Terminal Secret Page 11

  Taken individually, Congressman Wellington was winning the competition of most interesting background; not a surprise given his hundred million dollar net worth and the benefits of the best upbringing money can buy. There wasn’t anything on the résumé of a waitress from the Midwest, or in Marcus Losh’s Army records, that could eclipse John Wellington’s dossier.

  The Senate hopeful was born in Santa Fe, New Mexico, to wealthy parents. He had attended private schools, earned good grades, and was a star athlete on the track, football, and baseball teams. After high school, he attended Stanford University and then stayed on for another three years to earn his law degree from Stanford Law. As a young man with a new law degree, he joined a prestigious firm in Redwood City working eighty hours a week serving high tech clients in Silicon Valley. Two years of dissatisfaction later, John Wellington moved to Oakland and started working with the people, first on pro bono cases and then for large non-profits serving the masses on cases of inequality. And that track, as a man who was willing to help the little people, was his first step into politics.

  Twelve years later, John Wellington had concluded his first term as a member of the House of Representatives and was on the cusp of running for a Senate seat.

  Dan clicked through various newspaper articles on the congressman and followed him through his public life in the District. Another thirty minutes into his search, Dan was staring at a photo of Congressman John Wellington, arm-in-arm with Sherry Wellington, posing in front of a large window with fresh oysters on ice as the backdrop.

  He read the caption under the photo, looked up at the name on the restaurant, and then re-read the article in its entirety.

  “Now why would you lie about something like that?” Dan said out loud. He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. He checked the time on the corner of the computer screen, stood, and headed for the door.

  *

  J. Paul’s had taken up the middle of the block on M street since the early eighties. The number of self-proclaimed dignitaries, politicians, and athletes who had passed through the threshold were only surpassed by the count of scoundrels. The oysters on the half shell on ice, prominently displayed in the front window, beckoned tourists from the sidewalk. The ornate wood bar with the high ceiling and soaring mirrors lured the fashionable drunks. Men and women in their forties and fifties bellied up to the bar in search of the same alcohol the homeless guy in the alley sought, without the brown paper bag.

  Dan slipped between a parting foursome and sat on an empty bar seat. The bartender with the bowtie wiped a glass and leaned in for Dan’s order. Dan scanned the names on the tap handles on the far side of the bar and made his decision.

  “Sam Adams, draft.”

  The bartender nodded and turned to grab a glass.

  Dan glanced up at the muted TV and a bowl of peanuts appeared on the bar. A small square napkin landed squarely in front of him and his beer took up residence on the makeshift coaster.

  Dan casually looked around, checking his surroundings. The large mirror behind the shelves of liquor in the bar gave him a large panoramic view of the restaurant without having to overtly turn his head.

  “You want to keep the tab open?” the bartender asked on his next pass.

  “For a while,” Dan replied. He sipped the top of the foam off his beer and assessed the pace of the restaurant and the bar. Every restaurant had its own cadence, dictated by the clientele, the waitstaff, and the kitchen. A symbiotic relationship with different measures of success. J. Paul customers were willing to wait longer for better food and didn’t mind paying for it. Ties were optional and those being worn had been loosened. Whereas the students from GW and Georgetown flooded the more raucous establishments along M Street, J. Paul’s was the kind of place where the parents of students could seek refuge. A restaurant that aimed for a perfect balance between stuffy and casual. Dan counted the tables, estimated the seating capacity, and then did a quick headcount of the bar. For a weeknight, business seemed good.

  The bartender made a tray of cocktails and moved the drinks to the end of the bar for pickup by a waitress. On his way back to the center of the bar, Dan raised his finger.

  “Another?” the bartender asked.

  “Not yet. I was wondering if you can answer a few questions for me,” Dan said, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  The thirty-something bartender with dirty blonde hair looked down for a moment, then slid the twenty off the bar and into his pocket. Then he nodded.

  “How long you been working here?” Dan asked.

  “Three and a half years. Off and on. Quit once. Worked down the street at a couple of places. Did the Tombs for a while. Came back here for a better schedule. Closes an hour earlier here. Fewer students. Better pay. Better clientele. Bigger tips. Why you asking?”

  Dan placed another twenty on the bar. “Looking for someone who may know something. Looking back at least five years now. Who here has been around the longest?”

  “You a cop?”

  “Do I look like one?”

  “You look like something. Not sure what exactly. Got a vibe about you that’s hard to place. If you were a little more uptight, I would say you could be Secret Service. Off duty.”

  “Interesting guess. I’m not a cop. Or Secret Service.” Dan placed his hand on the bar and lifted it again, leaving behind a folded twenty as a handprint. “Who has been here the longest?”

  “Carla. The waitress in the section by the windows in front. The good-looking black lady. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s been here forever. Or seems like it.”

  Dan dropped another twenty on the bar.

  “After Carla, the only other person who has been around that long is Frank, the manager. He’s really been here forever. He’ll probably die in the kitchen. Thrives off the madness of crunch time. Dinner rush on Friday and Saturdays are his cocaine.”

  “Is he around?”

  “Not tonight. Usually off on Wednesdays, but he isn’t hard to find. He doesn’t stray too far for too long. He’s even here for some lunches. He’s sporting the Kojak look. Not a hair on his head. You can’t miss him.”

  Dan placed another twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  “What about Carla?”

  “She works five nights a week. Pretty much a set schedule. Wednesday through Sunday. She takes care of her mother and needs to be home early. Blows out of here by eleven, at the latest.”

  The bartender leaned close and Dan stretched his neck forward. “She has epilepsy. Can’t drive. Has to catch the last bus home.”

  “How’s her memory?”

  “Good enough. She’s a waitress. It’s not like she’s working at NASA during the day. If you’re looking for a good memory though, Frank the manager is your man. That guy knows the toothpick count at the restaurant on any given day. Memorizes the schedule every week. Knows who is coming, who is going, who is banging who.”

  Dan nodded. “Who’s banging Carla?”

  “No one that I know of.”

  Dan put another twenty on the counter. “Think Carla will answer a couple of questions?”

  “You throw twenty dollar bills at her like you are to me, and I imagine she’ll tell you what she knows. We’re all working here for the money.”

  “Can you let her know I want to talk to her when she gets off work? Tell her I have a few questions about someone who worked here a while back.”

  The bartender flipped up the hinged end of the bar and stepped onto the main floor of the restaurant. He returned a minute later.

  “She says you can meet her here at ten.”

  Dan looked at his watch. Four hours. “I’ll be back.”

  *

  Carla pulled up a stool at the bar and sat next to Dan.

  “Barkeep says you have a couple questions and that you’re paying.”

  “And I’m buying drinks.”

  “I’ll take one. I got about twenty minutes to talk. Then I gotta run. Have to catch the next
D6 bus across town.”

  “Should only take a minute or two.” Dan raised his hand and motioned for an order of drinks. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo of Sherry. He showed her the photo and put a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “You know her?”

  Carla took a very brief glance at the photo. “Yeah. I know her. Sherry Wellington. She used to work here. She did well. Married out of this life. Every waitress’s dream. Maybe not a dream for the younger ones and some of the students, but for the rest of us, she pulled the fairytale ending.”

  “That’s what I called it. A fairytale ending.”

  “That’s what it is.”

  “Do you know her well?”

  “She worked here. Was a good worker. Showed up on time. Was popular with the men. I mean, she is a looker. She’s even more beautiful in person.”

  “Did you know her outside of work?”

  “Not really. I would see her around from time to time, usually here in Georgetown before work, but we weren’t friends. Not like we had coffee dates or anything.”

  “You keep in touch with her?”

  “Nope. I’ve only seen her a couple of times since she moved upscale. Not to say we couldn’t be friends, we just aren’t.”

  “Not everyone is a friend. I get it.”

  “Look. Sherry was a sweetheart. But she is Midwest white and I’m a DC native. Born and raised here. Not a lot of shared interests with a white girl from the Midwest.”

  “What about any of the other waitresses? Was she friends with any of them?”

  “Not that I remember, but she hasn’t worked here in what, three or four years? Not many waitresses stick around that long. I think most of the workers around here know about her, but they don’t know her. When you go straight from waitress to wife of a congressman, people take notice. Most folks probably know who she is because of who she married.”

  “What about the father of her baby? You ever meet him?”

  “I met him a few times. Back in the day.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He liked his sauce. Drank like an Irishman at a wedding reception with an open bar.”

  “Any idea how they met?”

  “I don’t recall. Might have heard how they met, but I might not have. He did come in once in a while but he didn’t really fit in with the clientele here. This bar takes money from all types, but we don’t have too many hard-drinking ex-military studs. They usually go somewhere less expensive.”

  “So she didn’t meet him here?”

  “Not saying that they didn’t meet here, just that I’m not sure.”

  “And when did she meet Congressman Wellington?”

  “Four or five years ago. It was in the papers. Some private party. J. Paul’s was hired for the catering. All the waitresses, we all do rotation on private parties. Lucky for Sherry, she got the nod. She must have caught the Congressman’s eye. He started coming to the restaurant after that, asking for her by name.”

  “A congressman slumming it.”

  “It happens. It did happen. And this place isn’t that much of a slum.”

  Dan placed a fifty on the bar and took a sip of his beer. Carla checked her watch.

  “Anything else you want to know? I have to get going.”

  “Any reason why Sherry wouldn’t say she worked here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she told me she worked at The Friendliest Saloon in Town, but she didn’t mention this place.”

  “She worked there before she worked here.”

  Dan thought in silence for a moment. Then he put another fifty on the bar. “I might come back, if you’re okay with it.”

  “A hundred dollars for twenty minutes? You can buy my time any day of the week.”

  Chapter 18

  Dan ran concentric circles around Georgetown for an hour before he stopped at Volta Park. He performed a round of post-cardio exercises, including a plethora of stretches capped with twenty-five pull-ups on the playground in the corner.

  Three blocks away, his client was in her shop, swilling cappuccinos and selling pre-owned goods to wealthy customers. His client’s husband was also at work, on the Hill, doing whatever lawmakers do when they are paralyzed by partisan gridlock. Dan dropped from the pull-up bar, laid on his back, and commenced on fifty leg-lifts. By the time Dan’s abs starting to burn, he had decided to change tactics on his case. Instincts told him his fastest route to solving the Wellington case was going to be through his client.

  For that, he was going to need a new temporary office.

  *

  Less than an hour later, Dan was looking up a short flight of stairs on the stoop of an old building he had passed three times during his morning run. A For Rent sign was attached to the small glass window next to the front door of the building. The small print on the sign indicated the room was on the fourth floor. Dan glanced to the top of the building from the street corner, smiled even more broadly, and opened the front double-doors of the four-story apartment building.

  The staircase to the top floor was carpeted in hideous burgundy. The middle of each step was worn pink, the landing of each floor ragged and sagging from decades of tenants. The building was built in the 1800s, two hundred plus years of wear and tear kept at bay with dozens of layers of paint, all visible on the worn handrails of the staircase.

  On the top landing, Dan confirmed his destination with another For Rent sign attached to the door of Apartment 4B.

  He knocked on the six-panel wood door and noticed there was no ventilation in the hall. Summer would be sweltering. Thankfully—catastrophic investigative failure notwithstanding—he was confident he would be done with the Wellington case by the time next year’s heat rolled in.

  Dan knocked a second time and a tall redheaded young man answered the door in bellbottom PJs and a ratty T-shirt with lettering that was no longer legible.

  “Can I help you?” the redhead asked.

  “The sign says you have a room to rent.”

  The Georgetown grad student looked at Dan from shoes to hair. “No thanks, man. We’re looking for another student. No parents. We already have those.”

  Another voice called out from the depths of the apartment. “Who is it?”

  A moment later, a second student poked his head into the living room. The curly, dark-haired, good-looking kid tried to get a look at Dan beyond the freckled arm of the redhead who was blocking the front door.

  “A potential roommate,” the redhead answered.

  “Sweet.”

  “He’s old.”

  “Hey,” Dan protested.

  Dan reached into his pocket and held up a roll of money. “Paying cash. Paying now. Paying for the rest of the school year.”

  The door flew open and Dan stepped into paradise.

  The stench of paradise threw Dan into a flashback of stale beer and moldy food. An off-putting, yet nostalgic mix of a hundred frat houses.

  Dan looked at the pile of shoes in the corner near the door and sniffed. Corn chips or foot odor? It was always hard to discern between the two.

  The dark-haired, curly top young man stepped forward to introduce himself. “Christian. But my friends call me Croc.”

  “Why Croc? You from Florida?”

  “No. They’re my footwear of choice.”

  “Crocs? Aren’t they for old people? And I’m old. I should know.”

  “Wear them once and you may never take them off.”

  “Not sure I want to risk it.”

  Croc motioned towards his roommate. “The tall, warm, welcoming party is named Luke. His friends call him Ginger.”

  Dan turned and shook hands. “My name is Dan. I’m not a parent, a teacher, or a cop. And I’m not running from the law, before you ask.”

  “Why are you looking for a room?”

  “I need a place to crash here in Georgetown temporarily. How long is your lease?”

  “We’re locked in until next August. Our o
ther roommate checked out on us last week. Bugged out to live with some girl. Ditched us on the rent.”

  “What’s the monthly damage?”

  “Nine hundred,” Ginger answered.

  “Okay. Here’s my offer. I’ll pay for the room through the end of the school year, plus utilities. The whole nine yards. I won’t need the room that long. You can rent it out again when I’m gone and keep the money. That should give you at a few months of double dipping on the rent for the third room. Not a bad deal. I mean, you’re probably screwing me on the nine hundred anyway, right?”

  “The last guy paid seven-fifty,” Croc admitted.

  “Figured. I mean, us old guys, we get a lot of breaks with those AARP discounts and senior citizen deals at Red Lobster. It’s only fair we pay a little more for an apartment.”

  Ginger looked over at Croc and scowled.

  “How do we know you aren’t some murderer?” Ginger asked.

  “You don’t. But you can make a copy of my driver’s license and vet me any way you want.”

  The two roommates looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders in agreement.

  “Welcome to the hacienda,” Croc said. “Your room is on the left, behind the kitchen. My room is in the corner, with the views. The park out one window, a tree lined cobblestone masterpiece on the other side. Ginger has the room on the other side of the apartment, looking east.”

  Dan walked through the living room and ran his hand along the sagging bookcase on the wall. He slapped the couch cushion and stuffing popped out from the seams. He stuck his head into Croc’s room, looked out the huge double windows with the killer views, and made his offer. “An extra five hundred for your room,” Dan said.

  “No dice,” Croc responded.

  “An extra five hundred. Per month. Paid for the duration. In advance.”

  “I’ll have my stuff out by dinner.”

  Ginger chimed in. “You sure you don’t want to face east? I have the best sunrise.”

  “You’re college students. What do you know about seeing the sunrise?”

  “I know it happens every morning and old guys like you are sometimes awake to see it.”