Used to the Response

133.

She sits silent. 

We are less than fifty feet from the black Navigator as it creeps through the intersection. A decisive blocking move right now would net us the perp. But we cannot make a positive driver ID due to the dark tint on the escape vehicle’s windows. The moment lost, I pull into traffic three car lengths behind and shift the Prius into stealth mode. 

“He knows the burglary was interrupted, but not that he is being followed,” I speculate out loud, “so the chances of going to a Plan B, photocopy and transmit, an alternate meeting location, or a handoff are slim. As long as he doesn’t feel any reason to panic, he should stay with the original plan, whatever that is.” 

Julie would have made the vehicular take down when we had the chance, and tosses a ‘bird in the hand’ look my way as she relents to the strategy. “We can always take him if we sense some change,” I try as a closing argument. “Let’s be patient for a little while longer and see where he goes.” 

She speaks into her phone and asks for the information to be send electronically. The forensic lab has a positive fingerprint match and is sending the data. I follow with caution as the Navigator moves routinely eastbound on E St towards Pennsylvania Ave and the Anacostia River. In an interesting move he takes Potomac to K St and circles back towards our starting point.

“He is making sure he has no tail,” I interrupt, “we might be blown.” 

“One, Anton Bartowsky,” she relays, “a few traffic violations, two B&E’s and current employer listed as independent contractor. He has a private investigator license, and concealed weapon permit.  Last client listed as Adelson Clinic, Inc.” 

“Adelson?” I almost shout. “Sheldon Adelson? The dirt-bag owner of the Sands and one of the largest contributors to Republican and conservative causes?” 

She reluctantly nods her head admitting that the dot now separating the perp in the Navigator with the Senator from South Carolina is incriminatingly short. 

I keep my distance behind Mr Bartowsky not wanting to spook him as his cautionary and circuitous route continues winding aimlessly past the Marine Barracks and towards Nationals Park. 

A block from the US Department of Transportation on Tingey St he pulls into a coffee joint known as Philz. I pull the Prius into a no parking space across the street and watch as he exits, secures and leaves his vehicle. He is carrying a leather valise. 

“If he makes the handoff, we’re toast,” Julie warns astutely. 

I pull the Prius from the curb wishing I could add additional distraction with the screeching of tires, and split the difference between the Navigator and the front door of the coffee shop. Mr. Bartowsky freezes in his tracks, totally surprised by the commotion. He drops the soft-brown valise and reaches into his light jacket as I stop two feet from him with the Glock locked on the W embroidered on his cap.

“Drop it, NOW.” I bark. He complies and creates the unmistakable sound effect of steel slamming onto concrete. “Now turn around and head back to your rig and drive away, Mr Bartowsky, pretend like none of this happened.” He again complies. 

I open the Prius door, pry myself out, grab the piece and the valise, and, return to the driver's seat. 

Getting used to the response, we drive off.