Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“Thank you,” Chow Ying said again.

Even cold-blooded killers needed a little love. ***

It was three a.m. when Nguyen knocked on the driver’s side window of the unmarked car. It wasn’t until he tapped on the glass with his sizeable ring that Detective Wallace, sound asleep, jerked awake in the front bench seat. Nguyen laughed as Wallace thrashed his arms, hit the horn, and flailed even more. Cursing, Wallace rubbed his eyes. He pointed for Nguyen to get into the passenger seat.

“Son of a bitch.”

“You really ought to get that looked at.”

“What?”

“Sleeping on the job. Second time this week.”

“Sleeping on the job my ass,” Wallace answered, insulted.

“Okay, Sarge. Whatever you say. Any luck?”

“None. Not a single person has entered or exited that door this evening. Not one.”

“While you were watching, anyway?” Nguyen said, smirking. “How many hotels in D.C. don’t have patrons in the summer?”

“At least one.”

“Looks like someone is still awake in a room on the third floor,” Nguyen said looking up.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Uh-hmm,” Nguyen said, looking up through the windshield. “Could be our Asian guy is up there right now.”

“Or it could be a hotel guest watching porn.”

“With the lights on?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Wallace, no one is going to be up at three in the morning, watching porn, with the lights on.”

“How long you been working in this city?”

“Four-and-a-half years. But I have only been a detective for a year.”

“Well, I’ll tell you from firsthand experience that there are people in this city who would watch porn at three in the morning with the lights on. And whether you want to believe it or not, there are people who would watch porn and pleasure themselves in DuPont Circle in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon.”

“Nice image. Are you ready to go home and get a few hours sleep?” Nguyen asked. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

“We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’re going to the Capitol. Time to rub elbows with the bigwigs.”

Chapter 35

“You have a stack of mail on your desk, and I have a list of people who called while you were gone.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” Peter said to Marilyn’s replacement as he passed by without stopping.

The master of his domain missed his former secretary. His emotions went beyond their personal history, their years of working together. Peter loved Marilyn for one reason above all others—she was the only person he had ever met who was as anal as he was. She would have never left a pile of mail on his desk. The mail would have been filtered, sorted, labeled, and stacked in order of importance. Peter realized it was going to take years of training before he had another Marilyn. And if he was going to have to train one, they might as well be young and beautiful. The clock was ticking on Shelly, the replacement executive assistant.

Peter found his chair and leaned back, the comfortable crinkle of handcrafted leather coinciding with a morning yawn. He listened to his voicemail, took some notes, and checked the calendar in his Euro-style day planner.

“I almost forgot this,” Shelly said, barging into the room unannounced. She handed the picture to Peter, who stared at the intruder with disdain. He was just starting his morning routine and didn’t like to be interrupted until he was done. He dismissed Shelly with a flick of the wrist and read the note attached to the picture. He stared at the picture of Chow Ying, an unforgettable figure from the not-so-distant past, and read the small digital signature across the bottom of the photo that stated the time, date, and location of the shot. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and perused the details on the police-issued business card. The connection was lost on him. Why in God’s name would a D.C. Police detective provide him with a photo of Chow Ying? And why was Chow Ying standing in front of an ATM two blocks away from Winthrop Enterprises?

Peter stewed for a few minutes before yelling out the door. “When was this picture dropped off?”

“Sometime earlier this week,” the receptionist answered.

“ No shit ,” he said to himself. Of course it was earlier this week.

“You’re fired,” he half-shouted, not sure if he meant it.

Peter did what any irrational person would do in his position. He started worrying about himself. He didn’t believe in coincidences. The only rule to coincidences was that there weren’t any.

“Mr. Chang, please,” Peter said, his ear on the phone, his eyes on the clock on the wall, his mind calculating the local time in Beijing.

“Mr. Chang has retired to his quarters for the night.”

“Please, wake him up. Tell him it is Peter Winthrop. Tell him it’s important.”

Peter tapped his sterling silver pencil on a pad of paper while he waited. “Mr. Winthrop,” C.F. Chang said with a surprisingly spry voice for someone who had supposedly been in bed.

“Mr. Chang. Sorry to disturb you so late.”

“Not a problem, not a problem. If one wants to play on the international scene, one has to make certain accommodations for the time difference.”

“True. Very true. And how are things on the international scene, Mr. Chang?

“Good.”

“Working the angles as always?”

“Of course,” C.F Chang answered with a pretentious laugh.

“Would Chow Ying be one of your angles?” Peter asked, taking off the gloves.

“Chow Ying? I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Sure you do. Chow Ying is here in D.C. Please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me you didn’t know. A man of power like yourself. A man in your position.”

“Thank you for the compliment, but I still don’t know what you are referring to. I was under the impression that Chow Ying was in Saipan.”

“Well, he’s not. He is right here in D.C. And do you know how I know this?”

“Mr. Winthrop, I am afraid that…”

“The D.C Police left a picture of Chow Ying with my receptionist, Mr. Chang. The D.C. Metropolitan Police.”

The words sunk into C.F. Chang like a needle slipping into the side of a balloon. Images of walking into the Oval Office and shaking hands with his close personal friend, President Day, started to fade. C.F. Chang had no idea how Chow Ying had ended up in a police photo. But as a long-term asset, Chow Ying’s value had reached complete depreciation.

“Chow Ying works for my son, Mr. Winthrop…”

“Very well, then. I will leave you with this thought. I hope, for your sake, that Chow Ying is here on vacation, Mr. Chang.”

“Mr. Winthrop. Your American bravado is surprising. You are so well cultured. So worldly. You should know better.”

“Mr. Chang, fuck ‘cultured.’”

“Let us not lose our professional decorum,” C.F. Chang said. “But if we are going to be rude, I will leave you with a thought of my own. Don’t ever threaten me, Mr. Winthrop. Ever.”

Peter wasn’t through. “In our last conversation I spoke of a particular employee that I was trying to locate.”

“As I recall.”

“Well, I believe this particular employee may put you in the position to have the undivided attention of a certain member of the U.S. Senate.”

“Mr. Winthrop, as you know, I pay a lot of money to have the attention of a lot of members of Congress. It is good business. Campaign contributions and lobbying are the only forms of bribery your country allows.”

Peter inhaled audibly through his nose. “Let me ask the question another way. How many other employees do you have working for you that are currently carrying the child of a U.S. Senator?”