Washington DC Read online

  The Crime Beat

  Episode 2: Washington D.C.

  A.C Fuller

  Copyright © 2019 by A.C. Fuller

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of quotations in book reviews, articles, academic work, or other contexts where brief quotations are warranted.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Preview of THE CRIME BEAT, Episode 3: Miami

  Author Notes, September 2019

  About the Author

  Other Books By A.C. Fuller

  About Gary Collins, Consultant on THE CRIME BEAT

  1

  Wednesday

  Through the din of punk music that filled the crowded bar, Jane Cole struggled to hear the TV news anchor stumble over the breaking news.

  “Former Vice President Alvin Meyers has been murdered...we’re hearing...I’ve just been told…”

  She waved down the bartender. “Can you turn up the television?”

  A man rushed from a nearby table and slid onto the stool next to her. He pointed at the screen. “Holy hell! Meyers got shot. Turn it up!”

  The bartender turned off the music and the sudden quiet drew more attention. Dozens of eyes locked on the TV above the bar. As the bartender turned up the volume, Cole relaxed, no longer needing to fight so hard to pick up the anchor’s words.

  The newscaster brought his finger to his ear. “I’m hearing that...my apologies...all we can confirm at this time is that former Vice President Alvin Meyers has been killed. After this quick break, we’ll be back with more on this stunning news story.”

  Next to Cole, Robert Warren sipped his coffee, eyes on the TV. She faced him. “Right now, every news producer in the world is trying to decide whether to air videos of a former Vice President being murdered. That poor anchor has a half dozen people arguing in his ear.”

  “He’s doing a decent job, given the circumstances.”

  She dropped her eyes to her phone. The shooting wasn’t trending on Twitter yet, but it would be soon. Her feed was cluttered with various versions of “OMG, Alvin Meyers is dead,” and “Who bothers to assassinate an ex-VP?” One Tweet stood out—a wobbly cell phone video claiming to show the moments just before he died.

  Posted by someone at the event, the video showed the crowded rooftop of the Watergate. On the left, two bartenders in black and white poured wine behind a curved wooden bar. Waiters shifted in and out of the shot, setting glasses on trays, then disappearing from the frame. Between the bar and the railings that separated the rooftop from the sky, forty to fifty people chatted in small groups, sipping drinks. Some stood by the railings, staring in the direction of the apartment buildings and hotels that loomed across the Potomac.

  “Looks like a typical D.C. cocktail party,” Cole said.

  “You know what it was for?”

  “I saw something on the scroll about a fundraiser for a world literacy program. Something like that. Alvin Meyers was one of the more involved former vice presidents. Boards of directors, international foundations, that kind of stuff.”

  “Why didn’t he run for president?”

  Cole shot him a look. “Really?”

  “What? I don’t follow politics.”

  “There are a few videos of him being a little handsy with female interns. Nothing too bad, but enough to get him burned alive by the Democratic base.”

  “I thought getting handsy was a requirement for being president these days,” Warren said.

  “Meyers made millions as a private citizen. That could also be why he didn’t run.”

  Cole held the phone between them as the Twitter video made a quick, disorienting pan to the right, as though the person holding the phone had been bumped or turned quickly. The shot was now centered on a glass door where Alvin Meyers entered, flanked by two men in black suits. The one on the left muttered into the sleeve of his jacket. Secret Service.

  Meyers was blandly handsome. Tall, with silver-white hair and a constant smile that was probably necessary in his line of work but struck her as phony.

  For the next thirty seconds, the video followed Meyers as he shook hands, slapped backs, and repeated different versions of the catchphrase he’d used for years: “What’s good for the world is good for America.”

  Then, in an instant, Meyers’ hand shot to his neck, like he’d been stung by an invisible hornet. He dropped out of the frame. People screamed. A Secret Service agent pointed at the railing. The other agent crouched, also disappearing from the frame. The video jerked and showed only a blur of backs and flailing arms. A shriek pierced the scene.

  A woman shouted, “Meyers is down!”

  “It came from over there,” a man called.

  The video jerked again, a shot of heads and sky, then ended.

  Cole scrolled for a few seconds, looking for information or other videos, then glanced at Warren. “No footage of Meyers after he was hit. And no footage of where the shot came from. At least not yet.”

  “Right away, Secret Service would have had Meyers in the elevator, then in the back of his armored vehicle, racing away from the scene. Protocol, even if they knew he was dead.” Warren pressed his hands to his cheeks and let out a long breath of air. His pressure-release valve. “If he was the President, they’d have had bags of his blood in the limo. Not that it matters if the shot was on target.”

  Warren nodded at the TV. The broadcast was back from commercial and the anchor had recovered his composure. “Initial reports from the scene—and please keep in mind that these are unconfirmed reports—but initial reports from the scene indicate that the shot may not have come from someone on the rooftop. Perhaps a neighboring building, we’re being told.” The anchor paused, focusing on the voice of the producer in his ear. “For those just joining us, in breaking news, former Vice President Alvin Meyers was shot and killed this evening, and we will be here all night with special coverage of his death, and his legacy. Stay with us.”

  “First thing that pops to mind,” Cole said. “How does Alvin Meyers connect to Raj Ambani?”

  “I don’t know much about him.”

  “Moderate Democrat. Four-term Senator, two-term Governor of Virginia before being picked for VP.”

  “And he cashed in when he left office?”

  “Yup. Hundred-fifty grand per speech, seven-figure book deal, the works.”

  “So he’s well off and powerful, two things he had in common with Ambani. But what do they have to do with each other?”

  Cole did a quick search on her phone. She clicked the first link. “I thought so,” she said, holding it up to Warren. “Ambani hosted a fundraiser for Meyers, and has donated money to him.”

  Warren was skeptical. “Don’t businessmen like Ambani donate to all the candidates, Republican and Democrat, just to make sure?”

  “We need to start somewhere, and that’s a connection.”

  Warren gave a short nod. “Why not start in D.C.?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “I have a car.”

>   His meaning hit her suddenly. “You serious, Rob?”

  He nodded.

  Cole scrolled through Twitter as she considered. She’d quit her job on a whim less than six hours ago. She hadn’t given it much thought, but now she was hoping for some freelance work to tide her over while she looked for something permanent. And if the Meyers killing was connected to the Ambani murder, this was about to become the biggest story in the world.

  She was about to ask Warren what kind of car he had when a text arrived from Joey Mazzalano—a scumbag Lieutenant from the fifth precinct, but also one of her best sources.

  The Italian Stallion: Buy me a drink tonight. Antonio’s at 10.

  She considered ignoring him, but tapped out a quick reply.

  Jane Cole: Why?

  The Italian Stallion: You said you always pay your debts, and that Wragg tip was shit.

  Jane Cole: The Wragg tip was spot on.

  The Italian Stallion: He died before I could get any credit, and you could have called me when you found the apartment. Plus, I have something for you.

  Cole let out an exasperated sigh and went back to Twitter. Her eye landed on another video from the roof of the Watergate, which showed a different angle on the scene. She held it up for Warren to watch with her.

  While the video played, she considered Warren’s offer again. Until recently, she’d believed he was an abusive cop who should be fired and prosecuted. The dashcam footage had shown that he’d been provoked in the worst way possible. She didn’t think she would have been able to keep her cool if a pedophile rapist had made that kind of comment in her presence. But still, she felt uneasy about hopping in his car for the four-hour drive to D.C.

  The new video didn’t have a clear shot of Meyers. Just people drinking casually before the shooting, and screaming in panic afterwards. When it ended, Warren plucked the phone from her hand and laid it face down on the bar. He waited until she met his dark eyes.

  “Cole,” he said. “Right now, I’ve got nothing else in my life. Nothing but this case.”

  “You don’t have this case. You’re not a cop anymore.”

  “In America you need a special license to drive a taxi, need to pass the bar exam to practice law. Hell, you need a permit to serve hot dogs at the fair. Cops have to pass mental and physical tests, written exams. But you don’t need anything except a laptop to be a journalist.”

  She didn’t know what he was driving at, but she wasn’t up for another fight about cops and journalists. “It’s called the First Amendment.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I want to get to the bottom of this. I bet you do, too. We can sit here all night watching the news and looking at blurry clips online, and my guess is there will be more and more blurry clips like this. But you and I are the only two people alive who know about the guns, about Chandler Price, and the screenshots. If Meyers is connected, we have a better chance of figuring out how than anyone. Let’s go to D.C. and do what we both do best.”

  His face was pleading, earnest. She recognized that look. It was the one thing they had in common—that indefinable, relentless need to learn the truth. If they could, it would be the biggest story of her life. She nodded at the bartender. “Can we settle up, please?”

  “So we’re going?”

  “We’re going, but I need to make a quick stop on the way out of town. Gotta meet a source.”

  “Who?”

  Cole exhaled sharply and pressed her hand across her forehead.

  “You okay?” Warren asked.

  Cole sent a quick text, agreeing to meet with Mazzalano, then said, “Pick me up outside Antonio’s in Little Italy in an hour.”

  2

  Antonio’s was an old-school Italian restaurant in the English basement of a brownstone just off Mulberry Street. She’d met Mazzalano there five years ago and since learned that it was the last of a dying breed of restaurants—family owned, with the same menu for nearly seventy years. The night they’d met, he’d called it, “Real red-sauce Italian. None of that frou-frou Northern garbage.”

  Every time she went to Antonio’s, it was half-empty. The owners seemed to go out of their way not to publicize its existence. Restaurants with few customers were sometimes used as money-laundering operations for owners with other sources of income, and Mazzalano had hinted at those other sources of income. But he’d never come out and named them.

  Cole descended the five stairs down from street level and peeled off her coat as she entered the dimly lit restaurant. A handful of people looked up from dark wood tables lit by large candles that flickered dark gold light across their faces. Mazzalano stood behind the bar, helping himself to a glass of grappa, a grape-based brandy she loathed. He waved her over and she sat on a stool, setting her bag on the one next to her. She hoped the move would discourage Mazzalano from sitting within arm’s reach.

  She flashed the snarky smile she knew he loved. “You work here now?”

  “Antonio is back in the kitchen. He lets me help myself. You know, time was, you could find similar joints all over Little Italy. Now, it’s mostly tourist spots. Sixteen bucks for a bowl of weeds.”

  She smiled politely as he poured her a glass of grappa. She’d heard his spiel before.

  Mazzalano shuffled around the bar and moved her purse, then flopped down right next to her. A wet smile dripped from his face.

  Cole pretended to be unfazed. “And what do you provide him in exchange for his hospitality?”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief and pressed it into his nose, inhaling deeply. “I can always tell what I drank last night from the way my sweat smells the next day. You ever notice that?”

  “Gross, and no. I only drink tequila, so I imagine it’s the same every day.” She pushed the grappa away.

  “It’s impolite to refuse a drink from a friend.”

  “If I drink, will you get to the point? I have somewhere to be, and you said this was important.”

  He smiled. “Would I lie to you?”

  “Yes, but I’ll take my chances.” She shot the grappa. The liquor seared her throat and cleared her sinuses all at once. “There. Done.” The empty glass clacked loudly as she placed it back on the bar. “By the way, what happened with the hair sample from Ambani’s killer?”

  Mazzalano mumbled something inaudible, then said, “You hear about Meyers? Course you did, you’re a news junkie, always on your phone.” Fundamentally, Mazzalano was a bully, so instead of lying he often just changed the subject when he got a question he didn’t like. But it was odd that he didn’t want to discuss the DNA test. Normally he’d have taken the question as an opportunity to brag about his clout within the lab.

  “Saw it on the news,” Cole said. “Hearing anything?”

  “A second high-profile murder in a week, sniper-style? Got me thinking.”

  “Thinking what?”

  He waved her off with a grunt, as though he’d decided to change the subject. He was drunker than usual, which was dangerous, but also useful. Useful because the drunker he got, the more he talked. Dangerous because the booze hyper-charged his piggish behavior.

  “Not relevant any more, is it?” His voice was biting, sarcastic, a tone he usually concealed under a facade of pseudo-charm.

  “The hair sample, you mean?”

  “Wragg is dead. You really fucked me, you know. I showed you the video, you gave me the hair sample, but before I had time to do anything with it, you find Wragg and he’s dead. No glory for the Italian Stallion.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I held up my end of the bargain. You were my first and only call when I was attacked. There was no way I could have predicted how that went. It’s not nothing, the hair. Once you get the results back, it’ll at least help fill out the file.”

  Mazzalano looked away.

  “You did submit the hair, right?”

  His cheeks, already red, flushed. “Sure I did.” A drop of sweat dripped onto the bar. He dabbed it with a napkin, spillin
g his drink in the process. She studied him as he walked around the bar to pour himself another shot.

  People often sweat when they’re nervous or lying, but sweat alone isn’t a tell. You have to establish a baseline during normal conversation. Booze made Mazzalano red and sweaty even under normal circumstances, but tonight something was different. The one thing she liked about him was that he’d always told her the truth. He wanted to be liked, wanted to come across as important so deeply, that he’d never tried to spin her.

  Not this time. He was lying. She was sure of it.

  3

  Warren arrived early in his ’69 Ford Cougar and took a spot across the street from Antonio’s. He’d purchased the car for $2,000 the week he got back from Afghanistan, and spent a year and another $12,000 whipping it into shape. Everything had been restored to its original splendor, except the radio, which he’d updated to an MP3-compatible system. His drinking and temper had cost him his family, and now his job. Blue Lightning, as he called his beloved car, was the only thing he’d had through it all.

  He had a few minutes to kill and needed to hear a friendly voice, so he called Gabriella Rojas. “Gabby, it’s War Dog. I assume you’ve heard?”

  “That you’re out, or are gonna be? I heard. Sorry, man.”

  “I’m not gonna ask you to try to intervene, but—”

  “I couldn’t get it done. Way above my pay grade.”

  She’d been promoted from beat cop to sergeant and from sergeant to detective in near record time. Since then she’d been assigned to the elite Joint Terrorism Task Force, so she often had intel none of Warren’s other friends in the department had. “What are you hearing?”