Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) (17 page)

I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Randolph had transformed from blubbering, innocent prankster to villainous, armed hijacker.

The man in the car didn’t move fast enough for Randolph who banged harder on the window. “Now, man! Or she’s a dead mother. Leave the keys!”

The driver’s side door flew open and the terrified little man backed away with his hands in the air. Randolph ordered me to get in through the passenger door and slide across. Once in the driver’s seat, I realized that the car was already running and the radio was playing “Desperado.” The irony would have caused me to chuckle if I didn’t feel like tossing my tortillas all over the dashboard.

“Now what?” I asked as I peeked in the rearview mirror, hopeful that Howard was somewhere near, aimed to plug Randolph Rutter full of the FBI’s best ammunition. Unfortunately, he wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Randolph pulled the gear shift out of park and wagged the gun in my face. “Drive, you idiot!”

The car lurched. I did as he said and pulled away from the curb, viewing the side mirror for any glimpse of agents or vehicles ready to pounce. Not surprisingly, the speed of our departure wasn’t enough for Randolph. He shoved the gun into my ribs. “Faster!”

Determined to live another day, I shoved my foot into the gas pedal. BMWs, it turns out, have a lot of kick, and that baby took off like a shot. Great, I thought. My one chance probably ever, to test a sweet ride like a BMW, and it has to be at gunpoint. Then I panicked, realizing that if I didn’t control the situation just right, that gun could very well end my chance of driving
any
car ever again.

It was time to get a grip. I’d been in dangerous situations before. Not too long ago, long-lost Mafia boss Tito Buttaro had aimed his gun right between my eyes hoping to save his own skin. Did I die? No. And when a cross-dressing, fugitive bank robber wanted to drop me down an elevator shaft, I didn’t die either. And I wasn’t going to die now. I silently prayed that the FBI was smarter than Randolph Rutter. And until they came through, I determined that I would aid in my own survival by a) driving with the skill of a seasoned mother who had three appointments to make in twenty minutes, and b) talking down an armed lunatic the way you talk a cranky toddler into eating those last two brussels sprouts at dinner time.

That’s right. Randolph Rutter hadn’t chosen just any old hostage to make his getaway. He’d tackled a bigger opponent than he’d counted on—he’d taken on Barbara Marr, mother of three. Because mothers don’t get mad, they get even.

 Roads in Washington, DC are a nightmare. They don’t follow straight lines, half the streets are one-way, and you never know when you’re going to hit a traffic circle. Traffic circles, in particular, are disasters waiting to happen. On a good day—one without a wigged-out maniac holding a gun to your ribs—you’re tempting death when you enter one.

I screeched to a halt at a traffic light and asked my captor: “Which way?”

“Don’t stop!”

Well, that wasn’t an answer to my question, but obviously I was supposed to ignore my training and break all laws to keep us moving. That made sense. Telling someone not to stop in DC, however, is kind of like telling Meryl Streep not to act or Robin Williams not to ham it up in an interview. It’s impossible. The streets are narrow and vehicles innumerable. But I gave it the old college try and flipped a quick right-hand turn, prompting the guy I cut off to lay on his horn. Somehow, when you have a gun poking you in the side, this doesn’t bother you as much. I weaved around cars, thankful that the hot little BMW was smaller and maneuvered better than my mini-van. I honked at pedestrians and screamed, “outa my way!” at several intersections. I could hear sirens, but that’s not an uncommon sound in the District, so I could only hope they were looking for me.

“What’s your plan, Randolph?” I asked, careening through a red light and blaring my horn.

“I don’t know.”

Truthfully, that didn’t surprise me.

“Well, here’s the thing.” I flipped a fast right and realized that if I kept going straight, I’d hit Constitution Avenue. “You need a plan.”

Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating my own.

“Yeah, I need a plan.” He leaned back in the seat, and I saw his grip on the gun relax. “I just didn’t want to lose my job is all.”

 “And so you kidnapped someone? You think this is really a good career move?” Without thinking, I stopped at a red light. Good habits run deep, what can I say? But Randolph didn’t notice. He was obviously having second thoughts.

“I panicked when I heard the gunshots. I knew Jorge was in over his head with Juarez. I took the gun he hides in his desk and snuck out the side door. Then I saw him on the ground.” Randolph started to cry and it seemed deeply sincere. I have to admit, I felt kind of bad for the guy. If only his hair plugs didn’t look ten times more disgusting up close than from a distance.

The sirens we heard suddenly sounded much closer and I was pretty sure they’d more than doubled in number. Randolph snapped out of his mourning and shoved the gun back tight against my ribs. “Keep moving! I need to think.”

The light had turned green so I did as ordered, watching my rearview mirror for signs of blue and red flashing lights. One more block and I’d be turning onto Constitution Avenue. From there, I’d be just a heartbeat away from exiting onto I66, a relatively straight freeway heading toward my stomping grounds in the Northern Virginia suburbs.

“Andy Baugh says Jorge knew that vomiting would kill Kurt and that he framed Frankie with the poisons. Were you two conspiring to kill him?”

He shook his head just as the wheels screamed taking the fast turn onto Constitution. “No. It was just a prank. I swear.”

I kind of believed him. “As far as you knew, anyway.”

He nodded. “As far as I knew.”

“Was Jorge capable of murder?”

No answer. Randolph stared out the window. On the floor at his feet, I spotted something that gave me hope. The car owner’s cell phone. I kept talking. “What do you know about Jorge’s involvement with Juarez and the voter fraud?”

“Enough.”

We flew over the Roosevelt Bridge with SUVs, police squad cars and a helicopter now visibly in pursuit. I had an idea brewing. “Tell me again,” I said, “why you kidnapped me. There has to be more to it than you just panicked. Not if you were completely innocent, Randolph.”

As we tore down I66 at nearly 80 miles per hour, it was obvious that the law enforcement machinery was at work. Police had cleared the freeway of vehicles to allow us free and easy passage. “Are you completely innocent?”

His answer was slow in coming, and not adamant enough for me to believe him. “I am.”

“But?”

He sighed and released the gun altogether, letting it drop between the seats. He buried his head in his hands. “The morning after Kurt died, I caught Jorge lifting a fingerprint from a water glass with tape, and planting it on the bottle of ipecac. He said it was to protect us by framing Frankie Romano for the prank.”

Suddenly it was all clear. Randolph did know Jorge was a murderer, and he knew it when news broke later that day that Frankie was arrested for poisoning Kurt Baugh.

“If you knew that Jorge poisoned those yams, then why did you call Guy Mertz? He said you were freaking because you thought someone had tried to poison you.”

“I was freaking because my lover and best friend was a murderer and I helped him do it. Guy is a true crime reporter, I was desperate to know what he was hearing through his connections. To know if we were safe from suspicion.”

While piecing the puzzle together, it suddenly occurred to me that Guy had told Randolph about our meeting near the White House. My stomach flip-flopped. To irritate Randolph, Guy said he had lied to Randolph and told him we were meeting to discuss an investigation of the murder. If Randolph passed that information on to Jorge, then that drive-by shooting near the White House could have been meant for us. Then I remembered the familiar car at the scene of the Tanner building shoot-out. It was familiar because it was a navy blue Lexus with Maryland plates—same one that Colt identified on Constitution Avenue.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to reflect on how lucky I’d been to narrowly escape a hit on my life. No, I had another dilemma at hand: making sure Randolph didn’t kill me now. I kept talking—it worked during my last two kidnappings. “So you know too much? Is that why you’re running now?”

“Jorge told me everything after taking a call from Juarez today. He said he did it for me as much as for himself and Juarez.”

“How in the world would killing Kurt Baugh benefit
you
?”

“Not that he died, but how.”

Now it made sense. Something that had nagged at me. I never understood why Kurt’s murderer would choose to do it during a preview screening. Why not in the middle of the night, with no witnesses? And more importantly, why have Randolph ask for the supposedly poisoned yams, then frame Frankie? It had seemed a rather risky and backwards way of getting things done.

“He did it for the publicity, didn’t he? You’d get publicity for being the movie reviewer who was nearly whacked by the Mafia. Your job would become more secure, and he’d get publicity for the ACL. Bring in bigger and better names.”

“Something like that.”

I figured it was time to run my idea by Randolph. He was tired and sufficiently worn down mentally. “Listen,” I said, “there’s a cell phone at your feet. I can reach my husband and tell him that you’re willing to talk. They want Juarez, not you. I’m going to bet dollars to donuts that’s why they were at the ACL building today. Offer them a deal—you talk, they drop the kidnapping charges.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure if Randolph was going to bite, but it seemed likely since he’d dropped the gun and the rage. By now, we were surrounded by emergency and law enforcement vehicles of every kind, and we were all cruising at about forty miles an hour. Certainly he had to realize that we weren’t about to make another getaway without some fallout.

Randolph felt around on the floor until his hand landed on the phone. “What’s the number?”

***

Two helicopters hovered above us, and I suspected one was a news chopper. Guy Mertz was probably on the scene with a camera crew back at the ACL building, relaying the story to viewers with his usual melodramatic flair. He was right—by hanging around me long enough he’d landed the story of the century. Well, at least the story of the week.

Randolph dialed the number and handed me the phone. Howard, it turned out, was in the black car directly behind us. I waved in the rearview mirror.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” The concern in Howard’s voice warmed me like an electric blanket on a cold, snowy morning. It’s good to feel loved.

“I’m fine. The gun is down. I’m very safe.”

“What were you still doing at the Tanner Building? I told you to leave.”

“I did leave.”

“You said you were going home.”

He had me there. “I was just wrapping things up. Home was next on my agenda. And really Howard, how was I supposed to know that the FBI was planning a coup? Do you think I’m psychic?”

I sensed he was rolling his eyes behind those tinted windows, but didn’t have any proof.

Howard needed to talk to Randolph, so I handed the phone back. That conversation went on for five minutes. Meanwhile, we’d passed the turnoff for my house in Rustic Woods and were heading toward Haymarket and destinations West. At this point, if someone didn’t come to an understanding soon, I imagined a trip to California could be in my immediate future.

Finally, Randolph handed the phone back to me. “We’re good. Do what he says.”

I took the cell. “Hi, Honey. Will we be done in time for dinner tonight?”

“Marr,” said a woman’s voice. “This isn’t your husband.”

I winced. “Agent Smith?”

“Bingo.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk to Howard?”

“You supposed correctly. He’s preparing,” she said. Then she walked me through the steps of where we’d be stopping the car and how slowly to do so. Even though the freeway was cleared, we were nearing an exit to a heavily populated business district. They wanted us to travel three more miles down the road, at which point they would sound the siren to let me know it was time to pull over. As soon as we came to a complete stop, I was to roll down the window and hand the gun to an agent who would then whisk me away to safety. Randolph was to stay in the car until Howard approached him on the passenger’s side and ordered him out with his hands over his head.

“Now, Marr,” she said seriously, “if at any time he regrets this decision and the situation becomes dangerous for you again, either while driving or while parked, tap your brakes twice.”

“Right,” I said. “Should I hang up?”

“No, leave the line open.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m putting the phone down.” I started to lay it in my lap, then thought about something I wanted to say. I put it back to my ear. “Hey, Smith?”

“Nope, this is Howard.”

“Oh good,” I said with a smile. “Because I was going to tell her to tell you that I love you. But now I can tell you myself. And I promise I’ll never go off and try to solve murders by myself anymore. I’ll leave that to people like you.”