A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (5 page)

Chapter Seven

Storm could hear the muffled sounds of a television playing inside his hotel suite as he approached its locked door. Someone was inside. He knew it was her as soon as he smelled her perfume. Swiping his room key through the electronic lock, he walked in, expecting to see Clara Strike.

But she was not there. It was Agent Showers.

A coincidence that both women wore the same fragrance? Or was it him? How many times had he and Clara met in hotel rooms? How many sweaty mornings, afternoons, and nights had they made love? Was he having some Pavlov’s dog reaction? Was Agent Showers replacing Clara in his thoughts?

“You were supposed to meet me at eight o’clock,” Showers said, clearly irritated. “I was scheduled to take you to our FBI command post.”

She was sitting on the suite’s sofa watching CNN on a flatscreen while sipping a Diet Coke from the recently restocked mini-bar.

“A bit early to be drinking Diet Coke, isn’t it?” he asked, walking to the minibar. He took out an imported beer.

“A bit early to be drinking a beer, isn’t it?” she shot back.

He sat in a chair near the sofa. “I’m glad I finally got you in-suite,” he said, glancing toward the bed.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” she replied.

“I was hoping you’d get them up for me,” he answered.

Ignoring the innuendo, she said, “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting.”

“Sightseeing.”

“Are you going to tell me about your meeting this morning with Senator Windslow? How about your meeting with Jedidiah Jones? We’re on the same team, right?”

So the FBI was tracking his movements, too.

Storm took a swig and then said, “Agent Showers, when were you going to tell me about Ivan Petrov?”

She looked surprised. “Did Windslow tell you about Petrov or did Jones?”

“Neither. This might surprise you, but I am a private detective.”

“Does Jones think Petrov is behind the kidnapping?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Storm replied. “Do you think Petrov had the stepson kidnapped?”

“Yes, I do. I think that’s why the kidnappers didn’t try to pick up the one-million-dollar ransom in Union Station. Petrov’s a billionaire and he doesn’t need the money. He kidnapped Matthew Dull because he’s pressuring the senator to do something for him—something that I think your buddy Jedidiah Jones knows about. I think it’s all tied to some covert operation they’re fighting about. But every time I ask about it, I’m told it’s 'above my pay grade.’ The same old shitty excuse that I’m always told.”

“I’m surprised,” Storm said.

“Why? You think I’m wrong?”

“No, I think you’re probably right. Petrov is the most likely suspect. And I also think something strange is going on between Windslow and Jones. But the reason why I’m surprised is because you just said the word 'shitty.’”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“That’s such rude language,” he continued, “coming from someone who got her undergraduate degree at Marymount University. Isn’t that suburban Washington, D.C., school a Catholic enclave, founded by the Religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary? I doubt the good nuns allowed you to swear on campus.”

“Is this your clever way of telling me that you ran a background check on me last night?”

“Editor of the
Georgetown Law Review
, top in your graduating class at the FBI Academy in Quantico. The Bureau sent you to Seattle first, but you were too good to stay long in the field. The brass wanted you at headquarters. The best and brightest. A go-to agent in high-profile cases. Smart. Clever. Someone who understood this city. A workaholic. No time for hobbies. No time for fun. No time for marriage or even a boyfriend. Your mother doesn’t like that. She wants grandkids.”

“There’s nothing in my personnel record about my mother wanting grandkids,” she said.

“Doesn’t need to be. Flaming red hair. Emerald eyes. You’ve got Irish written all over your face. I’ve never met an Irish mother, especially a good Catholic, who didn’t want her only daughter married and pregnant. She must be so disappointed.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You asked me about my past.”

“And you didn’t tell me a damn thing.”

“Ah, more profanity. Did the nuns slap your knuckles? How did they feel about premarital intercourse?”

She started to respond but caught herself. “Let’s cut the bull, er, crap,” she said.

He had gotten to her. Unnerved her. Irritated her. He was enjoying this.

She asked, “Did the kidnappers contact Windslow this morning? Is that why he got you up so early and you went to his house?”

She had good instincts. She suspected something was up.

Storm took another long swig and noticed that he’d almost emptied the bottle. “The senator specifically asked me to keep our meeting this morning confidential,” he replied. “If you haven’t noticed, he’s lost faith in the FBI.”

Showers hit the television remote hard with her right thumb, flipping off the CNN newscast. “What did Jones tell you at the CIA?”

“Why aren’t you married, Agent Showers?”

“Are you?” she shot back. “Do you have an ex living in Hawaii, a girlfriend in Pocatello? Oh, maybe you like boys?”

She was getting warmed up now. He could see fire in her green eyes and he liked it.

Continuing, Showers said, “Are you going to tell me about your meetings with Windslow and Jones? Or are we going to keep trade insults?”

“Insults? I thought we were engaging in foreplay,” he replied. “Tell me something juicy about yourself—something dirty.”

He could tell that she wasn’t enjoying this. He was.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she asked. “You roll into Washington like some big, bad hero brought in to save the day and impress everyone while giving me and the Bureau the finger.”

“Yes. But with you I mean it in the nicest way.”

Rising from her seat, she said: “You need a reality check. No one is above the law. Not Senator Windslow, not Jedidiah Jones, and certainly not you. If you’re not going to cooperate, then I’m not going to watch your back. You should think about that. And think about this, too. If I discover that you intentionally withheld evidence or did something illegal for the senator—even something just a teensy—weensy against the law-I’m going to come down on you with the full weight of the Justice Department. You’re not a federal employee. You’re a civilian, just like any other asshole on the streets.”

With a look of fake innocence, Storm replied, “How did they define 'teensy-weensy illegal’ at Georgetown Law? I’m not familiar with it as a legal term.”

Her face flushed red. She started walking toward the suite’s door.

“Agent Showers,” he called after her.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“This is the second time that I’ve been threatened today and it’s not even noon,” he said.

“Maybe instead of being an ass,” she replied, “you should start cooperating with the people who can help you. You’re a fool if you try to handle this on your own.” She reached for the doorknob and turned it. “I’ll tell them at the command post that you are being less than forthcoming.”

“Before you go,” he said, “I have a question. Why was a car from the Russian embassy tailing you last night after you left the hotel?”

She turned to face him but kept her hand on the doorknob. “It’s interesting that you know when someone is being tailed, but you don’t know when you’re being played. Did it ever dawn on you that the reason Jones brought you into this case is to be a fall guy?”

“How would I end up being a fall guy, Agent Showers?”

“Quid pro quo,” she replied.

“Oh, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. No, thanks. Unless you actually do want to see mine.”

As before, she ignored his sexual flirtation. “There’ll be a scapegoat if Matthew Dull ends up dead,” she said. “This is Washington. Someone will have to take the blame.”

“You did learn something at Georgetown Law,” he said.

“One of the first lessons was that it’s always the person who’s in the weakest position who gets hung out to dry. That’s you.”

Storm put his now empty beer bottle down and looked up at her from his chair.
There was a magnetism about her. A passion. His father had warned him to stay away from red-haired women. “They’re nuts!” he’d said. Storm thought about what she was saying. Was he really in the weakest position? It was not an unusual position for him to fall into. All of his training had been aimed at teaching him how to strengthen his position, how to overcome any type of obstacle. If he were in a weak position, he knew that he could find a way out. Could she? It was clear to him that Agent Showers was playing a game of checkers, when everyone else around her was playing chess. Did she realize it?

“Since you graduated magna cum laude,” Storm replied, “You know that what you just said is—to use your own term—bull crap.”

He was mimicking her. He was continuing to push her buttons.

Storm said, “Yes, the weakest player is always the fall guy. But in this investigation, I am not him. It is not Senator Windslow and it certainly is not Jedidiah Jones. It’s you, Agent Showers.”

April Showers slammed the suite’s door as she exited.

He gave her ten minutes to vacate the hotel. After that, he went to the lobby and spoke to the concierge.

“I’d like to rent a van. Can I get it before lunch?” Storm asked.

“Of course. How long will you need it?”

“I’ll return it tomorrow morning. I’d prefer something with no windows, or heavily tinted ones.”

“I’ll arrange it immediately.”

When he returned to his suite, he could still smell the remnants of her perfume.

Chapter Eight

Storm left the hotel shortly after 12 P.M. in the rented, white Ford E-series commercial van that the concierge had arranged for him. The van had seats for a driver and a passenger, but its cargo bay was empty. There were no windows except for the windshield and the front doors. After driving through the Virginia suburbs for a half hour to make certain that he wasn’t being followed, Storm bought four women’s gym bags at a sporting goods store and then returned to the District. He drove to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, located at the southern end of the National Mall, adjacent to the Tidal Basin in West Potomac Park. He parked the van there and flagged down a taxi, which brought him back to his hotel with the gym bags.

Storm grabbed a shower and dressed in loafers, khaki pants, a blue shirt, and a navy sports coat. He tucked his Glock .40-caliber semiautomatic into the special holster that he wore in the center of his back and made certain he had extra ammunition. Now ready, he went downstairs and gave the valet his parking stub. A few minutes later, Storm was driving east toward the Capitol in the Taurus sedan that Jones had rented for him. He was scheduled to meet Samantha Toppers and Senator Windslow in the Dirksen SOB at 4 P.M.

Toppers was pacing nervously inside the senator’s inner office when he arrived. Senator Windslow was seated at his desk.

“I’ve called the president at Riggs Bank and arranged for Samantha to have access to the safety deposit box,” Windslow said. “Did you get the gym bags?”

“They’re in the car,” Storm replied.

Windslow suddenly shouted at Toppers. “Stop fidgeting, girl! And make sure you have your damn cell phone with you.”

“I’ve got to use the bathroom,” she stammered. She ducked into the senator’s private toilet that was connected to his office.

“You haven’t told the FBI about this, have you?” Windslow growled.

“No. I told you that I’d keep it confidential.”

“Does Jedidiah know?”

“No.”

“Good.”

A still visibly frantic Toppers joined them. “I’m not sure I can go through with this!” she said. “What do you think is going to happen tonight?”

“They’ll make us drive around the city,” Storm answered. “We’ll be sent down one-way streets and then they’ll have us reverse our route so they can see if anyone is following us. They’ll probably select routes that don’t have much traffic so it will be obvious if we are being tailed. And when they are convinced that we are in the clear, they’ll have us make the deliveries.”

“What if they take us hostage?” she asked. Storm noticed that her hands were trembling.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Windslow said. “You have him to protect you—and my six million.”

Storm added, “I’ll make certain nothing happens to you. Let’s go.”

Riggs National Bank was located about a block from the White House and could be seen on the back of a ten-dollar bill, behind the U.S. Treasury Building. Naomi Chatts, a senior bank official, met Storm and Toppers at the entrance and escorted them to the safety deposit vault in the building’s basement. Storm stayed outside the giant walk-in chamber, which was protected by a huge swinging stainless steel door. It was an older Diebold model that was three and a half feet thick and operated on a time lock. A beefy security guard was stationed at a desk next to the vault’s entrance, and Storm made small talk with him.

Ms. Chatts escorted Toppers inside the massive vault and then joined Storm and the guard outside the chamber’s entrance. About ten minutes later, Toppers appeared at the vault door lugging the four gym bags, two per each hand. Storm took the stuffed bags from her while Ms. Chatts ducked into the vault to make certain Toppers hadn’t accidently left anything behind.

“Can you have two of your guards escort us to our car?” Storm asked Chatts. There would be no way for him to carry the four bags and defend himself.

“Yes,” Ms. Chatts said. She had the guard make a telephone call, and by the time that Storm and Toppers had gone upstairs, there were two armed, uniformed officers waiting at the entrance for them.

“Please give my best regards to Senator Windslow,” Ms. Chatts said cheerfully as they exited the bank. The Taurus was double-parked directly outside the door. Storm put all four bags into the rear seat while Toppers took a seat in the front.

So far, so good. It was show time now. He needed to stay alert. To watch for some tip off, some clue to the kidnappers’ identity. Something he could use.

As he merged into traffic, Storm checked his rearview mirror and spotted an unmarked Ford sedan behind them. He drove the Taurus to K Street, which was often referred to as the city’s main street because of the many law firms and lobbyist offices that bordered it. The Ford stuck with them. Storm was going West on K Street along with a steady stream of rush hour drivers.

Suddenly, he swerved off the main thoroughfare into the entrance to an underground parking garage. He turned so quickly that he nearly hit a woman walking on the sidewalk. She jumped back and shot him the finger as the Taurus raced down the lot’s ramp.

As soon as the car reached the garage attendant’s station, Storm leaped from it, tossed the keys to one of the workers there, and grabbed the four gym bags from the backseat.

“C’mon!” he hollered to Toppers.

“Where are we going!” she shrieked.

“Follow me! Now!”

Storm rushed down the parking ramp to a basement exit. With Toppers chasing after him, he ran up two flights of concrete steps to a street exit that opened into an alley behind the office building. He dashed out and hurried down the alley to Nineteenth Street NW—a one-way street filled with southbound traffic. The bored taxi driver who stopped for them didn’t bother getting out of his cab. Instead, he pushed a remote button to pop the car’s trunk. Storm tossed the four bags into it and got into the backseat with a now breathless Toppers.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“State Department and we’re in a hurry.”

“Everyone is,” the cabbie said. “That’s what’s wrong with this country.” The driver, whose taxi license was on display, was from Ghana, and he launched into an immediate monologue about the ills of America’s rushed society. Storm ignored the mindless chatter. He was looking at the alleyway to see if anyone had followed them. He didn’t see anyone.

The cabbie abruptly stopped talking, and when Storm looked at the car’s rearview mirror, he saw why. The driver’s eyes were locked onto Topper’s breasts, which were heaving as she struggled to catch her breath from running.

“You might want to redirect your eyes to the road,” Storm suggested.

Storm again glanced behind the cab to see if the Ford was behind them. It wasn’t. He had a hunch that the men inside it were now in the parking garage having a frantic conversation with FBI Agent Showers. She would have known that a ransom drop was being made as soon as Storm traveled from the Dirksen SOB to Riggs National Bank. Why else would he go there? Storm assumed that she had immediately sent two special agents to tail them. At that point, Agent Showers had made a critical error. She’d felt a false sense of security because of the monitor in the Taurus. She had not felt a need to flood the area with agents or call in air surveillance. Storm had not only abandoned the car in the underground parking garage, he’d also left the cell phone that Jedidiah Jones had given him on the vehicle’s front seat. It was probably ringing right now.

When the taxi was about a block from the State Department, Storm announced that he’d changed his mind. “Take us to the Jefferson Memorial,” he said.

As the cab continued south into the traffic traveling around the National Mall, Storm checked for tails. There were none. They had gone “black.”

“You guys married?” the cabbie asked when the cab stopped at a red light.

“No, we work together,” Storm said.

The cabbie caught another peek at Samantha’s cleavage. She was wearing black wedge leather slip-ons without stockings, a tight denim blue jean skirt, and a bright pink, short satin jacket that was layered over a cream-colored silk blouse and sexy black lace camisole.

“You’re a lucky guy,” the cabbie said as the light changed. “To work with such a pretty lady would be a pleasure indeed.”

Samantha smiled and said, “Thank you!”

Ten minutes later, the taxi reached the Jefferson Memorial parking lot. Storm took the four gym bags from the trunk and eyeballed the lot while the driver got out of the car to open the rear passenger door to Samantha, anxious to take a mental snapshot of those architectural marvels, no doubt
.

Confident that they hadn’t been followed, Storm led Toppers to the Ford cargo van that he’d parked here earlier.

“We’re taking this,” he explained, unlocking the doors. “Get in.”

Storm had just stored the four gym bags in the cargo area when the rhythmic voice of Rihanna could be heard coming from inside Toppers’s Lilly Pulitzer handbag.

“Your phone?” he asked her.

“Yeah.” It was 6 P.M. The kidnappers were calling right on time.

Toppers was so nervous that she dropped the phone while she was removing it from her handbag. She bent forward and snatched it off the floor mat.

“Give it here,” Storm ordered. He answered it.

A deep voice that sounded like Darth Vader said, “You got our money?” The caller was using some sort of voice changer software.

“That’s right. Where do you want us to go?”

“Arlington National Cemetery. Robert E. Lee mansion. Leave the first gym bag in a public trash receptacle about fifty feet from the house’s front entrance. There’s a National Park Service sign next to the trash can.”

The line went dead.

A trash container in a public park. It was an odd place for a drop. Or was it?

Pulling from the memorial’s parking lot, Storm headed west across the Potomac River into Northern Virginia. He glanced at Toppers. Her face was ghost white. She looked as if she were about to faint or vomit. When he lowered his eyes, he noticed that her tight jean skirt had risen up when she’d bent over to retrieve her cell phone from the floor. She was wearing a tiny red thong with white polka dots. She’d either not noticed or felt no need to readjust her skirt.

She was a distraction and he needed to be focused. He decided to do what he always did when a woman was distracting him, especially sexually. He would talk with her. He would calm her down. Then he could focus on what was important and not her taut little body, her freshly shaved legs, her muscular thighs.

“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Think about something else. Tell me about Matthew. Where did you meet?”

“We were in the same first-year English class. He asked me to have coffee. He kept his eyes on my eyes the entire time. Not many boys do that.”

Her candor surprised him. Why? Did he think she was so naïve that she didn’t understand how her figure affected men? How she could use it to manipulate them?

“What are you studying in school?”

“No one believes me when I tell them, because they assume that someone who looks like I do has to be dumb, but I’m studying mechanical engineering.” She laughed.

Good. He was breaking the tension. Helping her relax. Mechanical engineering. Curious.

Continuing, she said, “I know Senator Winslow thinks I’m stupid. He told Matthew that I was an airhead. But I’ve always been good with math and designing. I’m a whiz at reading and drawing blueprints.”

“Good for you,” Storm replied. “The senator’s a jackass.”

“Where did the kidnappers tell you to stash the money?” she asked him.

Her question set off an alarm bell. Although he’d heard her, he acted as if he hadn’t. He wanted to make sure that he’d heard exactly what she’d said.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Where did they tell you to stash the cash?”

He had heard her correctly.

“In an outside trash can,” he replied. “How long have you been engaged to Matthew? Tell me a little about your background.”

“He asked me three months ago. It was a total surprise. He wants to have a big wedding in Texas on a ranch.”

“You aren’t getting married in your hometown?”

“No. I lost my folks when I was a teenager. In an accident.”

“An accident?”

“An awful car accident. We were vacationing in Spain, where my parents had a house. My mom and dad and a friend of mine who was on vacation with us were killed by a drunk driver who swerved into the wrong lane. It was horrible.”

“You weren’t with them?”

“No. Everyone said I was lucky.” Tears began to fill her eyes. “I had a bad cold that night and stayed home when they went to dinner. I’d rather not talk about it.”

The Taurus reached a traffic circle. Storm turned from it into the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery.

“Is that where we’re going?” Toppers asked, looking at a house directly in front of them on a hill.

“Yes,” he replied. “That’s Lee’s mansion.”

A guard stopped them at the cemetery’s gated entrance.

“Sorry, you missed the last tour of the house,” he said. “It was at four-thirty.”

“ I’ve got friends buried here. Iraq,” Storm said. “We’ll pay our respects and tour the house some other time.”

“Take this,” the guard said, handing Storm a pamphlet. He waved them through.

The Robert E. Lee house was built in the early 1800s, in the Greek Revival style. Designed by one of the architects who worked on the U.S. Capitol, the stone mansion had six large columns holding up the front of its massive portico. When the Civil War started, the Union began burying fallen soldiers near the house because President Lincoln wanted the Lee family, including the Confederate general’s wife, who was living there, to see the graves when she looked out her windows each morning.

Storm weaved through the acres of white tablets, eventually making his way up the hill to the front of the mansion.

“There’s the drop site,” he said, pointing to a dark green outdoor trash container. It was overflowing with garbage.

Storm drove to it and scanned the area. No one was watching them. He picked up a gym bag and unzipped it. Toppers had carefully stacked one-hundred-dollar bills in neat rows. Closing the bag, Storm stepped from the still running cargo van and shoved the money deep inside the debris, covering the top with discarded newspapers.