Uzi took a swig from his cup, lost in thought. Finally, he looked up. “Yeah, yeah. Great. I appreciate it.” His smartphone vibrated. He rummaged through his jacket pocket, pulled out the Nokia, and answered it. He listened a second, then said, “I’m on it. Text me the address. Be there ASAP.” He stood up and planted a kiss on Vail’s forehead. “Gotta run. I may call you again on this.”
“Frank Del Monaco. Call him. It’s his case, remember?”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and ran out of the café.
Uzi arrived at the Capitol Athletic Club twenty-five minutes later. Five of his task force members were there, along with DeSantos, who Uzi had called from his car while en route.
“Santa,” Uzi said, bumping his colleague’s fist with his own. “What’s the deal?”
“Dead lobbyist. Russell Fargo. Midlevel partner with McKutcheon Winchester. That’s all I know.”
Uzi turned and caught the attention of Agent Hoshi Koh, who was leaning over the dead man’s body in the ten-by-ten steam room. In a brief email he had dashed off to her earlier in the day, Uzi put Hoshi in charge of the group investigating the Ellison murder.
He squeezed his way into the room. A scent he had never before experienced — the coppery bitterness of blood mixed with eucalyptus oil — made his nostrils flare.
“You want to know what I think?” Hoshi asked.
“First I want to know why we were called. How is this guy related to our investigation?’
“He may not be. But Metro PD’s reporting all murders to Shepard. JTTF is now the big deal. Suspicious stuff comes to us, just in case. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Guess he left that part out. I’m only in charge. No reason for me to know the details.” Uzi glanced around the room, noticed the blood-smeared tile. “So this guy was seated over there,” he said, nodding at the far wall. “Gets clipped in the chest, then in the head, or vice versa, falls face first and lands here.”
“Seems reasonable to me,” Hoshi said.
DeSantos walked into the room and glanced around. Uzi introduced him to Hoshi and played out the murder in his mind while DeSantos and Hoshi exchanged pleasantries.
“Okay,” Uzi said. “Now I’d like to know what you think.”
Hoshi turned toward the reclining corpse, then tilted her head to the side as if she were appraising a sculpture. “I think this guy pissed somebody off.”
Uzi stood there, waiting for more. He looked at DeSantos, who shrugged. “That’s all you think?” Uzi asked.
“I think about my ex-husband when I’m horny, but I don’t think you need that detail.”
“You’re right.”
A thirty-something man in a grey Sears suit walked into the locker room, scribbling a note on his pad.
DeSantos indicated the guy with a slight nod. “Metro dick who caught the case. Name’s Zambrano.”
Uzi followed his partner out of the steam room and extended a hand. “Aaron Uzi.” Uzi’s credentials case, folded outward and protruding from his pocket, screamed FBI in bold letters.
Zambrano looked up and shook his hand. “Yeah. Good to meet you.”
“We’ll make sure you get copied on all our reports,” Uzi said. “You’ll do the same?”
“Hey, turf wars have their place. This isn’t one of ’em.”
Uzi squinted, sizing this guy up. Turf wars have their place? He handed the detective a blue, gold-embossed FBI business card. “We’ll touch base with you before we take off.”
“Yeah. Good,” Zambrano said, then buried his face in his notepad as he moved off toward the steam room.
Uzi shared a look of bewilderment with DeSantos, then took his partner aside. “You get the lowdown on this Fargo dude?”
“As soon as I get back to my office, I’ll know what flavor ice cream he liked.”
“I’d be more interested in whether he’s got any links to ARM, Ellison, Harmon, Rusch, or anyone else on that copter. And Rusch’s wife. We need to look into Macy Rusch. Maybe she was getting some action on the side.”
“Jilted lover blows up the VP and a bunch of Marines? Not even the Enquirer would run something like that.”
Uzi shrugged. “It’s another ‘i’ to dot.” Then the sight of Leila Harel entering the locker room snagged his attention.
Uzi slapped DeSantos on the chest, then headed toward Leila. He covered the distance between them in three long strides.
“Hello again.”
“Agent Uzi,” she said offhandedly, glancing around his body at the grouping of Metro PD cops, FBI agents and crime-scene techs. “What a surprise.”
“Just what I was thinking,” he said, leaning slightly to his left to block her gaze.
Her lips twisted. “Excuse me,” she said, then grabbed his arm and attempted to move him aside.
Whoa. Her touch shuddered through him. Just like the first time he’d met Dena — she brushed against his shoulder as she squeezed by him. And it changed his life forever.
“I can tell you everything you want to know,” Uzi said. “How about a late dinner?” He glanced at the wall clock. “Eight-thirty, Founding Farmers. I’ve got a couple people working the case you should coordinate with.”
Leila’s gaze shifted to Uzi’s face.
Is that the first time she actually looked into my eyes?
“What?” she asked.
“Dinner. Eight-thirty. Founding Farmers.”
She stared at his face for a long moment, then nodded and pushed past him.
Uzi stood there and watched Leila walk away. He wished they’d be meeting alone, but perhaps it was better this way: less guilt.
Located a few blocks from the White House and adjacent to the International Monetary Fund in the heart of DC, Founding Farmers sat at the heart of the nation’s circulatory system.
But the restaurant didn’t merely specialize in power lunches and dinners; it featured fresh foods from the country’s family farms, ranches, and fisheries.
Uzi passed through the polished stainless steel storefront and into the wood-inspired environs: raw butcher-block style tables and paneled walls and floors, with billowy, cloud-shaped light fixtures hanging from the second-story ceiling.
He sat at the bar, leather overcoat neatly folded and draped over his left forearm, watching Paul, the mâitre d, handle the guests as they entered. It was clear who’d been there before and who hadn’t by their facial expressions upon glimpsing the interior’s striking décor.
Leila entered and her head swiveled in all directions, taking in the colorful surroundings. Uzi slid off the barstool and greeted her.
“Our table’s upstairs. Follow me.” He led her by the elbow up the staircase, where small ceramic birds hung from the high ceiling.
He thought of telling Leila that she looked lovely — hot is the word he would’ve used, because it was true — but he knew that would be the wrong way to frame the evening. Correct or not, he believed it. Wearing a form-fitting red dress and a simple yet elegant pearl necklace topped off by a black cashmere cape loosely draped about her bare shoulders, she looked as good as that first time he had seen her at the crash site. Two-inch heels and long, slender thighs made it appear as if her legs went on forever, and brought her closer to Uzi’s six-foot-two.