Read Online A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short by Richard Castle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Castle
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Toppers asked, looking at a house directly in front of them on a hill.
“Yes,” he replied. “That’s Lee’s mansion.”
A guard stopped them at the cemetery’s gated entrance.
“Sorry, you missed the last tour of the house,” he said. “It was at four-thirty.”
“ I’ve got friends buried here. Iraq,” Storm said. “We’ll pay our respects and tour the house some other time.”
“Take this,” the guard said, handing Storm a pamphlet. He waved them through.
The Robert E. Lee house was built in the early 1800s, in the Greek Revival style. Designed by one of the architects who worked on the U.S. Capitol, the stone mansion had six large columns holding up the front of its massive portico. When the Civil War started, the Union began burying fallen soldiers near the house because President Lincoln wanted the Lee family, including the Confederate general’s wife, who was living there, to see the graves when she looked out her windows each morning.
Storm weaved through the acres of white tablets, eventually making his way up the hill to the front of the mansion.
“There’s the drop site,” he said, pointing to a dark green outdoor trash container. It was overflowing with garbage.
Storm drove to it and scanned the area. No one was watching them. He picked up a gym bag and unzipped it. Toppers had carefully stacked one-hundred-dollar bills in neat rows. Closing the bag, Storm stepped from the still running cargo van and shoved the money deep inside the debris, covering the top with discarded newspapers.
Toppers’s cell phone rang as soon as he returned to the driver’s seat. It was Darth Vader again.
“Time for the next drop.”
Storm sensed that they were being watched. It was a sixth sense that had served him well in combat. There wasn’t anyone near the Lee house, but there was a large group of people several hundred yards down the hill. Storm had been to enough funerals to recognize that the departed had just been given full military honors. The flag-draped coffin had been carried on a horse-drawn caisson to the grave site. A color guard had escorted it there. A military band had sounded a farewell, followed by a three-rifle volley. It was dusk and that was late for a graveside service, which meant someone important had pulled strings to arrange it. The evening sun was setting, but from the grave’s vantage point, a mourner could glance up the hill and see the white cargo van.
Had one of the kidnappers blended into the crowd of mourners? Was Darth Vader among them?
The scrambled voice said, “Head to Georgetown. The canal on Thirty-first Street. Walk down the path to Wisconsin Avenue. The first trash can on the right. Leave the second bag in it.”
Storm exited the cemetery and crossed the Potomac back into the District, where the van was immediately stuck in traffic. A woman talking on her cell phone nearly collided with them when she cut in front of the van.
“Stupid broad,” Toppers snapped. “It’s against the law to use a cell phone in the District unless you’ve got a hands-free device. Someone should arrest her. She could have killed us.”
An accident was all that they needed. A cop further stalling traffic. A fender bender disrupting their delivery schedule.
“Senator Windslow said you were a trust fund baby,” Storm said, casually probing. “That’s one reason why he knew you wouldn’t run away with his six million.”
“It’s not polite to talk about money,” Toppers said. “My parents had houses in Connecticut, Spain, and in Palm Beach, too. I loved it there. You ever been?”
“It’s too rich for my blood,” Storm replied. “I was there but not during the Season.”
“The summer,” she said. “That’s the best time. Me and a friend of mine had a wild time there. Actually, we had a bet to see who could lose their virginity first!” She took a stick of gum from her purse and offered him a piece.
“No thanks,” he said. She put two in her mouth and
“Yes,” he replied. “That’s Lee’s mansion.”
A guard stopped them at the cemetery’s gated entrance.
“Sorry, you missed the last tour of the house,” he said. “It was at four-thirty.”
“ I’ve got friends buried here. Iraq,” Storm said. “We’ll pay our respects and tour the house some other time.”
“Take this,” the guard said, handing Storm a pamphlet. He waved them through.
The Robert E. Lee house was built in the early 1800s, in the Greek Revival style. Designed by one of the architects who worked on the U.S. Capitol, the stone mansion had six large columns holding up the front of its massive portico. When the Civil War started, the Union began burying fallen soldiers near the house because President Lincoln wanted the Lee family, including the Confederate general’s wife, who was living there, to see the graves when she looked out her windows each morning.
Storm weaved through the acres of white tablets, eventually making his way up the hill to the front of the mansion.
“There’s the drop site,” he said, pointing to a dark green outdoor trash container. It was overflowing with garbage.
Storm drove to it and scanned the area. No one was watching them. He picked up a gym bag and unzipped it. Toppers had carefully stacked one-hundred-dollar bills in neat rows. Closing the bag, Storm stepped from the still running cargo van and shoved the money deep inside the debris, covering the top with discarded newspapers.
Toppers’s cell phone rang as soon as he returned to the driver’s seat. It was Darth Vader again.
“Time for the next drop.”
Storm sensed that they were being watched. It was a sixth sense that had served him well in combat. There wasn’t anyone near the Lee house, but there was a large group of people several hundred yards down the hill. Storm had been to enough funerals to recognize that the departed had just been given full military honors. The flag-draped coffin had been carried on a horse-drawn caisson to the grave site. A color guard had escorted it there. A military band had sounded a farewell, followed by a three-rifle volley. It was dusk and that was late for a graveside service, which meant someone important had pulled strings to arrange it. The evening sun was setting, but from the grave’s vantage point, a mourner could glance up the hill and see the white cargo van.
Had one of the kidnappers blended into the crowd of mourners? Was Darth Vader among them?
The scrambled voice said, “Head to Georgetown. The canal on Thirty-first Street. Walk down the path to Wisconsin Avenue. The first trash can on the right. Leave the second bag in it.”
Storm exited the cemetery and crossed the Potomac back into the District, where the van was immediately stuck in traffic. A woman talking on her cell phone nearly collided with them when she cut in front of the van.
“Stupid broad,” Toppers snapped. “It’s against the law to use a cell phone in the District unless you’ve got a hands-free device. Someone should arrest her. She could have killed us.”
An accident was all that they needed. A cop further stalling traffic. A fender bender disrupting their delivery schedule.
“Senator Windslow said you were a trust fund baby,” Storm said, casually probing. “That’s one reason why he knew you wouldn’t run away with his six million.”
“It’s not polite to talk about money,” Toppers said. “My parents had houses in Connecticut, Spain, and in Palm Beach, too. I loved it there. You ever been?”
“It’s too rich for my blood,” Storm replied. “I was there but not during the Season.”
“The summer,” she said. “That’s the best time. Me and a friend of mine had a wild time there. Actually, we had a bet to see who could lose their virginity first!” She took a stick of gum from her purse and offered him a piece.
“No thanks,” he said. She put two in her mouth and
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