Mark Gilleo - Sweat

Jake tried to say something else, but the words failed him, inaudible breaths escaping his mouth.

Al wiped his cheeks and both men watched the water rush by. “If Senator Day is involved with this girl and your father, then you are in very deep indeed. He’s a powerful man, even among senators who are generally power heavyweights.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I hope you’re wrong about the guy in the photo.”

“Why? What does this have to do with me? This guy in the picture doesn’t know me from Adam. This news story is in every major paper between here and Boston, but it was filmed over a month ago. Six weeks ago I was burying my mother and I hadn’t seen my father in six years.”

Al had already done the math in his head. “Don’t bet on your anonymity. It’s a small world.” He leaned back and rested on his hands, his double-jointed elbows fully extended.

“Did Marilyn ever mention the senator?”

“No.” Jake thought about the question. “Why?”

“Those newspapers articles represent a second explanation for the current situation,” Al said, trying to draw Jake toward his own conclusion. “Your father, Marilyn, the senator, the Asian guy…a pregnant girl.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Two American men in Saipan, one pregnant girl,” Al hinted.

Jake choked up. “The girl is pregnant with the senator’s child,” he said, the air rushing from his lungs in a moment of self-enlightenment. His face felt flush, his head light.

“Congratulations, you are smarter than you look after all.”

Jake took a trip into the same pensive darkness Al had just visited. “I should’ve figured it out as soon as I saw the fax,” he said. “That was around the same time we went out for dinner with the senator. I should have known.”

“It’s water under the bridge now, Jake,” Al said gesturing to the bridge above and the water below. Jake didn’t laugh. Al ran his fingers through his reddish brown hair, and threw his head back with a sigh. “Besides, I don’t think it matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“When did you get that fax from Wei Ling?”

“Ten days ago.”

Al took a deep breath. “She is probably dead already.”

“Dead?”

“If she isn’t dead, she is locked away somewhere beyond your reach. Beyond the reach of American law, the power of righteousness, civil liberties, all that good stuff.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you it may be too late.”

“Too late to help the girl, or too late to find out what is going on between the senator, my father, the girl, and this guy in the picture?”

“Jake, I’m going to spell it out for you very clearly. Be careful. For the next couple of days, be careful. If I were you, I would stay away from your girlfriend. Keep your head down for a while. Vary your routine. And you may want to tell your father what you know. He could be in danger.”

“My father is out of town until the end of the week.”

“Well, eventually he is coming back and unless you want to bury both your parents in one summer, you might want to warn him. Assuming he doesn’t already know.”

“Al, you’re officially scaring the shit out of me.”

“Good.”

“Good for whom?”

“Fear is a good emotion. It creates alertness.”

“I’m going to have to disagree with you. Fear sucks, Al.”

“It can be good…” Al said thinking. “Who knows, today might turn out to be one of the best days of your life.”

“Not unless we get a quick turnaround. The day is young and it’s going downhill fast.”

“You’re missing the point. Some people wait their whole lives for a day like today. A day where they learn they have the chance to be an honest-to-goodness, balls-to-the-wall, hero.”

Jake shook his head. “Maybe this hero is going to slip into his apartment, grab his sleeping bag, and join you right here at the Potomac View Retreat.”

“My door is always open.” ***

Jake left and Al dug through a plastic bag he kept on the shelf in the rafters under the bridge. He pulled out an old pair of running shoes, the treads almost completely bare in the path his foot followed as it hit the ground on the heel and rolled forward.

He slipped on the shoes with their bright yellow reflective trim and reached down to tie the laces. With the grace and lightness of a ballerina, Al propelled himself down the shore of the river. He passed the Jefferson Memorial at a six-mile-a-minute pace, and kicked it up a notch when he headed over the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

It was redemption time. It was time to join the world of the living.

Chapter 31

Detective Wallace walked into the lobby of the swanky office building on K Street with Detective Nguyen in tow. The pit stop at the security booth by the detectives in worn slacks and dated sports coats was a formality. Rent-a-cops weren’t prone to giving the police a hard time. Sooner or later they would need their help dealing with real crime—a pickpocket on the premises, vandals breaking a window, workers stealing office equipment. The rent-a-cops were there to look like the police from a distance, and to call the real boys-in-blue when the situation got out of control.

“We’re looking for Winthrop Enterprises,” Wallace said, flashing his badge and looking for professional courtesy.

The black guard, a man in his early twenties with long whiskers on his chin, smiled and pointed toward the elevator, looking down his arm and past his finger like the barrel on a rifle. “Take the elevator to the top floor.”

Detectives Wallace and Nguyen were the only people in the elevator without a shine on their shoes and a briefcase in hand. The presence of the detectives kept the morning elevator banter to a minimum. Lawyers can smell outsiders from a hundred yards in high winds, much less in the confines of an elevator. Three floors and eight departed lawyers later, the police’s recently-formed detective tandem had the elevator to themselves on the ride to the top floor.

The detectives stepped into Peter Winthrop’s kingdom and the receptionist gave her standard greeting. “Welcome to Winthrop Enterprises. How can I help you?”

Two long steps from the elevator and the detectives were at the counter under the Winthrop Enterprises sign, the silver wording gleaming with recently shined letters.

“Good morning. My name is Earl Wallace and I am a detective with the D.C. Metropolitan Police Force. This is my partner, Detective Nguyen.”

The receptionist turned serious, an almost forced demeanor. “May I see your badges, please?”

Detective Wallace gave Nguyen a subtle glance before both men reached into their respective jacket pockets and pulled their shields.

“Thank you, detectives.”

“We are conducting an investigation and want to have a word with Peter Winthrop,” Detective Wallace answered with an equally serious tone.

“I’m sorry, detective but Mr. Winthrop is not available. He is out of town on business.”

“When will he be back?”

“I believe he is in Prague until tomorrow and is making a stopover in London on his way back. Although I am not his secretary, I am pretty sure he is due back by the end of the week.”

Wallace didn’t like the receptionist. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“Me?”

“It will only take a minute.”

The receptionist looked around, turning her neck slightly and glancing out of the corners of her eyes.

“About Marilyn Ford,” Wallace added.

The mere mention of Marilyn’s name brought moisture to the receptionist’s eyes. She waved her hand in front of her face as if to dry any tears before they formed. Wallace looked at Detective Nguyen with one eyebrow raised. Wallace pulled out his notebook, ready to scribble.