Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

“Honey, I don’t even have to move. Do I have to do anything with it?”

“Ignore it. I’ll call into it just before he arrives, and it’ll go right into transmission mode. I’ll be listening in from my cell phone in my car.”

“Anything you want me to ask him?”

“All I care about is that you seem genuinely interested in hiring Centurion Associates. That you have serious security concerns. The more complicated, the better. Maybe you have a stalker who won’t go away. They pride themselves on being able to handle difficult cases. Just be a tough customer.”

“Oh, that I can do,” she said. There was a flash in her eyes, and she gave a fierce smile, and I realized that I wouldn’t want to negotiate a contract with her.

I’d rented a silver Chrysler 200 because it was the most inconspicuous, anonymous-looking car I could find. I’d parked it across the street from Ellen Wiley’s town house and about a hundred feet down the block.

I sat there and waited. The traffic on N Street was two-way, but it was light. At ten minutes before eleven, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the curb in front of Wiley’s house, slowed, and then moved ahead seventy-five feet or so and parallel parked. I took out my binoculars and focused on the vehicle. I saw two men in the Escalade, the driver and a passenger.

This had to be Thomas Vogel, accompanied by someone from Centurion Associates.

They were early. They knew who Ellen Wiley was and knew she represented an excellent business opportunity.

I continued to watch them through the binoculars. I could see the passenger talking to the driver. The body language indicated that Thomas Vogel was the passenger, talking to a subordinate.

At eleven o’clock exactly, Vogel got out of the Escalade, slammed the door behind him, and walked along the sidewalk to Ellen Wiley’s town house. As he walked, facing me, I could finally see him clearly.

Vogel was tall, but not a giant, maybe around my height, six-four. He was wearing a good navy suit, white shirt, and red tie — very patriotic colors — and appeared to be powerfully built. He had salt-and-pepper black hair and a mustache. He walked with a confident stride. He was a man who was used to physically dominating those around him. I recognized his face from the fishing picture in Curtis Schmidt’s house.

Vogel climbed the three slate steps in front of Wiley’s front door and rang the bell.

The door opened after a moment, and the same uniformed housemaid let him in.

I hit a speed dial button on my phone, which connected to the phone number on the SIM card in the infinity transmitter. It didn’t ring. After a few seconds, I could hear faint voices. Then I heard the maid’s voice.

“Wiley will be right down. May I bring you some coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be great.” A booming baritone.

“Please have a seat. Mrs. Wiley likes to sit in that chair, so maybe the one next to it?”

Then, much louder, Vogel’s voice: “Thank you, ma’am.”

Then silence.

At the same time, I kept watch on the white Escalade. The driver was talking on a cell phone. I hadn’t expected a driver. This was too bad, because I’d brought a GPS tracker to affix to the car, and now I wouldn’t have a chance.

Then I heard Ellen Wiley’s voice, also loud and clear. “Mister Vogel, I’m Ellen Wiley.”

“Nice to meet you. Tom Vogel.”

“Stephen speaks very highly of Centurion.”

“He’s a valued client. My card.”

“Oh, metal! How clever. You could cut yourself with this thing.”

“It doubles as a self-defense tool,” Vogel said, and the two of them laughed.

I couldn’t see the license plate on the Escalade, so I studied the rear exterior for any markings that would help me later on. There didn’t seem to be any. The vehicle looked new. There were no scuff marks or dents, as far as I could tell at this distance. No stickers or decals. Non-tinted windows.

Wiley and Vogel talked. He asked about her homes, and she told him about her art collection. He asked her about any thefts she might have sustained. “We’re not like any other security firm you might have heard about,” Vogel said. “There are plenty of good security and guarding firms — Triple Canopy, Aegis Defence Services, Pinkerton, Securitas — any of the top-tier ones. Well, we do VIP protection, but we’re different. The thing you’ve got to understand is — we take care of problems. You want security guards? Hire security guards. You want a rent-a-cop? Rent a cop. We’re not about patrolling a beat. You get me? We play offense, not defense. We don’t stand at a wall and protect you from trouble. We make the trouble go away. It’s a very... specialized skill set. If you’ve talked to your friend Brookhiser, then I assume you have some sense of what we deliver. Problem solving . Taking care of issues so they don’t... exist anymore. And if I’m talking myself out of a job, so be it. It is what it is. What we do, it isn’t for everyone. Not everybody has the need for it. Not everybody has the stomach for it, frankly. Mrs. Wiley, tell me this is making you the slightest bit uncomfortable, and I’ll leave you in peace right now. This meet never happened.”

After thirty-five minutes, Vogel emerged from Wiley’s front door. I watched him descend the three steps and walk the seventy-five feet to the white Escalade and get in. Vogel and his driver chatted for about a minute. Then the Escalade pulled away from the curb and began making its way down N Street.

And I began to follow.

The trickiest part of a mobile surveillance is the very beginning. Start rolling too soon and the vehicle you’re following will make you. You’ll be burned even before you start. On the other hand, take too long to roll and you risk losing the target.

I’d waited until the Escalade was almost at the end of the block before moving. It turned right onto Thirtieth Street, and I followed. Thirtieth Street was two-way but narrow, with cars parked on either side. I tried to hang back, but even after slowing my speed, the Escalade was waiting at a long light at M Street. I pulled up immediately behind it.

I had no choice.

Now I’d have to disappear from view at some point soon.

I noticed the vehicle’s Virginia license plate and snapped a quick picture of it on my phone. Then the light turned green and the Escalade turned left, without signaling. M Street is fairly heavily trafficked, or was at that time of day. I turned left, too, and saw the Escalade up ahead. I slowed, pulled over as if double-parking, and waited for a few cars to pull ahead of me. When I could still see the Escalade, I swung back into traffic.

For several blocks, heading east, I kept a few cars between me and Vogel. We went over a bridge that spanned Rock Creek Parkway, taking us out of Georgetown and into the West End. The Escalade bore right onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I did, too, several cars behind, and soon we came to Washington Circle at Twenty-fourth Street, with George Washington University Hospital on the right. Traffic circles were a good place to lose a tail.

But the Escalade did not appear to be trying to lose me, which suggested that Vogel’s driver didn’t realize I was following. Which was good.

Washington Circle has traffic lights at every corner, which is annoying. Theoretically they’re synced, but nobody knows what they’re synced to.

In fact, Washington, DC, was deliberately designed to make it difficult for an invading army to move quickly from one side of the city to another, and to this day the traffic reflects that. Now a black Jeep was the only vehicle between us. That was fine with me. It provided cover.

At Nineteenth Street we bore left onto H Street, along with the rest of the traffic, because Pennsylvania Avenue is now closed to traffic in front of the White House. The White House was visible on my right, through Lafayette Park. On the left were St. John’s Church and the Hay-Adams Hotel.