Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

But she saw something else, too. She needed something else. “You know I will…on one condition.”

He knew what that was, and, to be honest, he wouldn’t want it any other way. “I know. Don’t think about that right now, though. I want to do it right. Proper, Miss Preston.”

Anne felt the squeeze on her hand, and the funny feeling low in her stomach. “Whew. Well, I guess this meal will be memorable for more than the food.”

“Thankfully,” Art joked mildly. He tried to look strong, sure of himself, stoic. But he knew the stupid grin on his face was shooting those attempts to hell. Time to set this subject aside until its proper disposition. “So, how are the Griggs’s?”

“Nervous, excited, sad,” Anne answered. “Darren especially, because of Moises.”

“The stupid kid,” Art said.

“Confused, G-Man,” Anne countered. She reached into her purse and pulled out the postcard. “And for that cynical transgression you owe me a favor.”

Art took the card and read it. At least he wrote home. “How so?”

“Look at the postmark — Baltimore. Being this close and not knowing exactly where he is is eating Darren up. I know you’re busy, but is there any way you could look into it? Or ask someone to?” Anne noticed a change in Art’s expression. “What?”

No. It can’t be him. “Suspect number four is a young black male, age seventeen to twenty-five, small frame, close-cropped hair.” He fits the description. “Suspect number four was seen in the vicinity of the NALF headquarters on separate occasions.” He fits the profile. “Subjects show evidence of racially tinged hatred, possibly brought on by injustices they have suffered at the hands of a different race, whether perceived or real.” And he’s in the area. Art quickly flashed on the tape of Trooper Fitzroy’s murder, on the unidentified face of suspect number four. Left rear. A kid. He compared it to the face of the young man he’d confronted that Monday before Thanksgiving. The young, angry man taking off. Dropping out. Just like the NALF did two days later, after doing the damage.

“Art, what is it?”

He couldn’t tell her this. It was only a suspicion. A “wild” suspicion, he tried to convince himself. “Nothing,” Art said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. “I just remember that night at dinner.”

“Right. That was a hard night.”

You stupid, stupid kid . “He was a snot.”

“So, will you?”

Art fiddled with the card for a second. He knew they could find out some things from it: the postal processing center it was handled at, what stores carried the type of card. That was about it. General information. Beyond that it would take some ground pounding. But first came the question of confirmation — or an attempt at it. “Can I hang on to this?”

“Sure,” Anne said. She sensed something in his tone, almost a reluctance to ask the question. But why would… Let him do his job, Anne . “Do you think you can use it?”

Art slid the card into a pocket and toiled over the truthful answer, wishing more than anything that it could be a lie. “I’ll do what I can.”

Art sat next to the ID technician as the woman manipulated the controls on her powerful computer workstation, trying to make the already enhanced image of suspect number four even clearer. Behind them Special Agent Rogers stood patiently.

“It’s the glare,” the technician said with resignation and apology, leaning closer to the twenty-one-inch monitor. On it the face in semi-profile was a far cry from identifiable. The lines that should be there to define the boundaries of the cheek and forehead were blended into the shadow deeper in the car’s exterior. This was further exacerbated by the reflection of Trooper Fitzroy’s spotlight off the back window. “I can’t make it any clearer. Even this wouldn’t hold up in court.”

“What do you think?” Rogers asked. “Could it be the Griggs kid?”

Art refreshed his memory by glancing at the police mug shot of Moises Griggs that LAPD had transmitted to FBI headquarters an hour earlier. That had been taken after the boy’s first and only arrest, for vandalizing the cars parked at a Beverly Hills church. Mild payback, Art thought. The Griggs kid was just getting his feet wet. Had he decided to dive in now? “It could be, David. I can’t definitely say it is, and I can’t definitely say it’s not.”

Rogers stared at the face for a moment, then shifted his attention to the postcard in his hand. “I can’t disrupt what we’ve got running and shift a good deal of our resources to look for this kid based on a less-than-absolute ID.” The agent looked again to the screen, but this time saw another face: the reflection of Art’s. “Unless you’re certain, I can’t.”

Art continued looking at the fuzzy image of what could be a young life thrown away. Could be. “I can’t be sure.”

“Sorry,” Rogers said. “Thanks for the rush, Sue.” He put a hand on the technician’s shoulder.

“I appreciate you looking at this, David,” Art said.

“That’s what I’m here for.” Rogers patted Art on the back, the action jogging his memory. “By the way, I’ve got some good news for you.”

“How so?”

“The secretary of state is going to be away from the State of the Union address and Director Jones is going to be with him,” Rogers explained. “Boys’ night out, I guess. Anyway, the director wants you to join them.”

“Me?”

Rogers nodded. “Somewhere, Art, you made an impression on the man. He heard you were in town and, well, when the director asks the likes of me if I can spare you for one night, I don’t see myself saying no.”

“David, that’s—”

“And if I were an agent about to move up in the world, I wouldn’t say no to the invitation.” Rogers punctuated the suggestion with a cautionary glare.

“I don’t like it,” Art said.

“Go,” Frankie prompted.

“Aguirre will be at the Capitol,” Rogers said. “Part of our supplement to Service security.”

“I’ll send you a postcard,” Frankie joked.

“Amusing, partner.”

Rogers suppressed a grin at the exchange. “So I’ll convey your acceptance?”

“Convey away,” Art said. He’d had to give in to worse things in his life. One boring night with D.C. types wouldn’t kill him.

Number 4387 Monroe was an extremely comfortable two-story colonial done in red brick on the outside and tasteful shades of white on the inside. Mustafa Ali was admiring the latter as he let Roger in the back door.

“Man, I hate this,” Roger said as the door closed behind him. “This breaking-in shit.”

Mustafa walked back to the kitchen countertop he’d crawled carefully over after having broken one pane of glass in the window to the left of the sink to gain access to the latch. He made sure the latch had been reset, then brushed some of the shattered glass onto the tiled floor, making a pattern that stretched to the refrigerator across the room. He reached into his pocket and removed a baseball, laying it on the floor near the large appliance. “Stupid kids should be more careful,” he said, then headed off through the house. Roger followed with a longish gym bag under his arm.

The bedrooms were obviously upstairs, so that was where they went first. There turned out to be three on the second floor, one of which was set up as a music room of sorts, with stereo equipment and a collection of old vinyl LPs and CDs that covered the breadth of the big band era. The next room they checked had to be the one Vorhees used. Its centerpiece was a surprisingly small bed with sheets and covers tossed haphazardly up over the pillows. The congressman wasn’t a neat freak at home, it appeared.