Richard Castle - A Brewing Storm

“I heard about her on the radio driving to work,” Martin said, “but the senator doesn’t need to worry. We keep things pretty tight around here, especially at night. I’m the only officer on duty and all the doors except the front entrance are locked. No one gets by me.”

Retrieving his false credentials, Storm extended his hand and gave Martin’s a firm shake. “Officer Martin, I’m glad you’re on duty. It’ll be a pleasure working with you. Now, I’ll just take a seat in your lobby, and if someone asks to see Ms. Toppers, you can signal me.”

Martin hesitated. “I’ll need to call my supervisor about this.”

“No problem. Tell him I’m here in case one of those photographers manages to slip by you. They’re sneaky bastards, and this way, it will be my dick, not yours, on the chopping block if the senator gets angry.”

The thought of Storm taking the blame seemed to remove any doubts Martin might have had. “I guess there’s no reason to bother my boss. He gets cranky when I call at night.”

Storm smiled reassuringly. “I’ll just take a seat over there.” He pointed to a brown leather chair near the lobby wall where he would have a clear view. “If someone comes in who you don’t know — anyone — even a doctor or someone who claims they’re a new employee on your janitorial staff — you give me a nod.”

“We should have a code word,” Martin volunteered. “I’ll tell them, 'You’ll have to wait a moment before I buzz you in.’”

“That would be great. I hope your boss knows how fortunate he is to have you working here.”

“He doesn’t, but you’re right, he should,” Martin said, beaming.

Storm had dealt with people like Martin all of his life. All they wanted was a little respect, a little appreciation and some encouragement. If you gave them that, most would turn over state secrets to please you.

Storm took a seat and picked up a copy of the Washington Tribune from a nearby coffee table. During the next two hours, a handful of doctors arrived to see patients, but Martin recognized each of them.

Around 11 P.M., a rail-thin man, who looked to be in his late twenties, entered carrying a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. Dressed in blue denim jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a light tan jacket, he went directly to the reception desk without noticing Storm and spoke so softly that only Officer Martin could hear him.

The next sound Storm heard was Martin’s loud voice. “YOU HAVE A DELIVERY FOR SAMANTHA TOPPERS — IS THAT WHAT YOU JUST SAID?”

So much for the code. Why would a flower shop be making a delivery so late at night?

Storm sprang from his seat. Uncertain why the security guard had hollered so loudly, the deliveryman glanced around and saw Storm. Their eyes met and Storm sensed that the man recognized him, although Storm had never seen him. The man pitched the glass bowl of flowers at Storm’s face. Storm ducked and instinctively raised his right arm to block the vase while the deliveryman scrambled out the front door. The bowl struck Storm’s forearm and exploded when it hit the floor.

The deliveryman was fast, but Storm caught him twenty yards from the hospital entrance, just as he entered a nearby intersection. Storm tackled him from behind in a move that would have made a great NFL film highlight. The two men’s bodies hit the black asphalt hard near the center of the street. When Storm loosened his tackle around the man’s ankles, the suspect kicked him in the jaw.

Slightly stunned, Storm rolled backward to avoid another punishing blow and pushed himself up from the asphalt. His target was up on his feet, too. Storm lunged forward, but the deliveryman moved quicker than Storm had anticipated and was out of reach. In a well-practiced move, the man pulled a pistol from his belt.

Completely in the open and unprotected, Storm knew his assailant couldn’t miss at such a close range. With lightning quickness, Storm dove to his left just as the gun fired. The bullet sliced across his right shoulder, ice skating across the skin as if it were a surgeon’s scalpel.

Storm rolled as he hit the street and came up in a crouched position with his Glock in his right hand. He was now protected behind a three-foot-tall concrete barrier that construction crews had installed temporarily near the curb to protect themselves from traffic while on the job.

Suddenly, from behind him, Storm heard Officer Martin yelling an expletive. The security officer was lumbering toward them, his watermelon belly bouncing with each step. His voice caused the deliveryman to momentarily glance away from Storm and redirect his pistol at the oncoming security guard. He fired. Martin froze and screamed in terror.

Storm was about to return fire when there was a brilliant flash directly in front of him that blinded him temporarily. Simultaneously, he heard the sound of steel smashing into concrete, the breaking of glass, the last-second squeal of brakes and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.

The driver of a speeding BMW had swerved to miss the deliveryman, who’d been standing in the intersection, directly in the car’s path. The driver had lost control and the BMW had smacked into the concrete barrier protecting Storm. The impact had destroyed the car’s distinctive grill, peppered the air with shrapnel-sized pieces of broken headlight, and sent a narrow piece of chrome sailing into Storm’s left arm like a jagged arrow. Steam and smoke gushed from the engine and the car’s horn blared loudly.

Storm had not flinched or moved from where he was standing with his raised Glock. But the collision had blocked his view, and he now had a pencil-sized chrome spear stuck in his left bicep. He shifted his position for a better look into the intersection. The deliveryman had vanished. With disgust, Storm holstered his Glock and used his right hand to remove the chrome dart from his arm.

Lights popped on in the old row houses surrounding the hospital. A dog yelped. Through the car’s cracked windshield, Storm could see air bags. They’d saved the lives of the male driver and female passenger, but both were bloody and clearly dazed.

Storm looked behind him. Martin was still standing frozen on the sidewalk. The bullet had missed him.

“Get a doctor!” Storm called.

Storm tossed the tiny chrome spear in his hand to the ground and walked toward the terrified security guard.

“The people in the car need help,” Storm said. “Go back inside and get a doctor and nurses out here.”

Martin stared blankly ahead. “I’ve never had anyone shoot me!”

“You still haven’t. He missed.”

Martin noticed that both of Storm’s arms were bleeding. “He didn’t miss you.”

“Actually, he did. It’s just a flesh wound. We’re both lucky. Now you need to get help from the hospital. The people in the car are conscious but they’re injured. I’ll go check on them while you go inside. Call the police and fire department, too. And make sure no one sneaks in while everyone is paying attention to this accident.”

“OK, OK,” Martin replied. “You can count on me.” He started back toward the entrance.

Storm noticed a glint of light in the intersection. He assumed it was debris from the car crash until he saw that it was illuminated. As he got closer, he realized it was a cell phone. It had been knocked from the fleeing deliveryman’s belt when Storm tackled him.

Picking it up, he pushed its recent calls button. Storm recognized the first name that flashed on the tiny screen.

It was the final clue that he’d needed. Now he had all of the evidence. He had solved the puzzle, or at least a key part of it.

Special Agent April Showers exited FBI headquarters and made her way to the curb on 10th Street NW at exactly the same moment as Storm arrived in the rented Taurus.