Mark Gilleo - Sweat

The back door to the hotel led to an alley behind Eighth Street, too narrow for the oversized city garbage trucks to reach the trashcans, much to the chagrin of D.C.’s finest sanitation engineers. Chow Ying walked down the alley for fifty yards, cut across a small residential street, and followed another alley into the back end of Chinatown proper. He hadn’t seen the two policemen in their car for two days but he knew they were out there, moving their location, never parking in the same spot twice. He had seen the car giving Peking Palace the occasional drive-by from his dark hotel room window. Yes, they were out there somewhere. He felt it.

After wandering the neighborhood’s less aesthetic side and checking for Johnny Law, Chow Ying approached the black sedan from the opposite direction, slipped behind the wheel as elegantly as someone the size of an NFL linebacker can do, and reached under the seat. ***

“Pull around the block,” Wallace said to Nguyen. “We’ll wait on the other end of the one-way street for him to come out.”

“And then what?”

“And then we follow him.”

“We have been waiting to get our hands on this guy for over a week, and now you want to follow him?”

“Something’s fishy…and I’m not talking about the kind with scales in the market down the street. This guy has been lying low and now he has a car delivered to his doorstep? Something is wrong with this picture.”

Chow Ying familiarized himself with the car as he rode around the block and then took a slow drive up the narrow alley behind the hotel. He looked over at the back door he had used a dozen times, and slammed on his brakes to avoid a scrawny calico cat that darted from a row of trash cans.

“Where do you think he’s going?” Nguyen asked.

“I don’t know, but he’s being careful. Don’t spook him. Go around the block again and we’ll pick him up on the other side.”

The unmarked police cruiser lurked five cars back in light morning traffic. Most of the commuters pouring into the city came from the north or south, with a few million additional cars trying to squeeze down Connecticut Avenue. Chinatown was not a major route and the detectives were thankful for the quick pace on the road. Slow traffic was the perfect way to blow a trail. The slower the traffic, the more time the suspect had to observe his environment. At five mph, drivers tend to look around, check out their neighbors, take a peek in their mirrors. Nguyen checked the speedometer. Thirty mph.

The black sedan headed in the direction of the Mall and Nguyen voiced the only thought he had, “I’d pay money to know where this guy is going.”

“You and me both, partner. And I would love to know how in the hell this guy is behind the wheel of a for-hire sedan.”

“Maybe he is a legitimate driver.”

“My ass.”

“It’s possible. Maybe this guy has nothing to do with that woman who fell down the escalator.”

“Why did he cut his hair?”

“It’s hot as hell here in the summer. He was probably sweating his ass off.”

“You know how long it takes to grow hair that long? Years, man, years. You don’t cut that off unless you have a really good reason.”

“Well, Wallace, there is one way to put an end to all this speculation. We are just a flick of the siren away from the answers to all of our questions.”

“Not yet. Keep following him while I radio in.”

Wallace reached for the radio as Nguyen hit a pothole large enough to engulf half of the front right wheel. Both officers nearly hit the roof as the suspension succumbed to the laws of physics, the decompression of the springs sending the car bouncing upward.

“Potholes in July,” Wallace said, pressing the call button on the radio. He gave the information on the black for-hire sedan to the dispatcher who ran the plates while Wallace waited, eyes straight ahead.

Chow Ying jockeyed for position, changing lanes twice. He kept one eye on the road and one eye on his rearview mirror.

“It is registered to Capitol Chauffeurs, Sergeant,” the radio chirped.

“Do you have a phone number?”

“Just a minute.”

Wallace wrote the number in the notebook on his lap, the other hand holding the radio. He looked at the number he had just written and repeated it back to verify that he could read his own chicken scratch.

“That’s it, detective. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that’s all. Thanks.”

“Have a good shift.”

Wallace punched the phone number into his cell phone and followed the black sedan with his eyes.

In the middle of the third ring, an elderly woman answered the phone for Capitol Chauffeurs, proudly announcing the name of the company, followed by her own, Regina.

“How are you this morning, Regina?”

“Just fine,” she answered with the slightest hint of a southern twang.

“My name is Detective Wallace of the D.C. Metropolitan Police.”

“Yes, detective. How can I help you?”

“I need information on one of your vehicles.”

“Yes, detective. Our rates vary by the size of the car, but prices range from thirty to three hundred dollars an hour, with a three hour minimum.”

“No, Regina, no. I’m not interested in renting a car. I’m interested in one of the cars owned by your company.”

“I don’t understand, detective,” Regina said with more hints of her Alabama upbringing.

“Let me paint a picture for you. My partner and I are driving down Seventh Street right now, following a car that is registered to your company. I need you to tell me who is driving.”

“Is he speeding?”

“No, Regina. The car is not speeding. If I give you the license plate can you tell me who’s behind the wheel?”

“Is this some kind of prank?”

Regina was hard work. Her charming southern accent grew stronger, as did her natural propensity to avoid the question without trying.

“Regina. Let me give you my badge number and you can call the D.C. police to verify that I am, indeed, a detective.”

Regina took a sip of her morning glass of sweet tea without ice.

“Hmmmmm…” she said, drawing the sound out for a few seconds.

Wallace turned toward Nguyen and covered the small holes on his mobile phone. “This woman is killing me.”

“That’s fine, detective. I won’t need to call your station.”

“Let me give you the license plate number,” Wallace said, reading the tag number quickly.

“Could you hold a minute? I need to check the paperwork.”

“Hurry.”

Chow Ying pulled further ahead and Nguyen switched lanes trying to close the gap. He reached over and hit Wallace’s shoulder as the black sedan drove through the intersection with the green light thirty yards ahead.

“You lose him and you’re fired,” Wallace barked.

The police cruiser reached the intersection just as a marked car, sirens blaring, blocked both lanes of traffic. Nguyen hit the brakes and the horn simultaneously. A uniformed officer hurried out of his car and held out his arm in the universal traffic cop hand gesture for stop.

“What the hell?” Wallace said, pulling at the handle of the passenger door, phone pressed to his ear. Walking toward the officer, Wallace reached for his badge and held it straight out as more wailing sirens approached. The detective with more than two decades on the streets of D.C. looked up at the oncoming entourage and cursed.

The stretch limousine was sandwiched between four dark SUVs, blue lights flashing from the dash behind the thick bulletproof glass. Six additional patrol cars buzzed around the limo. On the front corners of the limousine stood two small flags—blue, white, and red in three vertical stripes of equal size. The car drove by quickly, the flags rippling in the air with a crisp snap, snap, snap. Wallace shook his head at the uniformed officer and got back in the car, phone still in his hand.