Favors and Lies (19 page)

“Stand up,” the man said, crossing his arms in front of Dan. The massive forearms were covered in black ink, the original artwork lost in a sea of pictures, letters and ideas applied hodgepodge over the years with prison ink and needles.

Dan looked up. The man frowned downward. Dan responded. “No disrespect intended, but I suggest you move on.”

“Move on? Shiiit, motherfucker. Where we movin' to?”

“I'm not looking for trouble.”

“I said, ‘stand up.'”

“And I said, ‘move on.' I could use the exercise and you aren't up for it.”

The man started a deep choking laugh and the air in the cell became charged. Spittle gathered in the corner of his lips. The dozing man on the bench next to Dan opened his eyes, stood, and staggered to the other side of the cell. Dan took the extra space and got comfortable. Two other men stood and took position behind their lead dog.

The standing perp announced his first movement while simultaneously calling Dan something that rhymed with “itch,” but was less scratchy. The man's arms unfolded from their crossed position and Dan saw the punch coming in slow motion. He moved his head to the right far enough to avoid the punch, raised his foot and powered it forward. Dan's foot drove the man's knee backwards as the man moved forward and the ligaments snapped. The man reacted and his attention fell to his joint, the pain reaching his brain. Dan reached up and pulled down on his neck, slamming the man's head into the bench next to him.

The two guys behind the injured man rushed forward and Dan shot from his seat, staying low and moving past the high punches that were coming fast.
Amateurs
. The first wave of punches missed and Dan was behind the two who were turning to refocus on their target. Dan took out a second knee, this time from the side, and followed that with an elbow to the temple as he spun 180 degrees. Three down.

“Are you finished?” Dan asked as two more men stood. The first man took up a boxer's stance and began throwing jabs. Dan blocked the punches, keeping his feet moving as the two remaining men tried to flank him.

“Fuck you, man,” the man standing in the rear said, raging forward past his boxing partner.

Dan dropped his center of gravity and drove his waist into the charging man's upper thigh. He simultaneously reached up and grabbed the flesh of the man's pectoral, ripping both shirt and skin. He pulled the chunk of muscle downward and the resulting flip sent the man's feet towards the ceiling before he crashed to the concrete floor, head first.

The boxer caught Dan with a hook to the left eyebrow, and Dan flinched and arched backward as an uppercut just missed its target. Dan blocked the next two punches as blood trickled into his left eye obscuring his vision. As the boxer continued his methodical approach, Dan glanced down at the second knee victim who was now on all fours trying to regain vertical positioning. Dan used the back of the man as a platform, jumping high enough to deliver a knee directly to the face of the boxer who was ill-prepared for an impact propelled by the strongest muscle group in the body. Dan landed on his feet as the boxer's eyes rolled into his head.

“Like I said, I am not looking for trouble.”

Dan glanced around at the carnage and wiped the blood from his brow. The stoned prisoner looked up at Dan from the bench, his eyes bloodshot. “You're bleeding.”

“I wasn't looking for trouble.”

“Found you anyway.”

Dan stepped to the toilet area and unfurled a wad of toilet paper. He patted his bleeding eyebrow and the toilet paper turned crimson.

—

“Jesus,” the guard in the security booth said to Detective Wallace. “What the hell was that?”

“A lot of knees. One elbow. Some kind of gravity-inducing throw.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn't know. But I needed to find out. Get someone in there. Tend to the injured.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Get him his own accommodations.”

—

Detective Wallace slid open the small window in the cell door and peeked into solitary confinement. Dan was lying on his side, eyes open, staring in the direction of the stainless-steel toilet in the corner. Wallace rattled the keys and Dan rolled over on the thin mattress, shifting his weight on the concrete slab that extended from the wall.

Detective Wallace pushed on the cell door and stood at the entrance with a guard on each side. One of the guards gripped a Taser. The other held an unholstered can of pepper spray. The men were at full attention, ready to unleash legal retribution for any resistance Dan may offer.

Wallace barked commands. “Please stand up, Dan. Hands on your head. Turn around and face the far wall. Cuffs are going back on.”

Dan complied as Detective Wallace slipped on the cuffs and steered him out of the room and down another cinderblock hallway. Detective Wallace gripped Dan's elbow and could feel a strength that belied Dan's size. Wallace flanked Dan as the four men traveled down the hall. At the elevator door, the detective gently pulled on Dan's arm to indicate they were stopping. All four men boarded the elevator and Wallace held Dan's arm, keeping his prisoner facing the back of the elevator. When the door opened, Wallace again pulled on Dan's bound wrists. Moments later, the detective nudged Dan through the door of another interrogation room. Wallace directed Dan to the metal chair on the far side of the table in the middle of the room. Standing next to the chair, he uncuffed Dan's hands and moved them to the front of his body. He glanced at the dried blood on Dan's shirt and reattached the cuffs. He motioned for Dan to sit and Wallace stepped back towards the door, never taking his eyes off his suspect.

In the hallway, Detective Wallace turned towards a red-haired woman in her late forties and extended his hand.

“Detective Earl Wallace.”

“Cathy Bailey. Assistant District Attorney.”

“Pleasure.”

“Is he good to go?”

“He's all yours.”

“You want me to go in with you?”

“No thank you, Officer.”

“Are you sure? He has the potential to be dangerous.”

“Is that why he has dried blood on his shirt and appears to have an injury over his eye?”

“There was a scuffle. It happens. This place lacks men of character.”

The assistant DA looked Detective Wallace over from head to toe and Wallace felt himself blush. After the silent slap on the wrist, the assistant DA continued. “Stand guard at the door. No one behind the glass. Attorney-client privilege.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

—

Assistant District Attorney Cathy Bailey stepped into the room and the door shut behind her with a resounding click.

Dan looked up, recognized the face, and smiled.

“You are Dan Lord?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Cathy Bailey. Assistant District Attorney for the District of Columbia.”

“I recognize you. Your face, at least. Your stockings are different from the knee high, red lace numbers you were wearing in the picture I saw of you. And of course, you're wearing the rest of your clothes, not decorating the room with them. The panties on the bedpost were priceless, by the way.”

The assistant DA walked around the table as she spoke. “I was sent here on behalf of Judge McMichael, whom you called. I have reviewed your case and the DA's office has chosen not to pursue your arraignment based on currently available evidence. You are free to leave.”

Dan was about to stand and the assistant DA gently pushed his shoulder down, forcing him back into his seat. “However, should the facts of the case change,” she continued, “should the authorities have further evidence linking you to any of the cases under investigation, your situation will be revisited.”

Dan suppressed a smirk. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“May I stand now?”

“I am not finished. Judge McMichael would like you to know that this is a one-time deal. The two of you are now even. The slate is clean. He knows who you are. Any further interaction between the two of you will be through normal channels and under normal circumstances, meaning he is a judge and if you should ever find your way into his court, you are . . . what is the legal term I am looking for?”

“Fucked.”

“Yes, fucked.”

“And I am sure you had nothing to do with this deal. Photographs of you knocking boots with Judge McMichael doesn't threaten you in any way?”

“I saw the photos. They could be anyone. Besides, the man has filed for divorce. We are consenting adults.”

“You are an assistant District Attorney who is banging a judge presiding over cases in your jurisdiction. I believe that is called a conflict of interest. And to be clear, the judge's ex-wife filed for divorce. The judge did not. So please tell the judge I am still in contact with his ex-wife and that portion of our arrangement is still intact. Also, please tell the detective outside I would like to have a sketch artist for an hour.”

The assistant DA nodded silently. “Now you can stand.”

“Thank you,” Dan said, moving his chair out and stretching his still cuffed arms upward.

The assistant DA finished another lap around the table slowly. Dan continued to stretch. “The judge wanted me to pass one more message to you.”

“What's that?”

The assistant DA's knee hit Dan's testicles with the punch of a mule kick and Dan crumbled onto the table, bent over, and then fell to the floor.

“That is from both of us.”

—

The assistant DA exited the room and Detective Wallace peered in the doorway to see Dan in the fetal position near the leg of the table.

The assistant DA looked back at Dan and then locked eyes with Detective Wallace. “He is free to leave. He's requesting the services of a sketch artist before he departs. I suggest you supply it. When he is done, return his belongings and show him the door.”

—

Motel Fifty had lost its name, the last knuckle on its grip on the past and the glory days of decades prior. The seventies had been a heyday—free sex, drugs, and political conversation in the buff for anyone with the wherewithal to pull into the modest parking lot and find the party in one of the rooms. But everything gave up the ghost eventually, and Motel Fifty had hung on longer than any reasonable hippie from back in the day could have expected. Surviving in the shadows of high-rise apartments and office buildings that had sprouted up in the Arlington corridor between Ballston and Rosslyn, most of the yuppies who now called that particular stretch of land home had never heard of Motel Fifty. For the patrons of yesteryear, the new name, Iwo Jima Motel, was an insult to patriotism.

Dan sat in the driver's seat while Sue took aim with the camera.

“OK. Let's run through a few things. How long in advance do you stakeout a location?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“The surroundings.”

“What do these surroundings tell you?”

Sue turned her head over each shoulder. “For surveillance, it sucks.”

“Why?”

“Well, the parking lot is U-shaped, surrounded on three sides by the motel. All the doors and windows for the motel rooms face the parking lot.”

“Which can be a benefit.”

“Sure. Probably not going to miss anyone coming or going, but if they're paying attention, they aren't likely to miss you either.”

“All true. Good. What else?”

“Behind us we have the relentless flow of Route 50. Good for an escape route, I guess.”

“Potentially good as a diversion as well.”

“I don't follow.”

“The human eye is drawn towards movement. So if we're sitting in a still car, with movement behind us, it is likely we'll be overlooked for movement in the scenery to our rear.”

“I hadn't thought of that.”

“Which is why I mentioned it. What about surveillance cameras? How many are there?”

Sue looked around, eyes darting. “I count two, one on each end of the building.”

“There are six,” Dan replied. “The two you saw, another on the light post to the right, and three more on the apartment on the hill behind the motel, though it may be too far to render detailed images.”

Sue counted all the cameras with her own eyes. “Well, there is nothing wrong with your eyesight.”

“Are you saying there is something wrong with the rest of me?”

Sue put the digital SLR camera to her eye to stifle her response.

Dan watched as the lens zoomed and focused.

“What are you doing now?”

“Just getting used to the equipment.”

“You should get acquainted with the equipment before the mission.”

“Standard operating procedure?”

“Common sense. You don't want to be sitting in a parked car with a camera to your eye any longer than absolutely necessary. And you sure as hell don't want to try to get comfortable with a firearm when the time comes for you to use it.”

Sue acknowledged the statement and then continued her observations. “You know, with this camera I can see into the apartments beyond the hotel pretty clearly. This parking lot, on the other hand, is so close to the motel rooms we could use one of those ten dollar instant cameras from 7-11.”

“It's not an ideal location. In a perfect world, we would be in one of the rooms, shooting through the blinds. But the layout of the motel doesn't allow it. The suspect could get a room on the same side, hell, even in the next room, and we wouldn't have a clear shot.”

“A hotel room
would
be better,” Sue said before realizing how it sounded.

Dan looked at Sue and then glanced away. “Keep your eyes open. Ten minutes until showtime.”

“What are we looking for?”

“A single individual checking into a room. Followed by a second individual arriving by car, knocking, and then entering the same room. And I have twenty bucks that says the first person seems a little suspicious.”

“Let's up the ante another twenty bucks and I say that same someone will be wearing a wedding ring.”

“I'm not touching that bet.”

—

The first car arrived at precisely two. A man with a brimmed hat and beige jacket moved quickly from his car to the motel office. A minute later he climbed the external stairs, disappeared for a split second as the staircase turned, and the reappeared on the balcony that surrounded the establishment. Without looking around, the man slipped the card key into the door of the first room near the corner.

“I didn't get a good shot,” Sue said. “He didn't look in this direction.”

“Almost like he knew we were here,” Dan replied somberly.

“They rent rooms by the hour?”

“Depends on management,” Dan said, before breaking off the conversation. “Check it out.”

A scene unfolded through the car's windshield. A taxi with DC tags pulled into the far corner of the parking lot, away from the motel office. A bleached blonde popped from the back seat and paid the driver.

“Why do guys always go for blondes?” Sue asked, flipping her brown hair before snapping successive pictures in action mode.

“Not always. Sometimes we can't choose,” Dan replied, nodding back in the direction of the cab.

A brunette appeared from the far door and Sue let out a small gasp. “Are you kidding me? It is a Wednesday afternoon. Does anyone work these days?”

“Two of them
are
working,” Dan corrected.

Sue continued depressing the shutter button as the women climbed the external staircase and entered the same room the man had entered minutes before. The door shut and Sue set the camera in her lap. “Now what?”

“We give them five minutes.”

“Why five?”

“Long enough to get down to business, but not so long as they might finish. These girls get paid by the hour, but the customer can only do what he can do.”

“It should be a once-and-done rule.”

“A once-and-done rule?”

“You get one shot. Once your gun is unloaded, the transaction is complete.”

“But there are two girls.”

“Fair point,” Sue conceded. “One shot per girl.”

“The guy probably popped a couple Viagra on the ride over. Wants to get his money's worth.”

“Men are pigs.”

“Not all men. And those who are, well, are just victims of their DNA. Men are like gorillas, bred to have a harem and to spread their seed to as many flowers as they can, so to speak.”

“Pigs.”

“Within society and its rules, men could be classified as pigs. But from an evolutionary standpoint, we are just doing what we're programmed to do.”

“That's bullshit. If I had a dollar for every man who blamed their lack of fidelity on faulty hard-wiring, I would be a rich woman.”

“So young, yet so cynical.”

Dan checked his watch and scanned the parking lot. Sue kept her eye on the door through the lens of the camera.

“Time to go. This is how it works. We are going up the same stairs everyone else went up. The stairs are in the corner and, luckily, close to the room if an expedient exit is required.”

“Is an expedient exit a possibility?”

“Anything is possible. At no time are you to get between me and the john. Is that understood?”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. I am your line of defense. That line should not be breached. You remain behind me and take pictures. If I have to use your name, I will call you Betty. You can call me Bob.”

“Betty and Bob,” Sue confirmed.

“Here is your situational reminder. If there is trouble and I tell you to get the hell out of here, you will not argue. Come down to the car, get in, and drive away. I don't care where you drive. There will be no questions asked.”

“All right,” Sue said, sounding concerned and annoyed at the same time.

Dan lowered the driver's window and left the key in the ignition. “Ready?”

“Hell yeah.”

—

Sue followed Dan up the stairs and stopped at the corner on the edge of the second floor. Dan flashed his palm for Sue to stop and headed down the exterior balcony to the first door. He knocked loudly once and then pushed open the unlocked door.

The blonde from the cab was standing in front of the mirror, primping, lipstick in hand, lips pouting, breast exposed. She flashed a look of surprise, her mouth open but muted. Beyond the blonde, the brunette straddled the man on the bed. Startled, the man swiftly pushed the brunette off his midsection and the woman bounced once on the mattress and thudded gently against the wall. Dan could hear Sue taking pictures to his rear.

The man on the bed lunged for his pants, which were hanging over the edge of a wooden chair. Dan stepped further into the room and kicked over the chair.

Sue entered deeper into the room, snapping photos like a paparazzi. The blonde escaped into the bathroom and fumbled with her blouse. The brunette gathered her clothes from the foot of the bed and stood facing the corner of the room away from the camera. Her fingers danced through snaps, zippers, and lace.

The man rolled from the bed, naked, soldier at half-mast, and threw a left elbow. Dan stepped back a few inches and the second hardest bone in the body flew by harmlessly. Dan kicked the back of the man's leg and the man went down in a pile of flapping flesh onto the floor.

“Relax,” Dan said.

“Fuck you,” the man replied, grappling at Dan has he stumbled to stand. Dan grasped an outreached hand and twisted the thumb back and upward. The man rose to his tiptoes. They were now face-to-face, one with a distinct situational advantage.

“Are you Alex?

The man grimaced, his weight at the mercy of Dan's grip, his thumb stretched to its natural limit.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Trouble, for you. If I don't hear what I want.”

The blond exited the bathroom as presentable as an office secretary on her lunch break. The brunette turned away from the corner, her display of professional speed dressing complete.

Dan looked over at the women near the dresser. “Ladies, if you don't mind, Alex and I have some business to attend to.”

The women gathered their pocketbooks from the dresser and Sue moved from her position in the doorway, edging into the room in the direction of Dan, keeping her boss between her and the man in the nude. Over his shoulder, Sue continued to take pictures until Dan said, “I think you have enough.”

Dan nodded at the women as they silently slipped out the door.

Dan changed his grip on the man's thumb, moving to manipulate the wrist. He kicked the man's pants off the floor and onto the bed. He noticed a wedding ring on the man's finger and motioned towards Sue. “Looks like you would have won your bet.”

Dan released his grip on the man's hand and pushed him onto the bed, next to his pants.

“It's not what it looks like,” Alex said.

“I'm sure it's not. But I'm not so sure your wife will see it that way.”

“My wife?”

“For starters.”

“What do you want?”

“I need your help. And obviously, you need mine.”

Alex muttered something under his breath and Dan's eyes widened.

“
You speak Russian
?” Dan asked in Russian with a Muscovy accent.

“
I am Russian
,” the man replied in his native tongue.

Dan felt the air rush from his lungs. “Russian?” Dan asked, switching back to English.

“Yes, asshole,” Alex answered.

A silence fell over the room. Dan stared hard at the man for a moment. The man's barrel chest heaved, his blue eyes measuring. “Betty, you need to leave,” Dan said.

Sue didn't move.

“Betty, you need to leave,” Dan repeated.

Again Sue didn't move.

Alex interrupted. “Young lady. I think the gentleman is referring to you by a cover name. You are Betty. I think he would like you to leave.”

Dan didn't flinch. “Leave now. I will catch up with you later.”

“I assure you, the girl is in no danger in this room,” Alex said coolly.

“Out,” Dan said forcefully, and Sue hurriedly exited.

Dan stepped back towards the dresser and reached back for the man's wallet without taking his eyes off the target seated on the bed. He pulled the license from the wallet and held it up between himself and Alex, looking back and forth at the man and the photo. “Alexander Stoyovich.”

“Not who you were expecting, I take it,” Alex said somewhat gleefully, pants still lying next to him on the bed.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“A fishing expedition, perhaps,” Alex said, more relaxed.

Dan's mind raced back to Haley and the conversation they'd had—before the throes of passion, the heated clutches of lust intensified by the illumination of the city lights in the distance.

“Perhaps you would care to share a drink?” Alex asked, motioning towards the round table near the wall. A vodka bottle was open, three glasses neatly arranged near the center of the table.

“Put on your pants, then stand, then move,” Dan said. “Slowly.”

Alex did as he was told. “In the chair,” Dan ordered as he stepped towards the man's rear.

Alex sat.

“Arms straight out,” Dan said. From his vantage point behind his target, he looked at both of Alex's arms briefly. “Left arm across your chest.”

Alex again followed orders and Dan quickly pulled several zip ties from his pocket. He grabbed Alex's left hand and attached it to the right armrest of the chair, crossing Alex's arm across his body.

Dan stepped back and moved deliberately to the chair on the other side of the table. He positioned the chair far enough from the table to react quickly to anything his new comrade may try.