Sweat (29 page)

Wallace walked into the station, greeted the staff sergeant on duty, and bee-lined it for the coffee pot. He filled up, and turned around to a grinning Nguyen.

“You gotta stop sneaking up on me. You're going to give me a heart attack for Christ's sake.”

“He has a son,” Nguyen reported, smiling ear-to-ear. “And I wasn't sneaking up on you.”

“Who has a son?”

“Peter Winthrop,” Nguyen answered, looking at the paper in his hand. “His son is named Jake Patrick, raised by his mother after his parents's divorce. The mother legally changed her name back to her maiden name after the split, and she switched the son's name as well.”

“Where is the son and why is he important?”

“Well, I was thinking about the phone in the church. How you said it was in the back, down a hall. It would be tough for someone to see it if they didn't know it was there.”

“Right.”

“Well, I went back to the list of parishioners that the priest gave us.”

“Let me guess, you found a ‘Jake Patrick' on the list…”

“No, but there was a Susan Patrick on the list. Forty-six-years-old. Recently deceased. Mother of one Jake Patrick and ex-wife of one Peter Winthrop. I ran a background check on Peter Winthrop, found out he had previously been married, and went back to the list of parishioner's from there.”

“So the son was the one that called.”

“It's as good a guess as any.”

“Well, after we visit the senator, let's find our good friend Jake. He has some explaining to do.”

The countdown clock to the vote on the Senate Special Committee for Overseas Labor ticked past the eleventh-hour mark. The demands of a week of ass kissing and trading votes for his future had taken their toll. The embroiled Senator Day sat in his office, reading the letter from C.F. Chang for the twentieth time. He stood from his chair with a stooped posture, like a boxer slowly rising from the stool in the corner, barely supported by wobbling legs. All he had to do was make it to the middle of the ring to hear the decision.

The senator had been battered in round one by the AWARE group and their vigor for protesting and newly found love affair with media attention. Their Alamo would always be the moment Senator Day detained fifty-plus Asian Americans in the hall of the Senate Building for no other reason than they were Asian. The group continued to stake out prime real estate near the Capitol and showed no signs of going quietly. Kazu Ito had given them a reason to come to D.C. Senator Day had given them a reason to stay.

Round two was a flurry of combinations to the head and body. The senator had been mugged by his colleagues, his political pockets picked clean. He had no idea Senator Wooten and Senator Grumman had such criminal tendencies. They were like prison guards who took advantage of their position with the inmates. And Senator Day had been the one wearing orange pajamas.

The middle rounds were waves of sharp jabs—personal injury with heavy bruising. His pregnant wife was vacillating between an emotional breakdown and demonic possession. His liver hurt, a dull ache between the eight and ninth ribs on the right side. To make matters worse, it was Dana's time of the month and for the last week he hadn't been able to shine the top of his desk with the back of her blouse.

The final round was the newscast and the questions surrounding the sweatshop. It was a punch the senator didn't see coming. Sure the senator knew the tape was out there, but it wasn't his intention to have it playing on the evening news, not with a pregnant sweatshop girl holding his future in her womb.

For the committee, the senator had done everything he could. He bought the votes he needed to buy. He knew his unseen master would be watching. Every committee recommendation was posted in the morning edition of a dozen Capitol Hill news rags and on twice as many congress-monitoring websites. His performance would be measured with perfect accuracy. Selling constituents down the river for a chance to win them back wasn't a new sport. It was congress at work.

Despite it all, the senator was still there. Everyone had taken their shots and he was still standing. All he needed was one call from DiMarco, and his life was back on track. He somehow managed an arrogant smirk.

But there was one more punch coming at the senator's head, a good old-fashioned haymaker, and no one was there to tell him to duck.

The cars snaked in single file, each one stopping at the temporary stop signs erected amidst the sea of jersey walls. Detectives Wallace and Nguyen flashed their badges to the Capitol Police officers who manned the roadblock with a level of seriousness rarely displayed by government employees. The one-way streets near the Capitol and its surrounding buildings were already a tourist's nightmare, and when the national terrorist warning level hit orange, roads started shutting down, sealing off the end of the maze where the cheese was stored.

“Streets around here open and close like a stripper's blouse,” Detective Wallace said, easing on the accelerator.

“That's the world we live in. Someone finds a few computer disks in a terrorist safe house in Pakistan, and the next thing you know you can't drive your car around the block.”

The detectives pulled into the back lot of the Hart Senate Building, showed their badges again, and approached the entrance to the building and the main security booth. A courtesy nod from the man behind the glass let the officers bypass the line of constituents waiting to be frisked on their way to see their duly elected public officials.

“I've never been in here before,” Nguyen said, embarrassed.

“It's just another building. I was here for a day about seven years ago. Some woman took a dive off the balcony in the atrium. Made a nasty mess on the marble floor.”

“Suicide?”

“It appeared that way. The woman was from Arkansas somewhere. Came to see her senator complaining about carcinogens in the water near her house. Twelve people in her neighborhood had come down with a rare form of leukemia, including her son.”

“A cancer cluster.”

“Yes. She had been blown off by everyone—her local politicians, the EPA, and finally her state senators.”

“I guess she got the last word in.”

“That she did. But I bet the blood on the floor was easier to clean than whatever was making people sick in her neighborhood.”

Nguyen approached the end of the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Can you make it to the third floor, old man?”

“'Old man' my ass. Keep moving,” Wallace responded. If he were by himself, he damn sure would have taken the elevator.

Wallace breathed hard with every step. The name of every state in the union was carved in the walls of the stairway, a star at the beginning and ending of each name. Nguyen ran his fingers across them as he ascended.

“Taxation without representation,” Nguyen said.

“What?”

“Taxation without representation. One of the tenets this country went to war over. Two hundred and some years later and we are still being taxed without representation here in D.C.”

“I guess,” Wallace answered.

“You don't agree?”

“I don't really care. Having a senator doesn't mean the citizens of D.C. would pay less taxes. Hell, we would probably end up paying more taxes. I figure if you are that hell-bent on having a senator, move to Maryland or Virginia. No senator has ever saved a state, and they sure as hell wouldn't save the District.”

The detectives stopped at the brown door with the Massachusetts state seal plastered on the lower third panel. A glass window with black writing further indicated they had arrived at their destination.

“After you,” Nguyen said, right hand extended.

Dana and the senator's bowtie-wearing page were standing at the main desk, banging on the side of the computer monitor when the detectives came in.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, how may I help you?” Dana asked, looking up with her hands still on the desk, offering a nice cleavage shot to the D.C. detectives.

Wallace forced himself to stay focused on her blue eyes. “We are detectives with the D.C. Police, First District. We would like to have a word with the senator.”

“And what is this in reference to?” Doug the Page said, before Dana could interject her mindlessness.

“We think the senator may have information that could help with an ongoing investigation.”

“Are you saying the senator has been the victim of a crime?”

“No, we are not saying that.”

“Is the senator a suspect in an ongoing investigation? If he is, I assure you he will want legal representation present before answering any questions,” the sniveling page pontificated. After the AWARE fiasco, the page had endured a long lecture on how to protect the senator from unwanted guests. The page tried to sound tough, tried to flex his legalese. Detective Wallace was unfazed.

“It is nothing of that nature. It will only take a minute.”

The page looked at the detectives as if considering the career impact of the request. “I'll see if the senator is available.”

“Thank you.”

The senator's head pounded and he gave his temples a brief massage with his index fingers. The detectives came through the door and the senator sprang to life. “Please, please come in, detectives.” Handshakes and introductions followed, and the detectives accepted seats in matching high back chairs at the senator's beckoning.

The detectives glanced around the room from their seats, and Senator Day let the spell from the magic of the room cast down on his visitors. The detectives were unaffected by the room, the senator, the aura of the building, and the view from the perch overlooking the Mall.

“Senator, if I may be so bold as to get straight down to business,” Wallace said.

“Please.”

“We understand you made a recent trip to Saipan with a man named Peter Winthrop.”

“Peter. Yes. We went in May. The second week in May, I believe.”

Wallace scribbled in his little spiral notebook. “How was the trip?”

“Great. Beautiful island. Wonderful people.”

“Did you have any trouble? Anything out of the ordinary happen?”

At the mere mention of trouble on the island, the senator started to sweat beneath his shirt. A combination of frayed nerves and his body's desire to expel last evening's alcohol. He thought about the girl with his child. Everything about the trip to the island was trouble. The senator tried to clear Wei Ling's face from his mind and focus on the room, on the detectives.

“No, nothing out of the ordinary. It was a quick trip. In and out in thirty-six hours.” The senator fidgeted in his chair before continuing. “Well, actually we did have one small incident…”

“My chief-of-staff had a waterskiing mishap. He has been out of the office on medical leave. Started with ACL reconstructive surgery and has moved on to a staph infection. He has been helping out as best he can via phone, but this is Washington, and out of sight is out of mind. It has been crazy here without him.”

“How large is your staff?”

“Thirty in total. But ten of those are in the office in Boston. There are twelve here full-time in the Senate Building. The rest are in a two-room office off Independence Avenue, south of the Capitol. Space is limited here on The Hill. I have a speech writer and communications group on one side of the suite, and on the other side are a few legislative assistants so nothing falls through the cracks.”

Detective Wallace produced the photo of the six men in front of Chang Industries. “Do you recognize the man on the right?”

“I don't remember his name, but he works for Lee Chang, the owner of the factory we visited. I called him the ‘Mountain of Shanghai' because of his size.”

“The Mountain of Shanghai?” Nguyen repeated.

“What did he do for this guy…this Lee Chang?” Wallace asked.

“I guess he's Lee Chang's right-hand man. Drives, handles employee relations.”

“Does he speak English?” Nguyen asked.

“Yes, quite well. Speaks with a slight British accent on some words, which I thought was odd.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

“No, why?”

“Any idea why he may be in D.C.?”

“None. Is he?”

“We have reason to believe he is in the city.”

“And what do you guys want with him?”

“We want to ask him a few questions.”

“Well, I don't know what he is doing here. He could be here on business. Have you spoken with Peter Winthrop? He could probably tell you more about him.”

“We have contacted Mr. Winthrop and he was out of town. He is still on our list of people to speak with.”

“I can make a few calls and see if I can't get his name for you.”

“That would be great, sir,” Nguyen answered.

“I'm sorry I couldn't be of further help,” the senator said, rising from his chair hoping the detectives would take the hint.

“Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else about this individual, please give us a call.”

“I will,” Senator Day said. “Could I keep this picture, detective? Maybe it will jog my memory.”

“It's all yours.”

Senator Day showed his guest through the door and past Dana and the page. It was obvious the senator's helpers had been straining to hear the conversation in the inner office chamber. With the guests safely in the confines of the elevator on their way to the first floor, the senator looked at the picture of Chow Ying and called Dana and the page into his office.

“Is the man on the right the same man who dropped the envelope off last week, before our little encounter with the AWARE group?”

“No,” the page answered.

“Are you sure?” the senator asked again.

“Yes, sir. I am sure. The man who dropped the envelope off for you last week was average size. This guy is huge. I definitely would have remembered him.”

“You'd better be right. I have taken all the surprises I can handle for one term.”

The page took the insult to heart. Then he tried to be helpful. “By the way, sir. Rumor has it that the AWARE group is going to keep protesting right through the week. Just so you know.”

“Thanks, Doug. That is just wonderful fucking news.”

Detective Wallace flashed his badge to the departing mailman who held the door open for the two officers. Inside, Wallace stopped in the small landing at the front of the building, looked up the stairs, and then back at Nguyen. With a completely straight face Wallace asked, “No elevator? I already went up one flight of stairs today.”

“Sarge, you need an exercise program,” Nguyen answered, sliding by his partner and starting upward.

“I already have one,” Wallace answered, head down as he lifted each leg.

“What exercise program is that?”

“Trying to avoid my wife.”

“How's it going?”

“It's tough. She has pretty good aim throwing things around the house, and I'm not as quick as I used to be. She's angry because I've gained two pounds a year, for twenty-some years. She claims she doesn't remember hearing ‘for fatter, for thinner' in our wedding vows.”

“Two pounds a year?”

“Like clockwork.”

“Slow and steady, heh?” Nguyen said, with perfect respiration, legs moving in an easy tempo.