Everything about the long session on Fourth Avenue was intense, and intensely frustrating. I made some calls about the suspects, particularly Mitchell Brand, since he worked out of D.C. It was nearly eleven-thirty when I looked at my watch for the first time all night.
Betsey Cavalierre and I hadn’t gotten the chance to talk since I’d arrived that afternoon. I drifted her way to say good night before I left the building. She was still going at it. She was talking to a couple of agents but gestured for me to wait.
Finally, she walked over. She still managed to look fresh and alert, and I wondered how she did it.
“Metro has a couple of leads on Mitchell Brand,” I told her. “He’s violent enough to be involved in something like this.”
Suddenly, she yawned. “Longest day of my life. Whew! How’s Jannie doing?” she asked. I was surprised and also pleased by the question.
“Oh, she’s doing good; great, actually. Hopefully, she’ll come home soon. She wants to be a doctor now.”
“Alex,” she said, “let’s go have a drink. This is a shot in the dark, but I get the feeling that you need to talk to somebody. Why won’t you talk to me?”
I must admit, the offer caught me completely off guard. I stammered out a response. “I’d like to, but not tonight. I have to go home. Rain check?”
“Sure, I understand. It’s okay. Rain check,” she said, but not before a look of hurt had passed over her face.
I never expected that from Agent Betsey Cavalierre. She had shown concern about my family. And she was vulnerable.
Chapter 55
THIS WAS THE PLACE, the time, the opportunity.
The Renaissance Mayflower Hotel, on Connecticut Avenue near Seventeenth.
It was as busy as ever that morning, busy and important looking. The Mayflower has been the site of every presidential inaugural ball since Calvin Coolidge. The hotel had been completely renovated in 1992, with architects and historians working together to restore it to its earlier grandeur. It was a popular place for corporate conferences and board of directors meetings. That was how the Mastermind knew about it.
A blue-and-gold chartered tour bus had been waiting in front of the Mayflower since a little before nine. It was scheduled to leave at nine-thirty and would be making scheduled stops at the Kennedy Center, the White House, the Lincoln and Vietnam memorials, the Smithsonian Institution, and other favorite tourist spots around Washington. The bus company was called Washington on Wheels. The corporate group on board was from the MetroHartford Insurance Company.
Sixteen women and two children were on the bus when the driver, Joseph Denyeau, finally shut the door at nine-forty. “All aboard for various museums, historic sites, and lunch,” he announced into his microphone.
A corporate assistant named Mary Jordan stood up in front and addressed the group. Jordan was in her early thirties, attractive and likable, supremely efficient. She was courteous to the important women on the bus without fawning over them or sounding obsequious. Her nickname at MetroHartford was Merry Mary.
“You all know the itinerary for this morning,” she said. Then she smiled brilliantly. “But maybe we should scrap the whole plan and go drinking. Just kidding,” she added quickly.
“Boo,” said one woman. “That sounds like fun, Mary. Let’s go to a real drinking bar. Where does Teddy Kennedy go for his morning wake-up shot?” Up and down the aisle everyone laughed.
The tour bus proceeded down the driveway of the hotel at a leisurely pace, then turned onto Connecticut Avenue. A few minutes later, the bus turned onto Oliver, which was a residential street. It was a shortcut drivers often took from the Mayflower.
A dark blue Chevy van backed out of a driveway about halfway down the block. The van’s driver obviously didn’t see the bus, but the bus driver saw the Chevy. He braked smoothly and stopped in the middle of the street.
The driver of the van wouldn’t move even after Joe Denyeau sounded his horn. Denyeau figured that the man must have been fed up with all the trucks and buses that used the side street as a shortcut. What other reason could there be for the guy to just sit there, staring angrily at him?
Two masked men suddenly appeared from behind a high hedge. One of them stepped directly in front of the tour bus; the other thrust an automatic weapon inside the open side window, inches from the driver’s head.
“Open the door or you’re dead, Joseph,” he shouted at the driver. “No one gets hurt if you obey. You have three seconds to follow directions. One —”
“It’s open, it’s open,” Denyeau said in a high-pitched, very frightened voice. “Take it easy.”
Several of the wives stopped in the middle of their conversations and peered up toward the front of the bus. Mary Jordan slid down in the bus seat behind the driver, where she was riding alone. She could see the man with the gun, and then he winked at her.
“Do what he says, Joe,” Jordan whispered. “Don’t play the hero.”
“Don’t worry. It didn’t even cross my mind.”
The armed, masked man suddenly boarded the bus. He held a Walther double automatic pointed at them. Some of the passengers began to scream.
The masked man shouted out, “This is a hijacking! We’re only interested in getting money from MetroHartford. I promise you, no one will be hurt. I have children, you have children. Let’s make sure all of our children get to see us tomorrow morning.”