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Authors: Margaret Truman
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over in the House, a staffer on the Western Hemisphere Subcommittee, International Relations.”
“What does your friend have to say?”
“Sort of vague but—”
Verplank grimaced. “Is anything not vague these days when it comes to Mexico?”
“Yeah, I know. He told me The Mexico Initiative is developing a case for reversing favored nation status for Mexico, and for killing those other proposals coming out of the White House.”
“That’s news? They’ve been stating that as their purpose all along.”
“But what they’re
not
saying is that they’re being supported, at least in part, by political interests.”
“Interesting. What political interests?”
“He didn’t know. But I read into it he meant Congress. Or somewhere in government.”
“I’ll give that some thought,” Verplank said. “Sorry to have fouled up your morning.”
“No problem,” the young man said, grinning. “My wife’s mother is visiting. Any excuse to get out of the house is welcome.”
Verplank watched his young colleague walk away, leaving him alone in the room. He went to the window and spent a few contemplative minutes watching the activities on the Mall. Good Sunday weather always coaxed everyone out of their homes and apartments. Frisbees flew, lovers walked hand in hand, and a game of touch football was being enthusiastically played in the shadow of the Washington Monument. Verplank’s wife’s mother, too, was visiting. But unlike his young colleague, he was anxious to get home and spend time with her. She was getting old; how many more years could he enjoy her company?
He locked the room, stopped by his office to pick up a few things, then rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he was greeted by the security guards.
“Catch the game this afternoon?” he was asked.
“I don’t think so,” Verplank said. “I have visitors, not baseball fans.”
“Well, enjoy what’s left of the weekend, Mr.Verplank.”
Although he made it a point to try and never bring work home with him, the conversation about the true nature of The Mexico Initiative would dominate his thinking for the rest of the day and evening. Until that moment, Verplank had been confident that he, and only he in the Latin American division, had been briefed onwhat was really behind that allegedly private think tank. But that was obviously no longer true.
Make phone calls when he got home? Or could it wait until Monday morning when he could confer in person?
He returned to his office, called his wife to say he’d be there in an hour, and placed a second call.
13
Metropolitan Police Headquarters
Indiana Avenue was quiet on this Sunday morning, with the exception of activity in and around MPD headquarters. It had been a relatively peaceful night in the nation’s capital. The blotter showed two murders, a rape, three muggings, assorted domestic disputes, a few prostitution arrests, and the murder of an unidentified Hispanic male in the underground garage of the Watergate complex.
The two homicide detectives assigned to the Garza killing were working together as a team for the first time. Joe Peterson, his blotchy Irish face deeply scarred by severe teenage acne, had recently lost his partner of long standing to retirement. Wendell Jenkins, whose regular partner had injured himself while fixing the roof of his house and was on disability leave, was a young man with pitch-black skin and a weight problem.
At eleven that morning, Peterson and Jenkins sat in the homicide day room and sipped tepid coffee. Peterson held four Polaroid pictures of the deceased taken at the Watergate crime scene. One showed his full face.
The second was of a tattoo on his right forearm. The third photo was of a three-inch-long scar on the left side of his neck. The fourth picture was of his right ear, one of the body’s most distinguishing features.
“What do you figure him for?” Peterson asked his partner.
“I peg him as Mexican.”
“A Juan
“What does your friend have to say?”
“Sort of vague but—”
Verplank grimaced. “Is anything not vague these days when it comes to Mexico?”
“Yeah, I know. He told me The Mexico Initiative is developing a case for reversing favored nation status for Mexico, and for killing those other proposals coming out of the White House.”
“That’s news? They’ve been stating that as their purpose all along.”
“But what they’re
not
saying is that they’re being supported, at least in part, by political interests.”
“Interesting. What political interests?”
“He didn’t know. But I read into it he meant Congress. Or somewhere in government.”
“I’ll give that some thought,” Verplank said. “Sorry to have fouled up your morning.”
“No problem,” the young man said, grinning. “My wife’s mother is visiting. Any excuse to get out of the house is welcome.”
Verplank watched his young colleague walk away, leaving him alone in the room. He went to the window and spent a few contemplative minutes watching the activities on the Mall. Good Sunday weather always coaxed everyone out of their homes and apartments. Frisbees flew, lovers walked hand in hand, and a game of touch football was being enthusiastically played in the shadow of the Washington Monument. Verplank’s wife’s mother, too, was visiting. But unlike his young colleague, he was anxious to get home and spend time with her. She was getting old; how many more years could he enjoy her company?
He locked the room, stopped by his office to pick up a few things, then rode the elevator down to the lobby, where he was greeted by the security guards.
“Catch the game this afternoon?” he was asked.
“I don’t think so,” Verplank said. “I have visitors, not baseball fans.”
“Well, enjoy what’s left of the weekend, Mr.Verplank.”
Although he made it a point to try and never bring work home with him, the conversation about the true nature of The Mexico Initiative would dominate his thinking for the rest of the day and evening. Until that moment, Verplank had been confident that he, and only he in the Latin American division, had been briefed onwhat was really behind that allegedly private think tank. But that was obviously no longer true.
Make phone calls when he got home? Or could it wait until Monday morning when he could confer in person?
He returned to his office, called his wife to say he’d be there in an hour, and placed a second call.
13
Metropolitan Police Headquarters
Indiana Avenue was quiet on this Sunday morning, with the exception of activity in and around MPD headquarters. It had been a relatively peaceful night in the nation’s capital. The blotter showed two murders, a rape, three muggings, assorted domestic disputes, a few prostitution arrests, and the murder of an unidentified Hispanic male in the underground garage of the Watergate complex.
The two homicide detectives assigned to the Garza killing were working together as a team for the first time. Joe Peterson, his blotchy Irish face deeply scarred by severe teenage acne, had recently lost his partner of long standing to retirement. Wendell Jenkins, whose regular partner had injured himself while fixing the roof of his house and was on disability leave, was a young man with pitch-black skin and a weight problem.
At eleven that morning, Peterson and Jenkins sat in the homicide day room and sipped tepid coffee. Peterson held four Polaroid pictures of the deceased taken at the Watergate crime scene. One showed his full face.
The second was of a tattoo on his right forearm. The third photo was of a three-inch-long scar on the left side of his neck. The fourth picture was of his right ear, one of the body’s most distinguishing features.
“What do you figure him for?” Peterson asked his partner.
“I peg him as Mexican.”
“A Juan
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