Retribution

“What gives?” Hardesty asked the new partner he’d been given in the D.C. Homicide Vice Unit, Glen Whitehall. When Hardesty stepped out of the taxi into the parking lot of the Georgetown University boat house on the Potomac River, Glen was there, taking charge of a gaggle of beat cops who were standing around with their hands in their armpits to keep them from turning to ice and wisecracking with each other. Cold air was coming off the river and Hardesty pulled his leather jacket closer around his neck.

Whitehall was a strapping young, athletic, and all-American-looking blond who was on his first detective assignment. He’d been a beat cop up until a couple of months previously and was being drummed out of the service when the Homicide Vice unit chief, Crane, plucked him out of the discard pile. There wasn’t anything wrong with his copping ability. It was more that he’d been found cavorting with prostitutes too much and had a penchant for being rough with them. But Crane’s outfit was made up of detectives who could cavort with, rough up, and use prostitutes, which was why Hardesty was in the unit. The difference was that Whitehall’s vice was with females and Hardesty’s was with young males. So far, though, although the two did a bit of dancing around each other, Hardesty’s seniority and quicker wits were recognized by the young blond, and they were doing OK with each other. Whitehall was sufficiently happy to still have a job he liked and was smart enough to know he could learn from Hardesty. Hardesty had his own vice but he was known to be a straight arrow on seeking and almost always getting justice.

It probably helped too that neither saw the other as competition in their own vices.

Hardesty’s weakness was for young blond men, but he liked them of slight build and a bit more androgynous than Glen Whitehall, who was well over six foot and of linebacker build. Besides, both men were power tops. They both sought out submissives.

“Stiff in a car,” Whitehall answered to Hardesty’s “what’s up?” question. “Merry Christmas.”

Hardesty looked around the parking lot, which wasn’t large. Space was at a premium here. This was a high-priced-spread section of the city on the line along the waterfront between the federal city and the preexisting river town of Georgetown. To the east of the boathouse along the shore of the river was the infamous and ultraexpensive Watergate complex, the first act scene of the undoing of President Richard Nixon. To the west the Gothic buildings of Georgetown University, a venerable and prestigious Catholic institution, rose on a hill. It wasn’t hard to pick out what car Glen was talking about. There was one civilian car in the lot--a sleek, black Mercedes S550 coupe. The rest of the cars in the lot were cop cars. The Mercedes was isolated from the rest of the world with yellow crime scene tape. Even from here Hardesty could make out the vanity plate on the Merc: It was a D.C. plate, CURTIS1.

“A stiff that required Homicide Vice to be called in on Christmas morning?” Hardesty asked.

“Come on over,” Glen said. “Judge for yourself.”

The body was in the backseat of the Mercedes, leaning toward the center of the seat. The cause of death was obvious. There was a bullet hole in the guy’s temple. It hadn’t bled much. He was young and blond and naked.

“Why Vice Homicide, because he was young and naked?” Hardesty asked Glen. The half dozen uniformed cops who were standing around were looking very interested in what was going on. Some looked slightly embarrassed, but a few were nudging each other and looked like they were just busting out to make a crack or two.

“Because he is naked and young and probably not the owner of this car,” Glen said, “but also because, you can’t see it from here, but I have it on good authority that he has a dildo up his ass and something else too, something special. The guess is a rent-boy who was popped during sex.”

“Something special?” Hardesty asked.

Glen drew Hardesty’s attention to the body’s dick.

“Holy fuck,” Hardesty said. “That’s a sounding rod sticking out of his dick. This was a serious backseat ride, interrupted in faglio delecto.”

“I think the term is in flagrante delicto--in the act,” Glen said with a straight face. Hardesty was ever needling Glen about his college education and pushing him to say something Hardesty could claim was queer baiting, but Glen never bit. He had a tight little smile on his face, though.

“I think my version fits this case better,” Hardesty said. “Who does the chariot belong to?”

“It’s been called in. It’s a slow day for research though. Christmas and all.”

“I doubt this is Curtis. He doesn’t look like money. I guess prints will take even longer.”

“They’ve been scanned, yes, and sent in,” Glen answered. “Not much else we can do here for a while, though. With the holidays it will take extra time.”

“Not much else to be done than post a couple of beat walkers and find a Starbucks nearby that’s open.”

“There will always be a Starbucks open nearby,” Glen said, “even on Christmas Day.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Hardesty’s eyes went to a cop who was walking quickly and with determination in their direction from the boat launch area on the river.

“You the guys from Vice Homicide?” he was asking as he approached.

“Yo,” Hardesty asked, “And you are?”

“Thomas of the Fifth Precinct. Found something. You’re going to want to see this. Over by the river.”

“Where? What?” Hardesty asked as he followed the policeman over to the edge of the water. The river was iced up a good fifteen feet out. There were skid marks on the ice from a kayak that had been pushed out into the river--or Hardesty assumed it had been a kayak. There was a rack of them over against the wall of the boathouse and one of the slots was empty.

“So, someone’s gone into the river?” Glen said as he walked up beside Hardesty and Patrolman Thomas.

“Yeah, but that’s not the point. Can you see him?”

“Him who . . . oh shit,” Hardesty said. Whitehall had joined in the “Oh, shit” part. They were looking down into the ice at the edge of the boat launch. A face was staring up at them from under the ice. It was a man. His eyes were bugging out and his mouth was open in a silent scream. There was a bullet hole between his eyes.

“Well, fuck,” Hardesty said, his voice disgusted.

“What the hell?” was Glen’s contribution. “Suppose it’s Curtis Whoever?”

“Afraid not. I know him,” Hardesty said. “He’s Russian. His name’s Victor. At least that’s the name I heard he goes by. I don’t know a last name. But he’s a bad ass.” What he didn’t want to say was that he’d seen the man a couple of hours previously--at Justine’s. He was one of Justine’s special clients. This was getting dicey. Glen knew about Justine’s, but he didn’t know everything there was to know about Justine’s. Hardesty’s chief, Crane, and the department certainly didn’t know about Justine’s--Hardesty hoped. Crane knew Hardesty could tap most of the male prostitutes in town--but Crane didn’t know the depths of his relationships with their pimps and houses. How was he going to handle this, and . . . “I want to see the stiff in the car again,” he suddenly said, turning and moving back to the parking lot.

The passenger door was open and the front seat was pushed forward. He leaned into the car, grasped the dead young man’s chin, and turned the face to him.

“Shit.”

It was Leslie from Justine’s.

He stood up from the car and took a long look out toward the river, at the Key Bridge, which spanned the river from Georgetown to the near-skyscraper business center of Rosslyn on the Virginia shore.

“What is it?” Whitehall said. “You recognize this one too?”

“His name--his professional name--is Leslie,” Hardesty said, a bit of sadness in his voice. Leslie had been a fun and willing lay. He could take it. Well, short of a bullet in the temple. “It’s right that we were called. He’s a high-stakes rent-boy. Guess it’s our case after all.”

They both turned their heads at the sound of the siren-blazing arrival of another cop car and watched their captain, Crane, climb out.

“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here now,” Hardesty said, as the captain approached. He didn’t look the least bit happy. “What brings you out on Christmas Day, Captain?”

“Beats me,” Crane answered. “I got a call from topside to get my ass over here pronto. And it looks like it’s not a moment too soon,” he said, as they all watched the arrival of another vehicle--a black Cadillac Escalade, the jittery blue and red lights going bananas behind its grill. Two formidable-looking men in black suits hopped out of the back of the SUV and strode over to the Mercedes.

They looked inside. “Fuck,” one of them said. “The boss knew this could get messy.”

The boss? Hardesty wondered.

The other one turned to Crane, recognizing him as the senior on duty. At the same time he flashed a badge, which they all recognized. Secret Service. “This the only one?” he asked.

Crane shrugged. “I just got here.”

“There’s another one under the ice over by the boat ramp,” Whitehall answered.

“Shit,” the man said. “Maurice, over by the boat ramp, the cop said. Another one over there.”

All five of them, the agents in front, with Whitehall leading them, trooped over to the side of the river and looked down into the face under the ice.

“Isn’t him,” one of the agents said.

“Isn’t who?” Hardesty asked. They didn’t answer.

“Looks like he’ll keep until the team gets here,” the other agent said, and they turned and trooped back to the Mercedes.

“What team?” Hardesty asked, a bit more belligerently. Again, neither agent answered him. He was about to say something else, but Crane put a restraining hand on his arm and gave him the Pig Latin “ixnay” look. Fine, Hardesty told himself. Two can play the silence game. Let them find out who these guys are on their own. They went back to the car and the agents approached the vehicle from different sides and leaned into the car.

“Fuck,” one of the agents said, standing up from where he’d been feeling around in the car. He’d come up with a gun. Hardesty immediately recognized it as a Glock G30S, military issue. A compact pistol for easy concealment but with a big .45 payoff.

“Where’d you get--?” he started to say.

“Doesn’t matter,” the agent answered in a monotone. “Kid was shot with a .22, it looks like. This would have taken his face off. Same with the face under the ice.” He looked sternly at the three Homicide Vice unit detectives. “So, you guys didn’t see this pistol. And you can fuck off now.”

The other agent produced a plastic bag and the first agent put the pistol in it, took the bag back to the Escalade, tossed it in the backseat, and returned.

“That’s part of the crime scene,” Hardesty said. “Shouldn’t that have stayed in the Mercedes?”

“What? I didn’t see anything,” said the agent who had taken it to the Escalade.

“I told you the kid wasn’t shot with it. It’s government issues, like this one,” the first agent, the one evidently taking the lead, said. He patted a holster under his armpit. “We wouldn’t want to muddy up the issue with an official-issue piece, would we?” His chin was jutting out like he was daring Hardesty to disagree with that, and then, when Hardesty, with a look he shared with Crane, wasn’t quick to do so, he went on giving instructions. “Two of the uniforms should stay until our team can get in here. An ME been here yet?”

Crane looked at Hardesty, who looked at Whitehall, who said, “No, sir. Not yet.”

“Good. You can call yours off. Our team will handle everything from here. You sure no one has seen another man around here?”

Well, there’s that at least, Hardesty thought. These guys have lost someone--a man--and he’s of more concern to them than these two dead guys are--these guys who I have some idea about who they are and the Secret Service probably doesn’t yet. Maybe the guy they were looking for had something to do with a license plate that read “Curtis.” He set his jaw. Leslie was a rent-boy, and someone he knew--that meant he’d be damned if he lost interest in this case. And he, at least, had someplace to start. Leslie wouldn’t have made it out of Justine’s this morning without Justine’s permission and, more likely, without Justine sending him to someone.

“Nobody I’ve talked to has seen evidence of anyone else,” Whitehall said to the agents. “It looks like someone might have taken a kayak out into the water, though. The rack by the boat launch is unlocked, there’s an empty space, and there are drag marks on the ice, going into the water.”

“Fuck,” one of the agents said.

“Yeah, we were told he takes a kayak out on the Potomac nearly every day,” muttered the other agent. The two of them turned and walked back toward the boat launch. Whitehall made to follow them, but Crane stopped him.

“You heard them. They’re taking over,” Crane said. “It would be a good time for us to leave.”

Hardesty dug in his heels. He looked to see that the two Secret Service agents were far enough away that they couldn’t hear him. “I know the young man in the Merc,” he then said. He couldn’t bear to call him a stiff or a vic. “He’s a high-end rent-boy.”

“One of yours?” Crane asked. “One you’ve been laying or one you’ve been using as an informer?”

Whitehall gave them an embarrassed look and went over and stood next to an unmarked car from the unit.

“Yes,” Hardesty answered, not separating the two actions. “We’re as good for this case as those monkeys are with what we know so far.”

“I said we might as well leave here now, Hardesty,” Crane responded in a low voice. “I didn’t say we had to roll over on investigating the case. The kid in the car being a rent-boy is good enough for me for us to do some of our own investigation. You want this, or are you too close?”

“I laid him, Cap; I didn’t love him. But I liked him well enough to want to do right by him. Yes, I want to follow this until upstairs takes it away from us.”

“OK. You can ride back to the unit with me. We’ll discuss what we’ve got while we’re riding.”

Hardesty turned a hard look toward the two Secret Service agents who were milling around the drag marks on the ice. Something big was going on here. He could smell it. These goons could worry about some bigwig all they wanted. He was worried for justice for Leslie. And he knew where he had to start--back at Justine’s where he’d last seen both Leslie and the guy under the ice.