Dead to the Last Drop (42 page)

“Take it easy. I know you’ve been through a lot, but Detective Hatch and I are well armed. So stop worrying and keep your eyes on the road. It’s going to get very dark ahead.”

Quinn ended the call, and I watched my driving, but I couldn’t stop worrying.

At a crossroads, the yellow light turned to red and I got stuck waiting for a dump truck to clear the intersection. By the time the light turned green again, Danica and Quinn had made that sharp right turn he warned me about.

I knew what was ahead of them, an empty, twisting, three-mile stretch that eventually forked into the interstate’s on-ramp. If that sedan was
going to mess with them, it would happen now. So before I made the turn, I gave in to my need to test my hunch.

I cut my headlights and slowed the van.

Trees and brush were now on both sides of me, with streetlamps far apart. Most of the road ahead was in shadow. The dark sedan was far ahead by now. With my headlights out, there was little chance its driver could see me.

Suddenly an arm came out of the driver’s window and slapped a portable magnetic bubble onto the roof. A pair of siren bursts shrieked and a speaker boomed—

“County Sheriff’s Office. Pull over.”

I sat back, relieved.

Quinn told me this might happen. Because he was taking a prisoner across county lines, he and Danica would have to speak to any local police that stopped them. The sheriff probably saw an electronic notice. But Danny had the e-warrant ready to show him.

As the silver SUV pulled over, the black sedan rolled onto the shoulder a few yards behind it.

Cutting my own engine, I came to a stop, too, more than twenty yards behind the sheriff. The road was empty and quiet, the trees and brush black, chirping insects the only sound. But I didn’t feel much peace.

For justice to be done, someone else needed to be sitting next to Katerina in that backseat. Quinn believed his boss had an accomplice. And so did I.

But who?

I closed my eyes and pretended I was back painting my greenroom mural, the picture frustratingly incomplete, like a puzzle almost done yet still lacking that final piece.

Remember, Clare, details matter . . .

My mind raced back through all the events that brought us here, the situations and people, tragedies and triumphs, frustrations and fears.

Someone in this story had the perfect edges to slip into place . . .

And then it hit me—

Who was at the Smithsonian the night Helen was poisoned?

The same man who was near the Village Blend the night Mr. Varma was killed. The same man who could easily make deals with lowlifes skilled at “Apple picking” and phone cloning.

The very same man who treated me like a MILK, making it look like I had an affair with Varma. And, while he was at it, making sure half the men on the DC Metro force knew what I looked like, so it would be easy to apprehend me after he framed me for his crimes!

Sure enough, the man who stepped out of his unmarked “sheriff’s” sedan was exactly who I thought it would be—Tom Landry.

No wonder the guy liked “older ladies.” No doubt, Katerina Lacey was sleeping with him on top of paying him handsomely for a few simple “favors.”

Landry was not in uniform tonight. His car was unmarked and so was he. In his dark pants and black T-shirt, he looked like the criminal he was, and I’d bet silver dollars to warm donuts the gun tucked into the back of his belt was not his authorized police weapon.

I popped the glove compartment and grabbed Quinn’s .45.

He’d taught me to shoot it. But I was no marksman. In a situation like this, I could hit Danica or Mike. Nevertheless, gun in hand, I climbed out of the coffee van.

As Landry approached Danica’s car, he reached for his gun. There were floodlights on his vehicle and he was blasting them directly ahead, effectively blinding Mike and Danny to his approach. When he stopped, far short of the driver’s window, and raised his weapon, I knew—

He was going to execute Mike and Danny, bullets to the head, in cold blood.

You son of a bitch!

I fired into the air.

The explosive sound bounced around in the trees like a nuclear blast. And because I fired over my head, the noise bounced around inside my skull, as well.

Landry turned.

I ran forward, firing over my head again. (You’d think you’d be ready for the noise after the first time. FYI: you’re not.) Now my ears were ringing like Stan’s cymbals after a jam session. Even my own voice sounded muffled as I shouted with all my strength—

“I know who you are, Tom Landry! I’m a witness to what you’ve done! You’re a
murderer
!”

My ears were shell-shocked, but not Landry’s. He heard me just fine. I knew because by now he was aiming his gun at me.

I froze, waiting for the shot.

When it came, it was Landry who spun in a circle, then crashed to the ground.

Danica was immediately out of the car and standing over him. Shouting for him to freeze, she stepped on Landry’s right arm as he frantically groped for his fallen weapon. She had to press the barrel of her gun to his head before he finally raised his hands in surrender.

As Danica cuffed a bleeding Landry, I realized she wasn’t the one who fired. That man was Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. He was standing on the other side of the hood, still gripping his service weapon.

His hand was steady, his aim true.

O
ne Hundred Thirteen

I
was back at the Village Blend, DC, savoring every moment of a daily routine that seemed forever lost just two short weeks ago. My joy was transcendent—so intense that the April sun streaming through the windows sparkled with a special magic. Food tasted better, desserts seemed sweeter, and the coffee I sipped was more comforting than I imagined possible.

My taste buds were so happy and honed that I used them to create my brand new Big Bold Beltway Blend. I couldn’t wait to try it out on a certain NYPD detective.

Still, when his SUV swiftly pulled up to my shop, I felt a sudden panic—a post-traumatic reaction to the events of the past few weeks. But my fears rapidly receded when Mike Quinn strolled through the front door with that smile meant only for me.

Of course, it wasn’t just my company he was anticipating. I’d promised the man a special treat, so I quickly ducked behind the counter to snag the last slice left in the display case, the one I’d set aside for him. Then I French pressed a pot of my new quadruple-B.

Five minutes later, Mike was sitting in the chair opposite mine, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His warm smile had morphed into an expression of sheer ecstasy after his first bite of Luther’s Black Magic Cake, followed by a Big Bold Beltway Blend chaser.

“You weren’t exaggerating, Clare,” he said between chews. “I don’t know what’s better, Luther’s outstanding chocolate cake or your amazing coffee.”

“I was sorry you missed the food when you skipped Abby’s performance, but at least you can sample the dessert.”

Mike, still in the throes of a food trance, wasn’t listening. “Upon consideration, the winner today is the cake. A sweet this satisfying is the perfect complement to sweet news.”

I leaned across the table. “Sweet news? As in . . . ?”

“Tom Landry was indicted this morning, on all counts, including the murder of Jeevan Varma and the attempted murder of Helen Trainer.”

“That is sweet news.”

“And it’s all thanks to you, Clare. If it wasn’t for your quick thinking, Danica and I would be six feet under your Underground Railroad.”

I shuddered at the terrible memory of that moment. The image of Landry’s gun barrel pointed at the heads of Mike and Danny still gave me nightmares.

“In the end, though, it wasn’t me who got Landry. It was that last drop in Helen’s cup . . .”

The same drop that incriminated me ironically proved my innocence.

A forensic team found the same poison used on Helen in Landry’s apartment, along with twenty thousand dollars cash, hypodermic needles, and the same grain alcohol that killed Jeevan Varma. After that, young Tom sang like one of those little bluebirds over the rainbow, telling the police all about his partner in crime, Katerina Lacey, in hopes of lessening his sentence.

“Landry’s going to spend a lot of time in the Lee County Federal Pen,” Mike declared, and he speared another delectable morsel of frosted chocolate cake with his fork.

“It’s a tragedy,” I replied. “I’m guessing Landry never intended to kill Varma.”

“Good guess. The plan was to knock the man out after his meeting with Katerina and steal back the two-hundred thousand in blackmail money,” Mike explained. “Landry got back the cash, but Varma tricked his killer. To ensure his safety, he gave Katerina a flash drive without the e-mails. When she opened it, all she found was the promise of a dead drop at a later date.”

He shook his head. “By the time Katerina realized she didn’t have the e-mails, Varma had broken into your coffeehouse, collapsed, and landed in the hospital, where he never recovered.”

“But why did Landry return to the crime scene?”

“After he took out Varma, he heard the report of your 911 call on his police radio,” Mike explained. “His goal was to influence the investigation and learn what Sergeant Price thought, while pretending to be a clueless young officer impressed by hot MILK.”

“Don’t remind me. All those cops staring. Goodness knows what they thought.”

“I have a clue, sweetheart. But Landry was doing more than slandering your morals. By then, he’d reported back to Katerina, and they worked out a scheme to put a frame around you for Varma’s murder. Then Abby went missing and it opened a window for Katerina to shove you through. She knew about your friendship with the First Daughter, and her acquaintance with the First Lady and perch at the DOJ put her in the perfect position to implicate you in a conspiracy.”

“Funny how Katerina never once considered that Abby was in love with Stan, or that she eloped. But something tells me the word
love
isn’t in that woman’s vocabulary.”

“No. Her favorite words were
sex
and
power
 . . .”

Mike was right, especially when I considered what Danica had told us about how she and Landry got together. To borrow a phrase from a jazz standard, she’d put young Tom in her spell the day he pulled her BMW over for a traffic violation.

According to Danica, Metro DC’s version of Internal Affairs had put together a background file on Landry. It appeared he always wanted to be a spy, but after a short stint in the military, Landry failed the Central Intelligence Agency’s psychological screening.

“He settled for a local career and got through the Metro DC police department’s psych screening, which isn’t nearly as rigorous,” Danny had told us. “The job was not as thrilling as he expected, but the uniform and gun gave him the trappings of power, and an air of danger.”

When a young, eager, and armed Landry stopped Katerina on a traffic violation, she took him to bed. Pillow talk about his CIA dreams ensued, and Katerina gained a useful drone by offering Landry “another way to serve his nation.”

Mike lifted his cup in a mock toast. “And once again, a big criminal mess comes down to unscrupulous underlings trying to get ahead by cleaning up a President’s past.”

Katerina’s fate was predetermined. With pressure to contain the damage to the Justice Department’s public image, lawyers convinced her to plead guilty. Now she was facing a twenty-year sentence in a medium security facility, with a presidential pardon unlikely, not with her story breaking in the press.

One of the President’s aides was forced to admit he’d hired Katerina
to “dust bust” (aka dig up dirt and neutralize it), during the President’s first run for office. The man credibly swore that he knew
nothing
of Katerina’s political targets or her phone cloning—a trick she learned, along with “parallel construction,” from an ex-Drug Enforcement Agency boyfriend who routinely used those tactics to secure Federal convictions.

“Katerina was like a cocktail party girl who became an ugly lush,” Mike said. “She abused a classic technique of law enforcement until it no longer resembled anything having to do with the law, and the word
justice
no longer had meaning beyond a tool for her own advancement.”

“So how do we prevent people like Katerina from doing the same thing again?”

“We don’t.”

Mike was right, I realized, thinking of pretty-in-pink Lidia with her demagnetized moral compass—another Katerina in the making.

“I guess the only thing this country can hope for is that men and women like you and Danica have the courage to blow the whistle.”

“It takes more than that,” Mike said with a little smile.

“What else? A bottomless cup of coffee?”

“That . . . and citizens like Clare Cosi, who care enough to demand the truth.”

Unfortunately, like Emerald City with its Great and Powerful Wizard, there would always be truths in Washington that the American people would never know.

“The Bathsheba Incident” would remain behind the curtain, part of our government’s thirty year e-mail archiving gap.

The flash drive I’d kept so close to my heart would stay in the possession of CIA officer Bernie Moore, who promised to keep it close to his vest as long as Abby’s mother agreed to stay off the girl’s back.

Madame put it all in perspective. “My dear,” she said one night at dinner, “when you think about it, this whole story comes down to a family drama. It’s simply the First Family!”

“Mail for you, boss,” Tito interrupted, dropping a stack in front of me. I quickly saw the reason for his wide grin. On top of the pile sat an elegant envelope with “The White House” embossed in gold as the return address.

I opened it and read.

“I just received an invitation!” Now my grin was wider than Tito’s.
“And this is one memento I can’t wait to frame and mount on our Village Blend wall.”

I showed him the embossed card.