Read A Brewing Storm: A Derrick Storm Short Online
Authors: Richard Castle
Matthew Dull’s funeral was held in the prestigious Washington National Cathedral and attracted the sort of attention you would expect when the deceased had been murdered and was related to a powerful U.S. senator. The President of the United States was traveling overseas, but he sent the vice president to represent him. At least forty members of Congress took seats in the front pews. Georgetown socialites, who knew Gloria and her son, intermingled with the politicos. Every member of the Washington press corps who mattered was covering the event. While most mourners came to genuinely pay their respects, Storm knew a few had shown up simply to curry favor or rub shoulders with the city’s crème de le crème. He arrived late and stood at the rear of the church. He spotted Jedidiah Jones in a second-row seat.
A colleague of Senator Windslow had just started the eulogy when there was a ruckus in the front of the cathedral. Samantha Toppers had fainted and was sprawled on the floor. Everything stopped while security officers administered first aid and carried her outside to an ambulance. She was driven to an exclusive, private hospital on Capitol Hill.
After the service, television news reporters doing stand-up reports outside the cathedral could be overheard telling viewers that Toppers had collapsed because of her “broken heart.”
Storm didn’t stick around for the funeral processional to the famed Georgetown Tall Oaks cemetery. Dating back to 1849, Tall Oaks had run out of room long ago, but its owners had recently dug up the cemetery’s paths and walkways to create more space. Matthew’s body would be interred in a double-decker concrete crypt covered with slate and used as a new footpath. A tasteful marker would be placed beside the walkway, noting who was buried beneath it.
The local newscast that night revealed that Toppers was being held overnight for observation at the St. Mary of the Miracle Hospital. It was standard procedure. She was suffering from situational depression, her doctor said, and needed rest.
Visiting hours at St. Mary’s, which only accommodated fifty patients in its private suites, ended at precisely 8 P.M., which is exactly when Storm walked through the hospital’s entrance. The lobby was designed to look as if it were a living room. All visitors were required to sign in with a kindly looking elderly woman stationed behind a mahogany desk. The white-haired matron would press a concealed button that opened a solid oak door that led into the ward.
“I need to speak to the security officer on duty,” Storm told her.
“Oh, that’ll be, Tyler Martin. He’s a real nice fellow, but he’s always late. He’s supposed to be here now because my shift ends at eight o’clock.”
At that same moment, an overweight, balding middle-aged fellow wearing dark blue trousers, a light blue button shirt, and a black tie burst into the lobby and hurried toward them.
“Sorry, Shirley,” he said, puffing from his rushed pace, “traffic is a mess out there.”
“You know it always is, Officer Martin,” the woman replied, “especially since they got the streets around the hospital torn up with construction. You’d think all that construction work would stop drivers from racing by here, but I almost got hit last night crossing at the intersection. Someone’s going to get hurt.”
“The good news is that if they get hit, they’ll be outside a hospital,” Martin quipped.
The older woman didn’t smile. She said, “Officer Martin, this man wants to speak to you.” Collecting her purse, she walked to the exit, calling over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow and please don’t be late again.”
“Give me a moment please,” Martin said as he popped behind the reception desk and put a paper bag and thermos bottle into a large drawer. Sucking in a deep breath, he looked up at Storm and said, “OK, now, how can I help you?”
Storm handed Martin a thin black wallet that contained the fake private investigator credentials that Jones had given him earlier. “Senator Windslow sent me over,” Storm explained. “He wants to make certain Ms. Samantha Toppers is protected from the media. He’s worried some tabloid photographer is going to sneak in here and take pictures of her while she’s distraught.”
“I heard about her on the radio driving to work,” Martin said, “but the senator doesn’t need to worry. We keep things pretty tight around here, especially at night. I’m the only officer on duty and all the doors except the front entrance are locked. No one gets by me.”
Retrieving his false credentials, Storm extended his hand and gave Martin’s a firm shake. “Officer Martin, I’m glad you’re on duty. It’ll be a pleasure working with you. Now, I’ll just take a seat in your lobby, and if someone asks to see Ms. Toppers, you can signal me.”
Martin hesitated. “I’ll need to call my supervisor about this.”
“No problem. Tell him I’m here in case one of those photographers manages to slip by you. They’re sneaky bastards, and this way, it will be my dick, not yours, on the chopping block if the senator gets angry.”
The thought of Storm taking the blame seemed to remove any doubts Martin might have had. “I guess there’s no reason to bother my boss. He gets cranky when I call at night.”
Storm smiled reassuringly. “I’ll just take a seat over there.” He pointed to a brown leather chair near the lobby wall where he would have a clear view. “If someone comes in who you don’t know—anyone—even a doctor or someone who claims they’re a new employee on your janitorial staff—you give me a nod.”
“We should have a code word,” Martin volunteered. “I’ll tell them, 'You’ll have to wait a moment before I buzz you in.’”
“That would be great. I hope your boss knows how fortunate he is to have you working here.”
“He doesn’t, but you’re right, he should,” Martin said, beaming.
Storm had dealt with people like Martin all of his life. All they wanted was a little respect, a little appreciation and some encouragement. If you gave them that, most would turn over state secrets to please you.
Storm took a seat and picked up a copy of the
Washington Tribune
from a nearby coffee table. During the next two hours, a handful of doctors arrived to see patients, but Martin recognized each of them.
Around 11 P.M., a rail-thin man, who looked to be in his late twenties, entered carrying a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. Dressed in blue denim jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a light tan jacket, he went directly to the reception desk without noticing Storm and spoke so softly that only Officer Martin could hear him.
The next sound Storm heard was Martin’s loud voice. “YOU HAVE A DELIVERY FOR SAMANTHA TOPPERS—IS THAT WHAT YOU JUST SAID?”
So much for the code. Why would a flower shop be making a delivery so late at night?
Storm sprang from his seat. Uncertain why the security guard had hollered so loudly, the deliveryman glanced around and saw Storm. Their eyes met and Storm sensed that the man recognized him, although Storm had never seen him. The man pitched the glass bowl of flowers at Storm’s face. Storm ducked and instinctively raised his right arm to block the vase while the deliveryman scrambled out the front door. The bowl struck Storm’s forearm and exploded when it hit the floor.
The deliveryman was fast, but Storm caught him twenty yards from the hospital entrance, just as he entered a nearby intersection. Storm tackled him from behind in a move that would have made a great NFL film highlight. The two men’s bodies hit the black asphalt hard near the center of the street. When Storm loosened his tackle around the man’s ankles, the suspect kicked him in the jaw.
Slightly stunned, Storm rolled backward to avoid another punishing blow and pushed himself up from the asphalt. His target was up on his feet, too. Storm lunged forward, but the deliveryman moved quicker than Storm had anticipated and was out of reach. In a well-practiced move, the man pulled a pistol from his belt.
Completely in the open and unprotected, Storm knew his assailant couldn’t miss at such a close range. With lightning quickness, Storm dove to his left just as the gun fired. The bullet sliced across his right shoulder, ice skating across the skin as if it were a surgeon’s scalpel.
Storm rolled as he hit the street and came up in a crouched position with his Glock in his right hand. He was now protected behind a three-foot-tall concrete barrier that construction crews had installed temporarily near the curb to protect themselves from traffic while on the job.
Suddenly, from behind him, Storm heard Officer Martin yelling an expletive. The security officer was lumbering toward them, his watermelon belly bouncing with each step. His voice caused the deliveryman to momentarily glance away from Storm and redirect his pistol at the oncoming security guard. He fired. Martin froze and screamed in terror.
Storm was about to return fire when there was a brilliant flash directly in front of him that blinded him temporarily. Simultaneously, he heard the sound of steel smashing into concrete, the breaking of glass, the last-second squeal of brakes and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.
The driver of a speeding BMW had swerved to miss the deliveryman, who’d been standing in the intersection, directly in the car’s path. The driver had lost control and the BMW had smacked into the concrete barrier protecting Storm. The impact had destroyed the car’s distinctive grill, peppered the air with shrapnel-sized pieces of broken headlight, and sent a narrow piece of chrome sailing into Storm’s left arm like a jagged arrow. Steam and smoke gushed from the engine and the car’s horn blared loudly.
Storm had not flinched or moved from where he was standing with his raised Glock. But the collision had blocked his view, and he now had a pencil-sized chrome spear stuck in his left bicep. He shifted his position for a better look into the intersection. The deliveryman had vanished. With disgust, Storm holstered his Glock and used his right hand to remove the chrome dart from his arm.
Lights popped on in the old row houses surrounding the hospital. A dog yelped. Through the car’s cracked windshield, Storm could see air bags. They’d saved the lives of the male driver and female passenger, but both were bloody and clearly dazed.
Storm looked behind him. Martin was still standing frozen on the sidewalk. The bullet had missed him.
“Get a doctor!” Storm called.
Storm tossed the tiny chrome spear in his hand to the ground and walked toward the terrified security guard.
“The people in the car need help,” Storm said. “Go back inside and get a doctor and nurses out here.”
Martin stared blankly ahead. “I’ve never had anyone shoot me!”
“You still haven’t. He missed.”
Martin noticed that both of Storm’s arms were bleeding. “He didn’t miss you.”
“Actually, he did. It’s just a flesh wound. We’re both lucky. Now you need to get help from the hospital. The people in the car are conscious but they’re injured. I’ll go check on them while you go inside. Call the police and fire department, too. And make sure no one sneaks in while everyone is paying attention to this accident.”
“OK, OK,” Martin replied. “You can count on me.” He started back toward the entrance.
Storm noticed a glint of light in the intersection. He assumed it was debris from the car crash until he saw that it was illuminated. As he got closer, he realized it was a cell phone. It had been knocked from the fleeing deliveryman’s belt when Storm tackled him.
Picking it up, he pushed its recent calls button. Storm recognized the first name that flashed on the tiny screen.
It was the final clue that he’d needed. Now he had all of the evidence. He had solved the puzzle, or at least a key part of it.
Special Agent April Showers exited FBI headquarters and made her way to the curb on 10th Street NW at exactly the same moment as Storm arrived in the rented Taurus.
“I’m crazy for doing this,” she said as soon as she got into the car.
“You made the call for me?” he asked.
“Yes, the senator and his wife will meet us at six-thirty in his office, and they promised that Samantha Toppers would be with them. She was discharged early this morning from the hospital.”
Agent Showers was not as angry as she’d been during their last meeting. That was good. He’d told her earlier today on the phone that he’d uncovered evidence about the kidnapping and murder, but he’d not revealed it. He’d only asked her to get everyone together. He told her that what he had to say might redeem her with her bosses. She might not have to go to Tulsa.
“Are you going to tell me now,” Showers said, “or is this another secret?”
“There won’t be any reason for secrets after this meeting.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell me your real name?”
Storm shook his head, indicating no.
He had misspoke. There were parts of his life that would always be secret, especially if he wanted to remain dead and return to Montana.
Storm made a left onto Pennsylvania Avenue and drove east toward the U.S. Capitol, whose brilliant white exterior looked slightly pinkish from the orange sun setting behind them.
Agent Showers entered the Dirksen SOB office first, with Storm trailing behind her carrying four heavy gym bags.
“What’s this about?” Senator Windslow said, rising from behind his desk. “Why are you carrying those bags?”
Storm dropped them on the carpet.
“He knows who kidnapped Matthew,” Showers said.
Gloria rose from the sofa, where she had been sitting next to Toppers, and hurried over to Storm. “Is it true?” she asked. “Have you found the men who murdered my son? Tell me, please!”
“I will,” he replied, “but it is complicated.” He took Gloria’s hand and led her to a chair. “Why don’t you sit here while I explain it.” Gloria was now to his right. Toppers was on his left, and he was facing Windslow, who was seated behind his desk. Agent Showers was standing behind him near the door.
He had everyone where he wanted them. Divided.
Storm began. “Agent Showers already has solved half of this kidnapping.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Windslow asked incredulously.
“Yes,” said Gloria. “What is half a kidnapping?”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Storm said. “The day after Matthew was kidnapped, you received a ransom note demanding one million dollars. The note was handwritten in block letters. The writing on that note was completely different from the writing on the second note, which you received the next day. The second note didn’t include a demand for money, but it did contain Matthew’s teeth.”
“We know that,” Windslow said impatiently. “Get to the point. Who killed Matthew?”
“Let him talk,” Gloria said.
“The second note contained a mistake,” Storm recalled. “It identified Matthew as the senator’s son. The differences in these two notes were the first tip-off that you were actually communicating with two different groups.”
“Two kidnappers?” Windslow bellowed. “How could two different groups kidnap one person?”
“Please, Thurston, stop interrupting,” Gloria chided.
“Let’s call one group the real kidnappers,” Storm said. “They are the armed men who actually abducted Matthew. The second group was trying to take advantage of his kidnapping. They didn’t have anything to do with his actual abduction. Their goal was to get your money. That’s why they sent you a third handwritten note demanding six million in cash.”
Senator Windslow glanced nervously at Agent Showers and then gave Storm an angry look. “That third note was supposed to be kept confidential,” he said. “You weren’t authorized to discuss it. I’m going to have my lawyers—”
Gloria cut him off. “You can threaten him later. I want to know who killed my son. Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Storm said. “It was this second group—the criminals who wanted your money—that had me confused at first. I knew it was someone inside your inner circle, because they mentioned my name in the third note.”
“Someone close to us betrayed us?” Gloria said.
“I had a hunch but wasn’t certain until Samantha and I were delivering the money.”
“Samantha?” Gloria repeated. Everyone looked at Samantha, who locked eyes with Storm and then looked at Gloria and said, “It’s not me.”
“During our ride,” Storm said, “Samantha used the word
stashed
. That was the same word printed in the third kidnap note, ordering the senator to use the six million
stashed
in the safety deposit box to pay the ransom. It’s slang that Russians don’t use.”
“What Russians?” Gloria asked. “Are you saying that Samantha was helping Russians?”
“I don’t even know any Russians,” Samantha said. “He’s not making any sense.”
“I’ll explain the Russians in a minute,” Storm said. “Let’s get back to the night when Samantha and I were making the deliveries. She told me that she was studying mechanical engineering.”
Agent Showers jumped in. “Which means she knows how to write in block letters on blueprints like the ones on the ransom notes.”
“Lots of people know how to do that,” Samantha protested.
Gloria fixed her eyes on Samantha and said, “Is this true? I thought you loved my son.”
“Yes, I do, I did,” she stammered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“This is ridiculous,” Windslow complained. “Why would she steal money from us?”
Storm continued. “The most obvious clue was that each time I dropped off one of the gym bags, the kidnappers called Samantha’s phone. It was as if someone was telling them exactly what I was doing. Someone who was sitting in the van waiting while I was dropping off the bags. Someone sending text messages.”
“Why are you attacking me?” Samantha exclaimed. “Why are you lying about me!” She stood from the sofa. “I want to leave. I don’t feel well.”
“No one is leaving,” Agent Showers said. “Not yet.”
With a frustrated look on her face, Toppers sat back down. “This isn’t fair,” she said and pouted.
“The first time,” Storm said, “when Samantha took a million dollars to Union Station, she knew Agent Showers had flooded the train depot with agents. So she warned her partner. That’s when the two of them came up with a new scam. They thought of an ingenious way to get the money.”
“What money?” Windslow said. “The kidnappers blew it all to pieces.”
“No,” Storm said, “they didn’t. Again, let’s look at the facts. The third note instructed Samantha to take six million from the safety deposit box and put it into four gym bags. But that’s not what you did when you were alone in that vault, is it, Samantha?”
“That’s exactly what I did,” she protested. “You saw me come out of that vault carrying the gym bags. You looked in the bags and saw the stacks of bills there.”
“I did. But I didn’t look deep enough,” Storm replied. “Here’s what happened. When Samantha was alone in that vault, she opened a different safety deposit box—one that she had rented. She had newspapers cut in the same shape as hundred-dollar bills hidden in her box. She put those fake bills in the bottom of each gym bag and covered them with a top level of actual hundred-dollar bills. Then she put the rest of the six million into her safety deposit box.”
“My six million wasn’t blown up in those trash cans?” Windslow said.
“Those explosions blew up counterfeit bills made of newsprint,” Storm said.
“You have no proof,” Toppers objected, but her face looked panicked, as if she were an animal caught in a corner.
Storm picked up the four gym bags and carried them over to her. “A hundred-dollar bill weighs roughly one gram,” he explained. “A million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighs a hundred grams or the equivalent of twenty-two pounds. Six million dollars weighs a hundred and thirty-two pounds.”
“I can count,” Toppers said.
“Yes, you told me that you were good in math.” He dropped the bags at her feet. “I’ve placed the equivalent of one hundred and thirty-two pounds into these four gym bags. When you came out of the bank vault, you were carrying all four bags—two in each hand. You should have no problem lifting all of these bags right now—if the six million was in those bags.”
“What’s this going to prove?” Windslow asked.
Agent Showers answered. “Obviously, newsprint weighs less than currency. If she can’t lift the bags, then it would have been impossible for her to carry six million in hundred-dollar bills out of that vault. That will prove that the bags were stuffed with newsprint—not money.”
“Pick up the bags,” Storm said. “Prove me wrong.”
Toppers didn’t move.
“Damn it, girl. Pick up those bags,” the senator ordered.
She didn’t flinch.
“If you want us to believe you weren’t involved, pick up those bags,” Gloria said sternly.
Toppers rose slowly from the sofa. She looked at each of them and then reached down and put her fingers around the straps on the four gym bags. With a huge grunt, she gave them a tug.
For a second, it looked as if she were going to lift them. But they were simply too heavy and she was too petite, too weak. She nearly fell forward on her face.
Gloria shot from her chair, lunging at Toppers. The older woman slapped the young girl’s face and grabbed her hair. Both women tumbled onto the floor. Storm grabbed Gloria, who was swinging and kicking Toppers. Showers pulled Toppers to one side.
“You little bitch,” Gloria screamed. “How could you do this to us? How could you do this to our son? We treated you like family. Why did you do this?”
Agent Showers said, “Samantha, was there newspaper in those bags when you brought them out of the vault?”
Looking completely defeated, she said, “Yes. I made the switch just like he said.”
Showers handcuffed her and gave Storm an appreciative smile. “Smart thinking putting a hundred and thirty-two pounds in those bags,” she said.
“Actually, there’s two hundred pounds in them. It was a trick. I have no idea how much newsprint weighs.”
Toppers face turned bright red. She burst into tears, overcome with pent-up emotions.
“Who helped you?” Windslow demanded. “Who was your partner? You may have written those notes, but you didn’t make those bombs.”
Between sobs, she stammered, “I never liked you, and your stepson didn’t like you either. You’re a bully.”
Storm removed a cell phone from his pocket and pushed the last number dialed feature. The voice of Rihanna could be heard coming from Topper’s handbag.
“This cell phone belongs to the man who tried to get into the hospital last night to see Samantha,” Storm explained. “I knocked it from his belt just before he fired a shot at me. The last number that he’d called was Samantha’s.”
He hesitated and then said in a sympathetic voice, “This phone belongs to your brother, doesn’t it, Samantha? He was coming to see you because he wanted to get the money.”
“You have a brother?” Gloria said. “I thought you were an only child.”
Between sobs, Toppers said, “His name is Jack, Jack Jacobs.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” Windslow said. “How’d our background investigators miss that?”
“The woman we all know as Samantha is actually Christina Jacobs,” Storm said. “She and her brother were born in Vermont and lived there until the courts took them away from their drug-addicted, abusive mother. I’m not sure how or why, but Christina ended up living with Charles and Margarita Toppers, a wealthy couple in Stamford, Connecticut. They had a daughter the same age whose name was Samantha.”
“You told us the Toppers were your parents,” Windslow said.
“Charles, Margarita, and the real Samantha were killed in a car accident in Spain while on vacation,” Storm explained. “Their bodies were burned beyond recognition. Christina was sick at home that night, and when the police told her that everyone was dead, she decided to assume Samantha’s identity. She told the authorities that the girl killed was a family friend named Christina Jacobs, an orphan.”
“How could she pull that off?” Windslow said.
“She never went back to Connecticut. Margarita had relatives in Spain, so all three bodies were buried there. The 'new’ Samantha contacted the bank that was the trustee of the Toppers estate and told the executor that she was distraught and wanted to live in Europe for a while. He had dealt only with Charles Toppers and had no idea what Samantha looked or sounded like. He sent her monthly checks to a bank in Paris. She stayed abroad for six years, posing as Samantha, only dealing with the Stamford bank by e-mail and letters. By the time that she returned to the U.S., she had transformed herself—adopting the same hair color, the same signature as Samantha. She fooled everyone—it seems—but her brother.”
“I never thought I’d see him again,” Samantha said. “After the accident in Spain, I sent word to him that his sister was dead. I’d heard he enlisted in the marines and had been to the Persian Gulf to fight in Iraq. He was Army Intelligence. Then out of nowhere, he showed up at my apartment on the very night that Matthew was kidnapped. I was an emotional wreck and I told him about what I’d done and how I was engaged and about how Matthew had been kidnapped. I thought he would be sympathetic, but he told me this was his big chance. He said, 'You had your chance to start over. I want mine.’”
“It was your brother’s idea to write that first ransom note, wasn’t it?” Storm said.
“He thought if we acted fast, we could beat the real kidnappers to the punch. He told me if I didn’t help him, he would expose me and I would go to jail. But then, I told him the FBI was everywhere in Union Station. There was no way for him to get the money. I thought he’d give up on the entire idea after that, but I made a stupid mistake.”
“You told him about the real kidnappers’ note, the one with the teeth in it,” Storm said.
“I wanted him to know the kidnappers had contacted the Windslows. I told him the CIA had brought in a real expert to help the FBI. I wanted to scare him. But instead he realized the kidnappers weren’t after money. They were trying to get the senator to do something else. That’s when he came up with the idea of getting money out of the safety deposit box and making everyone think it got blown up.”