Free The Path of Silence by Edita A. Petrick

satisfaction report, he had developed a smart program for tracking tax haven criteria and policing how these were used by the Peruvian business enterprise. He had worked for Banco Nacionale in Lima and was well liked by the management. They gave him a glowing recommendation and wanted him to stay. His programming skills apparently weeded out quite a lot of harmful features of their tax regime.
    Brick had returned home in ’06, to a firm job offer with the State Department, the Bureau of Economics and Business Affairs. That’s where he had met Patricia Vanier. He worked developing programs in the Investment Finance Department. She was a program coordinator in Trade Policy. In ’09 he left the Bureau and came to work for the IMF at their Baltimore offices. It was a renewable contract job but nearly double his Bureau salary. Patricia quit her job and accompanied him to Baltimore. They became engaged and she went to work for the State Energy Commission. Perhaps because he planned to get married, Brick had returned to his hobby—working part-time on weekends as a security guard and a chauffeur, for the Creeslow Armored Security Automobile service. I had remarked to Ken that if Brick loved this part-time job so much, he ought to have picked it up in Washington. Ken pointed out, that in Washington it would have been a full-time job.
    Brick’s bio sheet, enclosed in his “cold case” file, didn’t contain this information. He had never included this experience on his professional resumes and indeed, why would he? He was applying for jobs as an economist, not a security guard, or a chauffeur, for an armored limo service. Patti had provided this information to the officers who filled out the four missing persons reports.
    In the morning, we would go to visit Creeslow. According to the Yellow Pages, it was located on Drummond Ave, in Brooklyn Park. We would ignore the Mongrove facility, nearby but hopefully not visible. I checked Washington for armored car services, even though it wasn’t in the same category as Guilford exotics.
    There were four car dealerships that carried sleek imports but there were eleven armored car outfits, offering comfortable and secure travel. I reflected that in Washington, exotics took a backseat to armor. A senator or a foreign dignitary might cruise through Georgetown in a burnished orange beast from hell but if he wanted to live long enough to see the next oil change, he would be smart to travel well armored—often.
    I lost track of time. The Washington armored car services had ambitious and informative websites. I found these far more captivating than the exotic car dealerships. By the time I finished educating myself on the intricacies of body armoring, I wanted to own my own vehicle armoring company. One feature in particular had caught my interest—under-hood and upper hood protection. I made a mental note to mention this to Ken—when his Malibu returned. For a mere couple of hundred grand, I too could enjoy multi-layered glass with polycarbonate inner layer, fully armored pillars, sides, rear floor and roof, in addition to explosion resistant fuel tank, stainless steel radiator protection and a score of features that would thwart any mercenary faction. What surprised me, was that cars like these, didn’t just come in a limo style but preppy RVs and kick-ass jeeps. Washington, obviously, danced to its own beat—or a bullet tattoo.
    My kitchen phone rang. I looked at the tiny computer clock. It was just after one o’clock in the morning. As I walked to the kitchen, instinct told me that whatever the news, it wouldn’t be good. I was right.

Chapter 9
    “P enthouse, the Prince Excelsior, on Block Street, on the water,” Ken read his notes, as I weaved through the water’s edge residential area and headed south.
    He continued, “A waiter, or a bellhop, I didn’t get that clearly. The hotel security had called 9-1-1. The emergency dispatcher had relayed even while the guy was still