Chapter Thirty Eight
“Hi Caitlin, its Dad,” Johnny said into the receiver of his room phone.
“Dad! When are you coming home, I’ve missed you?”
“Soon baby. I’ve missed you too. Where’s Brad?”
“He’s playing football for the school team.”
“How are you getting on? No more nightmares I hope?”
“Dad, you and I both know that was no nightmare, and no, I haven’t been bothered again.”
“Fine,” said Johnny, as he thought how grown-up she sounded. “Oh well I’ll go now. I’ll bring you back a present. Say hullo to your mother for me.”
“Bye dad, I love you.”
“I love you too baby”
He lay on the bed; the setting sun was pushing yellow rays between the slats of the blinds, which hung over his window. Better not to tell her about Erin he thought that could be done when he returned home.
The other call he made was to the Dundee Courier. They had run a gardening column in place of his, and the editor was wondering when he was to return. He assured the man he would write again soon. It would need to be very soon, he thought, as he could not afford to stay in the US much longer. He was already eating into his meagre savings.
The next morning he took the metro to tree lined Idaho Avenue where he walked into the Second District Police Station and asked to see Lieutenant Dewar - the detective who had turned up when Johnny had requested to see someone in Homicide while he was in hospital.
Heb Dewar came down the marble steps of the central staircase. He was a well-made man with thin, red hair. “Mr Duncan, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve come to see if the report on the Buick is in,” said Johnny, who had been sitting on a wooden bench in the reception area.
“Okay, if you’ll follow me please.”
Dewar’s desk sat by a window covered in masses of paperwork. “Excuse the mess,” he said, as he pulled up a chair for Johnny to sit. He then grabbed his mouse and clicked a few times and then said: “the report on the silver Buick says it was an accident.”
“Lieutenant, someone tampered with Erin’s car; the steering and the brakes were okay, it was a new car for Christ’s sake.”
“Mr Duncan it was an accident.”
Johnny looked at the empty paper coffee cups on the window sill behind the police man. “Can I see the car?”
“It’s in a pound somewhere waiting to be crushed. Why don’t you do yourself a favour sir and go on home.”
“I can’t lieutenant, I need to carry on, I owe it to my friends.”
“Then here.” The cop passed him a white business card. “I never gave you this!”
Johnny read the card: “Kyle Miller P.I.”
“He’s your man; used to be a cop, and he doesn’t like spooks!”
The brown two-storey building, in Georgetown’s 36th North West Street, sat between a similar building painted red, and a three-storey modern office block. The window shutters painted yellow were black in places with grime from the road.
Johnny pushed the button for 14b at the side of the weathered, mahogany panelled door.
“Yes?” asked a voice through a metal grille under the button.
“Mr Miller its John Duncan–we spoke on the phone.”
“Ah yes, come up.”
A buzzer sounded and Johnny pushed the door open and walked into a white staircase. Red painted wooden steps led him up to two doors. one was black MDF with a brass handle, the other, a glass panelled door, was opened by a fair–haired man in his early forties. He wore a red checked shirt, which was open at the neck, and black Wrangler jeans.
“Mr Duncan–come in.”
“Thank you,” said Johnny, as he closed the door and followed the man into a large, bright room. The ceiling was white and had an ornate, circular cornice around a central light pendant, which had a white cube shade. The walls were cream, and one had several glass shelves upon which sat a variety of African wooden carvings. Woven rugs rested on the laminated wooden flooring, and a large, circular glass coffee table held the central position in the room.
Kyle Miller sat on a black leather swivel chair behind a pine desk, which lay in front of the large window. “Sit down please,” he said pointing to a large, black leather settee. “So, what can I do for you Mr Duncan?”
“I was involved in a car accident on the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge in which a colleague was killed, and although the police say it was an accident, I know the car had been tampered with at sometime.”
“Why do you suspect this?”
“Because not only did the steering go, but the brakes failed–on a new car!”
“I see, and who do you suspect?”
“The CIA; or at least rogue elements within the CIA.”
The PI whistled and then stood up and looked out the window.
“I’ve heard you’re not exactly keen on the Agency,” said Johnny.
“Mr Duncan, I was a cop here in DC for twenty three years; lets just say I’ve had my fair share of brushes with them and the FBI,” said Miller, as he remained looking out of the window. He then turned and sat on a corner of his desk. “What did you do to annoy the them?”
“I want you, Mr Miller, to find out what really happened to that car. Can you do this?”
“Sure but it will cost, not only my fee, but also cash to grease a few palms.”
“Okay, I’m prepared to pay.”
“Right I’ll need five hundred dollars up front and the relevant information.”
Johnny gave him the cash and the details.
“Now go home and relax. I’ll call as soon as I have something.”
Johnny needed a drink as he sat on the metro on the way back to his hotel. He had almost succumbed before Erin’s funeral, but he somehow held out. However, sitting on the train surrounded by strangers, any of whom could be spies, he felt lonely, like a small frightened boy stuck in a grown-up’s game. Drink was a comfort blanket–a shield from reality.
What was he going to do? Even if he found out the car was tampered with; the CIA were above the law, and he was nobody. Maybe it was time to head home? One good thing, he thought was that they wouldn't attack him again as his profile had been raised, by the police.
The train pulled up at the station close to his hotel and the doors hissed open. He stepped off and walked along the platform towards the stairs. He turned around and watched as two people: a woman in a red jump suit and a man in a brown jacket and grey trousers walked towards and then past him.
That man got on where I got on thought, Johnny. “Jeez, I’m getting paranoid,” he said to himself as he shook his head and climbed the stairs.
Johnny strolled across the hotel parking lot and then, unlocking the door, he entered his room as a man in a brown jacket and grey trousers sitting by the window in the reception area lowered his newspaper and pulled out his cell phone.