“No, we work together,” Storm said.
The cabbie caught another peek at Samantha’s cleavage. She was wearing black wedge leather slip-ons without stockings, a tight denim blue jean skirt, and a bright pink, short satin jacket that was layered over a cream-colored silk blouse and sexy black lace camisole.
“You’re a lucky guy,” the cabbie said as the light changed. “To work with such a pretty lady would be a pleasure indeed.”
Samantha smiled and said, “Thank you!”
Ten minutes later, the taxi reached the Jefferson Memorial parking lot. Storm took the four gym bags from the trunk and eyeballed the lot while the driver got out of the car to open the rear passenger door to Samantha, anxious to take a mental snapshot of those architectural marvels, no doubt.
Confident that they hadn’t been followed, Storm led Toppers to the Ford cargo van that he’d parked here earlier.
“We’re taking this,” he explained, unlocking the doors. “Get in.”
Storm had just stored the four gym bags in the cargo area when the rhythmic voice of Rihanna could be heard coming from inside Toppers’s Lilly Pulitzer handbag.
“Your phone?” he asked her.
“Yeah.” It was 6 P.M. The kidnappers were calling right on time.
Toppers was so nervous that she dropped the phone while she was removing it from her handbag. She bent forward and snatched it off the floor mat.
“Give it here,” Storm ordered. He answered it.
A deep voice that sounded like Darth Vader said, “You got our money?” The caller was using some sort of voice changer software.
“That’s right. Where do you want us to go?”
“Arlington National Cemetery. Robert E. Lee mansion. Leave the first gym bag in a public trash receptacle about fifty feet from the house’s front entrance. There’s a National Park Service sign next to the trash can.”
The line went dead.
A trash container in a public park. It was an odd place for a drop. Or was it?
Pulling from the memorial’s parking lot, Storm headed west across the Potomac River into Northern Virginia. He glanced at Toppers. Her face was ghost white. She looked as if she were about to faint or vomit. When he lowered his eyes, he noticed that her tight jean skirt had risen up when she’d bent over to retrieve her cell phone from the floor. She was wearing a tiny red thong with white polka dots. She’d either not noticed or felt no need to readjust her skirt.
She was a distraction and he needed to be focused. He decided to do what he always did when a woman was distracting him, especially sexually. He would talk with her. He would calm her down. Then he could focus on what was important and not her taut little body, her freshly shaved legs, her muscular thighs.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Think about something else. Tell me about Matthew. Where did you meet?”
“We were in the same first-year English class. He asked me to have coffee. He kept his eyes on my eyes the entire time. Not many boys do that.”
Her candor surprised him. Why? Did he think she was so naïve that she didn’t understand how her figure affected men? How she could use it to manipulate them?
“What are you studying in school?”
“No one believes me when I tell them, because they assume that someone who looks like I do has to be dumb, but I’m studying mechanical engineering.” She laughed.
Good. He was breaking the tension. Helping her relax. Mechanical engineering. Curious.
Continuing, she said, “I know Senator Winslow thinks I’m stupid. He told Matthew that I was an airhead. But I’ve always been good with math and designing. I’m a whiz at reading and drawing blueprints.”
“Good for you,” Storm replied. “The senator’s a jackass.”
“Where did the kidnappers tell you to stash the money?” she asked him.
Her question set off an alarm bell. Although he’d heard her, he acted as if he hadn’t. He wanted to make sure that he’d heard exactly what she’d said.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Where did they tell you to stash the cash?”
He had heard her correctly.
“In an outside trash can,” he replied. “How long have you been engaged to Matthew? Tell me a little about your background.”
“He asked me three months ago. It was a total surprise. He wants to have a big wedding in Texas on a ranch.”
“You aren’t getting married in your hometown?”
“No. I lost my folks when I was a teenager. In an accident.”
“An accident?”
“An awful car accident. We were vacationing in Spain, where my parents had a house. My mom and dad and a friend of mine who was on vacation with us were killed by a drunk driver who swerved into the wrong lane. It was horrible.”
“You weren’t with them?”
“No. Everyone said I was lucky.” Tears began to fill her eyes. “I had a bad cold that night and stayed home when they went to dinner. I’d rather not talk about it.”
The Taurus reached a traffic circle. Storm turned from it into the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery.
“Is that where we’re going?” Toppers asked, looking at a house directly in front of them on a hill.
“Yes,” he replied. “That’s Lee’s mansion.”
A guard stopped them at the cemetery’s gated entrance.
“Sorry, you missed the last tour of the house,” he said. “It was at four-thirty.”
“ I’ve got friends buried here. Iraq,” Storm said. “We’ll pay our respects and tour the house some other time.”
“Take this,” the guard said, handing Storm a pamphlet. He waved them through.
The Robert E. Lee house was built in the early 1800s, in the Greek Revival style. Designed by one of the architects who worked on the U.S. Capitol, the stone mansion had six large columns holding up the front of its massive portico. When the Civil War started, the Union began burying fallen soldiers near the house because President Lincoln wanted the Lee family, including the Confederate general’s wife, who was living there, to see the graves when she looked out her windows each morning.
Storm weaved through the acres of white tablets, eventually making his way up the hill to the front of the mansion.
“There’s the drop site,” he said, pointing to a dark green outdoor trash container. It was overflowing with garbage.
Storm drove to it and scanned the area. No one was watching them. He picked up a gym bag and unzipped it. Toppers had carefully stacked one-hundred-dollar bills in neat rows. Closing the bag, Storm stepped from the still running cargo van and shoved the money deep inside the debris, covering the top with discarded newspapers.
Toppers’s cell phone rang as soon as he returned to the driver’s seat. It was Darth Vader again.
“Time for the next drop.”
Storm sensed that they were being watched. It was a sixth sense that had served him well in combat. There wasn’t anyone near the Lee house, but there was a large group of people several hundred yards down the hill. Storm had been to enough funerals to recognize that the departed had just been given full military honors. The flag-draped coffin had been carried on a horse-drawn caisson to the grave site. A color guard had escorted it there. A military band had sounded a farewell, followed by a three-rifle volley. It was dusk and that was late for a graveside service, which meant someone important had pulled strings to arrange it. The evening sun was setting, but from the grave’s vantage point, a mourner could glance up the hill and see the white cargo van.
Had one of the kidnappers blended into the crowd of mourners? Was Darth Vader among them?
The scrambled voice said, “Head to Georgetown. The canal on Thirty-first Street. Walk down the path to Wisconsin Avenue. The first trash can on the right. Leave the second bag in it.”
Storm exited the cemetery and crossed the Potomac back into the District, where the van was immediately stuck in traffic. A woman talking on her cell phone nearly collide
d with them when she cut in front of the van.
“Stupid broad,” Toppers snapped. “It’s against the law to use a cell phone in the District unless you’ve got a hands-free device. Someone should arrest her. She could have killed us.”
An accident was all that they needed. A cop further stalling traffic. A fender bender disrupting their delivery schedule.
“Senator Windslow said you were a trust fund baby,” Storm said, casually probing. “That’s one reason why he knew you wouldn’t run away with his six million.”
“It’s not polite to talk about money,” Toppers said. “My parents had houses in Connecticut, Spain, and in Palm Beach, too. I loved it there. You ever been?”
“It’s too rich for my blood,” Storm replied. “I was there but not during the Season.”
“The summer,” she said. “That’s the best time. Me and a friend of mine had a wild time there. Actually, we had a bet to see who could lose their virginity first!” She took a stick of gum from her purse and offered him a piece.
“No thanks,” he said. She put two in her mouth and began chewing.
The Season. In Palm Beach, that term had special meaning. It was a five-month whirlwind of parties, balls, and charity events that no one who was anyone dared miss. It was a timeless ritual for America’s most wealthy, the Old Guard’s most treasured social event. It was a tradition carefully passed down from generation to generation. And it was not during the hot summer months. It was when the snowbirds ventured south to escape the cold.
When they reached 31st Street NW, Storm slipped into an alleyway and left Toppers in the van while he walked briskly to the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. The man-made canal had been constructed because the Potomac was considered too unpredictable for safe travel. Merchants needed a safe way to transport tobacco and other commodities some 185 miles west. By the time the canal was dug, it was already obsolete because of the railroad. Now couples used the pebble-strewed path next to the canal for evening strolls, while bicyclists and joggers hurried by them.
Storm waited until the path was empty, and then he stuffed the gym bag into the trash receptacle, covering it with discarded cups, cans, bottles, and papers.
As had happened after the first delivery in Arlington Cemetery, Rihanna’s voice greeted Storm as soon as he returned to the van.
Four kidnappers had abducted Matthew. Was it possible that a different one of them was monitoring each delivery? How else would they know where he was?
“What took you so long?” Darth Vader asked.
“There were people on the path,” Storm replied. “What happens if a stranger gets one of the gym bags by accident?”
“Your boy dies.”
Darth Vader told them to drop the third bag at Hains Point, located at the southernmost tip of East Potomac Park—a good twenty-minute trip from Georgetown during rush hour.
Bordered by the Potomac River on one side and the Washington Channel on the other, Hains Point was at the tip of a man-made island composed of dirt dredged from both rivers. When they reached it, Storm hid the bag in a public trash container just as he had hidden the others.
The final drop-off point was at Battery Kemble Park, a tiny area of grass and woods in Northwest Washington, smack in the middle of expensive homes. The park was a former Civil War battery built on high ground so that Union troops could look down during the fighting and fire canons if enemy soldiers attempted to cross the Potomac and enter the city. Now it was popular with local dog walkers. Storm dumped several bags of discarded poop onto the gym bag.
Samantha’s phone rang as if on cue.
“Okay, we’ve done our part,” Storm said. “Where’s Matthew?”
“Wait in Union Station for my next call.”
“We’ve played by the rules,” Storm told the caller. “If you don’t, you’ll never live to enjoy your money.”
The line went dead.
He looked at Toppers. She’d pulled down her skirt. She was still chewing her gum.
She had no idea that he had been interrogating her.
Chapter Nine
Storm and Toppers found seats at a bar on the main floor of the Union Station terminal. She placed her cell phone in front of them so they would not miss any calls. She was jittery.
All around the bar, there was motion. Commuters rushed to catch trains. Tourists gawked at the restored rotunda, wandered from shop to shop in search of souvenirs, and snapped photographs. A homeless man begged for quarters. Neither Storm nor Toppers paid attention to the whirlwind. Their eyes were on the pink cell phone resting on the bar. They were waiting for Rihanna’s voice.
“What’s taking them so long?” Toppers complained.
It had been nearly a half hour. Something caught Storm’s attention. It was a news reporter on the flat-screen television behind the bar. Storm motioned for the bartender to turn up the volume.
“Park police do not believe the explosion was the work of terrorists,” the petite blond news reporter breathlessly announced. As the camera pulled back, viewers could see that she was standing outside the Robert E. Lee mansion. Red and blue strobe lights from emergency vehicles flashed against the house’s marble columns.
The reporter said, “Once again, this does not seem to be a terrorist attack. However, a spokesman for the National Park Service said the explosion was not the result of some natural cause, such as a garbage fire. An explosive device was put into the trash can, but it was more like a powerful Fourth of July firecracker than a bomb, the spokesman said. At this point, we don’t know why someone would want to blow up a trash can here. There’s speculation it might be part of a protest against the memory of Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy. However, no damage to Lee’s home was done. The explosion was loud and strong enough to destroy the trash can and all of the trash inside it. But there was no serious damage.”
An anchorman’s face appeared on the screen, and it looked as if he were about to make a joke when his face turned somber. “I’ve just been told there has been a second explosion in a trash receptacle,” he said. “This one in Georgetown on the C and O Canal path. There are no apparent injuries, but the blast has alarmed businesses and homeowners in the area. A bomb disposal unit is en route to the scene, and police have roped off the area and urged people to stay away from the canal path. Bomb-sniffing dogs are being sent in to search for other devices that may be hidden in trash cans by the canal.”
The anchorman paused and then said, “A third explosion has been reported. This one in a trash can at Hains Point. I repeat, this is the third confirmed report of an explosion in a trash can. We have been told that the chief of police, the National Park Service, Homeland Security, and the mayor have agreed to hold an emergency meeting, but, once again, it is not believed that this is a terrorist attack. There have been no injuries because of the explosions, which the police have stressed are more like giant firecrackers than they are bombs. The purpose of the explosions, according to one fire department official, was to make a loud noise, destroy the containers, and burn whatever was inside them—rather than to injure persons or cause property damage. One source speculated that this could be a misguided prank by someone who understands basic chemistry and simply wanted to do something to frighten this city.”
Because Battery Kemble Park was more isolated, it took a few more minutes before the fourth blast made the news. When the anchorman announced it, Toppers said aloud, “They’re destroying the money.”
The bartender and several customers gave her curious glances.
“Let’s go,” Storm said, gently taking her elbow and maneuvering her through the crowd that was now congregating around the bar’s television.
By the time that they reached the terminal’s exit, Toppers looked terrified.
“This was a mistake,” she said. “Something horrible is going to happen to Matthew. I just know it!”
Chapter Ten
Storm and Toppers went directly from Union Station to Senator Windslow’s SOB. Agent April Shower
s was already there. So were Senator Windslow and his distraught wife, Gloria, who was crying in her husband’s arms.
“We found Matthew Dull,” Showers said quietly.
“Is he okay? Where is he?” Toppers asked.
Then she realized why his mother was in tears. Toppers gasped and whispered, “Oh my God!” She collapsed on the floor. Storm helped her to the couch, and Gloria hurried over to hug her. The two women held each other and sobbed.
“His body was found floating in the Anacostia River,” Showers said.
“Executed?” Storm asked.
Before Showers could reply, Gloria turned on them.
“You two were supposed to keep my son alive! I trusted you!” she shrieked.
Senator Windslow stepped between his angry wife and the targets of her fury. “It would be better if you two left us alone for right now,” he said.
Both started to leave, but the senator asked Storm to stay behind for a moment. When he did, Windslow leaned in close to his ear so that neither his wife nor Toppers could hear what he was whispering.
“What the hell happened?” he asked. “I saw the news flash. Why did you let those bastards blow up my money?”
“Later, Senator,” Storm replied.
“Easy for you to say. You just didn’t have six million bucks blown to pieces.”
Agent Showers was waiting to ambush Storm in the hallway outside Windslow’s office.
“You went behind my back,” she said, her eyes ablaze. “We might have been able to save that kid if we’d worked together. The shit is going to hit the fan when the media finds out that Matthew Dull is dead.”
Continuing her tirade, she said, “You need to tell me what the hell happened after you ditched my men in that parking garage on K Street this afternoon.”
“Are you arresting me?”
He already knew the answer. Jedidiah Jones would not allow Storm to be arrested. Or interrogated. Survival of the fittest. Jones would not permit it because it would tie him and the Agency to this mess.
“Not yet,” she snapped. “But if you don’t come with me right now to headquarters and tell me what happened—I am going to recommend to my superiors that you be arrested.”