I'll Get it Friday

135.

Julie unlatches the valise and carefully removes one of the three manilla envelopes. There is a flap-sealing stamp warning that the contents are personal and confidential. She hands it to me as if it was a diploma. 

“Sorry it was so hard earned,” she says with valedictorian charm, “I’m afraid that after the events of the afternoon the reading will be rather anti-climatic.” 

“Nothing like a little light reading to wind down with after a tough day at the office,” I return eyeing the new office door and police barrier ribbon. 

“Let’s downshift for a day and let some of the dust settle, see you Friday,” she continues, “I’ll deliver Harlan’s packet and file Bartowsky’s Dick Tracy snubbie.” 

“Good police work today and thanks for the driving tutorial.” 

We part company, she towards the elevator and I to the stairs. 

I am halfway to the ground floor when an idea hits me like a blind-side sucker punch. The second bird. We have the bag-man, but who was the goon in the coffee shop waiting for the drop? I recheck the photo sent to us by forensics of Bartowsky to ensure decent resolution and, satisfied, hail a DC Cab. En route I call the restaurant where we dined earlier in the afternoon to inquire about the long-shot possibility of any security video they may have. I am told that they do not use anything that might infringe upon their customer's first amendment liberties, but that I might check with the Savings & Loan across the street. A quick Google search and I am waiting on hold to speak with the manager. Somewhat begrudgingly he eventually agrees to review the tapes from the security cam of his building front from one to two o’clock that afternoon. I can almost see him look at his watch as he tells me that they will be closing in fifteen minutes. He then asks if tomorrow will be OK. 

“I appreciate your long hours, sir, however this is a police investigation and it is urgent that we confirm any criminal activity that took place across the street from you this afternoon. I can get a subpoena in less time than it would take for you to look at the video, so please, take a quick look and tell me if you see any vans or service trucks parked in front of your building during those time frames. I’ll call you back in half an hour for a verbal review. Thanks for your cooperation.” I abruptly terminate the call as the cab pulls into the coffee shop’s small parking area. The afternoon shift is casually making their transition to evening. A few scattered customers sit and chat at tables and the few booths built perpendicular to the windows facing the street. 

I slide into the booth that, if occupied by anyone a couple of hours ago, might have yielded an advantageous viewing angle of the parking area and the busy street beyond. I am checking text messages on my cell when a cheerful young waitress wearing a logoed apron and a dazzling smile asks she can get me anything. 

“You can get me some information - and a double tall Americano,” I say and immediately wish I had phrased it differently. 

“Not a problem with the java but we might have one with the information.” I can tell that she has heard just about every line in the books, so I try a different approach and show her my badge and hold up the image of Bartowsky for her to see.

“Do you know this guy?” 

She grimaces at the ordeal and the precariousness of her breaking shop protocols, looks around sheepishly and responds with a soft, “Yeah I know him, he’s a regular.” 

I reach into my pocket and put a crisp Franklin on the table, “Does he meet regularly with another guy?” 

“Yeah, some sour suit, a Republican, all I know is that he drinks lattes and doesn’t tip. He never talks to anyone but Ant. Every Wednesday and Friday, nine o’clock after the morning rush.” She again looks around the shop and then at jammin’ Ben. 

“Thanks, for your help,” I say standing to leave.

“You don’t want the Americano?”

“I’ll get it Friday.”