breasts. “The original Hiram Walker was apparently some kind of genius,” she said. “Famous for never giving up until he'd succeeded at whatever he was trying to do.”

“That can be a dangerous philosophy,” Av said. “Turns people into fanatics. Sometimes it's better to step back, look at what you're doing, and maybe regroup.”

She eyed him across her coffee mug. “Fanatics,” she said. “That's a loaded word. Like crusaders.” The sound of a jet descending the Potomac gorge into Reagan airport floated across the breeze, its engines whining lazily at low power.

“I was face-to-face with one in Petersburg,” he said. “Scary dude, Ellen, as you must know. I think you've been right all along—Mandeville's removing obstacles, all in the name of the new God called national security. Besides that, I failed to show appropriate respect.”

She blew out a long breath and finished her coffee. Then she frowned.

“What?” he asked.

“Listen,” she said.

Then he heard it: the faint but unmistakable sound of a helicopter, the sound of its rotors thumping almost subliminally over the traffic sounds below.

“Channel nine traffic copter,” he said. “Down by the Lincoln.”

“No,” she said. “Closer. Much closer. And suppressed. That's a SpecOps Black Hawk, I'm sure of it.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but then he thought he heard the door down in his apartment bang open. He jumped out of his chair and looked down the rooftop's stairway, only to see Rue Waltham, dressed in a bathrobe and holding a cell phone in one hand, standing at the bottom.

“Run!” she said urgently. “NOW!” Then she turned and ran, herself.

A moment later Ellen was pushing past him and scrambling down the stairs. “That helo's coming here,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Get dressed, get your cop stuff, and then get out of here. I'll be right behind you.”

“Ellen, wait—what the—”

But by then both Ellen and Rue had disappeared, so he followed her down. She was already streaking down the stairs to the loft. He followed her inside. She was in the bedroom, pulling on her clothes; Rue was nowhere to be seen. Still grappling with the sudden appearance of his tenant, he went to the dresser, grabbed underwear, clean jeans, and his Redskins football T-shirt. By the time he was dressed Ellen was already headed out the front door, snapping her fanny pack back onto her waist and then checking the weapon inside. He retrieved his smartphone, wallet, badge, and .45 and followed her down the main stairs. At the side vestibule he told her to hold up.

“I've got a garage,” he said. “How did you—”

“I took a cab from my apartment to the Watergate,” she said, cocking an ear for that helicopter. “Then I jogged over.”

“C'mon, then,” he said. He led her through the service door into the garage area and locked it behind him. When she saw the Harley, she asked if it still ran.

“Should,” he said. “I had it out three weeks ago. But my truck—”

“No,” she said. “Not the truck. They'll have you in two minutes. You take that mountain bike over there, and I'll take the Harley. Got riding gear?”

He found the big black motorcycle helmet on a shelf while she checked out the motorcycle. He gave her his leather riding jacket and a set of chaps to cover her bare legs. She put everything on and then wheeled the bike out toward the door, the clothes billowing around her slim frame. He got the Harley's keys out of a bottle and then fired up the opener to raise the metal warehouse door. As daylight streamed in from the bottom, the sound of the approaching helicopter was unmistakable, not overhead, but definitely coming, the clatter of its rotor blades echoing against all the brickwork in the neighborhood. He handed her the keys.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “I'll take off into traffic and head east, toward the center of town. You wait three minutes, then walk the bike around to the towpath and start riding west. When you get to Chain Bridge, get up on the bridge and walk it across. Then ditch the bike, call a cab, and ask him to take you to Tysons Corner mall. Once you're in the cab, tell the driver you've changed your mind, and that you really want to go to 6500 Deepstep Creek Road. That's out in Great Falls. Tell him you want him to take the Georgetown Pike. This is important: leave your phone in the cab when you get there, and leave it switched on. Get out and approach the gates and tell them I sent you.”