Father Night (23 page)

“The president,” Carson said as he turned his collar up against the increasingly cold breeze, “wants Three-thirteen shut down.”

“The president,” Waxman replied dryly, “is a nitwit.”

“Ridiculing him isn’t going to help.” Carson’s hands ached with the cold; he plunged them deep into his overcoat pockets, curling them into fists. “Of course we’re not going to shut down. But the action needs to be accelerated, and fast.”

“Tell that to the General.”

“I don’t have contact with the General,” Carson said, a bit too stiffly. “You know that.”

“Plausible deniability.” Waxman curled his lips. “A broken record.”

“You get it through his head. The president may be a nitwit, but he has the wherewithal to plow us all under, should he choose to.”

“Which is why we have you, Henry, his best friend and confidant.” Waxman softened his tone. “Listen, Henry, the best thing I ever did was to ask you to run interference for Three-thirteen with the president and, God forbid it should ever come to it, Congress. I’ve never lied to you about the purpose of Three-thirteen. You agree with us that the United States needs to insert its power into the Arab Spring before our enemies—Russia, China, Iran, and, more locally, the increasingly powerful Muslim Brotherhood. This president has proven that he doesn’t have the guts to do what needs to be done. We need Three-thirteen to turn the tide in our favor, to return us to our rightful place as the world’s premier superpower.”

For a moment, Carson watched the failing light and wondered if it was a metaphor for the striving of human beings. In the end, no matter what you managed to accomplish, darkness fell. “Say this for you, Waxman, you’re the only one of us who can handle the General.”

“You’re too kind.” Waxman’s voice was brittle. “The General is a vital part of us. Without him, this new incarnation of Acacia wouldn’t get ten yards, let alone where it needs to go.”

“If the president had any inkling that we had reconstituted Acacia—”

“Then it’s a damn good thing he doesn’t.”

Waxman shifted his hips, shaking circulation back into his bad leg. “Your friendship with Crawford is a two-edged sword, Henry.”

“Like most.”

Waxman’s lips twitched. “Which is why I don’t court friendships.”

“Nothing thaws you. You’re a sad case, Werner.”

“We’re all sad, each in his own way.”

Carson peered at him through the gathering twilight. “You’ll get the message to the General.”

“Good as done.”

“I’ll pass the good news along to His Nibs. With luck, it’ll keep him quiet until Acacia is launched.” Waxman looked out through the trees. “In the meantime, the General is putting the recruits through the last of their paces.”

“Poor bastards.”

Waxman barked a laugh that surely must have startled every fox in the park. “They’ll be well compensated.”

“The ones who come back.”

Waxman pursed his lips. “You’re in a particularly dark mood.”

“My niece is missing. Again.”

Waxman waved a hand. “Youthful indiscretion. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“She’s a candidate at Fearington. This isn’t youthful indiscretion.”

“Have you spoken to your friend Crawford?”

Carson ignored the jibe. “I want this on the down low. The moment I tell Arlen he’ll make calls and all hell will break loose.”

“So you want my help?”

“In this area, you have contacts I do not.” Carson hated having to ask Waxman for a favor. Being in his debt was not a desired position to be in. “Personally, I think she went off after Jack McClure. I don’t think she can live without him, and, frankly, this troubles me deeply.” Of course, he had contacted other members of Three-thirteen, first and foremost Lenny Bishop, but, strangely, Bishop could tell him nothing, other than that he had contacted Fearington’s commander on background as to where Alli had been in the hours preceding her disappearance. Based on that intel, he had men canvassing Fearington and taking interviews with those who had seen and spoken to her.

“Even odder, however,” he said, “is that she had been assigned a Secret Service agent to keep watch on her. He’s nowhere to be found, either.”

“Ah, yes, Dick Bridges.”

Carson was surprised. “You know him?”

“He hung himself a couple of hours ago.”

“What?”

“The General informed me. He wasn’t surprised. Bridges had been despondent ever since your brother was killed on his watch. In fact, this wasn’t his first attempt.”

“First Edward and now Alli.” Carson shook his head. “What a fuckup.”

“I’m sorry. Bridges asked for the assignment.” Waxman shrugged, leaning on his walking stick. “Lost out on what he saw as his last chance at redemption, is my guess.”

Lights snapped on inside the park, strings of buttery light illuminating bits of trees, shrubs, and rocky outcroppings, while keeping the rest in blue-black shadow.

Carson lifted his head. “It’s a long way home, in the dark.”

“We’ll find her, Henry.” Waxman briefly squeezed Carson’s shoulder. “You have my word.”

*   *   *

F
RAINE’S OFFICE
felt both abandoned and stifling when he entered it. A stack of messages were waiting for him, along with a pile of reports that required his signature before they were filed. Frankly, he had no interest in any of it. His mind was filled to the brim with his work for Secretary Paull. As he looked out through the glass partition into the large room, all of Metro seemed gray as ash, and as he observed the detectives moving to and fro, alongside the familiar file clerks, support staff, and the occasional uniform from downstairs, he realized that he was living in another world altogether. He was no longer part of their universe, and good riddance. Thanks to Paull’s faith in him, he had moved onto a larger playing field, one these people who worked for him scarcely knew existed.

He used his cell to call the kid.

“Still working,” Leopard reported unhelpfully. “This thing’s a fucking bitch.”

“Take a break, clear your head,” Fraine said. “And while you’re at it, get me whatever you can on a Milton P. Stirwith.”

“Who’s he?” Leopard asked.

“No one.”

Fraine spent a little over an hour making calls on legit Metro business and pushing reports from one pile to another without really knowing what he was doing. His mind was elsewhere. Day had lurched from gray dusk to charcoal evening, and he was wondering when he could get out of there when Detective Stoddart rapped softly on his door.

“Del, come on in.” He beckoned with his hand. “What’s up?”

Stoddart, a baby-faced man with pink cheeks and a fringe of ginger-colored hair, took a seat opposite Fraine. He had been Nona’s first partner. He told Fraine about his interview with Vera earlier in the day, what she had claimed happened, how there were no bodies, no witnesses, nothing. Nevertheless, he’d written up the report.

“And Ms. Carson?”

“No one knows where she is.”

“She’s Henry Holt Carson’s niece.”

“That fact hasn’t passed me by, boss. Which is why I checked out the area around the
Titanic
Memorial myself after I personally had delivered the report and the girl to Bishop.”

“Find anything?”

“Nada.”

“And Bishop?”

“He said the incident was now a matter of national security, that he was handing over the investigation to the Feds. He said to forget it ever happened.”

“Yet here you are telling me about it.”

Stoddart handed over a slim folder. “I made a copy of the report.”

“Since when don’t you follow orders?”

Stoddart’s dogmatic MO was what had led Nona to request a new partner.

“The allegedly missing woman is President Carson’s daughter. I liked Carson.” He shrugged. “Besides, I take my orders from you, not Chief Bishop.”

“You did good.”

“Thanks, boss.” He rose and crossed to the door.

Fraine looked up. “Del, by the way, how the hell did Bishop know the Bard woman had come to see you?”

“Info sarge in the lobby. She said he sent her up.”

“Name?”

“McNulty.”

Fraine nodded. “Thanks, Del.”

“No biggie, boss.”

Fraine started reading Stoddart’s report. He was so troubled by it that he reached for his cell to call Paull. It rang.

“Dude,” the Leopard said in his ear, “breakthrough.”

“I’ll be right over.”
Yeah, baby!
Fraine thought.

*   *   *

N
ONA HAD
just picked a gleaming, pearly morsel out of her lobster claw with a tiny fork when the maître d’ passed a slip of paper into Leonard Bishop’s hand. As she dipped the flesh into a small metal bowl of drawn butter, Leonard set down his knife and fork, opened the slip, and read it. It must have been brief, because he crumpled it immediately, pocketed it, and went back to his veal chop, which was thick as a brick.

Nona knew better than to make mention of it. In fact, she acted as if nothing had happened. They were seated in a prime booth in George’s Pentagon, a white-tablecloth steakhouse on South Hayes Street in Arlington. It was one of Bishop’s favorite dining spots, though as far as Metro HQ was concerned it was more than slightly out of the way. Maybe he planned it that way. Glancing around the warm, vaguely Colonial room with its crown molding and wainscoting, she recognized no one. It was as if Bishop did not want to be seen with her among his brethren. She could understand that. A man of his stature wining and dining a black woman could still cause some tongues wagging unpleasantly. He was taking no chances.

He took a sip of wine. When he set the glass down, he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you whether you’ve had any contact with Jack McClure.”

“What?” She was instantly on alert.

“Well, from what I’ve gathered, he and Secretary Paull were instrumental in getting you out of federal detention.”

“Is that so? I’ve never met McClure. And I never should have been in detention in the first place.”

“I understand that. I would have gotten you out, had I known.” He took another sip of wine. “But you’ve met Paull.” His voice was as light as if they were discussing the Nationals’ prospects for climbing out of the National League East cellar.

“Once. He was there when I was released. He said, ‘Congratulations,’ I shook his hand and said, ‘Thank you.’”

“And that’s it?”

Nona made a face. “He’s not my type.”

“Neither am I, but here we are.”

“Leonard, is there something—?”

“See if you can find out what McClure is up to.”

“How would I do that?”

“Ask your pal Paull—he’s McClure’s boss.”

“
If
I could even get to the secretary, he’ll ask me why I want to know.”

“Keep it simple,” Bishop said. “Tell him you never got to thank Jack in person.”

“What’s your interest in McClure?”

“Just do it,” he said sharply.

Five minutes practically to the second after he had received the note, Bishop wiped his lips, excused himself, and slid out of the booth. Nona followed him with her eyes until she saw him turn left past the bar to the bathrooms.

The moment he was out of sight, she rose and followed him. She paused at the curve of the bar, staring down the short corridor. There were only two doors, one for each gender. Otherwise, it was a dead end. Cautiously, she proceeded down the hall. A woman exited the ladies’ room, gave her a cool look as she went past. Nona stopped, then glanced behind her. No one was looking. She pushed inside.

Silently surveying the long narrow space, she saw three sinks and mirrors on her left, beyond which were the urinals. To her right, a line of old-fashioned wooden stalls. In between, a narrow window in the wall facing her, its translucent pane cracked open. She saw no one, but an instant later she heard Bishop’s voice, along with another, deeper, raspier one, emanating from the stall closest to the window.

Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, she crept close enough to make out what they were saying.

“… are two things I can’t abide,” Raspy Voice said. “Incompetents and dissemblers. Which one are you, Bishop?”

“Neither, sir.”

“Then how did you allow the Bard woman to slip through your hands?”

“I had her guarded by one of my best street sergeants. By the time I returned, she had caught him by surprise and was nowhere to be found.”

“Surprised him? How?”

“She pretended to be nauseous, then broke his nose when he handed her a trash can to be sick in.”

Raspy released a long-suffering sigh. “What was your response?”

“I have an all-points out for her.”

“Results?”

Bishop cleared his throat.

“I see. Bishop, need I tell you—”

“You don’t. Luckily, she didn’t see our people.”

“So she
says
. Do you believe her?”

“Impossible to tell. On a positive note, I’ll have a dependable line on McClure by end of day tomorrow.”

A significant pause.

“That’s welcome news. But your primary assignment was to cover our tracks today.”

“Apart from me, only one person in Metro is aware of the Bard woman. That’s Detective Stoddart, who took her statement.”

“No one else?” Raspy said with a good degree of disgust.

“Desk sergeant by the name of McNulty, and McKay, both belong to me.”

“And this Stoddart? Who does he belong to?”

“He’s part of Fraine’s team, but he’s such a straight fucking arrow he couldn’t possibly belong to anyone.”

“Fine and dandy,” Raspy said. “Just make sure. Loose shoelaces trip you up.”

“How d’you propose I do that?”

“Silence is golden.”

“Are you—”

“Take the initiative, Bishop. With the Bard woman and with Stoddart. It’s a rat-eat-rat world.”

The voices had risen slightly in volume, which meant the conversation was ending. Nona unlocked the door, keeping the latch up at a midway point. Behind her, she heard the stall door rattle. Bishop and Raspy were coming out. Outside in the corridor, she closed the door softly, then slid in her credit card, bringing it down on top of the latch, relocking it.

She was back at the table when a man she didn’t recognize emerged from the bar end of the corridor. She took a photo of him with her cell, sent it as a text message to Paull with the caption:
LB scrt rdv @ Georges Pent w/?,
then went back to her food until Bishop returned. His face looked pale.