Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

“Nope, that doesn’t work in Virginia.” Garr cuffed the man and told the woman to sit down. He pressed the PTT button on his radio. “Suzie,” he said, “I’m going to need another patrol car. I’ve got a couple of B&E’s on my hands.”

Ed Rawls watched through his binoculars as a second sheriff’s car pulled up, and two people were stuffed into the rear seat. He would sleep better, now.

Erik Macher arrived at his office in Washington, D.C., at nine sharp. His secretary, Ilsa, was already at her desk in the small office building where Christian St. Clair housed his lobbyists and other D.C. personnel.

“You’d better sit down,” she said, pouring him a cup of the strong coffee he liked.

Macher sat down. “Okay, I’m sitting, what is it?”

“Drake and Solberg got themselves arrested in Virginia last night.”

“What?”

“Breaking and entering. Apparently they weren’t exactly renting the house they were using to surveil the Rawls place. They’re being held in a sheriff’s substation in a wide-place-in-the-road village in Fairfax County.”

“First, find them a lawyer.”

“There’s one on the way. I told him we’re good for bail money.”

“Good, now find out who owns that house and get them on the phone for me.”

“A couple named Mark and Debby Denton. He’s an attorney on the legislative staff of the American Bar Association. She does something not too big at State. Before I call them, Solberg told me their story to the deputy was that the Dentons were on vacation in the Bahamas, and they offered them the house while they were gone.”

“Do we know anybody who knows the Dentons?”

“My sister works at State. Want me to call her?”

“Yes, please.”

“I already did. Debby Denton has offered to call the sheriff down there and tell them that she and her husband just got back from a vacation in the Bahamas and loaned the house to the couple for a tryst.”

“Why did she agree to say that?”

“My sister is her boss.”

“Tell her to make the call,” Macher said, “and tell Solberg I want her and Drake in this office by ten-thirty.”

“Right.”

Macher looked up from his coffee. “You’re a gem, you know.”

She grinned. “I know.”

At ten-thirty Solberg and Drake were in Macher’s outer office. “Send them in,” he said to Ilsa.

The two didn’t look very fresh. Solberg’s hair needed doing, and Drake needed a shirt and a shave. Macher didn’t ask them to sit down. “You broke into that house? Why?”

Drake shrugged. “Because it was there, exactly where we needed it, and we didn’t have time to find the owners and rent it.”

“You know how long it took Ilsa to find the owners and get them to back your story?”

Neither spoke.

“Ten minutes.” Macher wasn’t sure if it happened that fast, but it sounded good.

“We’re sorry,” Solberg said.

“Were you two screwing when the deputy arrived?”

“We were not ,” Solberg said. “He caught us out when I said we’d been watching TV. There wasn’t a TV in the house, and the deputy knew that.”

Macher shook his head in disgust. “What about Rawls?”

“No sign of him,” Drake said, “but he’s there.”

“And what evidence do you have of that?”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. And besides, I can feel him there.”

“You can feel him there?” Macher demanded. “Are you psychic or something?”

“Sort of,” Drake replied.

“Define that.”

“I look at the available evidence, and my mind forms a conclusion from that.”

“And how much available evidence did you have?”

“Rawls owns the house, his only other home burned down. It’s familiar territory for him, he would be drawn to it. Rawls is also known to be cheap, and it wouldn’t cost him anything to go back to his own house.”

“And that’s enough evidence to conclude he’s there?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not trying to convict him of anything, just establish his whereabouts. What I’ve got is enough for that, and there is no contradictory evidence to put him anywhere else. Ergo, the house is our best shot.”

Macher looked at the young man with new respect. “You’re right,” he said. “What do you propose we do from here? And no breaking in — we don’t need more trouble.”

“We can either surveil the house by a live satellite feed, or we can go back down there and sit on it until he shows his face. The satellite is too expensive.”

“Has Rawls seen you two?”

“We were in the house with the real estate agent. He might have watched us from some hiding place.”

“And being an old spy, he might just have such a place in the house,” Macher said.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, you two go home and get cleaned up, get a good night’s sleep, have some breakfast, if you haven’t already. I’ll put somebody else on the place.”

The two thanked him and shuffled out.

“Ilsa, please get me a longitude and latitude of the Denton house, will you?”

Ilsa walked into his office and placed a slip of paper on his desk. “There you go.”

Macher turned to his computer, opened a program that gave him access to satellites, and entered the coordinates. The program looked for a satellite, found it, and Macher watched the screen as the eye in the sky zoomed in on the Denton house. He clicked a couple of times on the zoom-out tab, and lo, the Rawls place appeared on the other side of the road. Then he zoomed in on that. There was a car parked between the garage and the house, hard up against a hedge. It wouldn’t have been visible from the Denton place.

“Ilsa, bring me Solberg’s report on their visit to the Rawls place.”

Ilsa placed a file on his desk, and he read it. Rawls or his ex-wife owned an old Mercedes that was reported in the garage. Ilsa was still standing there. “Please check the Virginia DMV and see if a car or cars is registered either to Rawls or his dead wife, and if so, make and model.”

Ilsa returned to her desk, and he could hear her computer keys clicking. She returned and handed him a slip of paper.

“A 1985 Mercedes E500 station wagon,” he read aloud. “Tan metallic paint.” Macher zoomed in tight on the car on his screen. “Bingo!” he said.

“You want me to put another team on the place?” Ilsa asked.

“He’s there,” Macher said. “Put two teams on him. If he drives someplace, follow him.”

“How far?”

“To the ends of the earth, but my guess is he’ll just go out for groceries.”

Ed Rawls went grocery shopping. There was no car in sight when he pulled out of the driveway, and he headed for the village. Fifteen minutes later he was patrolling the aisles of the supermarket with the store’s biggest shopping cart. He loaded the goods into the station wagon, went into the liquor store and bought a mixed case of booze, half of it Talisker.

He drove back to his house, and as he passed the Denton place he saw a van parked out front, emblazoned with a logo: “Jiffy Window Washers.” He was suspicious, but there was actually a man on a ladder washing the windows, so he continued home and put the car into the garage. It took four trips to get all the boxes and bags into the kitchen and the liquor into the study bar. He put everything away, then went into his study, switched on his reading lamp, and got out his throwaway cell phone.

“Martin Real Estate,” a woman said.

“Good morning, this is Edward Rawls. You have my house listed.”

“Yes, Mr. Rawls, we showed it a few days ago. I’ve been expecting an offer, but I’ve heard nothing. The couple loved the place.”