Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“How large is your staff?”

“Thirty in total. But ten of those are in the office in Boston. There are twelve here full-time in the Senate Building. The rest are in a two-room office off Independence Avenue, south of the Capitol. Space is limited here on The Hill. I have a speech writer and communications group on one side of the suite, and on the other side are a few legislative assistants so nothing falls through the cracks.”

Detective Wallace produced the photo of the six men in front of Chang Industries. “Do you recognize the man on the right?”

“I don’t remember his name, but he works for Lee Chang, the owner of the factory we visited. I called him the ‘Mountain of Shanghai’ because of his size.”

“The Mountain of Shanghai?” Nguyen repeated.

“What did he do for this guy…this Lee Chang?” Wallace asked.

“I guess he’s Lee Chang’s right-hand man. Drives, handles employee relations.”

“Does he speak English?” Nguyen asked.

“Yes, quite well. Speaks with a slight British accent on some words, which I thought was odd.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

“No, why?”

“Any idea why he may be in D.C.?”

“None. Is he?”

“We have reason to believe he is in the city.”

“And what do you guys want with him?”

“We want to ask him a few questions.”

“Well, I don’t know what he is doing here. He could be here on business. Have you spoken with Peter Winthrop? He could probably tell you more about him.”

“We have contacted Mr. Winthrop and he was out of town. He is still on our list of people to speak with.”

“I can make a few calls and see if I can’t get his name for you.”

“That would be great, sir,” Nguyen answered.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of further help,” the senator said, rising from his chair hoping the detectives would take the hint.

“Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else about this individual, please give us a call.”

“I will,” Senator Day said. “Could I keep this picture, detective? Maybe it will jog my memory.”

“It’s all yours.”

Senator Day showed his guest through the door and past Dana and the page. It was obvious the senator’s helpers had been straining to hear the conversation in the inner office chamber. With the guests safely in the confines of the elevator on their way to the first floor, the senator looked at the picture of Chow Ying and called Dana and the page into his office.

“Is the man on the right the same man who dropped the envelope off last week, before our little encounter with the AWARE group?”

“No,” the page answered.

“Are you sure?” the senator asked again.

“Yes, sir. I am sure. The man who dropped the envelope off for you last week was average size. This guy is huge. I definitely would have remembered him.”

“You’d better be right. I have taken all the surprises I can handle for one term.”

The page took the insult to heart. Then he tried to be helpful. “By the way, sir. Rumor has it that the AWARE group is going to keep protesting right through the week. Just so you know.”

“Thanks, Doug. That is just wonderful fucking news.” ***

Detective Wallace flashed his badge to the departing mailman who held the door open for the two officers. Inside, Wallace stopped in the small landing at the front of the building, looked up the stairs, and then back at Nguyen. With a completely straight face Wallace asked, “No elevator? I already went up one flight of stairs today.”

“Sarge, you need an exercise program,” Nguyen answered, sliding by his partner and starting upward.

“I already have one,” Wallace answered, head down as he lifted each leg.

“What exercise program is that?”

“Trying to avoid my wife.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s tough. She has pretty good aim throwing things around the house, and I’m not as quick as I used to be. She’s angry because I’ve gained two pounds a year, for twenty-some years. She claims she doesn’t remember hearing ‘for fatter, for thinner’ in our wedding vows.”

“Two pounds a year?”

“Like clockwork.”

“Slow and steady, heh?” Nguyen said, with perfect respiration, legs moving in an easy tempo.

“That’s my motto.”

The stairs broke a moment of silence, creaking in pain as Wallace followed in the younger detective’s wake. Nguyen reached the fourth floor and looked back down at Wallace. The twenty-two-year veteran with a growing waistline was grasping the banister in an effort to both pull himself up and prevent himself from falling back.

“The exercise program starts next year, with my New Year’s Resolution,” Wallace managed through a thick cough.

“It’s July.”

“I know. Remember what I said, ‘slow and steady.’ I don’t like rushing things.”

Nguyen knocked on the door with three hard thuds. A few seconds passed before Wallace tried his special if-you-knock-loud-enough-someone-will-answer-even-if-they-are-not-home technique.

“I’m coming,” a voice said, agitated. The Wallace Theory proved correct again. He smiled at Nguyen who shook his head at the immature, albeit effective, approach of his mentor. Wallace pounded once more for good measure.

“I said I was coming, you don’t have to be such an asshole,” the voice said as it approached the foyer.

Robert Plant Everett, bong smoker extraordinaire and son of the self-proclaimed biggest Led Zeppelin fan ever, opened his apartment door and a visible cloud of smoke billowed out. Wallace and Nguyen turned and stared in disbelief at the lifelong student peering out through the haze. Door open, it registered in Robert’s rusted cerebrum that the visitors were pounding on his neighbor’s apartment. “Jake isn’t home,” Robert said, with long stretched syllables, a common speech impediment of a daily toker.

“Do you know where we can reach him?” Wallace asked, taking a step toward the neighbor’s door.

“That depends. What do you want him for?” Robert asked, eyes bouncing slowly from Wallace to Nguyen and back to Wallace. A mix of smells, none of which were appealing, poured from the apartment. A lava lamp cast a slowly flickering shadow that nudged against the doorframe. Nguyen stepped to the other side of Wallace and peeked into the stoner’s paradise. It was impossible to tell whether the twice-baked neighbor kept a bowl burning in his apartment or whether the smell was just “cannabis cling,” smoke impregnated into the neighbor from years of abuse.

Wallace pulled out his badge and shoved it in Robert’s face. The quick flash of the shield was too fast for the veteran stoner, and Robert’s brain tried to process what his eyes had just seen.

Wallace didn’t wait for a reply. “Where is he?” the detective asked.

“Where is who?’ Robert asked.

“Jake Patrick. Apartment 4-A,” Wallace answered.

“He’s not home.”

“We already covered this ground, bright eyes. Where is he?”

“He said he was going to be away for a few days. Said he had something to take care of.”

“Where did he go?”

“Out of town, I guess.”

“When did he leave?” Nguyen asked, perturbed.

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Then he left yesterday,” Robert said, trying to sound straight.

“When will he be back?”

“Wednesday, I think. He gave me his fish bowl and asked me to feed his fish while he was gone.”

“You two friends?”

“Nahhhhh. But Jake seems like an all right dude. For someone who doesn’t really party,” Robert added, once again no longer conscious of his audience’s profession.

Wallace looked at Nguyen. Let it go, just let it go , he thought, hoping Nguyen would read his mind. ***