Favors and Lies (27 page)

—

Dan drove his security-laden Mercedes SUV up Glebe Road from Ballston. The car handled like a drunken pachyderm. Weighing in at nearly eight thousand pounds, its pavement-crushing heft was twice that of a normal vehicle its size. Armor plating, reinforced framing, and two-inch glass added weight. The diplomatic tags were an added stroke of insurance. Police in most jurisdictions around DC didn't bother cars with diplomatic tags. Red lights, speed limits, and double yellow lines were all optional driving suggestions for those with diplomatic immunity. For the police, only the most egregious disregard for rule-of-law would justify pulling over a car with diplomatic tags.

Dan crossed Lee Highway, drove two blocks, and pulled into the main campus of Marymount University on the right. He maneuvered the car into a tight spot and the brakes worked overtime to stop the mass of metal before hitting the concrete curb.

Dan jumped from the vehicle and ignored the sign stating the spot required a parking decal. A minute later he entered the four-story all-brick Gailhac Hall and bounded up the steps of the wide staircase two at a time. On the third floor, he read the names of the faculty members on each door, walking briskly down the hall at a pace rarely seen in academia. The fifth door on the right read Professor Davis, PhD. Professor of Forensics. He looked at the class schedule taped to the door frame, checked the old-school clock on the wall, and headed for the listed classroom in the basement.

Dan peeked through the glass window in the wood door and watched as Professor Davis practiced perfect penmanship on the large whiteboard in the class. A class of approximately twenty graduate students sat smattered about in three rows of stadium seating. The students methodically copied their professor's pontifications on fingerprint matching, typing the information presented on the whiteboard into the laptops in front of them, forever transforming the class coursework into digitally stored files.

Dan waited for a pause and when Professor Davis posed a question to a startled class body, he slipped in the back door unnoticed. His anonymity lasted one heartbeat before Professor Davis identified his acquaintance in the back of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a visitor. Does anyone want to impress him with the answer to the question at hand? It is a fifty-fifty question. Doesn't get any easier than that.”

The students glanced over at Dan as they contemplated whether to answer. “What was the question?” Dan asked.

“The question is whether or not identical twins have identical fingerprints.”

Dan glanced around at the students before answering the question himself. “They do not.”

“Indeed,” Professor Davis said before excusing himself. “Ladies and gentlemen, I will be back in one minute. Pardon the interruption.”

Dan met the professor on the side wall, halfway down the small set of stairs.

Professor Davis extended his hand and then chided his visitor. “You could call in advance. Or even stop by during office hours.”

“No phone. No time. I need the files you have on Sue Fine. I can't get into my office at the moment and most of the information I had on her was there.”

Professor Davis eyed Dan with concern. “The files on whom?”

“My intern for the semester. Sue Fine. I think she may be in trouble.”

“I don't have a student by that name. And the internship program has been moved to the spring semester.”

Dan's stomach turned and a wave of nausea washed over him.

—

Dan covered the six miles from Marymount to Pimmit Hills in the time it took “Hotel California” to play from start to finish on the radio. He gunned the heavy engine through the neighborhood streets, hit the gravel driveway without braking, and stopped the armored car on the other side of a small moving van in front of Tobias's bungalow. The back door on the orange twenty-footer was raised and the contents of Tobias's house were stacked from the floor to ceiling.

“Tobias,” Dan called out calmly, not wanting to startle a spooked man with mental inconsistencies. He knocked on the side of the moving truck as he approached the cab and then turned towards the bungalow. The front door was open and as he reached the front step of the house he rapped gently on one of the porch columns. He slowly raised his voice and Tobias stumbled forward seconds later with a box full of multi-color computer cables. The spaghetti configuration of the wires told Dan all he needed about the expediency of Tobias's impending departure.

“Oh good. You got my message,” Tobias said.

“You disabled my phone.”

“Couldn't be certain you were even using that phone. I know you have a stash of prepaid throwaways. But just to make sure I got your attention, I also terminated Internet access at your office.”

“Can't use my office at the moment. Can't get to my pre-paid phones.”

“I heard about your little problem with exploding packages. Thought I had lost another acquaintance to be honest. Even raised a beer in your name and nodded to your memory. Then the news said there were no casualties.”

“Disappointed, I am sure.”

“Hard to get paid by a dead man. As you know, retirement is the only thing on my mind. And I'm too poor to retire, too old to start a legitimate career, and too rich to explain where all the money I do have came from. The only solution is to take as much as I can and get out of here.”

“Where you headed?”

“You could probably guess based on our previous conversation. Not sure how long it will take me to get there.”

“Moving is not a bad idea. In fact, I may be right behind you.”

“Not much choice. Our little search for the mystery phone number likely put this location on the map. And not a map I want to be on. I can't risk it. Where is your sidekick? You know I liked her more than I like you.”

“On that topic, we may have an additional problem. I'm not exactly sure where she is.”

“Did you take her to the mall and lose her?”

“No, the hospital. And as it turns out, she is not who she said she was, either.”

“If that means what I think it means, it's a good thing I'm leaving.”

“Sorry for the trouble.”

“I don't mind the trouble if I get paid. Did you bring my money?”

“No. But I have something better than that.”

“Better than money?”

“Better than the amount I owe you. I brought you a proposition for retirement. Potentially enough money that you will never have to unpack this truck. Just drive it out into the country and set it on fire. Walk away. Vanish.”

Tobias set the box in his arms down on the front porch. “You now have my attention.”

“Time to put your money where your mouth is. You know that football program you have. I need the football picks for this Sunday. All the professional games. What team wins. What team is going to cover. Whatever you can lock down.”

“Sixteen games in a weekend. How many do you need?”

“How many does Vegas get correct in a given week?”

“On average, ten. Five away teams. Five underdogs.”

“I need you to beat Vegas. Convincingly beat Vegas. And I don't have time for a long winded explanation of your data points. I need a list of your picks. And then I need you to prepare some sort of sales pitch.”

“Is that all?”

“No, actually, that is not all. Turn my phone back on and give me a number where I can reach you.”

Tobias grunted and motioned his hand for Dan to follow him into the house. A lone laptop sat on the counter in the pass-through between the living room and the kitchen. A small portable wireless printer sat on the narrow counter near the wall outlet. Tobias opened the lid on the computer, swiped his finger in the built-in fingerprint reader, and then pounded on the keys for a moment.

Dan felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “It's on. Now, print out this week's winners.”

Dan opened the phone and called Dr. Cathright. April answered on the third ring.

Tobias paused to eavesdrop on Dan's conversation and Dan waved his hand in a rolling motion to get Tobias back to work.

“Hey Doc, it's me again. I had some phone issues to straighten out.”

Tobias glanced at Dan with the evil eye and rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign for money.

Dan turned away and pressed the phone to his ear. “Any word on Sue?”

“I don't know where she is, but I know how she got out of the hospital. She swiped the badge from one of the doctor's coats while they were taking a shower. She dropped the stolen badge off with security on her way out the front door. She told the guard on duty she found the badge on the floor in the lobby. Security brought the badge back upstairs a while ago.”

“Clever girl.”

“But she still needed a passcode to exit through the main doors on this floor.”

“93765,” Dan replied.

“You little cheat.”

“Prudence. You know I don't like being trapped. And if I watched you punch in the code, then she probably did too.”

“Nice friends.”

“Oh, it gets better than that. I'll fill you in on the details later.”

“Be careful, Dan.”

“I'm always careful.”

Dan hung up the phone as Tobias handed him a printout. “Those are the spreads for the sixteen NFL games this weekend. And I wrote down a phone number where I can be reached.”

“How do you feel about these picks?”

“I don't feel anything about them. I trust numbers. It's not like I have a chicken in the backyard and make picks based on where it defecates. I have put more work into that program than anything I have ever done.”

“Good enough for me.”

“Now when exactly am I going to get my money?”

Dan stared intently at Tobias. “Listen carefully. Keep your crazy side in check, stick by the phone number you just gave me, and you can walk away into a very happy sunset. Clear your schedule for Sunday. Make yourself available. And don't screw with my phone until then.”

—

Spies Like Us was a surveillance store hidden on an alley behind an outdated Vietnamese restaurant. Three blocks from the Clarendon Metro Station—and enough drinking establishments to host a rugby championship—the development of the surrounding area did not bode well for a renewal of the shop's current lease. The shadow of burgeoning condo developments—starting at half a million for a studio—now reached the jet black door with the blue neon sign above the doorway.

Spies Like Us embraced the essence of the clandestine community. No store front, no window shopping. A door, a small sign, and fifteen hundred square feet of aisles packed floor to ceiling. Most of the customers were on the fringe. Private detectives looking for surveillance assistance. Wannabe spies looking for toys. The occasional voyeur looking, well, to get a better look. On more than one occasion Dan found himself at a locked front door during business hours, voices on the inside indicating the shop was open only to certain members of the public.

Dan parked the SUV with diplomatic immunity in the alley and looked both ways as he exited the vehicle. He estimated twenty yards of empty space in front of the car and another twenty yards behind. Enough space to get the eight thousand pound behemoth up to ramming speed, if an expeditious getaway was in order. Five feet on either side of the car was sufficiently tight to keep other vehicles from pinning him in while simultaneously putting a stranglehold on potential through traffic. Satisfied with the security of the location, Dan slipped through the front door of the shop.

The man behind the counter with wild, curly hair and a matching beard nodded in Dan's direction. Dan returned his standard greeting. As a private detective with an affinity for gadgets, Dan was a regular. In most establishments there would have been a personal relationship between the customer and the shop owner. When you drop fifty grand in a small business over a couple of years, the owner tends to want to know your name, remember your birthday, put you on a mailing list, offer you a drink. Spies Like Us did not. Despite clocking a hundred visits and doling out a stack of cash several inches high, Dan and the man behind the counter were stuck on the relationship equivalent of first base. Questions were asked, answers were given, and solutions and options were presented. Neither man elaborated. Dan always paid cash. Never offered his name. Skipped the chitchat.

Dan's eyes locked with the owner as he approached the counter. The man with the wild hair pushed aside a velvet-lined tray of wrist watches.

“Can I help you?” he asked with stoicism that hid evidence of any previous encounter.

“I'm looking for a remote camera I can use to monitor traffic flow at a high volume location.”

“Will the camera be mounted indoors or outdoors?”

“Outdoors.”

“Under an eave or in the open?”

“Exposed to the elements.”

“Distance requirements?”

“Up to a half-mile.”

“Remote control access of the camera?”

“Yes.”

“Service life?”

“Let's say a week, for sure.”

The man released a subtle “Hmm . . . Any size limitations?”

“No size requirements, but smaller is better. The camera will be hidden in plain sight and needs to be installed with very limited set-up time.”

“Hiding a camera in plain sight requires an understanding of the environment for appropriate camouflage.”

“The camera will be placed roadside. Major thoroughfare.”

“Infiltration and exfiltration of the camera done by vehicle?”

Dan looked at the man with intrigue. “Yes.”

“One-man job?”

“At this point.”

The man behind the counter stroked his beard and for the first time Dan noticed a faint military ensign tattoo peeking from the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“Let me summarize. Correct me if necessary at any point. You will be in a vehicle. You will need to stop and exit the vehicle. You will set up the camera, in a matter of seconds, and return to the vehicle, leaving the camera without anyone knowing you left said equipment behind. The camera will have to function, remotely, with sufficient memory to last a week.”

“Yes.”

“I'm just spit-balling here, but it sounds like you may be trying to take pictures of the entrance and exit behaviors of a secure location. An intelligence installation, perhaps?”

Dan tried not to act surprised and failed. The relationship with the shopkeeper had just taken a large step forward. They had left first base, the initial kiss behind them. As they closed in on second, the shopkeeper was looking to cop a feel.

“I may have just what you're looking for,” the shop owner continued.

The man stepped into the back of the shop, disappearing behind a plywood wall divider separating the front half of the store from the shelves of miscellaneous inventory in the rear. Dan heard a rattle of metal, a box hitting the floor, and the sound of breaking glass. Moments later the shop owner returned with a product brochure replete with a photograph and a diagram.

Dan looked at the diagram and then at the photograph of a gray stone about the size of a softball. “A camera disguised as a stone?”

“Field-tested and proven.”

“Is it heavy?”

“Doesn't do any good to make a fake rock with incorrect weight parameters.”

The man ran his finger over a small list of attributes written down the side of the product brochure. “It weighs just under seven pounds.”

Dan took his time reading through the small print of the product specs as the shop owner made his pitch.

“It meets your requirements. Most people don't give rocks a second look. They don't view them as trash. Most people with custodial responsibilities don't bother to remove them when they are cleaning up an area. Rocks are heavy. The most prevalent danger to a rock is someone moving it either intentionally or accidentally. That would obviously upset your camera view. The US intelligence agency was recently discovered to have used a rock with a camera in it to keep an eye on sensitive locations in Moscow. It was quite successful for many years.”

“What is the range for controlling the camera?”

“Virtually unlimited. The signal is cellular. You can program it to sync with your smart phone or computer. Just like a babysitter camera. It has focusing capability. It has a thirty-two gigabyte solid-state drive, but you can also save images and video to your computer.”

“That should work.”

“Problem is that I'm sold out. We had six of them earlier in the week. One lucky customer bought them all. I can have replacements in forty-eight hours.”

“How much?”

“Fourteen hundred even. I'll knock a hundred off because I am out of stock.”

“I'll be back for it on Monday morning.”

“It will be here.”

Dan looked down at the watches lying across the display counter. Various brands with various makes. Rubber, gold, titanium, black chrome.

“You need a watch?” the shop owner asked, picking up a platinum watch with an oversized face. He held the watch to his lips, opened his mouth, and exhaled onto the quartz face before wiping it with a cloth.

Dan replied. “I have a couple of watches at home already. I find myself wearing them less and less.”

The shop owner snapped the round bevel off the face of the watch and pulled, extending his hands in opposite directions. A wire unfurled with a quiet tick, tick, tick. “Do any of your current watches have one of these?”

Dan looked at the piano wire pulled taut across his field of vision. “A garrote?”

“Get it around the neck, hold tight, count to ten, and then on to the next guy.”

Dan felt another surge in the relationship between himself and the shop owner. As a couple, clothes were coming off and mouths were probing.

“What else do you have?” Dan asked, picking up a thick black chrome watch with a heavy rubber band.

The shop keeper with the wild hair smiled for the first time that Dan could remember. “What do you need it to do?”

—

Dan stepped from the store minutes later and looked down the alley in both directions. He checked the time on his new watch and smiled briefly at his acquisition. He pressed the remote on the keychain for the car and walked around to the driver's side with his head on a swivel. Dusk was on the horizon and as Dan reached the driver's door he thought he heard footsteps. Door still closed, he turned 180 degrees and saw nothing. He inhaled deeply through his nose and listened intently as the air escaped his lungs in a long, slow exhalation. He thought he caught a faint whiff of aftershave and unsuccessfully attempted to peer through the dark tinted windows into the back seat of the SUV. His spidey sense tingled again and he froze. He moved his eyes from left to right and then upward at the roofline of the buildings on either side of the car. He squinted at the condos on the horizon, and then opened the driver's door.

He put one foot into the car and before he could lift his second foot from the ground, he felt a sharp, brief pain in his lower leg. His eyes snapped downward and thought he saw the flash of a hand disappear beneath the vehicle. Dan reached for his leg and then fought to control his limbs. His head swooned and he dropped the keys in his hand and fell sideways across the front seat. Fighting for consciousness and losing control of his muscles, Dan watched in horror as Clyde Parkson pulled himself from beneath the vehicle, a hypodermic needle in his hand. Through increasing fog, Dan's eyes fluttered as Clyde Parkson put the cap on the empty syringe and slipped it into his breast pocket. The man in the suit casually glanced around and then shoved Dan's crippled body into the passenger seat.

Dan's eyes opened as the door shut. He watched as Clyde Parkson checked his sightlines in the mirrors and hummed quietly to himself. Dan blinked a final time and remained conscious just long enough to see Clyde Parkson flash his white teeth in an ear-to-ear grin.