Sweat (35 page)

“Goddamnit,” he said, picking up the radio. “This is Detective Wallace. I need to issue a BOLO on a black for-hire sedan, last seen in District one, heading south.”

Wallace panted his way through the car's tag number and the dispatcher echoed the letters and numbers. “Charlie, Papa, Four…”

Wallace finished his command to police dispatch. “Do not approach or stop this vehicle. I need the location reported back to me ASAP.”

Wallace threw the radio handset at the dash, cursed a string of vulgarities that would make a Hell's Angel member proud, and then reached over with his hand to hit the siren. The short blast of chirps and screams from the car was enough to clear a path through the intersection.

“Now let's find this fucking guy.”

A block from the Capitol and three hundred yards from Union Station and the train tracks that marked the beginning of the neglected northeast side of the city, the Russell Senate Building was the smallest legislation-making structure on The Hill. Erected in 1909, the Russell building had witnessed its share of historical moments—from the investigation into the sinking of the Titanic, to the Watergate hearing, to the Teapot Dome investigation that resulted in the country's first senator-turned-convict.

The Senate Special Committee on Overseas Labor met on the first floor of the Russell Senate Building. As a special committee, and thus temporary in nature, Overseas Labor didn't have its own chamber. Senator Day and the rest of the Overseas Labor Specialists were forced to share use of the Foreign Relations Committee's vestibule—a picturesque legislative room adorned with grand traditional ornamentation that was duplicated in fifty similar chambers around Capitol Hill. A wood-paneled wall climbed three stories to the ceiling above, creating an impressive backdrop for the committee chairman and his cronies to flex their legislative muscles.

The conclusion of a committee hearing was showtime for the senators involved. Final comments ranged from passionate to downright emotional. Every senator thrived on knowing they would have a chance to speak and, God willing, influence the law. At the very least, they would show their specialization of the topic at hand, self-defined brilliance gleaned from reading a few excerpts of investigations and research done by others. The glamorous lunches prepared for the final day of committee testimony did as much as anything to pack the house. After months of investigation and testimony, the committee's recommendation to the Senate was the final word before the feast and backslapping.

At eight-thirty, the chamber doors opened. The fruit plates brimmed in a colorful display of berries and melons, next to large trays of muffins mixed with a variety of pastries. Coffee, regular and decaf, served in real china, held its position on a smaller table next to the cream and sugar. Food for the kings while the commoners, who paid for it all, lined up at Starbucks.

The press filed in first, a half-dozen reporters representing an equal number of papers that included
The Post
and the Reverend Moon-owned
Washington Times
. The reporters were young, still-hungry new-hires who were blown off bigger stories and took whatever assignment came down the pike. They prepared their position in the unofficial press section, the first row on the right-hand side of the committee chamber. Notebooks were already pulled, pens in hand. Hand-held recorders were checked and double-checked. A three-person camera crew from C-SPAN set up their tripod and microphone on the opposite side of the room. It was standard operating procedure. Every committee meeting was filmed, every word transcribed, every opinion saved as a small piece of history. A warehouse in Silver Spring now held thousands of videos and boxes of verbatim transcripts and, with senators showing no signs of embracing brevity, they would be looking for a larger storage facility before the next presidential election.

At five before nine, the twelve senators on the Overseas Labor Committee strolled in, shaking hands, waving, winking. Lobbyists and lawyers, wearing suits from the same shelves of the same stores in Georgetown, filled half of the one hundred seats in the chamber. Those who were on the final list to testify had seating preference at the long table directly in front of the committee. Behind them, the first row was shoulder-to-shoulder with CEOs, human rights activists, PhDs from think tanks and universities that dotted the city. It was a who's who on International Labor, a list developed and edited ten times over, depending on who was taking what legal bribe.

Senator Day found his throne in the middle of the raised row of chairs. From their perch five feet in the air, the committee members had an indisputable psychological advantage. Physically looking down on witnesses as they testified gave the committee power. It didn't matter if those testifying had PhDs from Harvard or Yale. Everyone who wasn't a senator on the committee was a pissant. Their speeches would be heard, their testimony noted. And then the senators would mold legislation as they saw fit. Senator Day looked over at Senators Wooten, Thomas, and Grumman. In turn, all three senators returned the chairman's glance and silently acknowledged their prescribed agreement.

At precisely nine o'clock Senator Day reached to his right, raised his hand, and lowered the gavel with an authoritative bang.

Minutes after the siren parade in his rearview mirror, Chow Ying took two laps around the four-lane circle in front of Union Station to be sure he wasn't followed. On his third pass, Chow Ying slowed his car and pulled over in the pick-up lane among a mixture of taxis and similar black sedans. He reached for the envelope from beneath the seat and dumped it upside down on the passenger seat next to him. With his right hand he spread out the contents of the envelope, picking up the chauffeur license with his own picture and a phony name. The DMV-authorized license was beyond legal reproach, complete with the requisite holographic security image and magnetic strip. He read the forged company paperwork for the car he was driving, fondled a Senate-issued VIP parking permit, and glanced at the bonded-paper sign with “Senator Day” printed on it with a quality laser printer. He put the chauffeur license in his shirt pocket and picked up the lone remaining gift from C.F Chang, a piece of white office paper. He read the detailed instructions, an elaboration of the ones he had received on the phone. The instructions were neatly typed, without a single spelling error. Trust wasn't C.F Chang's strong suit.

Chow Ying started the car and headed east. He did one lap around Stanton Park, came down Constitution and turned the for-hire sedan right on Second Street. With the appropriate trepidation, he slowed the car to a crawl as he approached the Capitol Police barricade. His gun was wedged as far under the seat as it would go, ten grand and a passport in his breast pocket. If anything went wrong, he would make the afternoon news.

Chow Ying smiled and rolled down the window. “I am here to pick up Senator Day at the conclusion of the Senate Special Committee on Overseas Labor.” He handed the officer his chauffeur license and Senate parking permit. The overweight black Capitol police officer looked at the license and the Senate-issued parking pass. The officer peered at Chow Ying over his stretched waistline, checked the face on the identification a second time, and then handed the license back to its owner. Chow Ying held his breath.

“You can park anywhere in the back lot next to Union Station Plaza. Do not keep your car running, and there is no loitering outside the vehicle. Make sure the parking permit is on display and visible on the rearview mirror.”

“Yes, sir,” Chow Ying answered.

“Please open the trunk.”

Chow Ying took another deep breath and fumbled along the inside of the driver door until he found the lever for the trunk release. The lid of the trunk rose slowly as the officer put his hand on the back fender. Another officer, and former Marine by all appearances, started moving forward from Chow Ying's blind spot, running a mirror along the ground, checking the underside of the car for explosives. When he finished, he slapped on the passenger window. “Open the doors, please.”

Chow Ying tightened his sphincter as his mind turned toward the gun under his seat. He pushed the urge to panic aside and hit the door lock release. The officer opened the front and rear passenger doors. He looked at the spotless interior and yelled over the still open trunk to his partner. “He's good to go.”

The black officer shut the trunk and hit the top of the roof twice, sending the most dangerous man in the city right into the Senate living room. The fact that the Capitol and D.C. Police fall under different jurisdictions, under different edicts, with different dispatch systems was a security flaw that would have heads rolling by the end of the day.

The open-air parking lot on the far side of the Russell Senate Building held a hundred cars. A handful of mid-sized sedans with outlandishly bland colors stood out in the sea of black for-hires. Chow Ying pulled into a spot in the middle row, and put the car into park.

He read the instructions from C.F. Chang one last time, the information memorized. He folded the note and put it in his breast pocket next to his passport and money. He placed the sign for Senator Day on the dashboard, and hung the parking permit from the rearview mirror. He removed the gun, and with the firearm between his thighs, he checked the cylinder and confirmed that its six occupants were all accounted for. He leaned forward and stuffed the revolver into the back of his pants. He checked the car a final time before getting out slowly and looking around.

He walked across the lot between the black stretch sedans, reading the signs displayed on the dash of identical cars. J. Storm, CEO Asian Strategies, Ltd.; Senator Grimm, Ohio; Senator Albritton, Oregon; M. Higgins, CEO Republic Outfitters. The last car in the first row read P. Winthrop, CEO. Chow Ying got chills. C.F. Chang was a man who could get his hands on very accurate information. He had led Chow Ying to the spot, given him a car, and given him a time to make the kill. Now it was up to him. The only thing clear to Chow Ying was there would be no more excuses.

Chow Ying stopped at the pedestrian entrance to the parking lot and took in his surroundings. In his head he diagramed a potential getaway map. The outline of Union Station was duly noted, three hundred yards to the north. He could see the top of the Capitol in the opposite direction down the tree-lined street. He checked out the people on their way to work, and looked down at his own red tie. He couldn't complain about his outfit. He fit right in. Shuffling his feet with his eyes on his environment, Chow Ying bumped shoulders with a Capitol police officer who had the unenviable assignment of patrolling the sidewalk between the Russell Senate Building and Union Station.

The officer flashed a watch-what-you-are-doing glare, and the Mountain of Shanghai turned on his morning charm. “Excuse me, officer. Do you know where I can get a cup of coffee?” The officer held his stare on the well-dressed driver coming out of the VIP parking lot and answered. “Most of the drivers wait down the street at the L.O.C. Café. One block down, turn left just past the Justice Building.”

“Thank you,” Chow Ying said.

“Have a good morning,” the officer said, turning to continue his two blocks up, two blocks down foot patrol.

Chow Ying checked his watch. He was right on schedule.

Al pulled the seven-year-old white Dodge Caravan up the curb to an empty meter spot. Jake got out first and pulled open the sliding side door. He offered his hand to Kate, who stepped out rear end first. Al came around the front of the car and shoved a pocketful of change into the meter. All three helped Wei Ling from the van—hands on her arms, grasping her wrists, on her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, her first steps uneasy.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Jake asked.

“I'm fine,” she said, subtly shaking Jake's arm from its position on hers. “I can walk,” she added with conviction. Jake removed his arm and raised his hands.

Al checked his watch and looked across the street at the Mall and the fountain in front of the Capitol Building. It was quiet. He looked down at his watch again and shook his wrist.

“Is everything all right?” Jake asked.

Al turned his neck and looked east toward the Washington Monument. “They're late,” he said.

“Who's late?”

“Reinforcements,” Al answered.

“What reinforcements?”

Al didn't answer the question. “Let's go.”

Detectives Wallace and Nguyen drove around the city blocks near the Capitol, chasing black for-hire sedans that were as plentiful as beads at a Mardi Gras parade. They had received two possible sightings of the car over the radio and both had turned up negative. It was now approaching thirty minutes of radio silence.
Thirty minutes,
Wallace thought.
Our guy could be in Annapolis by now
. Wallace's disappointment penetrated the stale air in the car and Nguyen kept quiet, following orders as they came.
Turn right, go straight. Pull over…

Nguyen stopped the car in a no parking zone next to the Department of Transportation. Wallace smacked on the back of his soft pack cigarettes until one popped out. Nguyen offered him his Zippo lighter as a peace pipe for losing their suspect.

Wallace spoke through heavy drags and clouds of exhaling smoke. “Let's think about this for a minute. What do we know about this case? We have a dead girl, who may or may not have been killed. We have a suspect in the city driving a for-hire sedan that is not supposed to be on the road today. We have a videotape that shows the suspect with the only two Washington D.C. connections we can come up with. One of them is Senator Day, who I believe doesn't know what the suspect is doing here. The other is Peter Winthrop, a businessman who gives me an uneasy feeling. What am I missing?”

“The son, who was with the only victim in this case, and who we have been unable to talk to.”

“Yeah, the son. So we have three possible connections between our suspect and Washington D.C.”

“Still doesn't help us find our driver,” Nguyen said.

“Let's start over.”

“Start over?”