Revenge is the Best Revenge Excerpt
The second phone message was a surprise. “This is Max Geller, Metro PD Liaison. Call me. I have news.”
She punched in his number. “This is Greta Von Wiles. Got any good news?”
Geller laughed. “Sorry, this is the police department. There is no good news; there is progress. Where are you?”
“At Reagan Airport. I just got in from Florida.”
“I traced the gun and I have some other news. Join me for dinner?”
Von Wiles sighed. “Where are we dining?”
“Lenny’s Place, at the Farragut Square Metro stop.”
Lenny’s was crowded, but cozy. The hostess greeted Von Wiles and led her past a busy bar and through the packed restaurant to a door marked “Employees Only.” It opened into the kitchen. Just inside the door was an alcove. Geller was sitting at its only table with two men. One was a slim, black man sporting a moustache. The other man was white. He had a robust physique, a square, clean-shaven jaw, and hard eyes.
Geller greeted her with a jovial, “Glad you made it,” and did the introductions.
“Major Von Wiles, meet Jimmy Grimes.” He nodded to the black man. “Jimmy’s an electronic surveillance expert with the police department.”
Turning to the other man, Geller said, “This is Sid Mitchell, Secret Service.”
Von Wiles shot a concerned glance at Geller.
“Sid’s not here officially. He’s a friend.”
They ordered drinks and food. Grimes had his to go. The drinks arrived and Geller got down to business. “What do you want first, the good bad news, the weird bad news, or the really bad, bad news?”
“The good,” replied Von Wiles, without hesitation.
“The good bad news is Wooten had a reason to shoot himself. His autopsy showed he had terminal cancer. The man had less than a year to live.”
“That doesn’t explain why his body was dumped at a motel,” said Von Wiles.
“No, it doesn’t and I can’t,” Geller confessed.
“What’s the weird news?”
“First item:” said Geller, “Wooten’s face took a beating from the bullet that killed him. To confirm his ID, the M.E. got Wooten’s dental records. They show that your dead colonel had adjacent false teeth to replace a pair he lost in a college boxing match. Those teeth had been replaced with a cyanide capsule. Looks like Wooten was determined to commit suicide.”
“God! What’s the other weird item?”
Grimes leaned toward Von Wiles and spoke in a low voice. “When Wooten was brought to the morgue, he was wearing cowboy boots. The boots and the rest of his stuff went to the Evidence Room. My friend, Jamila, works in Evidence, and she’s a boot freak. Jamila is checking out Wooten’s boots and she spots four neat, little holes drilled into the flat side of the heel facing the instep. So, she calls me down and says, ‘What’s up with these holes?’”
“I take the heel off and the damn thing is a microphone.”
Geller silently mouthed, “spook stink,” to Von Wiles.
“It gets better,” Grimes assured her. “Up inside the boot, above the heel, is a miniature, battery-operated tape recorder with an open face. You snap the cassette onto the spools and when you twist the heel onto the boot, it holds the cassette in place.” Grimes sat back, flashed a jaunty smile, and raised his palms. “Bam! Colonel Wooten is a walking recording studio.”
Von Wiles sagged. “Did you find a cassette?”
“Nah,” said Grimes, disappointed.
Von Wiles asked, “Were there fingerprints on the boot?”
“Nothing identifiable,” replied Geller.
Conversation ceased momentarily when the food arrived. Geller, Mitchell, and Von Wiles began eating. Grimes hovered over a Styrofoam container holding his take-away dinner. Geller jabbed a knife at him. “Tell her the rest, Jimmy.”
Grimes said, “I removed the heel of the other boot. There was a miniature signal emitter inside. Somebody was DFing Wooten.”
Von Wiles stared at Grimes in disbelief. “Somebody was tracking Wooten with direction finding equipment?”
“No question.”
“What was the signal’s range?”
“A mile, if that.” Grimes leaned into her again. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘Was Wooten DIA, CIA, FBI, military intelligence, or what?’ None of the above. The gear was crude, troglodyte technology, right out of the Spy Museum.”
“Are any of the components traceable?”
“They were designed to be untraceable, made up of scraps and put together in a home workshop. That’s it.” Grimes looked at Geller and Von Wiles. Sensing they were satisfied, he said, “Enjoy. I’ll be on my way.”
The remaining three ate in silence until Geller said to Von Wiles, “Sid has news about the gun that Wooten used to ice himself. Tell her, Sid.”
Mitchell wiped his mouth with a napkin. “At Max’s request, I asked Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives to run the serial number. They have contacts who monitor the international arms trade.
“The Israelis captured a boatload of PLO arms and ammunition off the Gaza Strip in late 2020. It included a shipment of Russian-made Makarov handguns. The serial numbers ran consecutively. The number on the gun that killed Wooten is in the middle of that sequence.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Geller joined in. “Here’s where it gets interesting. That particular gun was missing from the Israeli inventory.”
“So, you’re telling me the PLO killed Wooten?” asked Von Wiles.
“No, but suppose the Israeli inventory wasn’t accurate?”
“Are you saying the Israelis falsified their inventory to have a cold piece in reserve and used it to kill Wooten?”
Geller hunched shoulders. “I don’t know, but if I was an Israeli agent and I wanted to whack somebody, I sure wouldn’t use my gun, if I had a choice. I’d use my worst enemy’s gun and drop the piece at the scene of the crime.”
Von Wiles stared at him in disbelief. “Why would the Israelis want to kill Wooten?”
“Maybe Wooten was doing something harmful to Israeli interests.”
Von Wiles frowned. “Was he?”
“I don’t know,” replied Geller, “but Wooten was no public affairs officer. If you want to know why he’s dead, start by finding out what his real job was.”
