Chapter 157: Don't You Leave!
The Maryland State Police divided the state into multiple geographical jurisdictions, each with its own headquarters and a network of duty stations scattered throughout the territory. The system worked like a spider's web, with headquarters at the center and outposts radiating outward.
The headquarters served as a regional precinct, coordinating patrol operations, law enforcement activities, and incident response within its designated jurisdiction. These were the nerve centers, where cases were processed, files were stored, and supervisors maintained order.
Duty stations were simpler affairs, places where State Trooper officers changed shifts, stored their equipment, grabbed coffee, and filed paperwork before heading back out onto the highways.
The meeting point that Theodore and his group had arranged with the State Trooper earlier that morning was one such duty station, a modest brick building with a parking lot and a radio.
Now they were heading to the Sector C Headquarters, the real operational center.
Sector C encompassed the Capitol Building area, a sprawling jurisdiction that included Prince George's County, Montgomery County, and the other areas surrounding Washington D.C., like a protective buffer zone. It was one of the most politically sensitive areas in the state, given its proximity to the nation's capital.
All case files for the covered areas were stored at Sector C Headquarters, including traffic incidents, stolen vehicles, and the occasional homicide that strayed across county lines.
The Sector C Headquarters was located in Silver Spring, positioned only two and a half miles from the state border, close enough to spit into D.C. on a windy day. The direct distance from the convenience store where Theodore and his group had started their morning was a mere three point eight miles, practically nothing as the crow flies.
However, due to the Anacostia River cutting through the landscape and the Army base isolation zone sitting like a concrete fortress between them, Theodore and his group had to detour nearly 10 miles through winding surface streets and county roads to reach their destination.
When they finally arrived, they found a large L-shaped single-story red brick bungalow, sprawling across thirty-six hundred square feet of government property. The architecture was purely functional, no frills, no aesthetic considerations, just solid construction designed to last decades.
The open space in front of the building was filled with various types of vehicles in varying states of deterioration. Some looked as if they had just rolled off the showroom floor yesterday, gleaming paint and chrome catching the gray daylight. Others had been reduced to little more than a metal skeleton, frame rails, engine blocks, and rust.
This place looked more like a used car market than a police facility, Theodore thought as he surveyed the automotive graveyard.
The State Trooper who had driven them here noticed Theodore's scrutiny and explained. These cars were all vehicles involved in cases, he said, gesturing across the lot.
"Our daily law enforcement scope mainly covers state highways and the surrounding areas," the trooper continued, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of someone who'd given this explanation before. "County Police and city police departments govern county and urban areas. Different jurisdictions, different responsibilities."
He paused, rain beginning to speckle his uniform. "This jurisdictional setup leads to the fact that the most common cases we encounter are various types of traffic-related incidents. Accidents, DUIs, abandoned vehicles, stolen cars dumped on the highway."
Theodore stared at these cars for a long moment, rain falling more steadily now. The drops pattered against exposed metal and shattered windshields. Finally, he turned to the State Trooper and asked, "Are stolen vehicles also sent here?"
The State Trooper nodded and pointed to the farthest end of the vertical part of the L-shape, where a cluster of vehicles sat in various states of dismemberment. "Those parked over there are stolen vehicles. All of them."
He gestured for Theodore to follow as he started walking toward that section, picking his way through puddles forming in the gravel lot. Bernie fell into step behind them, coat collar turned up against the weather.
The State Trooper continued his explanation as they walked, his voice competing with the rain. "Most ownerless cars, by the time we receive a report and arrive at the scene, have been stripped down to just a skeleton, like this one here."
He stopped beside what had once been a sedan but now existed more as an automotive concept than reality, just frame rails, an engine block, and dreams.
The State Trooper then pointed to another "car" sitting a few feet away, this one clearly burned, its metal skin blackened and twisted by intense heat. Only a charred shell remained, windows blown out, interior completely gutted. "Sometimes even the skeleton will be towed away by scavengers, and when we arrive at the scene, there are only some fragments remaining, or tire tracks in the mud."
He turned back to Theodore, rain dripping from his campaign hat. "Our procedure is to register whatever vehicle information we can recover, mainly the license plate number if it's still attached, and the basic appearance and model of the vehicle if we can identify it. Then we send that information to nearby local police departments for matching with the vehicle information registered in vehicle theft reports."
"If there's a match," he continued, "the local police department will notify the owner to come here to complete the registration procedures and pick up what's left of their vehicle."
As soon as he finished speaking, as if summoned by the mere mention of owners, a middle-aged bald man and another State Trooper walked out of the red brick headquarters building. The second trooper held a registration form clipped to a board, consulting it as they walked.
"Just need you to confirm if it's your car," the trooper was saying, his voice carrying across the lot. "Then sign here on this line, and you can drive the car away. Simple as that."
Theodore watched as they navigated through the maze of vehicles, the bald man following the trooper with an expression that mixed hope and dread in equal measure.
They finally stopped in front of a car that had lost all four wheels and two doors, with even the seats removed from the interior. It sat there on cinder blocks like a gutted fish, exposed to the elements.
The bald man stood blankly for a long moment, staring at the automotive corpse before him. Then his head turned slowly in confusion to look at the State Trooper beside him, as if seeking confirmation that this was some administrative error.
The State Trooper flipped through the registration form with practiced efficiency, then nodded to the bald man with the certainty of a man who'd done this a hundred times before. "That's right, sir. NX-1234, 1958 black Chevrolet Bel Air. This is your vehicle."
"When we found it abandoned on Route 450, this was all that was left of it."
He even kicked the license plate still bolted to what remained of the front bumper, metal clanging dully in the rain. "See? NX-1234. Matches your registration."
The bald man wiped the rain from his face with one hand, then shook his head rapidly, repeatedly, as if the motion might change reality. "No. No, this is not my car."
The State Trooper, clearly a veteran who had seen many such owners in denial, collected the form with a slight shrug and turned to leave, heading back toward the dry sanctuary of the headquarters building.
The bald man quickly caught up to him, voice rising in protest, one hand reaching out as if to physically stop the trooper from abandoning him with this stripped carcass.
The State Trooper who had brought Theodore watched this exchange play out with the weary expression of someone who'd witnessed this scene too many times to count. Then he turned back to Theodore and Bernie, shrugged, and pointed to the missing parts of the stolen vehicles surrounding them.
"There's nothing we can do about it," he said, resignation in his voice. "When we arrived at the scene, they were already like this, stripped, gutted, picked clean."
He gestured broadly at the lot. "Stealing a car, that's a felony. Grand theft auto. But stealing wheels? Seats? Door panels? That's not classified the same way in the law. Different charge, different priority."
"If these cars weren't disassembled like this, they wouldn't even end up in our hands," he continued. "The professional chop shops work fast; they can strip a car down to components in under an hour and sell the parts separately. By the time we find the remains, there's not much left to identify."
Theodore confirmed with the State Trooper, wanting to be absolutely certain: "Are all stolen vehicles sent here? Every single one?"
The State Trooper nodded firmly. "As long as they are found within our jurisdiction, yes. Every recovered stolen vehicle comes through this facility for processing and owner notification."
Led by the State Trooper, they left the automotive graveyard behind and headed into the headquarters building. They first went to see the supervisor responsible for this facility, the man who ran Sector C operations.
The supervisor was a middle-aged man with obvious Germanic features that announced his ancestry, high cheekbones that cast shadows across his face, deep-set eyes that seemed to look through rather than at you, a straight nose like a blade, and a strong, solid build that suggested he could still handle himself in a physical confrontation. He exuded a fierce aura that probably made suspects confess before interrogation even began.
Theodore looked at the supervisor, taking in those distinctive features, then his gaze shifted involuntarily to Bernie standing beside him.
These two men look so much alike! The resemblance was almost uncanny, same bone structure, same intensity in the eyes, same way of carrying themselves. If Bernie's ancestry were Germanic, Theodore wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised.
Despite his intimidating appearance and that fierce aura that preceded him like a weather front, the supervisor proved to be very enthusiastic and accommodating once they'd made introductions.
Not only had he prepared a temporary office for everyone in advance, desks cleared, chairs arranged, even coffee brewing in the corner, but he had also taken the initiative to provide Theodore with the fingerprint cards of all personnel involved in cases processed through Sector C this month.
The Maryland State Police had extensive experience cooperating with the FBI over the years, decades of joint operations and information sharing. They had developed a clear understanding of the FBI's main technical methods and investigative priorities.
Fingerprints were currently the FBI's most important tool for solving cases, the gold standard, the one piece of evidence that could definitively link a suspect to a crime scene. Everything else was circumstantial. Fingerprints were science.
There were more than seventy fingerprint cards in the box the supervisor provided, each one carefully numbered and filed. The attached reference list allowed for searching the corresponding case information by number, a simple but effective organizational system.
Theodore made a quick decision. He had Billy Hawke and Detective O'Malley take these fingerprint cards back to the Department of Justice Building and hand them over to the laboratory for matching with the car thief's fingerprints they'd lifted from the stolen police cruiser.
They would drive Detective O'Malley's police car back to D.C., with Detective O'Malley behind the wheel.
The two men settled into the car in silence, rain drumming on the roof. The two did not speak the entire way, completing the nearly ten-mile journey through the detour route in complete, uncomfortable silence. Not a single word exchanged between them.
As they approached the Capitol Building area, the road began to get congested, traffic slowing to a crawl.
News accusing America of launching airstrikes against certain targets had spread throughout the city like wildfire, carried by newspapers, radio broadcasts, and word of mouth.
And the various lobbying firms, which had just been particularly active recently, became active again with renewed vigor. This was their moment, crisis meant opportunity, opportunity meant billable hours.
Large and small military-industrial enterprises also moved at the news, their representatives flooding into congressional offices, their public relations machines grinding into high gear. Defense contractors loved a good conflict, it was good for business, good for stock prices, good for the bottom line.
Exiles and other political groups and advocacy organizations were the most active of all, already organizing related activities to protest the action or support the action, depending on their particular ideological alignment. The streets near the Capitol would be filled with competing demonstrations within hours.
These groups were also key monitoring targets for the FBI, Hoover's mandate to track subversive elements and foreign influences meant keeping close tabs on who was organizing what, and who was funding whom.
Unlike the Soviet Union launching Sputnik into space, which had sent the entire nation into paroxysms of anxiety about falling behind in the space race, most Americans, apart from the aforementioned politically active people, reacted relatively calmly to this incident. The average citizen was more concerned with the weather and the cost of groceries.
Detective O'Malley's driving skills proved to be mediocre at best, and despite driving a marked police car with full official markings, he had no special privileges or ability to bypass the congestion near the Capitol Building area.
He could only honestly follow the slow crawl of traffic, inching forward yard by yard. After discovering that they had only moved less than a hundred yards in ten minutes of sitting in traffic, Billy Hawke made a decisive decision.
He decisively abandoned Detective O'Malley right there in the gridlock, grabbed the box of fingerprint cards, took off his jacket in Detective O'Malley's disbelieving gaze, and carefully wrapped the cards to protect them from the rain. Holding them tightly against his chest, he opened the passenger door and began to sprint down the sidewalk toward the Department of Justice Building.
By the time Detective O'Malley finally managed to drive the car through the traffic and reach the Department of Justice Building's underground parking garage, Billy Hawke had already made it back, changed out of his rain-soaked clothes into dry ones, and was preparing to have a late lunch in the cafeteria.
Billy Hawke hesitated for a moment when he saw O'Malley finally arrive, but his conscience got the better of him. He still invited Detective O'Malley to join him for the meal, despite the awkwardness that hung between them like smoke.
Detective O'Malley's face was tense, jaw set, as he silently drove the car into the underground parking lot of the Department of Justice Building and walked into the cafeteria alongside Billy Hawke without saying a word. The silence between them was almost tangible.
It was already well into the afternoon by then, past the normal lunch rush.
Billy Hawke returned to the first basement floor office and settled at his desk, pulling out reports to review. Soon after returning to the office on the first basement floor from the cafeteria, his stomach full and his clothes finally dry, Billy Hawke received a notification from the laboratory upstairs.
The laboratory technicians had just matched one fingerprint from the cards he'd delivered and were still in the process of methodically matching the remaining fingerprints against their database. It was tedious work, each print had to be examined carefully, compared point by point.
Billy Hawke immediately notified Theodore by telephone, getting the long-distance operator to connect him to the Sector C Headquarters.
He reported the specific fingerprint card number to Theodore, giving him the case reference so he could pull the file. Then, perhaps unwisely, Billy Hawke shared the news he had heard from newspapers in the lobby and from colleagues in the hallway, rumors about the airstrikes, speculation about escalation, the usual Washington gossip mill grinding away.
This recitation was met with complete silence on the other end of the line.
Billy Hawke, recalling Theodore's unusual performance during the selection training exercises, the obsessive attention to detail, the tendency to go completely silent while processing information, thought to himself that his boss might have a slightly abnormal brain. Not defective, just... different. Wired in a peculiar way.
He proactively changed the subject before the silence could become truly uncomfortable, and asked Theodore in a more businesslike tone: "Boss, do I still need to come over there to Sector C?"
Theodore thought for a moment, considering the logistics and what still needed to be accomplished. Then he told Billy Hawke to stay in D.C. and continue coordinating with the laboratory.
Before hanging up the telephone, Billy Hawke hesitated repeatedly, the question weighing on him. Finally, he asked again, his voice carefully neutral: "Boss, what about Detective O'Malley? What should I do about him?"
The answer, apparently, was complicated enough that Theodore simply hung up without responding.
After ending the call, Theodore found the corresponding case file based on the number on the fingerprint card that had produced a match.
This was a car theft case, routine on the surface.
On the afternoon of April 9th, the Maryland State Police had received an alarm call to their dispatch center.
The caller stated that he had found an abandoned car on the east bank of the Anacostia River, sitting at an odd angle near the water. The caller thought it looked suspicious enough to report.
When the State Trooper arrived at the scene to investigate, they found a black Chevrolet sedan with its front end positioned askew, as if the driver had been preparing to plunge it into the river but had changed his mind at the last moment.
The target vehicle had a D.C. license plate, clearly out of their normal jurisdiction. The car door was wide open, inviting rain and wildlife inside. Most tellingly, the keys were still in the ignition, just waiting for someone to turn them.
Due to the remote location of the site and the cover of trees providing natural concealment from the road, the car had not yet been dismantled by the scavengers who usually descended on abandoned vehicles like vultures. The State Trooper was able to call for a tow truck and bring it back to Sector C Headquarters intact, a rarity in stolen vehicle cases.
The car thief's fingerprint had been extracted from the Chevrolet's steering wheel by the evidence technicians, a clear partial print that was good enough for comparison purposes.
Following standard procedure, the State Trooper sent the vehicle registration information to the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department, which, after running it through their records and matching it against theft reports, found the registered owner.
"Yesterday afternoon, the owner came to the facility to drive the car away," the State Trooper told Theodore, pulling the relevant paperwork from his filing cabinet.
He flipped through the registration form until he found the owner's information, then helped Theodore locate the specific details. "The owner's name is Frank Moreno, currently living in the Northeast District of D.C., "
He rattled off a string of addresses in that peculiar rapid-fire way that police officers had of reciting information, his finger tracing down the form line by line. Bernie took out his notebook and carefully wrote down every detail, his handwriting precise despite the speed of the dictation.
Theodore then asked the State Trooper to help him contact the dispatcher or operator who had been on duty that day, the one who had taken the original alarm call.
Unfortunately, when they finally tracked down the operator and got him on the telephone, he had absolutely no recollection of that particular alarm call. It had been just another call in a long shift of calls, nothing memorable about it. He couldn't even remember if it had been a man or woman calling.
Theodore used the telephone to contact Billy Hawke back at the Department of Justice Building, instructing him to go to the AT&T offices and retrieve the communication records of all alarm calls placed to Maryland's Sector C dispatch on the afternoon of April 9th. Phone company records would show the originating number and duration of the call.
He and Bernie would then set off to physically check two locations: the abandoned car site where the vehicle had been found, and the owner's home address in Northeast D.C.
The abandoned car location was situated by the Anacostia River, and while the road leading to it was not particularly difficult to navigate in terms of terrain, it was incredibly remote, the kind of place that didn't appear on most maps.
The river flowed on one side, dark water moving slowly between muddy banks. Dense woods pressed in on the other side, thick with undergrowth and the kind of vegetation that suggested nobody had cleared this area in years. The road itself was barely more than a dirt track.
Getting there required driving a considerable distance along the riverbank, following the curve of the water through increasingly isolated territory.
This particular place didn't even have a proper name or address. The location was described in the case file as "road five hundred yards north of the boat landing", these vague descriptions were copied directly from the case file, the exact words of the anonymous caller who had reported the abandoned vehicle.
Bernie drove the car carefully along the riverbank road, rain making the surface treacherous. When they finally reached the abandoned car location based on the trooper's directions, he got out, looked around at the desolate landscape, and asked Theodore with genuine bewilderment in his voice: "Who would drive a car all the way out here? What possible reason would anyone have?"
Theodore also got out of the car, rain immediately soaking into his suit. He pointed at Bernie, then pointed at himself, as if that answered the question.
He turned around twice in place, scanning the area for any valuable information or evidence that might have been overlooked. But there was nothing to find.
Even if there had been something useful here originally, it was all washed away by the State Trooper's towing operation days ago and today's persistent rain. Any tire tracks, footprints, or trace evidence had long since been obliterated.
The two men were soaked through within minutes and hurried back toward the vehicle, their shoes squelching in the mud. The two were almost completely drenched and hurried back to the car, seeking shelter from the relentless downpour.
Bernie mumbled while backing the car up carefully, trying not to get stuck in the increasingly muddy track: "Only a fool would come here! Absolute fool!"
Theodore looked up from where he'd been examining his soaked notebook, and proactively clarified the situation: "You're the one driving. I'm not driving."
Bernie paused in his maneuvering, wheels spinning slightly before finding purchase. Then he immediately retorted with some heat: "You're the one who suggested checking the abandoned car location in the first place."
Theodore shook his head in firm denial, rain dripping from his hair. "I didn't suggest it. You're the one who copied the address from the case file."
Bernie was silent for a moment, processing this logic. Then he replied: "That's because I knew what you were thinking. You wanted to come here."
Theodore found himself speechless, unable to formulate a counter-argument to this circular reasoning.
Bernie showed a victorious smile at having won this particular battle of wits, and the speed of his backing up maneuver increased a few notches, wheels churning through mud.
The scenery here was actually very beautiful in an isolated, natural way, the river flowing peacefully, the trees providing a canopy of green, birds calling in the distance. But neither Theodore nor Bernie had any time or inclination to appreciate the aesthetic qualities of the location.
If Theodore were somehow replaced by Mrs. Sullivan in this scenario, Bernie might actually have found some leisure to enjoy the surroundings, perhaps even suggest a peaceful moment of contemplation.
But with Theodore sitting there soaked and focused solely on the investigation, Bernie only wanted to clarify definitively who was the fool in this situation, him or Theodore.
After finally backing out successfully from the riverbank location, navigating the muddy track without getting stuck, the two men set off for the owner's home address in Northeast D.C.
Frank Moreno was a construction worker by trade, a man who worked with his hands for an honest living. He had some family assets accumulated over years of steady work, and lived in a mid-range community in the Northeast District, not wealthy, but comfortable. Solid working-class neighborhood.
He happened to be off work today, enjoying a rare day of rest. When Theodore and Bernie knocked on his door in the early afternoon, he was in the middle of disciplining his son, his voice raised in paternal frustration.
His son, Theodore noted with some irony, was very likely one of the "those bastards" that Detective O'Malley had mentioned with such venom earlier in the investigation.
Bernie showed his FBI credentials and gave a brief introduction, his voice professional and courteous despite their bedraggled, rain-soaked appearance.
Frank Moreno's expression shifted rapidly. He turned and gave his son a look that clearly communicated "you're lucky these federal agents showed up", followed immediately by another look that said "but this isn't over between us, not by a long shot."
Then he turned his body sideways in the doorway, a gesture of hospitality despite the circumstances. Then he turned sideways to invite Theodore and Bernie into the house, out of the rain.
He was confused and somewhat concerned by the visit of the two FBI agents, his mind clearly racing through possibilities. "Gentlemen, is there something wrong? Has something happened?"
Theodore asked directly if a black Chevrolet sedan was registered under his name, stolen on the night of April 8th, and recovered yesterday afternoon by the Maryland State Police from a location near the Anacostia River.
Frank Moreno was clearly unsure of Theodore and Bernie's purpose in asking these questions, and he responded cautiously, choosing his words carefully: "Yes, that's correct. The Maryland State Police contacted me, I went to their facility, completed all the paperwork they required. Is there something wrong with that? Am I in some kind of trouble?"
Bernie asked him in a neutral tone: "When exactly did you first discover that the car was stolen?"
Frank Moreno relaxed slightly, realizing this wasn't about him being a suspect. "That morning. April 9th. I was planning to go out and use the car for some errands, and when I went outside, I found it was gone. Just... gone."
He pointed in the direction of his son's bedroom, frustration creeping back into his voice. "At first, I thought my son had secretly taken the car out for another one of his 'joyrides' again. It wouldn't be the first time."
Bernie was puzzled by the terminology, his face showing confusion. "Joyride? What exactly is a joyride?"
Frank Moreno explained with the weary tone of a parent who'd had this conversation with police before: "These bastard kids, excuse my language, they often pick other people's cars, steal them temporarily, drive them around the neighborhood for fun, and then bring them back to where they found them."
"They call this activity a 'joyride.' Like it's some kind of innocent game instead of theft."
Little Moreno's face went visibly pale, the color draining from his cheeks as his father gestured toward the back rooms where he'd been hiding.
Frank Moreno called his son out to the living room. Little Moreno initially strongly denied everything, shaking his head vigorously and claiming complete innocence. But when his father physically dragged him from his bed out to the yard in front of the FBI agents, rain falling on all of them, the boy's resistance crumbled.
Standing there in the rain, humiliated and cornered, he finally admitted that yes, he had indeed taken the car out for a "joyride" on the night in question.
But he guaranteed, practically begged them to believe him, that he had driven the car back safely around eleven o'clock at night and parked it outside the yard in its usual spot, just like always.
Frank Moreno, his patience exhausted and his temper flaring, then dragged his son out into the yard again, pointed dramatically to the empty road where no car sat, and asked him with heavy sarcasm where exactly the car was now.
Little Moreno was stunned into silence, staring at the empty space as if the car might materialize through sheer force of will.
He pointed to the empty space with a trembling finger and looked around frantically, his eyes wide. He began frantically explaining to Frank Moreno in a rush of words, repeatedly guaranteeing with increasing desperation that he had indeed driven the car back on the night of April 7th, his dates were confused in his panic, and absolutely parked it outside the yard where it always sat.
Frank Moreno nodded slowly while simultaneously dragging his son back into the house, his jaw set. Once inside, he beat the boy first, Theodore could hear the sounds from where he and Bernie stood in the living room, and then called the police to report the vehicle stolen.
Frank Moreno had originally held no hope of ever seeing his car again. Everyone knew that stolen cars rarely came back, and when they did, they were usually stripped for parts. But unexpectedly, just a few days later, he received a telephone call from the police station, informing him that his vehicle had been recovered and instructing him to come claim it at the Maryland State Police facility.
This account was not substantially different from what had been recorded in the official case file, Theodore noted. The facts aligned.
The situation with this particular case now was straightforward: the stolen car had been successfully recovered and returned to its owner, but the car thief himself had not been caught or identified. The case remained technically open but practically closed.
The situation was very similar to the police car theft case that had started this entire investigation, a vehicle stolen, driven somewhere, abandoned, and recovered, but no suspect in custody.
The critical difference was that no Maryland State Police officer had mysteriously mixed up or contaminated the files in this case. The chain of evidence was clean, the documentation was proper, the procedures had been followed correctly.
Once the car was recovered and returned to the owner, this case was effectively closed in the Maryland State Police system. They had neither the resources nor the mandate to pursue car thieves across jurisdictional lines.
This case simply did not exist as an open investigation at the Fourth Precinct in D.C., because it had never been their case to begin with. Jurisdictional boundaries were clear.
Theodore asked Little Moreno about the specific time and the exact circumstances of his return home that night, pressing for details.
Frank Moreno, recognizing that the FBI agents needed information from his son, called the boy back out to the living room.
According to Little Moreno's increasingly detailed confession, delivered in a nervous rush of words, around ten o'clock on the night of April 7th, not the 8th, he'd been confused earlier, he had looked out his window and seen the living room lights switched off and no light visible in his parents' bedroom window.
Taking this as his opportunity, he had secretly slipped out of his room, moving quietly through the dark house. He took the car keys from their hook by the door, moved silently outside, and drove the family car away into the night.
He picked up two good friends, he wouldn't give their names, and they drove around the neighborhood twice, cruising past houses where girls they knew lived. They also went to Union Station once, just to see what was happening there, to feel like they were part of the city's nightlife.
By the time he finally returned home, it was almost midnight, later than he'd intended. He parked the car carefully in its original spot on the street outside the yard, exactly where his father always left it. Then he stealthily climbed through his bedroom window back into his own room, removing his shoes first so he wouldn't make noise.
Theodore fixed the boy with a steady gaze and asked him directly: "You didn't take the car keys back inside with you?"
Little Moreno looked nervously at his father, gauging how much trouble this answer would cause.
Frank Moreno was already glaring at him with an intensity that could have melted steel, his face red with anger.
Little Moreno quickly shook his head in vigorous denial, his voice rising: "No! I took them! I definitely took them back inside!"
He pointed emphatically toward the door, his finger jabbing the air. "I left the keys right there on the hook, exactly where they always are!"
His voice grew louder with frustration and fear, the words tumbling out rapidly. "I didn't find the car keys there the next morning either, when I checked! They were gone!"
"And when I went with my father to the Maryland State Police facility to pick up the car after it was recovered, " He was nearly shouting now. "The car keys were still in the ignition! Still in the car!"
Frank Moreno's anger visibly increased with each word his son spoke, his face growing redder. The more the boy talked, the angrier his father became, glaring fiercely at Little Moreno with an expression that promised severe consequences once these FBI agents finally left.
Little Moreno's eyes moved desperately between Theodore and Bernie, his gaze openly pleading now, all pretense of teenage bravado completely abandoned.
He hoped, prayed, even, that these two FBI agents would never leave, that they would stay here forever, because the moment they walked out that door, he knew exactly what was waiting for him.
Don't you leave, his expression said. Please, for the love of God, don't you leave me alone with him.
[End of Chapter]