Mark Gilleo - Sweat

Al turned his neck and looked east toward the Washington Monument. “They’re late,” he said.

“Who’s late?”

“Reinforcements,” Al answered.

“What reinforcements?”

Al didn’t answer the question. “Let’s go.” ***

Detectives Wallace and Nguyen drove around the city blocks near the Capitol, chasing black for-hire sedans that were as plentiful as beads at a Mardi Gras parade. They had received two possible sightings of the car over the radio and both had turned up negative. It was now approaching thirty minutes of radio silence. Thirty minutes, Wallace thought. Our guy could be in Annapolis by now . Wallace’s disappointment penetrated the stale air in the car and Nguyen kept quiet, following orders as they came. Turn right, go straight. Pull over…

Nguyen stopped the car in a no parking zone next to the Department of Transportation. Wallace smacked on the back of his soft pack cigarettes until one popped out. Nguyen offered him his Zippo lighter as a peace pipe for losing their suspect.

Wallace spoke through heavy drags and clouds of exhaling smoke. “Let’s think about this for a minute. What do we know about this case? We have a dead girl, who may or may not have been killed. We have a suspect in the city driving a for-hire sedan that is not supposed to be on the road today. We have a videotape that shows the suspect with the only two Washington D.C. connections we can come up with. One of them is Senator Day, who I believe doesn’t know what the suspect is doing here. The other is Peter Winthrop, a businessman who gives me an uneasy feeling. What am I missing?”

“The son, who was with the only victim in this case, and who we have been unable to talk to.”

“Yeah, the son. So we have three possible connections between our suspect and Washington D.C.”

“Still doesn’t help us find our driver,” Nguyen said.

“Let’s start over.”

“Start over?”

“After we found the videotape, what did we do?”

“Started knocking on doors. Started asking questions.”

“So we ask them again.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Wallace opened his little notebook and flipped through the pages backwards. He folded down the top corner of one page, and turned three more pages.

“Got your cell phone?” Detective Wallace asked.

“Always,” Nguyen answered, pulling the black phone from his jacket pocket.

“You call Senator Day’s office and I’ll touch base with our friend Peter Winthrop.”

“And ask what?”

“Do routine follow-up. Ask the same questions we asked before. See if the senator is available for another face-to-face. Maybe something has jogged his memory. I will check back and see if Peter Winthrop has the name of our suspect yet. He should have had it yesterday.”

Detective Wallace called Winthrop Enterprises, bypassing the front desk and dialing directly into Shelly’s desk. Peter’s personal secretary answered with her normal perkiness.

As Wallace spoke, a broad smile broke across his face, breaking the curse of the morning’s failed tail. He hung up the phone and waited for Nguyen to finish his conversation with Senator Day’s office. When Nguyen snapped his black phone shut, Wallace jumped in.

“You’re not going to believe where Peter Winthrop is this morning.”

“At the Senate Committee Hearing on Overseas Labor?” Nguyen answered proudly.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Am I right?”

“Fucking A, you’re right. Russell Senate Building. Corner of First and Constitution.”

“You think we’ll find our big Asian there?”

“If we don’t, I’m buying dinner.”

“Deal.”

Chapter 46

Detective Nguyen pushed his way through a small crowd near the curb and took the marble stairs two at a time. Detective Wallace felt spry, went for two steps, and came up with a twinge in his hamstring. Nguyen pulled the brown wooden door open and waved his hand in a circular motion, cheering his partner to finish the climb to the main entrance of the Russell Building.

The Capitol Police security detail manning the entrance to the building was busy with a family of tourists from New York. Five backpacks chugged down the conveyor of the baggage screening equipment. A hand wand was being used on the eldest son, a high school kid with multiple holes in each ear. As the eldest son dealt with the scrutiny that comes with dressing like a punk, his two siblings ribbed him from the safe side of the metal detector in heavy Brooklyn accents. “Do a cavity search,” the middle son suggested, his father responding with a smack to the back of his head.

The Capitol Police didn’t pay any attention to the two hundred and forty pound detective until Wallace pulled his badge and announced his arrival.

“Detective Wallace, D.C. Metropolitan Police. We need the room for the Senate Committee in International Labor.”

“Overseas Labor,” Nguyen corrected.

The security officer on the far side of the metal detector picked his clipboard off his stool and scanned the map.

“They are in the Foreign Relations Committee Room, first floor, opposite side of the building. Take the hall to the right and follow it around.”

Wallace and Nguyen set the detector off as they walked through, and then shuffled sideways through the gauntlet course constructed by the family from New York and their bags, cameras, tourist pamphlets, and water bottles.

Wallace turned back toward the door as he rounded the corner on the hall. “Have you seen a large Asian guy come through this morning? A big guy, six-four or so. Wearing a suit.”

“No, sir. Not that I remember.”

“Make sure everyone gets searched on their way in,” Wallace said turning back around. “And if a large Asian tries to come through, stop him and come find me.” ***

Peter Winthrop, Senate-approved expert on International Business, was in the middle of summarizing his testimony. He was called by the honorable Senator Day himself, the last voice of reason after a spring and summer of opinions from every expert who had one. It didn’t matter that most of the votes had already been bought, borrowed, or stolen. The CEOs that lined the first row had paid millions, Ben Franklins channeled through lobbyists and anonymous contributions to re-election campaigns. They had watched the progress of the committee for six months, their livelihoods and the price of their companies’ stock hanging in the balance. Neither an act of God nor a speech from Peter Winthrop would change things now.

It didn’t matter to the man on the Senate committee floor. Peter flew among the clouds as he described the lives of those overseas who benefitted from corporate America’s charity. Charity in the shape of the Blata shoe factory in suburban Jakarta and the Top Knit garment manufacturing outside Ho Chi Minh.

As Detectives Wallace and Nguyen entered the chamber and squeezed into the back row of seats, Peter pontificated on the brief history of job internationalization. He started with the maquiladoras, factories just over the Rio Grande that were the original benefactors of job flight. He quoted the improved corporate performance of those companies and the value of their successful internationalization, particularly the rise in stock prices, the real creation of wealth.

Peter acknowledged the “shift in employment demographics,” but didn’t elaborate on the aftermath of the maquiladoras. There was no need to dwell on the indisputable fact that once these jobs went south of the border, they just kept on running.

When the labor exodus had begun, the only ones screaming had been the constituents of Kentucky, Ohio, and other places where blue collar was the only collar available. At the time, who cared? No one did. Mainstream America didn’t start to panic until they called technical support for their Dell laptops and found themselves talking to Rajiv in Mumbai, who identified himself as “George.” These were service-level jobs. White collar jobs. Not ivory-tower white, but white nonetheless. This was the beginning of a crisis. The public wasn’t bright enough to know that the service jobs were dependent upon the manufacturing jobs. But they were bright enough to start screaming.