Cold Frame by P. T. Deutermann Page B

four on one, and taking their chances with Av’s .38, or even executing a scrambling detour down the heavily wooded hillside toward the banks of the Potomac. He heard a noise behind him and turned to find Howie, also in a suit and minus the dreads wig, standing with his coat back and his right hand on his hip-holstered weapon. Traffic up on Canal Street was slowing as people caught sight of the weird tableau down on the towpath. The four guys looked positively worried now, and then two more black-and-whites hove into view behind Miz Brown’s car. Four uniforms got out and spread themselves along the towpath.
    That seemed to do it for the four unsubs. The oldest-looking one of them reached down and lifted the hem of his tee, revealing his own gold badge pinned to his waistband. The other three followed suit. Their tees were plenty big enough to accommodate holstered weapons, but no one appeared to be reaching.
    â€œWe’re FPS,” the man said. “Our creds are in the office.”
    â€œFPS?” Miz Brown asked, looking puzzled. “What you doin’ out here in a national park, harassing a Metro police detective?”
    â€œWe’re exercising,” the man said. “We’re not harassing anyone.”
    Av put away his weapon. “You lose these the other day, FPS?” he called, and pitched the cheap wraparounds at the man’s feet.
    The man looked down, then shrugged. Miz Brown took a deep breath and launched into what Howie called one of his waterfall monologues. Howie had eased up on his shooting stance and was now lighting up a cigarette while watching Brown envelop the four guys in a perfect cloud of bullshit. He winked at Av.
    Av, realizing Miz Brown was in full cry, backed away and walked over to where Rue Waltham was huddled on a park bench. To his surprise, she was looking more interested in the little drama than scared.
    â€œRelax,” he told her, quietly. “They’re federal cops, not muggers; some kind of misunderstanding here, apparently. We can go now.”
    He took her arm gently and they walked by the four runners, bookended now by Wong Daddy, who was deep-breathing while still muttering and staring fixedly at the smallest of the runners, and Miz Brown, who was lecturing the four men on the rules of interagency procedure within the District of Columbia. Once they cleared the scene on the other side of the bridge, Av suggested they jog back from here. Rue seemed only too willing. The uniforms stared curiously at the two of them as they trotted by.
    â€œWho were all those people?” she asked.
    â€œThe four guys say they’re Federal Protective Service. You know, the uniforms you see on federal properties, working front-gate security and the X-ray machines inside the lobby?”
    â€œAnd they were interested in you?”
    â€œSeemed to be,” Av said. “Saw them days ago. Same deal; they boxed me in while I was running. Didn’t do or say anything, just let me know they were there, and that they could have done something if they’d wanted to.”
    â€œDid you do something to a federal building?”
    â€œNot that I know of, but, trust me, those four guys will soon be just dying to tell Detective Sergeant Brown what they were out there for.”

 
    SEVEN
    â€œBogus,” Miz Brown declared. “I mean, c’mon, Federal Protective Service? They’re a buncha building guards.”
    The Briar Patch crew were sitting around the conference table, drinking coffee and rehashing the towpath incident. Av asked Brown if the FPS badges looked real.
    â€œYeah, they did, but so what? You have to see creds and then run a check, you know? They were packing, or at least two of them were. But WTF? What were they doing out there, screwin’ with Brother Av’s morning run?”
    â€œThey have an answer for that?”
    â€œNope,” Brown said. “Stone effing wall. Just out for a run, like everyone