One call ended, Ranjhani punched another number and walked to his bureau on the other side of the room while he waited for the phone to ring. Two polished wooden boxes, each roughly the size of a brick, sat beside his billfold and wristwatch. The sight of them added another jolt of excitement.
“Hello?” Lee McKeon picked up.
“Things in Asia are moving forward.”
“That is good,” the governor said, his voice noncommittal. He was with someone.
“I know you are uncomfortable with a meeting,” Ranjhani said, looking at the boxes. “But it has become a necessity.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed,” Rahjhani said. “I have something for you that I must deliver with my own hands.”
PART TWO
And when it was morning, the East Wind brought the locusts
CHAPTER 29
“No doubt in my mind. I could do it.” Deputy U.S. Marshal August Bowen drummed strong fingers against the two extra Glock magazines on his ballistic vest and watched for a reaction from the tall blonde in the seat in front of him. He rubbed a dark goatee with the other hand, as if amused. Oakley Half Jacket shades covered his eyes in the backseat of the Ford SUV.
“I’m gonna call bullshit on that,” Deputy Mitch Lucas said from behind the wheel. He had a voice like a blender grinding ice. Overworking his upper body in the gym and neglecting his tiny legs had earned Lucas the nickname Chicken Hawk in the squad room. It was no secret that he didn’t care much for Bowen. “You’re saying you could proposition her on duty and not get arrested?”
Born and raised in Florida, Samantha “Sammy” Willson had come to seek her fortune in D.C. when she got out of college, and worked with the Metropolitan Police vice unit for a time before she’d joined the Marshals Service. Her previous life made her a perfect fit for the Sex Offender Investigations Coordinator, or SOIC, for the office. In particular U.S. Marshal fashion, SOICs hunted down unregistered sex offenders before they could offend again.
She pointed a knife-hand up the road as if calling in an airstrike. “It’s another half mile. Donaldson’s house is the gray clapboard on the right. He has dogs but the informant says the’re friendly.” She glanced over her shoulder at Bowen. “No way, Gus,” she said, her Florida drawl rolling off her tongue. “Cute turns creepy when you hit on me while I’m working vice. Oh, yeah, you’d go to jail.”
All three deputies were similarly dressed in khaki cargo pants, dark polos, and heavy ballistic vests that were outfitted with all manner of pouch and pocket to hold extra pistol magazines, Taser, radio, flashlight, and plastic flex cuffs. They were military-looking, olive-green things with more MOLLE webbing than any of them had gear to fill. In addition to their basic load of weapons and ammo, each carried an oblong trauma kit the size of a fat sub sandwich. A tab bearing the deputies’ blood type was affixed to each vest over the right shoulder.
“I’m telling you, I could do it, Sammy.” Bowen grinned. He was just under six feet tall and big enough the backseat felt cramped with all the tactical gear. Eight months trudging through the Hindu Kush with his Recon Scout team had hardened his physique and weathered his skin. The experience had also turned his muddy-river hair prematurely silver gray at the age of thirty-six.
“Okay,” Willson said. “Imagine I’m on the street wearing my spandex shorts and a halter top—”
“I do that all the time.” Lucas licked his lips.
“Shut up, Mitch,” she said, then focused on Bowen, fluttering her eyes to get into character. She popped her gum and heaved her chest. Her sex appeal was strong enough to punch straight through the heavy ballistic vest. “Hey, sugar,” she said. “You want a date?”
“You know,” Bowen said, “I think I would love a date.”
“Gotcha!” Lucas said, leering sideways at Willson. He had the eyes of a man who kept someone tied up in his basement.
“Hang on.” Bowen raised his hand. “We haven’t talked about anything illegal yet.”
“Okay, sugar.” Willson nodded, resuming her character. “I don’t date for free, you know.”
“I know.” Bowen peered over the top of his Oakleys, shrugging as if he was a little embarrassed. “To tell you the truth, I’m doing a series of figure drawings and I need a model for an hour or so—”
Willson’s mouth fell open.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Lucas tapped the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “You want to draw her naked?”
“Come on, Sammy.” Bowen grinned. “What would you say?”
“In reality,” Willson said, nodding, “I’d say shove off, you weirdo.”
“And, you owe me lunch,” Bowen said, hand on the door as they neared the target house. “It’s a tried-and-true technique.”
“Seriously?” Willson turned half around in her seat to stare at Bowen. “You mean to tell me you’ve hired a hooker?”
Bowen nodded.
“Jeez Louise,” Willson scoffed, grabbing her seat belt. “I thought we did backgrounds to weed out guys like that.” The deep red of her fingernails stood out in stark contrast to her tactical gear.
Bowen grinned, as if such a thing made perfect sense. “Sitting on her butt eating bonbons while I did a few sketches was a heck of a lot better than her normal routine. An undercover cop would just tell me to get lost. They wouldn’t sit for a nude drawing.”
Willson looked at him for a long moment, then raised an eyebrow to make a face like she just might consider it. She shook away the thought and put her game face back on.
“Donaldson’s house is right up there before the intersection.” She faced forward in her seat again. “We got over ten thousand images of explicit child porn the last time — some of them of kids as young as four. But remember, he’s not only a pervert, he’s a runner — and a fast one at that.”
A haggard blond woman in a green Hawaiian muumuu stood by a group of mailboxes at the corner fifty meters ahead, watching the Ford approach.
Willson pointed at the driveway past the woman and on the other side of the road. “That’s Donaldson’s place there.”
“Keep driving.” Bowen tapped the headrest behind Lucas. His cell phone began to buzz in the pocket inside his vest. He ignored it.
“What?” Chicken Hawk Lucas shot a glance in the rearview mirror.
“Trust me,” Bowen said, looking intently at the road. “Just drive on by.”
“Go ahead, Mitch.” Willson shrugged as the SUV passed the row of mailboxes and the staring woman. “It can’t hur—”
Bowen flung open his door, smacking it into the haggard blond and sending her flying in a blossom of arms, hairy legs, and flowered Hawaiian patterns. He bailed out before the SUV came to a screeching stop.
Bowen grabbed a handful of dress and a flailing arm to haul Frank Donaldson to his feet. The bright green muumuu hung off a hairy shoulder. Blood poured from a gaping split in his forehead where the doorpost had impacted him.
“How’d you know?” the addled man asked, kicking at the ratty blond wig that lay like roadkill in the gravel.
Bowen ratcheted the handcuffs tight and pushed the prisoner against the side of the SUV to pat him down.
“Uncle Sam’s all-expense-paid trips to the Middle East,” he said. “I’ve seen a lot of guys in man-dresses.”
Bowen’s cell phone rang for the fourth time in as many minutes. Convinced Donaldson wasn’t hiding anything but a black bra and a pair of matching lacy panties, he handed him off to Lucas and Willson before answering. He recognized the number.