Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“A number of years.” The response was short. Get the message, Jefferson. You don’t grill a United States congressman like this. You don’t grill me like this.

“Did you attend his funeral?”

Vorhees sneered at the question. Funeral? There’s your exit. “I was busy. Agent Jefferson, if you don’t mind, I have things to do. This is not a good night for me. I have to attend a good friend’s funeral tomorrow.” Poor John. Victim of a bump and rob. But why did they leave his new Suburban? The police were probably trying to figure that out, too. But at least the body hadn’t lain for weeks rotting in some wooded ditch somewhere. His killers were decent enough to leave him by a road. It had still taken more than two days to locate it. And now the congressman had to find a new orthopedic. “If you are so interested in Monte Royce, which you seem to be from your questions, then why don’t you talk to Senator Crippen.”

“We have,” Frankie said.

“Well, then you know more than I can give you already. He was closer to Monte Royce than I was.”

But you were the one to help Royce . Art thought on that for a brief second. Maybe Royce thought Crippen would balk at the request. Maybe not. It was just the luck of the draw. Vorhees had come up short.

“If you’ll excuse me?” Vorhees said, politely waiting for a nod, or some signal that his inquisition was finished.

Darian eased the Volvo through the intersection after pausing at the four-way stop, looking right past Moises at their next target. “Those are pigs. I can smell ‘em.”

Jesus! Moises slid a bit lower in his seat. That’s him. The FBI guy.

The Volvo passed through the intersection and continued down Monroe. Vorhees’s residence was eight houses down. Darian slowed as they passed. “Did you get the route down?”

“Yeah,” Moises said, coming back up in his seat.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” You can’t tell him that pig was in your house. Who’d believe that and not think you were a snitch? “When you said there were pigs there I got nervous.”

“Pigs are pigs are pigs,” Darian said. “They bleed, they die, just like anyone. Funner to kill than ordinary people, though.” He’d only killed one pig up close — several had died in the World Center attack — but he was certain that would change before too long. “So you got it?”

Moises tapped the marked-up map book on his lap. Three times now they’d followed the gimp on his nightly walk, and each time he’d taken the same route. He was either cocky or stupid, Moises thought. An easy target. An opportune target.

“Let’s get home,” Darian said, accelerating down the street as the sight of the waddling congressman became visible in the rearview. The pigs were done with him. But they weren’t.

Toby opened the long brown box and lifted the contents out with one hand. It wasn’t light, but it wasn’t heavy either. He knew that weight would be the key to making this work. “Looks fake as hell, huh?”

John took the prosthetic limb, cradling it with both hands. It was roughly flesh colored, though one could tell by appearance that its surface did not approach the softness of real flesh. To touch it one would know that its exterior was a hard plastic material. The top, where the stump of the limb amputated below the knee fit into a form-fitting cup, was heavier in balance, as was the bottom. At that end a crude foot was attached. It rotated on a metallic ball joint through only a front-back motion to allow the wearer to walk, though not naturally or comfortably. This was a clunker, John knew. Not a new model at all.

“Are you sure it’s the right one?” John asked.

“It was in the file, and the Africans said the doc confirmed it.” Toby touched the artificial limb. “And it’s a good thing I was able to find this used. They don’t even make this model anymore.”

“Used is better,” John said. “It’ll look natural.” But looks were only part of the equation. Function was another. That they would start with immediately. “We’ve got work to do.”

“In the garage, Pop?”

John headed that way. “That’s where the tools are.”

While his father and brother toiled with the work of the hand, Stanley Barrish availed himself of a more cerebral activity a hundred and fifty miles to the east. Namely, reading the paper.

The Wednesday Washington Post carried the information he’d been waiting for on page five, in a little blurb that barely used two column inches to explain. The Secretary of State. Well… Stanley had read enough about the ways of appearance-conscious Washington — far more than his older brother — to know that having the secretary of state not attend the State of the Union address deserved more exposition in the capital’s paper. Maybe that would come in the days ahead. It was only two days after Christmas, and this little tidbit had obviously been released by the White House to be buried while most of official Washington was away enjoying a long winter break. That might be so, but Stanley had all he needed to get started.

The first question to be answered was where? Where would the secretary of state be the evening in question? Would he watch the speech from the State Department? Probably not. It was too close to the actual event. From a secret location somewhere? If that was the case, there would be little he could do to find it. Stanley knew he had a talent for subterfuge, but he wasn’t a magician. So he had to focus on what he could do, on what he could glean from sources available to him. It might take time. It might not. But he wasn’t going to find the answer in the Virginia capital.

He left Richmond, where he’d stayed the night before, experimenting with the pleasures of a pretty young girl, and drove north to Washington after reading the morning Post . The trip on Interstate 95 took two hours to the beltway, then another forty minutes before Stanley crossed the Roosevelt Bridge to reach the District of Columbia proper. His first destination was a somewhat random choice. Almost anywhere with a public building would do, but there was one place not far that at least held some interest. A short jaunt up the Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway, past the Kennedy Center, brought him to that place: the Watergate. It was home to a dark chapter in American political history.

It was also home to banks of public phones.

Stanley Barrish parked and entered the Watergate with the Post folded under his arm and chose a phone at the end of a line of three. The two to his right were empty. He opened the Post to its listing of phone numbers and editors and circled the number for the city desk, dialing after checking that no one was in earshot.

“Editorial, city desk.”

“Yeah, this is Paulie Schwartz. Litton advanced optics. One of your photo crews needed a low-light lens, and I’m supposed to deliver it to the shoot site. But I don’t know where that is. Do you have the photo assignment desk number?”

“I’ll transfer you.”

Simple enough, Stanley thought. But that was the easy lie. The next one would require more guile.

“Assignment desk.”

Stanley looked to the photo credit under the largest photo on page five, reading the name into memory before speaking. “Yes, is…uh…Mr. Heidell in?”

“Chuck Heidell? Hold on.”

It was a chancy shot, to be sure, but Stanley was banking on the supposition that most photographers for a big city paper probably spent little time in the office. They didn’t take pictures of colleagues at their desks, after all. Out and about was their business. Or so he hoped.