Camel Club 05 - Hell's Corner Read online

  Garchik said, “It would be pretty hard to slip a basketball inside a root ball and not have someone see you. There’s a burlap sack around it to hold the dirt and roots together, but it would still be complicated. You’d have to get the ball there somehow, get down into the hole, slit the sack, put the ball in and somehow patch the sack back up.”

  Chapman added, “And he couldn’t exactly waltz it past the White House guards. I’m assuming the workers have to go through checkpoints.”

  “Yes, they do,” answered Stone. “And I would imagine an X-ray of the basketball would reveal the bomb inside?”

  “Absolutely,” said Garchik.

  “Then if one of the groundspeople was involved he didn’t take the ball through White House security.” He looked around. “But he could have come directly to the park to begin work on the tree. Someone could have given him the ball then. The White House wouldn’t be involved at all.”

  “Which would be captured on the video,” said Garchik. “We’ll have to check that angle, but it seems way too easy to detect on our part.”

  Stone said, “Which means we’re missing something.” He looked down at the crater. “Let’s check that video feed. Right now.”

  CHAPTER 27

  A FEW MINUTES LATER they were standing in the FBI’s command post on Jackson Place. They had called in two Secret Service agents, who huddled with them around the large TV screen. The feed they would be looking at had come from the Secret Service’s archives.

  “We keep the images for a minimum of fifteen years,” explained one of the Secret Service agents.

  “You’re not the only agency with electronic eyes on the park, though,” said Stone.

  The same agent smiled. “We all have peepers on our little slice of Hell’s Corner. In an ideal world we all share what we see, but this is far from an ideal world.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?” asked the other agent.

  Stone explained about the tree being planted, and also about the bomb dog going near the tree.

  Agent Garchik had stayed behind in the park to keep going over the crime scene, but Tom Gross had joined them after being called by Stone. The FBI agent said, “We need to see the entire feed from the time the tree was delivered to the moment the bomb went off.”

  They were shown this feed from three different angles. It took a long time, even though the security guard was able to speed up the frames without any significant detail being missed. At the end they stared at the screen with the same unanswered questions.

  Gross said, “The dogs did make a pass, but they stayed outside the tape line. That was a big hole in the security wall. Secret Service is going to get dinged for that.”

  The two agents exchanged glances and grimaced but said nothing.

  “And there wasn’t even a hint of anyone planting anything in that hole,” added Chapman.

  Stone said, “You’re sure this is all the footage?”

  One of the agents said, “That’s it.”

  Gross, Stone and Chapman left the command center. On the way back to the park Gross said, “I can’t remember the last case I had where not only haven’t I taken a step forward, I keep taking steps back.”

  Stone closed his eyes and recalled what he had seen on the video. A crane had lifted the large tree up into the air. Then a crew of National Park Service personnel in their green-and-khaki uniforms had moved in and helped direct the placement of the maple into the hole.

  He opened his eyes. “There had to be a staging area for the tree. Where it was kept before being installed? That wasn’t on the video.”

  “That’s right,” said a hopeful-looking Gross.

  Chapman added, “And the time stamp on the video shows that the tree was put in a day before the bombing happened. So why was the hole still uncovered?”

  Gross said, “I think we need to find answers to those questions.”

  A moment later his phone rang. He talked for a few moments and then clicked off. “We got a hit on the jogger. Missing persons report was phoned in a few hours ago. Family member. Matches the description, and he was in the vicinity of the park.”

  “Why so long to call it in?” asked Stone.

  “Something we’ll have to find out when we talk to them.”

  “I think we should split up,” said Stone. “You and your men can handle the groundspeople and Chapman and I can talk to the family members. You have the address?”

  Gross gave it to him. As they were parting company the FBI agent said, “Now we’ve only got the suit to track down.”

  Stone never turned around. “Yeah,” he said over his shoulder as Chapman marched along beside him.

  When they got to her car she said, “You know you could be charged with withholding vital evidence in an investigation. With obstruction even.”

  “If you think that’s the case, feel free to report me.”

  The two looked across the width of the rental at each other.

  Chapman finally sighed. “I don’t think it would further my career to pull the rug out from under my boss. So just get the hell in the car. ”

  When the doors plunked closed she threw it into gear. “Where to?”

  Stone gazed down at the slip of paper that Gross had given him with the address. “Anacostia. Make sure you keep your gun handy.”

  “Is it dangerous, then, this Anacostia?”

  Stone thought for a few moments before replying, “I guess less dangerous than Lafayette Park, actually.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CARMEN ESCALANTE lived in a duplex a few blocks from the river. The neighborhood was within sight of the ballpark of the Washington Nationals, but had not benefited from the gentrification that was going on in other areas around the stadium.

  They reached Escalante’s address and Stone knocked on a door that was scarred by at least three old bullet pocks by his quick count. They heard curious sounds approaching. Footsteps and something more. Something that clunked. When the door opened they were looking down at a petite woman in her twenties who had metal braces on each arm to support her twisted legs. Hence the strange sounds.

  “Carmen Escalante?” Stone asked.

  She nodded. “I am Carmen.”

  Stone and then Chapman showed her their badges.

  “We’re here about your report of a missing person,” said Chapman.

  “You don’t sound American,” said Carmen curiously.

  “I’m not.”

  Carmen looked confused. Stone said, “Can we come in?”

  They followed her down a short hall to a tiny room. The furniture was thirdhand, the floor littered with junk. Stone could smell rotting food.

  “I haven’t had a chance to clean up lately,” Carmen said, but her tone was unapologetic. She dropped onto the couch and stood her braces against the arm of the furniture. On either side of her was stacked what Stone could only politely describe as crap.

  Stone and Chapman remained standing because there was nowhere else to sit.

  “I’m sure you’ve been worried about…?” Stone said in a prompting manner.

  “My uncle, Alfredo, but we call him Freddy.”

  “We?”

  “The family.”

  “Are they here?” Stone looked around.

  “No, they’re back in Mexico.”

  “So you live here with him?”

  She nodded.

  Stone said, “And his last name?”

  “Padilla.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” asked Chapman.

  “Two nights ago. He went out for dinner.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “At a place on Sixteenth Street, near F. He come from España originally, my uncle. My father’s family, the Escalantes, they come from España too, a long time ago. Good paellas in España. He liked his paellas, my uncle. And this place he goes to, it has good paellas.”

  Stone and Chapman exchanged glances, obviously thinking the same thing.

  That would have
put him close to Lafayette Park.

  “Can I ask why you waited so long to call the police about him?” Stone asked.

  “I have no telephone here. And I cannot get around too good without Uncle Freddy. I think he will come home anytime. But he does not. I finally ask a neighbor to call for me.”

  “Okay. Do you remember what he was wearing when he went out?”

  “His blue sweatsuit. He liked to wear it, but he didn’t like to work out. I thought that was funny.”

  “Was he not in good shape?” asked Chapman.

  Carmen made a motion with both hands to indicate a large belly. “He liked his comida and his beer,” she said simply.

  “How would he usually get home? Did he have a car?” asked Stone.

  “We have no car. He use bus or train.”

  “Did he tell you he might go for a walk after dinner?” asked Chapman.

  Carmen’s face started to tremble and she pointed to the little TV perched on a particleboard stand. “I see what happened. The bomb. Uncle Freddy, he is dead?” A tear slid down her cheek.

  Stone and Chapman again exchanged a look. “Do you have a photo of your uncle here?”

  Carmen pointed to a lopsided bookshelf against one wall. There were a half dozen framed photos on it. Stone went over, checked them out. Alfredo “Freddy” Padilla was in the third from the right. He wore jeans but also the same blue warm-up jacket in which he had been blown to bits. Stone picked it up and showed it to Chapman, who nodded, instantly recognizing the man from the countless times she’d watched him on the video. Stone put the photo back down and turned to Carmen.

  “Do you have any family who could come and stay with you?”

  “Then he is dead?”

  Stone hesitated. “I’m afraid so.”

  She put a hand up to her mouth and started to quietly sob.

  Stone knelt down in front of her. “I know this is a really bad time, but can you think of any reason why your uncle would have wanted to take a walk through Lafayette Park that night?”

  The woman finally composed herself, finding some internal strength that Stone was frankly surprised she possessed.

  “He love this country,” she said. “We only recently come here. Me for the medicos to help with my legs. Uncle Freddy he come with me. My parents are dead. He get job. It not pay much, but he was doing the best he could.”

  “Your English is very good for only recently coming here,” commented Chapman.

  Carmen smiled. “I take it in school from when I was little. And I travel to Texas. My English is best in mi familia,” she said proudly.

  “So Lafayette Park?” prompted Stone.

  “He liked to go and look at your White House. He would tell me, ‘Carmen, this is greatest country on earth. A person he can do anything here.’ He had me go one time. He carry me on his shoulders. We look at the grande casa blanca. He say your president lived there. And that he was a great man.”

  Stone stood. “Again, I’m very sorry.”

  Chapman asked, “Is there anyone who can come and stay with you?”

  “It is all right. I have been by myself before.”

  “But do you have other relatives?” persisted Chapman.

  Carmen sniffled but nodded. “I have people who can come and take me back to Mexico.”

  “Back? But what about your doctors?” asked Stone.

  “Not without Uncle Freddy,” she replied. “My parents were killed in a bus accident. I was also on the bus. That was how my legs came to be like this. Uncle Freddy, he too was on bus. They take out his spleen and other things, but he got well. And he was like a father to me.” She stopped. “I… I don’t want to live here without him. Not even if this is the greatest country in all the world.”

  “If you need any help will you contact us?” Stone wrote his phone number down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. He paused. “If you could give us something of your uncle’s? A comb or a toothbrush. So we can…” His voice trailed off.

  They left with a couple of articles containing Alfredo Padilla’s DNA to compare to the man’s remains. They sealed them in evidence bags Chapman had brought. Stone was certain it was the man. But the DNA would be conclusive.

  As they were walking back to the car Chapman said, “Okay, I’m an old cynic, but I want to start crying my bleeding eyes out.”

  “Alfredo Padilla was clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Stone. “And she has to pay the price.”

  “He paid a pretty big one too,” Chapman reminded him.

  They got back in the car. She said, “What now?”

  “We hope Agent Gross has better luck than we did. But something tells me not to count on that.”

  CHAPTER 29

  THEY LEFT A MESSAGE for Gross and grabbed some Chinese takeout on the way back to Stone’s cottage. The weather was nice so Stone carried his little round kitchen table and two chairs out to the front porch. He laid out two plates and utensils and pulled two beers from the small refrigerator in his kitchen.

  They sat down and Chapman held up her beer and clinked it against Stone’s.

  “Cheers. You know how to treat a lady.”

  “You bought the food. And I have no idea how old the beer is.”

  She took a spoonful of wonton soup, extra spicy that made her eyes water, and retreated once more to her beer.

  “Too hot for you?” said Stone as he eyed her with some amusement.

  “Actually, I’m into pain. One of the reasons I do this job, I reckon.”

  “I worked with MI6 back in the day. Didn’t know any female agents then.”

  “Still aren’t that many. Testosterone world plain and simple.”

  “Clear career path or did you stumble onto it by accident?”

  “Bit of both, I suppose.” She took a mouthful of chicken and rice. “My dad was a copper and my mum was a nurse.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the MI6 connection.”

  “Sir James McElroy is my godfather.”

  “Okay,” said Stone slowly as he lowered his fork.

  “He and my grandfather were in the army together before Sir James went to the intelligence side. I guess he took a fancy to me. Really became a father figure to me when my dad was killed.”

  “How did your father die? In the line of duty?”

  Chapman shrugged. “That’s what they said. I never really found out the exact details.”

  “And that’s how you came to be part of law enforcement?”

  “I guess Sir James was grooming me all that time. Right schools, right training, right contacts. It seemed inevitable.”

  “In spite of what you wanted, you mean?”

  She took a sip of the beer, holding it in her mouth a moment before swallowing. “I ask myself that from time to time.”

  “And what’s the answer?”

  “It changes. And maybe I’m right where I need to be. Maybe I can even find out what really happened to my poor dad.” She pushed her plate away and sat back, put her feet up on the porch railing. “What about you? You and Sir James obviously go way back. And he knows things about you I guess I never will.”

  “They would mean nothing to you.”

  “What did it feel like, to do what you did?”

  Stone rose and stared out at the tombstones in the fading light. The weather in D.C., miserably hot and humid in the summer, and uncomfortably raw in the winter, could suddenly evolve to times like this, when the climate was perfect and you wished the day would never end.

  She stood next to him. “Look I won’t push it,” Chapman said quietly. “It’s really none of my business.”

  “It got to the point where I didn’t feel anything anymore,” Stone said.

  “But how did you get out?”

  “I’m not sure I ever did.”

  “Was it your wife?”

  Stone turned to her. “I thought your boss was more discreet.”

  “It wasn’t him,” she said hastily. “I just made a guess
based on my own observations.”

  “What observations?” Stone said sharply.

  “Of you,” she answered simply. “Of things that matter to you. Like friends.”

  Stone turned away. “Good guess,” he said.

  “So why did you come back in the fold? After that?”

  “I guess I could say I had no choice.”

  “I think someone like you would always have a choice.”

  Stone didn’t speak for a long time. He just kept staring at the graves. A breeze rippled over them and Chapman wrapped her arms around herself.

  “I have a lot of regrets,” Stone said finally.

  “So this is about making amends?”

  “I don’t think I can ever make amends, Agent Chapman.”

  “Please, just call me Mary. We’re off duty now.”

  He glanced at her. “Okay, Mary. Have you ever killed anyone? Intentionally?”

  “Once.”

  Stone nodded. “And how did you feel?”

  “Happy at first. That it wasn’t me dead. And then I felt sick. I’d been trained to do it, of course, but—”

  “No training can prepare you for it.”

  “I guess not.” She clenched the porch railing. “So how many people do you reckon you’ve killed?”

  “Why does it matter to you?”

  “I guess it doesn’t. And it’s not morbid curiosity. I… I don’t know what it is, exactly.”

  Before Stone could answer his cell phone buzzed. It was Tom Gross.

  “We’re back on duty, Agent Chapman,” said Stone.

  CHAPTER 30

  THEY MET GROSS NOT AT HIS OFFICE at the FBI, but at a coffee shop near the Verizon Center. The federal agent was dressed casually in khaki pants, a polo shirt and a Washington Capitals zippered jacket. They bought coffee and sat at a table in the back. Gross looked pale and nervous, his gaze flitting around the small space, as though he suspected he was being followed.

  “I’m not liking how this is shaking out,” Gross said. His hand went to his jacket pocket and then pulled back.