The carrier attempted to pull his arm free. He yanked harder than March’s grip required, upending both the carrier and the bin. The woman with the stroller started running to where mail had been strewn across the street. McCaskey also rushed over. He got there first and, crouching, began pulling mail toward him. Most of it was picture postcards along with a handful of letters. He was looking for an oversized envelope or small parcel with a South Pacific or Far Eastern address. He found one, a fat manila envelope with a Kuala Lumpur address. McCaskey pulled over other letters so this one did not seem to be all that interested him. Maria, sitting close by, was watching the homeless woman.
The mail carrier hurried over. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take those,” he said, reaching for the letters.
“And I’ll take those,” March said as he leaned over the mail carrier and wrapped a thick hand around his key ring. He flipped the small metal latch and pulled it free. The ignition key to the truck was on the ring.
McCaskey released the mail. He stood and watched as the carrier put them back in the bin. Then the young man went to collect the rest of the mail. The homeless woman was on her hands and knees, also gathering pieces. The carrier went to take them from her and, with a snarl, she slapped over the bin and its contents. The package bound for Malaysia went spinning back onto the street. The woman scrambled after it. The mail carrier did not go after her.
McCaskey did.
“Hold on!” McCaskey yelled after her.
The man with the laptop was closer. He intercepted the woman as she tried to get away. March did not see him. He was busy waving over a blue sedan. There was a brief struggle, but the man with the laptop got the mail. The woman sped away as McCaskey arrived.
The large envelope was in the man’s hand, folded in half. “I’ve got it all,” he said to the mail carrier.
“Thanks. I’ll take it,” March said, walking over.
“Glad I could help,” the man with the laptop said. Then he turned and walked away.
McCaskey had an uneasy sense about this. He waited anxiously while March flipped through the few pieces of mail. He reached the envelope addressed to Malaysia. He held it so McCaskey could see. It had been torn open.
“Shit,” McCaskey said.
The carrier was no longer a problem. One of the plain-clothes officers had him in custody and was taking him to their car. They had to stop the man with the laptop and the homeless woman.
McCaskey and March exchanged looks. March set out after the man with the laptop. The other plainclothesman followed when the carrier was secure in the sedan. McCaskey turned toward the field that stretched to the Lincoln Memorial. The homeless woman was at the edge of the lawn, digging around in her stroller. If she were stowing the contents of the envelope, they would have a problem. They had no right to search her belongings. If she had a weapon, they could have an even bigger problem. There were hundreds of potential hostages out here.
The former FBI agent walked quickly toward the woman. He still had his cell phone. He pretended to be deep in conversation and walked into the woman. Her stroller was upended, and the contents spilled onto the grass.
“I’m so sorry!” McCaskey said, tucking the cell phone in his pocket as he bent to help retrieve her belongings. Among the clothes and a water bottle were passports from different nations.
“Stay away!” the woman shouted, pushing him back.
McCaskey did not have to yield. Not anymore. He moved to confiscate the evidence of either theft or passport forgery.
With a cry of rage, the woman drew a double-bladed knife from a sheath on her forearm. The leather hilt was in the center with a serrated blade on either side. McCaskey backed away, and she approached him, her legs wide as she slashed left and right. They were not the wild moves of a homeless woman but the centered attack of a trained fighter.
The former FBI agent did not carry a handgun. Only Op-Center field agents were issued firearms, and the shotgun he kept at home for intruders would not be appropriate in a situation like this. He watched as she cut from left to right and back in a dead-horizontal line waist-high. He had to get close to the hand with the knife and do a forearm break. That meant cupping her elbow in the palm of one hand and pushing up and placing another hand on the inside of her wrist and pushing down. The wrist strike would numb her forearm and cause her to drop the knife. The trick was not to get stabbed in the process.
McCaskey kept his hands level with the slashing blade. He did not blink. That had been part of his training. He had to wait for her to do so, then he would—
The homeless woman suddenly flew to her left as a wooden case of pastels smacked into the side of her head. The knife dropped as the woman fell to her knees. Maria was still holding the handle of the box tightly. She brought it back for a second blow, driving the brass hinges into the back of the homeless woman’s head. She fell forward on the lawn and landed on her face.
“I have always felt that aikido works better in the dojo than in the field,” Maria said.
“Not everyone carries a combat-ready art box,” McCaskey said.
The homeless woman’s eyes were shut. McCaskey put an index finger under her nose to make sure she was still breathing. Then he retrieved the knife and passports and motioned for the tourists to move away. Security officers from the Lincoln Memorial were running over.
Maria picked up her art kit. “I knew she was bad when she picked up the letters,” she said.
“Why?”
“Homeless women don’t use apricot-scented shampoo. That’s why I watched you instead of Ed.”
“I appreciate that, hon,” McCaskey said. He looked back toward the street. The plainclothesman was escorting the man with the laptop toward the sedan. The man was complaining loudly. March was walking toward the lawn. When he arrived, McCaskey handed him the passports and knife. March called his dispatcher and asked for emergency medical technicians to care for the woman.
“These are impressive,” the postal officer said. “Thanks. Both of you.”
“Glad we could help. What have you got on him?” McCaskey asked, nodding toward the man with the laptop.
“He didn’t stop when we asked him to,” March said.
“Is that a crime?” Maria asked.
“No. I’ve got a feeling he’s hiding something,” March said. “I want to have a look at the computer.”
“You are permitted to look at his computer files because of a feeling?” Maria asked.
“No,” March said. “We are permitted access to his computer under Section 217 of the USA Patriot Act. Suspected computer transgression, possible web cam surveillance of federal officers near a national monument is a crime. No court order required to investigate.”
“He may not have known you people were federal officers,” McCaskey pointed out.
“Perhaps,” March said. “But we have reasonable cause for suspicion. He handled the parcel from the embassy, and he did not stop when we asked him to, repeatedly. If he’s innocent, it’s a minor inconvenience, and we’ll apologize. If he’s guilty, we may save lives.”
McCaskey made a face as the security officers from the Memorial arrived. March showed them his badge, then asked them to watch the woman. He said an ambulance would be arriving in just a few minutes.
“Look, I’ve got to put this baby to bed,” March said. He offered his hand to McCaskey and Maria in turn. “I can’t thank you enough. If you ever need anything, just shout.”
“I will,” McCaskey said.
Op-Center’s top cop felt as though he should say something more on the man’s behalf but decided against it. Ed March had a point. He also had the law on his side. McCaskey himself had thought the man might be involved in this. That, too, had been a feeling. Sometimes, lawmen had to act on that.