Chapter 31
Detective Wallace walked into the lobby of the swanky office building on K Street with Detective Nguyen in tow. The pit stop at the security booth by the detectives in worn slacks and dated sports coats was a formality. Rent-a-cops weren’t prone to giving the police a hard time. Sooner or later they would need their help dealing with real crime—a pickpocket on the premises, vandals breaking a window, workers stealing office equipment. The rent-a-cops were there to look like the police from a distance, and to call the real boys-in-blue when the situation got out of control.
“We’re looking for Winthrop Enterprises,” Wallace said, flashing his badge and looking for professional courtesy.
The black guard, a man in his early twenties with long whiskers on his chin, smiled and pointed toward the elevator, looking down his arm and past his finger like the barrel on a rifle. “Take the elevator to the top floor.”
Detectives Wallace and Nguyen were the only people in the elevator without a shine on their shoes and a briefcase in hand. The presence of the detectives kept the morning elevator banter to a minimum. Lawyers can smell outsiders from a hundred yards in high winds, much less in the confines of an elevator. Three floors and eight departed lawyers later, the police’s recently-formed detective tandem had the elevator to themselves on the ride to the top floor.
The detectives stepped into Peter Winthrop’s kingdom and the receptionist gave her standard greeting. “Welcome to Winthrop Enterprises. How can I help you?”
Two long steps from the elevator and the detectives were at the counter under the Winthrop Enterprises sign, the silver wording gleaming with recently shined letters.
“Good morning. My name is Earl Wallace and I am a detective with the D.C. Metropolitan Police Force. This is my partner, Detective Nguyen.”
The receptionist turned serious, an almost forced demeanor. “May I see your badges, please?”
Detective Wallace gave Nguyen a subtle glance before both men reached into their respective jacket pockets and pulled their shields.
“Thank you, detectives.”
“We are conducting an investigation and want to have a word with Peter Winthrop,” Detective Wallace answered with an equally serious tone.
“I’m sorry, detective but Mr. Winthrop is not available. He is out of town on business.”
“When will he be back?”
“I believe he is in Prague until tomorrow and is making a stopover in London on his way back. Although I am not his secretary, I am pretty sure he is due back by the end of the week.”
Wallace didn’t like the receptionist. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
“Me?”
“It will only take a minute.”
The receptionist looked around, turning her neck slightly and glancing out of the corners of her eyes.
“About Marilyn Ford,” Wallace added.
The mere mention of Marilyn’s name brought moisture to the receptionist’s eyes. She waved her hand in front of her face as if to dry any tears before they formed. Wallace looked at Detective Nguyen with one eyebrow raised. Wallace pulled out his notebook, ready to scribble.
“She was a wonderful woman,” the receptionist said, whimpering.
“Was she well-liked around here?”
“Yes, very. She’d been around Winthrop Enterprises before there was a Winthrop Enterprises. She was the president’s secretary for over two decades. She could be nosey, but what middle-aged, forty-something-year-old woman isn’t?”
Detective Nguyen butted in, “Nosey about what?”
“Nosey about the usual. Employees’s lives in general. Who was working on what, who was cheating on their wives, you know, the usual.”
“Before Marilyn’s death, did you notice anything unusual with ‘the usual?’”
“Not really. Not to me at least.”
“Boyfriend?” Detective Wallace asked, knowing that over fifty percent of all homicides against women are perpetrated by the man they share their bed with.
“Not that I know of,” the receptionist answered, now with an emotionless face that would have taken the pot at any Texas Hold’em tournament.
Detective Wallace handed the receptionist a picture of Chow Ying taken from the ATM camera. “Have you seen this man before?”
The receptionist leaned close, stared hard at the picture for few seconds and then looked up. “No. He doesn’t look familiar.”
Wallace wrote something in his notepad and ripped out the small sheet of paper when he finished. He placed the paper and the photograph on the marble reception counter. “Could you see to it that Peter Winthrop gets this picture and this note? It is important.”
“Yes, I will make sure he gets it.”
“And here is my business card. Please, have him call me.”
“I will let him know you visited.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, detectives.” ***
Back in the wood paneled elevators, Nguyen waited for the doors to shut and then asked, “What did you think?”
Wallace pulled at his waistline and looked at the open page of the notebook in his left hand. “Seemed like a suspicious office. Never had a receptionist ask to see my badge before, have you?”
“Can’t say I have. And she seemed to be a little emotional. Her tears came at the drop of a hat and vanished just as fast.”
“Almost like she was acting. Did you notice that a lot of people in the office were staring at us?”
“Not really.”
“Another ten years on the force and you will. Either way it looks like we have to wait a few days. But if Mr. Winthrop isn’t available, there are some things we can do in the meantime.”
“Starting with?”
“Shake the branches of the Winthrop fruit tree a little and see if anything interesting falls out.”
Chapter 32
The trip to the mechanic had fixed one problem, and Jake’s car no longer stalled. A few loose wires and a cracked distributor cap were diagnosed as the culprits, and the bill totaled forty dollars for the parts and a stinging three hundred for labor. The trail of blue smoke now coming from the tailpipe indicated even bigger problems were on the horizon. The telltale cloud of burning oil followed Jake’s Subaru like a tail, zigging when he zigged, zagging when he zagged.
Jake came to a crawl at the stop sign at Macomb Street and Connecticut Avenue. He could see his apartment, but getting to the parking lot of the old brick building was going to require three left turns on consecutive one-way streets. Jake checked his mirrors, not sure if he should be on the lookout for a six-foot-four mass of Chinese muscle coming at him with a samurai sword down the double yellow lines.
His conversation with Al had scared him. Stuck in traffic as the sun finished setting, Jake ran through scenarios for his father, a senator, and a girl named Wei Ling.
He pulled into the small strip of private parking spaces behind his building and prayed for an open one. He worked his car into the sliver of asphalt next to the massive green dumpster, leaving just enough room to slide out the driver’s side door. Another two inches of waistline and he would have needed a Crisco lube job to get by. He got
