Capital Treasures

"You should have your stuff back in a couple of hours," Hardesty said. "If you don't have it back by midnight, call me at this number." He handed the man his card. "Don't call anyone else. Don't do anything else. Stay away from the front door and listen for the bell to ring. Wait for a few minutes before coming to the door. Don't wait too long, though. If the stuff is the treasure you say it is, this isn't a good neighborhood to have it left outside."

"The rent-boy. What about—?"

"Nothing about the rent-boy, Mr. Rimsky. You bring him into this, you're opening yourself up to publicity that will run you out of this town. That's the special service I'm here to give you—an erasing of it all—with you getting your treasures back. That's gravy, though. If you don't get it back, I'm telling you that you still don't want the rest of it to come out. OK?"

The man hesitated, but then he nodded, recognizing where he stood to lose on all of this. "OK. Who do I call to thank on this?"

"You don't call anyone, Mr. Rimsky. As far as you and me, it didn't happen. If someone someday calls you, that's between you and him—not me. My job is just to take this down to zero. You don't owe me anything in this. Here, sign these papers, please."

"What are they?"

"It's a statement that the treasures have been found and you want to drop the case. We have to get this out of the case system."

"But the baseball hasn't been—"

"Chances are very good you'll get it back. If, not, it makes the lesson all that more memorable. If you don't get it back, don't claim insurance on it, though. That will just open everything up again. And, oh, also. Here's another card. You'll do better to call this number the next time you get an itch. Use that number there in the corner and you'll get a discount. Sign these papers, please."

Rimsky signed.

"The rules here, that I hope you've absorbed," Hardesty said, "is that you made quite clear what the services are you are after. There are guys who will give you this in this town—I know for fact there are—sweet young things, too. But they want to know what it is upfront. And you need to be willing to pay the going rate for it."

With that, Hardesty went to the door. "Call me if you don't get your stuff back. Don't call me if you do." And then he was gone, knowing his work on this wasn't done. He needed to track Shawn Baker down and make it all right for the kid as well. Maybe Davis had been right about DuCard's side operations including theft from the marks, and maybe he wasn't, but this hadn't been that.

Davis wouldn't like that Hardesty didn't get the goods on DuCard this time, but fuck Davis. He didn't have to do any of the work and he now had leverage on Rimsky. It would be worth box seats at Washington Nationals' games at least.

* * * *

The D.C. socialite and China Lobby conservative force in American politics Susie Win bundled her rent-boy escort, David Liu, into the back of her limousine for the five-minute drive to her apartment at the adjacent Watergate Complex after the Kennedy Center Andrea Bocelli concert. They didn't have far to go, but you can't really walk between the two complexes on the Potomac River between Washington and Georgetown and Susie's red spike heels and narrow sheath dress would not have allowed for that anyway.

For Susie the evening was just beginning with the handsome Chinese-American rent-boy from Andre DuCard's stable, who was nearly a third of her age. After a couple of glasses of champagne and petting on her miles-long white leather sofa facing the Potomac River and a slow stripping off of the young man's tuxedo, stopping when he was just in his briefs and Susie's melon-firm breasts had popped out of her dress to be massaged and sucked by Liu, she slipped down between his spread thighs, slipped off his briefs, took command of his cock, and gave him a professional-level blow job.

He carried his tux trousers and jacket over his arm as she guided him into the master bedroom, giving the excuse that he didn't want to lose access to the condom packets he'd brought. Susie laughed, opening a nightstand drawer to show that she was fully stocked. What he really didn't want to lose contact with, though, was his smart phone.

Susie went to the dressing table and sat, David standing behind her, cupping and massaging her breasts, as she took off the magnificent ruby and gold necklace and earrings she'd worn to the concert and put them back in the case that had been sitting on the dressing table. She didn't close the case until she'd gone into the en suite bathroom to prepare for the impending night games, and while she was out of the room, David took photographs on his cellphone of the jewels and of the open safe in the bookshelf next to the dressing table. He sent these off to one of Andre DuCard's lieutenants.

Coming out of the bathroom, Susie now only wore red satin panties and the red high heels. She was in magnificent condition for her age—for any age, really.

"On the bed, love, on your back," she cooed, and, slipping his cellphone back into his tux jacket and laying the folded clothes on her dressing table chair, Liu did as bid. Susie slipped off "her" panties and climbed onto the bed on top of the rent-boy's chest.

"She" was in full erection.

Liu couldn't help but be surprised at the transition. He'd been told she was a transvestite, something that very few knew, and very few would have believed, but the transformation was startling. She ran her fingers into the hair on his head, gripped hard, put her cock in place, pressed the head of it between Liu's opening lips, and took command of bobbing his face back and forth on her throat-stroking shaft.

Not long afterward, Liu was arching his back, legs spread and bent, his arms stretched out, his hands clutching at the bedspread, while Susie crouched between his thighs, fucking the rent-boy deep and expertly in the ass in the missionary position that her long-deceased macho general husband had so much enjoyed to the complete ignorance of the world on what the general so much enjoyed in his sex life.

As he returned to the warehouse off East Capital Street near the old RF Kennedy stadium and D.C. armory, where Andre DuCard centered his expansive operations, David Liu saw that a van had pulled into the warehouse and young men were being handed out of the back. It hadn't been that long ago that David had entered the District and DuCard's rent-boy stable himself, in his case from Chinatown in New York City. DuCard, coming down from Canada, specialized in a multiethnic menu.

When David saw one of DuCard's enforcer thugs, Tony, come down the stairs from the office floor above, walk by the van, and strut out onto the street, he sank into the shadows before reporting upstairs to the offices of the boss and fired off a few photos of the arrival of the van and departure of Tony with his cellphone. He didn't want to mix with Tony; he was a mean one. And he wasn't gay—in fact, he was a gay basher, valuable to Andre because he didn't mess with the goods unless and until DuCard told him to—so there was no friendly treatment to be had there.

When David had whispered to Toby Drake earlier in the evening in the Kennedy Center men's room that he wanted to talk to Drake's boyfriend, the Vice cop Hardesty, Drake had told him to get some evidence of what he wanted to talk about first. This was David's chance. He was surprised to see that, after the new rent-boys were offloaded from the van, a rent-boy he'd been on assignment recently with, Shawn Baker, was being loaded into the back of the van. Baker had been beaten and was moving only with help from a couple of DuCard's thugs. The young man was stripped to the waist and he had been whipped. The welts on his back no longer were whoozing, but they had bled. David had no idea what he'd done to displease DuCard or where he was being taken now, but he took a couple of photos of that as well. He sent them off to Toby before going upstairs.

When he got up to the offices, he found DuCard sitting behind his desk. A couple of the man's thugs were standing beside him. DuCard smiled at him.

"We got the photos of that woman's jewelry and where she stashed them. Quite some rocks. You done good, Liu."

Susie Win wasn't a woman—not in terms of equipment—David thought, but before he could make sure that DuCard knew that, one of the man's other thugs and come up behind him and was sticking his hand in Liu's pocket.

"Hey, what?" David asked in surprise.

The thug came up with Lu's cellphone. He spoke to DuCard over David's shoulder, now putting a close hold on the young rent-boy from behind. "I saw this one taking photos of the van loading downstairs, boss. Maybe you want to know about that."

"Yes, maybe I do," Andre DuCard said, his smile turning to a frown. "Want to tell me what you are up to, David? Let's put David in that chair over there, and, Angelo, go back down and tell them to hold the van. I think we might have another outgoing passenger tonight."

* * * *

The next order of business for Hardesty after leaving Stan Rimsky's house was to get hold of Shawn Baker, hopefully before Andre DuCard did something regrettable with him. Hardesty couldn't help but be on the rent-boy's side in this. He got worked up himself with a little bit of bondage and whipping, but he wouldn't do it without the guy's permission. No way. And he wouldn't mess the boy up. There had been dried blood on that X-frame in Rimsky's bedroom closet. Hardesty wouldn't go as far as breaking the skin or raising welts that would show for more than a day. There were guys who wanted more, but Hardesty didn't want to do anything that would force a guy off the street for very long and endanger his income. Once he got to his unmarked office Impala, he pulled out his cellphone and called Glen Whitehall, who had been sent on the search for Baker. The call went to voicemail.

"Call me. Have you located Baker? If so, sit on him someplace safe. If he's got any signed baseball junk with him, keep that safe too. And let him know we very likely see his side of the story, whatever the story is he gives you."

There was nothing to do now other than to join the hunt. DuCard's street boys mainly congregated around the Dupont Circle area. That Peter Trace's streetwalkers had already been established there was the crux of this building turf war between the two.

Hardesty drove across the Mall and Federal Triangle area onto M Street and into the northwest section of the city, to Dupont Circle. He roamed around, checking out who was on the street, looking for Shawn Baker—or DuCard himself if he could be so lucky.

A Black SUV passed him as he was slowly cruising, and glancing into the front seat, he thought he got a double impression, although at first glance it didn't seem a possibility. Upon reflection, though, he could believe it. He didn't like it, but he could believe it. It would explain a few things. He tailed the car from a distance.

The SUV stopped not far from JR's Bar and Grill, a Dupont Circle gay bar on North Church between N and Q Streets. It stopped under a light and, when the light changed and it didn't hot peddle out, Hardesty pulled around it and moved up the street a bit. He was surprised, but not that surprised, to see that Deputy Police Chief Jackson Davis was at the wheel. Hardesty was more than a little surprised, though, to see the Pimp chief, Peter Trace, hop out of the passenger seat, pull the back door open, and muscle a young guy out. He left the guy on the sidewalk, got back in the SUV, and they drove off. The vehicle hadn't departed, though, before Hardesty was able to get a couple of cellphone photographs of the three men together.

This answered why Davis was down on Andre DuCard. He was in bed with the opposition, Peter Trace—and most likely he had been trying out what Trace had on offer in "scratch my itch and I'll protect your back" services.

Hardesty's greatest surprise was that the young guy they'd put back on the street was Jose Garcia, the apparently new rent-boy to the streets who Hardesty had brushed up against earlier and saved from a booking downtown. The guy had shown he wanted it from Hardesty at the time and Hardesty had put that on a back burner. Garcia was new to the streets, and Hardesty put all new rent-boys through their paces. Now, he had an opportunity both to scratch that itch and to get some testimony on the Trace and Davis connection. Except it was Shawn Baker he was down here looking for.

A buzz on his cellphone took care of that.

"Glenn. Thanks for calling back. What do you know on Baker?"

"Nothing much. Nothing good," Whitehall answered. "I couldn't find him on the street, but I found out where he was bunking. I got there, but his clothes were gone. I think he's pulled a runner, or worse. There were some towels there with dried blood on them."

"I think that was from an earlier encounter—with the guy we're cleaning up for. So, maybe not worse."

"Maybe worse still. That's not all I learned," Whitehall said. "I nosed further. I think he was escorted away from his digs by a couple of DuCard's thugs."

"Ouch. Well, OK, maybe we're too late on that. I'll put out the word that we don't want him hurt. I'll call DuCard direct. I've known him to use muscle but I haven't heard of him sanctioning any wet work."

"You want to meet up with me and we'll go see DuCard together?"

"Not right at the moment. Something's come up. I'll contact you later." Something had, indeed, come up. While Hardesty had been talking with his partner, he'd been watching Jose Garcia leaning against a wall and looking like he was in business, and Hardesty had gone hard.

It was time for that double opportunity—laying a new rent-boy on the street as part of his welcome, checkout, and "here's how it is to avoid being hassled" routine as well as gathering information of the Trace and Davis connection.

Garcia was a novice to Washington, D.C., but not to the business. Peter Trace had brought him in from the Texas-Mexico border area. They did it rough there. Garcia could receive it rough and he quite clearly wanted it from Hardesty and wanted it as Hardesty liked it best. Hardesty had been thinking of that X-frame and whip in Rimsky's closet, and Garcia was willing.

The Number Nine gay leather bar on P Street had basement rooms for valued customers. Hardesty most certainly was a valued customer and Garcia, despite only having been in town for a few weeks, was already known there. Both men worked out their lust in the basement of the club, with Garcia bound to an X-frame and Hardesty wielding a whip, mostly playfully with just an occasional shock of possibility, until both were so overcome that Hardesty saddled up to the rent-boy from the rear and fucked him, bound, against the frame.

Neither regretted the encounter, Garcia had obtained a valuable friend on the police department's Vice unit, and Hardesty had recruited an informer in the Peter Trace organization. Yes, Garcia had just come from being put through his paces by Jackson Davis—more forcefully than Hardesty had applied—and, yes, Davis and Trace had a mutual help "arrangement."

Chapter Three: Treasure-Bait Setup

Toby's timing was perfect. He arrived back at the Alexandria apartment from the Willard Hotel night with the Italian photographer just as the coffee had perked and Hardesty was reaching for his coffee cup in the cupboard. As Hardesty heard the key in door and looked up to the monitor to see that it was his roommate, he took down another cup.

"It's early. I didn't expect you back this early." Hardesty looked at the clock. It was 9:15. Yes, Toby was earlier than he expected, but he himself was late in getting into work—not that he worked a set-hours schedule. He must be getting old, he thought. He'd indulged a good bit more than he intended with playing with indoctrinating rent-boys two nights running—the small Thai guy, Lek, two nights previously and Jose Garcia just last night. He was feeling it in his bones. He wasn't up to the exercise as much as he'd been ten years earlier. Maybe it was time for him to settle down. He looked at Toby and considered how Toby perceived the world and decided not to think about this further—at least not right now. Good thing his business wasn't a 9:00-to-5:00 job. He'd never manage that.

"The client has a late morning flight back to Europe. We had breakfast at 8:00."

"Was—?"

"He was very good, yes. It was a good assignment. We last had sex at 7:00. He knew how to fuck."

"I was going to ask how the concert was—how Andrea Bocelli was?"

"His singing was great too. I don't know how he is in bed, but he's a good-looking man. I'd spread my legs for him—without asking for a fee."

"My, you're chipper today."

"As I said, the client was very good in bed, and the evening before was a cultural hit." Toby smiled, accepted the proffered cup of coffee, and glided off to his bedroom. Twenty minutes later, he was back, with just a towel around his waist, having just come out of the shower, with cellphone in hand, and looking concerned.

"Shit," he said. "I should have checked my phone earlier."

"What's up?"

"David Liu. One of the guys I brought in from Andre DuCard's stable for the police guy's pool party. Remember?"

"Yes."

"He was at the Bocelli concert at the Kennedy Center last night, escorting Susie Win. He took me aside and said he wanted to talk with you, noting that he knew who you were, what you were to me, and that you were at the pool party."

"OK, and so?"

"He led me to believe that DuCard was up to something that scared him—that pushed his boys into more illegal territory than prostitution. I told him I'd set up a meet with you, but that he should get some evidence of what he's talking about to show you. I just opened my messages and he's sent me these photos. Take a look."

"OK." Hardesty look at the first couple of photos. "Not sure what I'm looking at here."

"It's a plush bedroom," Toby said. "I recognize the necklace in that case. Susie Win was wearing it at the concert last night. A real attention getter—it drew your eyes right to her tits. And that must be her home safe she's putting it in."

"OK. That fits with something I'm working on now—the suggestion that DuCard is combining his pimping operations with thefts. I just fixed up a case where the other rent-boy you brought to the Davis pool party, Shawn Baker, stole some stuff from a john. The thought was that might be this DuCard side operation at play, but it turns out it was just Baker being mistreated and swiping the stuff in the heat of the moment for revenge. I've been working on lowering the temperature. I've been out there looking for him tonight, but—"

"Holy shit," Toby exclaimed.

"What?"

"Speaking of Shawn Baker. This is him. Liu sent me a photo of Baker being loaded into a van after a bunch of guys were taken out. He's being manhandled and he's been beaten up."

"Here, let me see. Those two thugs with him are DuCard's men. And this next photo. This is Tony Petrocelli walking by the van. He's one of DuCard's muscle men. Liu sent you these photos? Can you call him back? Now?"

Toby tried but he got nothing as far as raising Liu. "Nada," he said. "He's not picking up and it isn't going to voicemail."

"I don't like this," Hardesty said.

"Don't like what?" Toby asked.

Before Hardesty could answer, though, the apartment was buzzed from the building entrance hall. Hardesty had a monitor on the lobby. "I don't like that, either," he said, pointing at the monitor. "Those two guys. The same guys you have in a couple of those photos—the ones of young guys being unloaded from the van and Baker being put in." He paused to call the apartment house security desk. "Charlie. Two guys are buzzing me from the lobby. Don't let them in. I'll try to get rid of them, but I don't want them in the building."