3 Silenced by the Yams Read online

  I screeched to a halt at a traffic light and asked my captor: “Which way?”

  “Don’t stop!”

  Well, that wasn’t an answer to my question, but obviously I was supposed to ignore my training and break all laws to keep us moving. That made sense. Telling someone not to stop in DC, however, is kind of like telling Meryl Streep not to act or Robin Williams not to ham it up in an interview. It’s impossible. The streets are narrow and vehicles innumerable. But I gave it the old college try and flipped a quick right-hand turn, prompting the guy I cut off to lay on his horn. Somehow, when you have a gun poking you in the side, this doesn’t bother you as much. I weaved around cars, thankful that the hot little BMW was smaller and maneuvered better than my mini-van. I honked at pedestrians and screamed, “outa my way!” at several intersections. I could hear sirens, but that’s not an uncommon sound in the District, so I could only hope they were looking for me.

  “What’s your plan, Randolph?” I asked, careening through a red light and blaring my horn.

  “I don’t know.”

  Truthfully, that didn’t surprise me.

  “Well, here’s the thing.” I flipped a fast right and realized that if I kept going straight, I’d hit Constitution Avenue. “You need a plan.”

  Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating my own.

  “Yeah, I need a plan.” He leaned back in the seat, and I saw his grip on the gun relax. “I just didn’t want to lose my job is all.”

  “And so you kidnapped someone? You think this is really a good career move?” Without thinking, I stopped at a red light. Good habits run deep, what can I say? But Randolph didn’t notice. He was obviously having second thoughts.

  “I panicked when I heard the gunshots. I knew Jorge was in over his head with Juarez. I took the gun he hides in his desk and snuck out the side door. Then I saw him on the ground.” Randolph started to cry and it seemed deeply sincere. I have to admit, I felt kind of bad for the guy. If only his hair plugs didn’t look ten times more disgusting up close than from a distance.

  The sirens we heard suddenly sounded much closer and I was pretty sure they’d more than doubled in number. Randolph snapped out of his mourning and shoved the gun back tight against my ribs. “Keep moving! I need to think.”

  The light had turned green so I did as ordered, watching my rearview mirror for signs of blue and red flashing lights. One more block and I’d be turning onto Constitution Avenue. From there, I’d be just a heartbeat away from exiting onto I66, a relatively straight freeway heading toward my stomping grounds in the Northern Virginia suburbs.

  “Andy Baugh says Jorge knew that vomiting would kill Kurt and that he framed Frankie with the poisons. Were you two conspiring to kill him?”

  He shook his head just as the wheels screamed taking the fast turn onto Constitution. “No. It was just a prank. I swear.”

  I kind of believed him. “As far as you knew, anyway.”

  He nodded. “As far as I knew.”

  “Was Jorge capable of murder?”

  No answer. Randolph stared out the window. On the floor at his feet, I spotted something that gave me hope. The car owner’s cell phone. I kept talking. “What do you know about Jorge’s involvement with Juarez and the voter fraud?”

  “Enough.”

  We flew over the Roosevelt Bridge with SUVs, police squad cars and a helicopter now visibly in pursuit. I had an idea brewing. “Tell me again,” I said, “why you kidnapped me. There has to be more to it than you just panicked. Not if you were completely innocent, Randolph.”

  As we tore down I66 at nearly 80 miles per hour, it was obvious that the law enforcement machinery was at work. Police had cleared the freeway of vehicles to allow us free and easy passage. “Are you completely innocent?”

  His answer was slow in coming, and not adamant enough for me to believe him. “I am.”

  “But?”

  He sighed and released the gun altogether, letting it drop between the seats. He buried his head in his hands. “The morning after Kurt died, I caught Jorge lifting a fingerprint from a water glass with tape, and planting it on the bottle of ipecac. He said it was to protect us by framing Frankie Romano for the prank.”

  Suddenly it was all clear. Randolph did know Jorge was a murderer, and he knew it when news broke later that day that Frankie was arrested for poisoning Kurt Baugh.

  “If you knew that Jorge poisoned those yams, then why did you call Guy Mertz? He said you were freaking because you thought someone had tried to poison you.”

  “I was freaking because my lover and best friend was a murderer and I helped him do it. Guy is a true crime reporter, I was desperate to know what he was hearing through his connections. To know if we were safe from suspicion.”

  While piecing the puzzle together, it suddenly occurred to me that Guy had told Randolph about our meeting near the White House. My stomach flip-flopped. To irritate Randolph, Guy said he had lied to Randolph and told him we were meeting to discuss an investigation of the murder. If Randolph passed that information on to Jorge, then that drive-by shooting near the White House could have been meant for us. Then I remembered the familiar car at the scene of the Tanner building shoot-out. It was familiar because it was a navy blue Lexus with Maryland plates—same one that Colt identified on Constitution Avenue.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to reflect on how lucky I’d been to narrowly escape a hit on my life. No, I had another dilemma at hand: making sure Randolph didn’t kill me now. I kept talking—it worked during my last two kidnappings. “So you know too much? Is that why you’re running now?”

  “Jorge told me everything after taking a call from Juarez today. He said he did it for me as much as for himself and Juarez.”

  “How in the world would killing Kurt Baugh benefit you?”

  “Not that he died, but how.”

  Now it made sense. Something that had nagged at me. I never understood why Kurt’s murderer would choose to do it during a preview screening. Why not in the middle of the night, with no witnesses? And more importantly, why have Randolph ask for the supposedly poisoned yams, then frame Frankie? It had seemed a rather risky and backwards way of getting things done.

  “He did it for the publicity, didn’t he? You’d get publicity for being the movie reviewer who was nearly whacked by the Mafia. Your job would become more secure, and he’d get publicity for the ACL. Bring in bigger and better names.”

  “Something like that.”

  I figured it was time to run my idea by Randolph. He was tired and sufficiently worn down mentally. “Listen,” I said, “there’s a cell phone at your feet. I can reach my husband and tell him that you’re willing to talk. They want Juarez, not you. I’m going to bet dollars to donuts that’s why they were at the ACL building today. Offer them a deal—you talk, they drop the kidnapping charges.”

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure if Randolph was going to bite, but it seemed likely since he’d dropped the gun and the rage. By now, we were surrounded by emergency and law enforcement vehicles of every kind, and we were all cruising at about forty miles an hour. Certainly he had to realize that we weren’t about to make another getaway without some fallout.

  Randolph felt around on the floor until his hand landed on the phone. “What’s the number?”

  Two helicopters hovered above us, and I suspected one was a news chopper. Guy Mertz was probably on the scene with a camera crew back at the ACL building, relaying the story to viewers with his usual melodramatic flair. He was right—by hanging around me long enough he’d landed the story of the century. Well, at least the story of the week.

  Randolph dialed the number and handed me the phone. Howard, it turned out, was in the black car directly behind us. I waved in the rearview mirror.

  “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” The concern in Howard’s voice warmed me like an electric blanket on a cold, snowy morning. It’s good to feel loved.

  “I’m fine. The gun is down. I’m very safe.”

 
“What were you still doing at the Tanner Building? I told you to leave.”

  “I did leave.”

  “You said you were going home.”

  He had me there. “I was just wrapping things up. Home was next on my agenda. And really Howard, how was I supposed to know that the FBI was planning a coup? Do you think I’m psychic?”

  I sensed he was rolling his eyes behind those tinted windows, but didn’t have any proof.

  Howard needed to talk to Randolph, so I handed the phone back. That conversation went on for five minutes. Meanwhile, we’d passed the turnoff for my house in Rustic Woods and were heading toward Haymarket and destinations West. At this point, if someone didn’t come to an understanding soon, I imagined a trip to California could be in my immediate future.

  Finally, Randolph handed the phone back to me. “We’re good. Do what he says.”

  I took the cell. “Hi, Honey. Will we be done in time for dinner tonight?”

  “Marr,” said a woman’s voice. “This isn’t your husband.”

  I winced. “Agent Smith?”

  “Bingo.”

  “I don’t suppose I can talk to Howard?”

  “You supposed correctly. He’s preparing,” she said. Then she walked me through the steps of where we’d be stopping the car and how slowly to do so. Even though the freeway was cleared, we were nearing an exit to a heavily populated business district. They wanted us to travel three more miles down the road, at which point they would sound the siren to let me know it was time to pull over. As soon as we came to a complete stop, I was to roll down the window and hand the gun to an agent who would then whisk me away to safety. Randolph was to stay in the car until Howard approached him on the passenger’s side and ordered him out with his hands over his head.

  “Now, Marr,” she said seriously, “if at any time he regrets this decision and the situation becomes dangerous for you again, either while driving or while parked, tap your brakes twice.”

  “Right,” I said. “Should I hang up?”

  “No, leave the line open.”

  “Right,” I said. “I’m putting the phone down.” I started to lay it in my lap, then thought about something I wanted to say. I put it back to my ear. “Hey, Smith?”

  “Nope, this is Howard.”

  “Oh good,” I said with a smile. “Because I was going to tell her to tell you that I love you. But now I can tell you myself. And I promise I’ll never go off and try to solve murders by myself anymore. I’ll leave that to people like you.”

  “Didn’t you promise that last time?”

  “Howard, I’m perimenopausal. Loss of memory is one of the most common symptoms.”

  “Right.” The line went silent for a minute. “Barb?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you too. You won’t forget that, will you?”

  “Not in a million years. In fact, you’re stuck with me for at least the next ten lifetimes.”

  “Good. We’re coming up on the three mile mark now, so put the phone down and get ready to pull over.”

  “Here we go,” I said to Randolph as I began to decelerate. “Are you doing okay?”

  He nodded and looked at me very seriously. “It’s comfortable, isn’t it?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what he meant. “What?”

  “True love. We have that too, you know—Jorge and I. Since college. It’s warm and it’s comfortable.”

  Actually, I didn’t want to tell him that the love of my life would never kill a man in cold blood to protect his own interests and those of a corrupt politician. But it was obvious that he did love Jorge with all of his heart, and so mine broke for him. It must have been very hard to hide that love, pretending to be someone he wasn’t for all of those years.

  Randolph stared out his window. “He’s gone,” he said. “Jorge’s dead.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do know.” He tapped his heart. “I sense it—his absence.”

  Truthfully, I believed that it was possible that Jorge didn’t survive. He’d been shot, we all saw it. But I wanted to give Randolph hope. “Let’s just wait and see, okay? He’s probably going to be just fine.”

  We’d pulled to a complete stop and I threw the gear shift into park, leaving the car running, just as I’d been instructed. I powered down the window and went to reach for the gun between the seats, but I was too late. Randolph was pointing it right at my face.

  A thought flashed through my mind—something that I was supposed to do if things became dangerous.

  But frankly, there was no time, even if I did remember what it was.

  Glass and blood filled the air the instant I heard the explosion, as if it were all occurring at the same exact microsecond in time.

  Then I was floating. Howard hovered over my vision and he called my name from the end of a long tunnel that grew longer and longer and darker and darker. I was desperate to touch him, but was too tired to try. Eventually he slipped away, and the darkness enveloped me entirely.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  STEVEN SPIELBERG AND MERYL STREEP. They’re both on my bucket list of people to meet. And I will. I may have to break some laws, get arrested and have a couple of restraining orders slapped on me, but I will meet them. In the meantime, during moments of stress, Steven or Meryl often visit me in my dreams.

  I’m standing at the edge of a large rectangular pool that reflects a high-noon sun. The blue water is motionless and I feel that I could walk right out onto the surface and not fall through. Laughter startles me and I turn to see Meryl and Steven, robed in white flowing cotton gowns. The two of them together, in the same dream. It feels like a miracle. They’re walking toward me from an orange grove, over a plush lawn of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Meryl has stopped laughing to sip from the tall glass that she carries—a glass that is exactly identical to the two that Steven holds. When they reach me, Steven offers me one of the glasses.

  “You must be thirsty after what you’ve just been through.” His smile is warm.

  “Thank you,” I say as I take the glass.

  “So you got yourself into another pickle, didn’t you?” Steven was chuckling.

  “My adventures would make some pretty wild movies, huh? Want to buy my story?”

  Steven shakes his head. “Not believable enough. Sorry.”

  Right. Because a story about a hairless, midget alien phoning his home planet with a child’s toy is so probable. That movie would never make a dime. I’m about to argue this point, but that’s when I notice that they are both barefoot. I look at my feet and realize I’m not wearing shoes either. Somehow, this doesn’t bode well.

  “Am I dead?” I ask.

  Meryl laughs. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Because I’m barefoot. In movies, when people dream that they’re barefoot, they’re usually . . . you know . . .” I run a finger across my throat as if giving it a lethal slice.

  “There is some truth in that,” Steven answers, “but you’re also dreaming that you’re by a swimming pool on a hot summer day. Shoes really wouldn’t be the appropriate costume for such a scene, do you think?”

  He has a point.

  “Then why are you wearing those white robes?”

  They exchange mournful glances. “Should we tell her?” Meryl asked.

  “She’s going to find out eventually.”

  They are making me very nervous. The glass is cold in my hand and I want to gulp it down, but for some reason my hand can’t move anymore. Figuring this is a dream, I try to will the glass to my lips with my thoughts, but it stays there, dripping, teasing.

  “What will I find out eventually?”

  “That man,” Meryl shook her head sadly. “That Randolph man. He is dead.”

  Steven adds, “Howard blew his brains out.”

  Meryl puts her arm around me. Don’t worry though, the water is helping.”

  I’m really confused. What water? Because I can’t drink the blasted glas
s of water in my hand even though I’m thirstier than an elephant in the Sahara. Suddenly the pool and Meryl and Steven vanish and I’m standing in the middle of a field. It’s raining. I tip my head back and catch the rain drops with my open mouth.

  Even though no one is around, someone repeats over and over again, “The water is helping. The water is helping.”

  I became aware of hard ground beneath my shoulders while someone supported my head. My face and lips were wet.

  Howard’s voice said: “Barb, drink.” He was holding a plastic bottle to my mouth. Instinctively, I gulped at it.

  “Slow down. Not too fast.”

  I’d been pulled from the car and laid on the ground. Judging from the people and activity around me, I hadn’t been lying on the asphalt for long. An EMT ran up with a bag and asked how I was feeling.

  “Tired,” I mumbled.

  Howard told the young female technician that I only blacked out for a few seconds and that I hadn’t experienced any physical trauma. She felt my hands, commented that my skin wasn’t clammy, then shined a penlight in my eyes. Finally she told Howard that I wasn’t showing signs of shock and that she was needed to assist with the shooting victim. The nice lady smiled and patted my hand. “If you need me, just tell someone, okay?” She scooted off around the car.

  “Do you think you can walk if I help you?” Howard asked.

  Nodding, I sipped on more water first. “Where are we going?” I asked after I’d quenched my thirst.

  “Just to my car where you can sit.”

  When we finally got comfortable in the backseat of his FBI-issue sedan, he kissed my hand and held it tight. “Eighteen years I’m in the Bureau, and in the last two years you’ve been in more danger than I have all my time as an agent. You’re making me look bad.”

  “How are you doing?”

  He looked into my eyes with an amazing sense of calm that surprised me, given that he’d just killed a man. “I’m fine now that you’re safe.”

  “It’s that easy?” I asked.

  A puzzled look crossed his face. “What do you mean?”