The Echo of the Whip (35 page)

Though he was far from any sort of martial artist, Edmond Whelan managed to kick T.W. Rangel’s front door open. It wasn’t all that sturdy. People in that Great Falls neighborhood had little reason to fear home invaders. Further aiding Whelan’s break-in, the lots on which the houses in the area sat were large and densely landscaped to ensure privacy.

The only immediate concern Whelan had was Rangel’s burglar alarm system. Whelan estimated he had 30 seconds to disarm it before it signaled the security company that something was amiss. At that point, a call would be made to the homeowner. If he or she didn’t report in a convincing tone that all was copacetic, a security company car would be sent and the police would be notified. In a place like Great Falls, the private and public guardians of the well-heeled would race to see who could come to the rescue first.

Whelan wouldn’t have the time to retrieve his treatise, much less give Rangel the beating he deserved. Fortunately, from their past acquaintance, Whelan knew the security code for the alarm. The old bastard had delegated the chore of fingering the keypad to him many a time. Assuming Rangel hadn’t changed the numbers recently. Say shortly after he’d had Whelan’s property stolen.

Whelan’s concern about the alarm vanished when he heard his former mentor rummaging through his nearby office and cursing about his lack of progress. With good reason, Rangel wasn’t counting on anyone else saving him. The old alarm code hadn’t been changed.

Rangel’s complaints grew louder and more desperate as he looked for … what? His old army Colt .45 semi-auto? The fucker had worked a desk job at the Pentagon in the early Vietnam War era. He had made one three-day trip to Saigon. He’d had more to fear from VD than the VC during his 72-hour tour of duty.

Still, if Rangel put his hands on the weapon that would seriously change the complexion of the night’s events. Whelan thought he should have gone home to get his own firearm before setting out for Virginia. With a bitter taste in his mouth, he felt he was getting all too good at recognizing his mistakes a beat too late.

He dashed into Rangel’s study as two things happened.

Three, if you counted the gunshot.

Somebody moving far faster slipped past him.

Rangel finally found his old sidearm and with a huge smile said, “Ha!”

He pointed the weapon at Whelan with every intention of firing it.

The gun did fire, but, intent on Whelan, the old man completely missed seeing the guy who grabbed his wrist with one hand and grasped the barrel of the weapon with the other. The second intruder shoved the barrel upward, causing the trigger guard to break Rangel’s index finger as the shot went into the ceiling. Rangel screamed in pain, holding his damaged right hand against his chest with his left hand. The man who’d taken the weapon pushed Rangel down into his desk chair.

Whelan was about to slip away when the gun was again pointed at him, a moment before the man holding it even looked at him. Whelan froze in place. The man turned his head and smiled.

“Good choice,” he said. “You know who I am? Just nod if you do.”

Whelan nodded.

“Who’s this old fart?” He pointed his free thumb at Rangel.

“His name is Thomas Winston Rangel.”

“Is he anybody important?”

“He likes to think so.”

“What’s he do?”

“He thinks for people who aren’t smart enough to do it for themselves.”

“Isn’t that what you do, too?”

A moment of honesty overtook Whelan. “Used to. I got fired today.”

Despite his pain, Rangel managed to laugh at his former protégé.

Whelan said, “Do me a favor and shoot him first, will you?”

Eugene Beck sighed and told Whelan, “See, that’s how you got in trouble, talking like that. What do either of you dipshits know about killing people?”

Special Agent Abra Benjamin’s push-up bra was annoying the hell out of her as the taxi in which she was riding pulled into the semicircular driveway of the address she’d been given, but she still spotted an anomaly. A woman just up the street was pushing a baby buggy. Hell, as fancy as the thing was, they probably called it a perambulator. Fit right in with the flossy neighborhood. What didn’t fit to Abra’s eye was the woman steering Junior down the block.

She was a bit too lean and fit. The spring in her step belonged to an athlete not a nanny. Abra read her immediately for what she was: a cop. Maybe someone working an angle of her own, not what her boss had told her to do.

The taxi driver announced the fare in English. Abra paid him and added a substantial tip. The guy hadn’t ogled her in the rear view mirror, hadn’t made any wisecracks about her appearance. From what she could tell, he’d taken her to her destination without going out of the way. His thank you even sounded genuinely grateful about being tipped well.

“Would you mind if I ask you something?” Abra said.

“What is that,
señora?
” His English was pretty good, too.

“In your country is it common for a woman to be out walking her baby at night.”

“I saw her, too,” he said. “No, it is not common in this place.”

“You think she’s a cop?”

The driver thought about it. “The police presence here is more …”

Abra made a guess as to the word the driver wanted. “Straightforward?”

“I was going to say honest but, yes, I like your word. Is it a problem for you, if she is the police? If so, we can come back in ten minutes. No extra charge.”

“No, that’s all right, thank you.”

They both turned their heads as the woman pushing the buggy passed by the driveway. She must have noticed the idling taxi sitting in front of the house, but she didn’t look their way. That in itself struck Abra as suspicious.

She asked the driver, “You think, maybe, she could be the lookout for someone doing something they shouldn’t?”

He shook his head. “No, she is the police.”

“Yeah, I think so, too.”

Just what the hell she needed, Abra thought, a snooping cop.

She said to the driver, “You have a cell phone?”

“Yes,
señora.
” He gave her his number without even being asked.

“If you’re still on duty,” she said, “I might need a ride later.”

“I work all night. It would be my pleasure.”

Abra exited the taxi just in time to see an Asian woman with an infant in her arms open the front door of the house. “Are you having trouble with that driver?” she asked in English.

“No,” Abra said. “Just took a minute to get the right money to pay him.”

The taxi pulled out of the driveway.

The baby turned to look at Abra, staring at her wide-eyed. Cute kid.

The woman holding the infant said, “And you have also been paid, correct?”

“Yes, I have.”

Satisfied that all accounts were current, the woman opened the door wide.

“Then come in, please. My husband is already in bed waiting for you.”

Abra stepped inside, telling the woman, “Nice to meet you, too.”

“That was some slick driving, Leo,” John Tall Wolf said. “My compliments.”

Tall Wolf and Leo had spotted the car that pulled into Thomas Winston Rangel’s driveway about a mile out from the man’s house.

Well, Leo had noticed it first.

He’d said, “That ol’ boy ahead of us, he’s up to something, and I don’t think it’s throwing toilet paper into people’s trees.”

“How can you tell?” Tall Wolf asked.

“He spends more time looking left, right and behind him than he does at the road ahead.”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay aware of what’s going on around you when you drive?” Tall Wolf asked.

“Absolutely, but you know how many people do that?”

“Not enough?”

Leo laughed. “Hardly any. Way too many people flick a glance up ahead and then get back to their text messages. Some of the old-school types just read a magazine or newspaper while they drive. That boy ahead of us, he’s been trained. He’s staying alert to his environment. Only problem is, he’s fallen into a pattern. Three beats to each side, a pause, three beats up front, a pause, and three more beats to the rear view. It’s almost like he’s listening to music and moving his head and eyes with the tempo.”

Tall Wolf said, “If I’m not mistaken, Leo, you’ve been changing lanes in that same time signature.”

“Sure have. But I’m ziggin’ when he zags. As far as he knows, we’re invisible.”

“That’s one fine trick.”

“Well, when you’re out on a race track, the last thing you want is for the guy ahead of you to know when you’re gonna make your move to pass him. The sumbitch might run you into a wall if he knows your coming.”

“Excellent point, but how do you know that driver up ahead, while he might have had some training, isn’t just out on everyday business, some normal activity?”

“I’ve been doin’ this a while, Mr. Tall Wolf. You just watch and see where this fella is headin’. Then you’ll know I’m right.”

Leo was. The car ahead of them turned into Rangle’s driveway. Never knowing he’d been followed and observed.

“What are you thinking?” Patti Grant asked McGill.

The president and her henchman were having a quiet dinner in the family dining room.

“I’m just reviewing the biographical profiles of first ladies I’ve read.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I wanted to remember what they did when their spouses were in a tight spot.”

“Anything inspirational?”

“Not so far. Jackie Kennedy would buy a new hat and Lady Bird Johnson would gather wild flowers. I don’t think either of those things will work for me.”

“You need something more manly?”

“I’d still like to flatten a few noses. I’d even let you and Galia compose a top ten list and see if that lifted my spirit and yours a little.”

“Your little jaunt to Los Angeles wasn’t emotionally satisfying?”

McGill sighed. He told Patti about Mira Kersten calling off the investigation and then discovering the one embryo she really wanted was still missing. He said, “It’s not the first time I’ve wanted to smack a client, but it’s an impulse I try to restrain when I’m working for a woman.”

“Maybe I could do it for you,” Patti said.

McGill gave his wife a look and then laughed. “I could give you a refresher course in Dark Alley, but if we did that the next thing you know you’d be challenging members of Congress to duels.”

The president grinned but then shook her head. “A tempting idea, but if I got that ball rolling, it probably wouldn’t be long before we’d have a
Duel of the Week
Show
on TV. Some customs are best left departed and gone.”

McGill put his fork down. “You know, by the time Jean Morrissey takes her oath of office, you and I will be ready to blow this pop stand.”

Patti laughed. “Pop stand? Does anyone still say that?”

“I do. How about we ask the waiter for a doggy bag? If any of this stuff still looks good in the morning, we’ll fry it up for breakfast.”

Patti said, “All right. So what shall we do now? Go to bed and read?”

“I’m with you on that first part. We’ll go to bed. Then we’ll see what happens next.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, James J. McGill?”

“You bet, but give me a nudge if I start to fall asleep before things get good.”

“It’s all good with me, sailor.”

McGill smiled. “Now that you mention it, I do recall things that way. Promise me, though, that you’ll do that one special thing I like best.”

“I know just what you mean.”

With one voice, they both said, “Turn off the phone.”

“Turn off my phone, will you?” Tyler Busby said. “I forgot to do it.”

FBI Special Agent Abra Benjamin had entered the bedroom with her purse over her shoulder and closed the door. She’d seen Tyler Busby, the world’s most wanted man according to the FBI, lying on his back in bed. She’d kept a straight face and started to plan how she might kidnap him.

Turning off the phone was a good start. Abra said, “Sure.”

A wireless home phone sat on a nightstand next to the bed. Busby could have reached it with ease, but he wanted her to do it. Asserting his dominance. That or he was one really lazy son of a bitch. Might be both.

She lifted the phone from its charger, hit the mute button and put it back.

“Turn your cell phone off, too,” he said.

“Already done,” she lied.

“Good. Then we’re ready to start.”

Busby flipped back the duvet and top sheet that had been covering him. He was naked and erect. Smiling, now, too. Like he was proud to show himself off, wanting to impress her. Abra had to admit he wasn’t in bad shape for an old guy.

She was also sure that wasn’t a kosher wiener. Pharmaceuticals had to be involved. Chemicals to which no rabbi would ever give his stamp of approval. Still, Busby was proud of his display and did everything but ask Abra, “So what do you think?”

Neglecting to provide the hoped for compliment, she only asked, “What do you like?”

“You name it, I’ll try it,” he said, but there was a whining note in his voice. He was annoyed that she hadn’t complimented him.

She realized a real hooker would have been more solicitous, pun intended.

Not wanting him to raise any kind of a ruckus, Abra said, “Well, with that thing of yours, I suppose we could play baseball.”

Busby loved it, laughing loudly. “Right, I’ve got the bat and the balls.”

She thought he could have come up with a better line, but smiled anyway.

Abra heard footsteps outside the bedroom door move off.

The indulgent wife making sure all was going well?

“How about role playing?” Abra asked. “You into that?”

“Why not?” Busby said. “I’ll be the sultan; you’ll be my newest concubine.”

“We can do better than that.” Abra sat on the edge of the bed, facing him. She undid two buttons exposing more of her breasts. “How about this? I’ll be the boss of a mattress factory, and you’ll be a job applicant, looking to fill the opening for … a quality-control manager.”

Busby nodded; he was interested. “That’s imaginative. What are my qualifications for the job?”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me, now won’t you?”

“I’ve taken a different woman to bed every night for the past five years.”

“Well, aren’t you the fickle boy?” For just a second, Abra wondered if that could possibly be true. “Relentless, too. Didn’t you ever want a day off?”

“No, ma’am, I’m the hardest worker you’ll ever see.”

Getting into playing the job-seeker, Abra thought.

“Well, I’ll concede you are experienced,” she said. “Now, I want to see how perceptive you are. Take a good long look at me.” She undid another button. “Now, close your eyes and describe how you see me, how you’d imagine me … well, anyway you’d care to.”

Busby closed his eyes and rested his hands on his abdomen.

If the smile on his face meant anything, he’d started to fantasize, but Abra didn’t let him get far. She slipped her handcuffs and her gun out of her purse. She snapped the cuffs over Busby’s wrists and had her gun pointed at him by the time he opened his eyes.

Busby looked startled and said, “Is this part of —”

Abra raised a finger to her lips to shush him.

“Okay, we’re still playing roles here, only we’re not pretending anymore. I’m Special Agent Abra Benjamin of the FBI. You’re Tyler Busby, fugitive, and now you’re under arrest. How’s that for a night you’ll never forget?”

Abra wouldn’t forget it either.

Not after she heard the clank of the bedroom door locking.

Busby smiled up at her. “My wife did that, bolted the door remotely. You see, I like to make video recordings of all my encounters, and my wife likes … well, to maintain quality control.”

Abra thought:
Shit. Life is never simple.

To top everything off, Busby was still hard.

Proof positive that his hard-on wasn’t natural.

Abra decided if worse came to worse, she’d shoot it off.