Jake almost choked on the desert in his throat. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” he rasped.
“Nice language, Jake,” Kate murmured through closed eyes.
“Sorry,” Jake said, followed by a much cleaner “Dear God.”
“What is it?” Kate asked, picking up her head and staring at her panicking boyfriend.
“You don’t want to know.”
“What is it?” Kate asked again. “You’re freaking me out.”
“Kate, I think I may be in real trouble.” ***
The break-room in the First District was the oldest room in a building of old rooms. Brownish tiles that were once white ran four feet up the wall. The original plaster walls bulged and cracked, a relief map without a designated region. The sink in the corner dripped water steadily, and the a/c unit in the window screeched when it ran. If you wanted to have a conversation in the break-room during the summer, lip-reading skills didn’t hurt.
Detective Wallace and Detective Nguyen sat around the wooden table in the middle of the room. Wallace, the big-bellied detective with an infectious laugh, smoked a cigarette, tipping his ashes into the small ashtray that rested on a tabletop with so many scratches it looked like it had been caught in a cat stampede. Detective Nguyen, bored by an incredibly slow week, drank a bottle of water, a rare break from the coffee that kept him alive during the graveyard shift.
“A quick game of five card?” Detective Wallace asked, blowing a cloud of used nicotine, tobacco, and tar across the room in the smoke-free building.
“What are we playing for?” Nguyen asked.
“A gentleman’s bet. Gambling on the premises is against policy. You know that,” Detective Wallace answered, taking another drag from his menthol to conceal his laughter.
“Right, no betting unless the captain is at the table.”
“You young guys catch on quick.”
The senior detective slid the deck toward Nguyen who shuffled the cards without protesting. Detective Wallace flipped the channel to the news and tuned in to the local stories. He picked up his hand of cards, looked at the two aces and pair of jacks, and wished he had money in the pot. He glanced back at the TV at the end of the next news story and for a brief second, he stopped breathing. Detective Nguyen watched the cigarette droop from Earl Wallace’s mouth, and he wrenched his neck around to see a picture of Rock Johnson in front of the Hart Senate Building.
“Forget the game and grab your keys,” Detective Wallace said, throwing his two pair on the table.
Detective Nguyen looked at the cards, and then back up at the TV. “Taking me on a date Sergeant?”
“Yes, and you’re driving. Meet me in front of the building. I’ll be down in a minute. I gotta make a phone call.” ***
The D.C. affiliate for the ABC network, WJLA-TV, is housed in the old USA Today building in Rosslyn. The twin glass towers stand on the Virginia side of the Potomac River and are regular recipients of unintended near misses with airplanes landing at Reagan National Airport. Restricted flight patterns over the capital city make the approach at Reagan National one of the trickiest in the nation, and the USA Today buildings are the highlight of the pilot’s dexterity test. Planes bank left and right as they follow the Potomac, the flight path a slalom course a stone’s throw from CIA headquarters, the White House, and the Pentagon. Passengers with window seats were known to get close enough to read the computer screen on the reporters’ desks.
Earl Wallace and Detective Nguyen showed their badges to the security guard and walked to the TV studio and broadcast production facilities on the second floor of the building. A middle-aged production manager in jeans introduced herself as Crystal and showed the detectives to the newly appointed “news technology room.” Crystal, a redhead with curly locks down to her shoulders, introduced a young, wire-thin intern wearing an old Metallica t-shirt that looked like it was held together by nothing short of magic.
“This is T.J.,” Crystal said. “He can help you with whatever you need. If you would excuse me detectives, I have to go. News is coming across the wire on a potential terrorist incident in Kuala Lumpur. It looks like I’ll be up all night.”
“Thank you,” Detective Wallace said to the departing woman’s back. He turned toward T.J., who was happy to be helping with official police business.
“What do you have for us?” Detective Wallace asked.
“This is the story you asked to see,” T.J. said, holding the tape in his left hand as if to impress his guests, before shoving it into the machine. “What part are you interested in?”
“The final picture. The one with the senator and a group of people in front of some building.”
T.J. forwarded the tape and pressed stop.
“Go back a couple of frames. Can you do that?”
“This bad boy can define a standard video tape to fifty frames per second. It can also make a perfect digital copy of a two-hour movie in fifteen seconds. It is the best piece of machinery I have had the privilege to work with.”
“So can you show me what I need to see?”
“Sure.” T.J. pushed a button, dragged a small handle to the left and smiled. “There you go.”
“Perfect.”
Detective Nguyen took one look at the screen and realized the reason behind Detective Wallace’s desire for the sudden date.
“Take a look at that guy. Does he look familiar?” Wallace asked with a serious look on his face. He knew the question was rhetorical.
“The big Asian guy from the Fleet Bank ATM.”
“Yeah.”
“Who are the other guys?” Wallace asked. T.J. picked up a note that came with the tape and its untimely, premature circulation. He scanned the handwritten note, words scribbled horribly across the paper at an angle.
“From what I can decipher from this note, this is the rundown. The guy on the left is Senator Day’s aide. The man next to the senator is a businessman by the name of Peter Winthrop. The man on the other side of the senator is a man named Lee Chang. He is the owner of the manufacturing facility in Saipan where the piece was filmed. Next to him on the far side is one of Lee Chang’s assistants. The ‘big Asian guy,’ as you referred to him. No name given.”
“How much did you guys pay for this tape?”
“None that I know of, but I’m a just a techie intern. They don’t let me have control of the checkbook, if you know what I mean. I work here for the cool toys and late hours.”
Detective Wallace let it go. “Can you zoom-in on the face of the big guy and print a picture of it?”
“Sure.”
“Can we get a copy of the tape?”
“I already made you one. I didn’t figure you were coming over to spend your evening with me.”
“Could you also print a picture of the screen with the entire group—the senator, the businessman, the aides, everyone?”
“Consider it done,” T.J. answered. His fingers jumped to life and moved around the million-dollar equipment like a star player from the video game generation.
“What are you thinking?” Detective Nguyen asked.
“I’m not exactly sure yet, but I do have an idea.”
The detectives thanked the gracious intern and left the building past the now-empty security booth.
“Where to, boss?” asked Detective Nguyen, behind the wheel.