“I don’t like working with you, Evans,” Diamond said.
“Lots of people say that.”
“And you have no idea why.”
“I have suspicions.”
“Are you referring to yourself and your work habits or do you mean that you have some suspicions regarding that man you just spoke with?” she said.
“Hmm, good question. Perhaps both. Brother Dillingham was a little strange in his reaction to my inquiry.”
“How strange?”
“He wanted me to be sure to call him on a secure line.”
“Do you think he might have suspected you to be calling on some land-line in D.C.?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what to make of his request.”
“Nor how to honor it,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. We do suspect that the bad guys might be tracking us via satellite through our phones’ GPS. But Marvin wouldn’t know that. In fact, Marvin would have no knowledge of what has transpired with us since he came to my apartment and then we met with Rosey the next day in Norfolk. He has to be thinking of Wilkerson and what would happen if Wilkerson found out who told Rosey about the hit.”
“And how would Wilkerson know it was this Marvin guy? Do they work together?”
“Not according to Marvin. He told us that he knew of him, had seen him around, but I got the idea that they had no official relationship in terms of their separate jobs. My research into the guy has revealed nothing of a relationship between the two.”
“He’s likely being extremely cautious, don’t you think?” Diamond said. “Perhaps he’s scared to death as well.”
I nodded without answering. Perhaps I would consider this later when I had more time to contemplate the little man and his strangeness. Fear does cause folk to act in some peculiar ways now and then.
“I have a question that’s been bothering me some,” Diamond said.
“Okay.”
“This Marvin Dillingham fellow … did you not tell me in passing that he worked for the Treasury Department in Washington?”
“Yes, I think I mentioned that early on,” I confessed.
“Then I don’t get it. If he works for the Treasury Department, then why does he have an office in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing?”
“I don’t understand the question,” I said.
“Those are two distinct buildings. They are not side by side, nor do they overlap, at least my limited knowledge suggests such. I want to know why he works for one department in the government but has an office in another.”
I called Rogers to see if she had an answer.
“Wondered when you would ask that,” she said. “Marvin is unique in his function and experience. While he draws a decent salary from the Treasury Department, he has a contractual relationship with the Bureau of Engraving and Imprinting. So, he has two offices – one in each of those two buildings. He’s apparently been around long enough to merit those perks. Imagine that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I will imagine that … and chew on it for a while.”
A miracle happened to us after we decided where we might go and spend a few hours without being killed. Since it was still daylight, we decided that Rosey’s place in Sterling was not going to be the ideal spot. The miracle happened after we decided that it might be safe to go sit, walk, and mill around the Mall. The miracle was that we found a parking space that was right next to the Mall. I have to pinch myself when I consider the odds. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.
Sam was past ready to romp a little.
“We need something to throw around. Help me look for a left-behind ball of some sort,” I said to Diamond.
“I can do better than that,” she said.
She went to the truck and returned. Diamond had a Frisbee® in her hand.
“Gotta be a story there,” I said.
“You’ll never hear it from me,” she said.
“Let me guess – too much information.”
“You’re getting the hang of it. Here, throw this thing for the dog.”
Sam enjoyed chasing down the Frisbee® on the wide open spaces of the Mall. It was warm and there were hundreds of people enjoying the wide open spaces. Despite the crowds, we had plenty of room to throw and chase.
“I bet I know why you have this,” I said after we had spent close to an hour of throwing and having Sam chase down the disc.
“You have no idea.”
“You and that Siamese cat play with this thing.”
She was about to throw the disc for Sam. She paused in mid-motion, frowned at me, and then tossed it as far as she likely enough could throw it. It was a great toss, I must confess. It soared. Sam lunged after it as fast as I had ever seen him move. We watched the disc sail and the dog run after it with a fierce abandonment.
“When, if ever, have you seen someone throw a Frisbee® and have a cat chase it, catch it in its mouth, and return it to the thrower?”
“Point. But if anyone had such a cat, it would be you.”
Diamond almost smiled.
Sam caught up with the disc and we watched him deftly latch onto it as the object was floating to the ground more than fifty yards from us.
“Wow,” I said.
“Indeed.”
Finally Sam let me know that he had had enough throwing and chasing. I tossed it gently once he had given it back to me from his long-distance run. Instead of bolting after it this time, he watched it sail and fall lightly onto the grass about twenty-five yards away. He trotted over to it, picked it up with his teeth, and walked back to the bench where Diamond and I were sitting. He flopped down near the tree close to our bench, dropped the Frisbee® on the ground next to his outstretched front paws, and then placed one paw across the top of it as if daring either of us to try to take it from him, and then do the unthinkable and throw it.
“Subtle,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s like that. Your cat ever do that?”
I was fishing.
She ignored me.
Diamond was canvassing the area for whatever it is that professional killers are on the lookout for. She was always looking around. I don’t think the woman ever took many moments to enjoy life. Perhaps that was the price she paid for her line of work. Perhaps it was her way of enjoying life. I could not imagine such a life.
Sam eventually rolled over and fell asleep. I removed the Frisbee® after his paw had slid away from it once slumber took over. I stared at it for a few minutes before it dawned on me. The disc was one of those giveaways that businesses hand out to customers. It’s as if businesses actually believe that everyone needs a Frisbee® to have on hand, even professional assassins. I noticed that this particular one had the donor’s name and address on it. It was from the First Commercial Bank of Sudden Pass, Idaho. There was an address and phone number. I memorized both. Super detective always at work. A clue to Diamond.
We found a vendor on the Mall and I treated all three of us to hotdogs and chips. The doughnuts of the early morning had long since dissipated, so I was ready for almost anything. Sam and Diamond both ate two hotdogs each. I could only manage one. Hotdogs are restricted on my diet. They come under the category of necessary-when-sitting in a major league baseball park. Baseball and hotdogs. Apple pie and ice cream. Chocolate cake. Period.
The hotdogs at a professional baseball game are the best in the world. Not so much on the Mall in D.C. Go figure.
21
It was close to 1:30 when I called Marvin from an antiquated pay phone just off the Mall. Diamond was still canvassing and Sam was pretending to be helping her. I think Sam was looking for the Frisbee®. Diamond was looking for whoever might be coming to shoot us.
“You come up with any ideas about getting into Wilkerson’s office undetected?” I said.
“I think so.”
“Wonderful. I need a good idea at this stage.”
“Is this line secure?”
“As any line would be in the world.”
&nbs
p; “That supposed to help me feel safe?”
“Well, I didn’t have the NSA or Homeland Security check it out; but, yeah, you should feel safe.”
“Meet me at my office tomorrow afternoon at 4:45.”
“Wait a minute. I was hoping for some strategy from you, not a return visit.”
“It’s the safest plan I can devise,” Marvin said.
“And you have to come back to D.C. to do this?”
“It’s safer and less of a difficulty if we do get caught.”
“Hey, I’m not into getting caught here.”
“So, meet me tomorrow afternoon.”
“Which office?” I asked.
“My office,” he said.
“Which building?”
“Oh. You’ve been checking on me.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Well, it’ll be a lot easier if you meet me at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.”
“At 4:45 p.m.,” I repeated.
“Precisely.”
“And you’re driving here from where?”
“Barnardsville, North Carolina.”
“I seem to remember signs for that … town,” my intended hesitancy was to provoke some response from him.
“Yes, sort of a town. Maybe village is a better descriptive word.”
“Mountains, Piedmont, or Coastal Plain?”
“Why do you need to know that?” he sounded suspicious.
“Trying to place your departure point.”
“Mountains.”
“Do tell. What county?”
“Buncombe.”
“Next door to McAdams County.”
“You know your geography,” he said.
“Lucky guess,” I lied. I had no intention of telling him about my acquaintances in McAdams County.
“See you tomorrow,” he said and hung up. I heard a definite click on his end. He was probably talking on a regular telephone. Imagine that.
I broke the news to Diamond.
“Great, another night in dangerous Sterling,” she said.
“Naw, let’s splurge. Let’s find a comfortable motel with some lighting.”
“So what’s Dillingham’s plan of attack?”
“He didn’t divulge his strategy.”
“You think he’s like us and makes it up as he goes along?”
“I do not think Marvin K. Dillingham is anything like us. I suspect that his idea of getting into Wilkerson’s office is detailed and maybe even anal.”
Diamond headed her Silverado towards Sterling. We found a small, isolated motel just off I-66 several miles before the road to Rosey’s place. We each had a double bed and Sam had the entire floor upon which to snore and relocate. He did both all night. I can attest to that.
We decided to sleep late the next morning just to be sure that we were well rested and fit for Marvin’s action plan later that afternoon. I rolled over well after eight o’clock. Diamond was already up and dressed.
“I thought we were sleeping in,” I said.
“I slept late. I got up at 6:22.”
“Wow,” I said with an underwhelming tone. “What time do you normally get up?”
“Five.”
“Yikes. Believe in that early bird and worm thing, huh?”
“I don’t want to be shot while I am sleeping.”
“What if they come in the dead of night?” I said.
“I shoot them. Light sleeper. And I get up early.”
“I can see that. How about a large breakfast, eggs, grits, toast, bacon and maybe some waffles?”
“Sounds like you’re gonna eat breakfast and lunch at the same meal. And what on earth are grits?”
Hark. I had another clue about Diamond. Anybody who does not know about grits means that I can eliminate an entire section of the country. I keep this up and I will probably know her real name before I begin drawing Social Security.
I tried to explain grits to her while I readied myself for a hearty breakfast. Sam was listening and I think all of our talk about food made him hungry. Then again, Sam stays hungry most of the time, so talk is not necessarily an incentive for increasing his appetite.
We drove a short distance back towards D.C. and found a restaurant that looked promising. There’s an old saying about looks being deceiving. Ain’t it the truth. They knew about grits and even had them on the menu but the chef must have been from someplace north of the Yukon since he or she had no skill for cooking grits. The rest of my breakfast was fairly good – omelet of cheese, ham, onions, and green peppers served with biscuits, bacon, and a bowl of applesauce. The coffee was passable. Everything was edible except for the grits. Tasteless and runny. Yuck. A girl from Virginia has to have her Southern priorities about these things.
Diamond pilfered a spoonful of the runny mixture from my bowl after I had expressed my dissatisfaction without mincing words. She was not impressed either.
“You ever heard of gruel?” she asked me.
“This concoction is a first cousin to gruel,” I said as I pointed to the bowl of the tasteless, soupy creation.
I moved the bowl of the white stuff to the edge of the table just as the waitress passed by us. Coincidental, I assure you.
“You don’t like grits?” she said as she swooped over and stood closer than necessary to me.
“I love grits.”
“Is something wrong with these grits?” She was pushing now for a reason as to why I didn’t eat them.
“Not what I was anticipating.”
“Maybe you were thinking of hash browns.”
“No. I was thinking of grits.”
“These are grits.”
“My standards are higher.”
“What does that mean?”
She was getting testy now. I wanted to diffuse this predicament. It was going well for me in that direction.
“It means I prefer my grits to be a little thicker with some seasoning.”
“I’ll have you know that our cook is from New Orleans and knows several excellent ways of preparing grits.”
“This was not one of them.”
“Well,” she huffed, grabbed the bowl of the soupy mixture too quickly from the table, and it sloshed on her dress.
She held the now nearly empty bowl of white slush out in front of her, slowly raised her angry eyes to engage mine, and wanted to say something ugly to me. I judged the latter because of the attitude which emanated from the look on her face. Angry and nasty.
I smiled and returned my focus to the omelet. I took a large bite. It was quite tasty.
“Don’t say what you’re about to say,” Diamond spoke to our waitress for the first time.
I looked at the waitress. Her angry eyes shifted from me to Diamond. Diamond’s look was as it always is – fierce, intent, and ready for whatever might happen next. You might call it her game face except for the fact that it was the only look she had. You might also call it menacing.
The demeanor of the waitress altered immediately. Her anger and nastiness retreated to some other place. Or, you could say her countenance fell. It was a line from my rearing in the Southern, Bible-belt world of Clancyville, Virginia. Sunday school stuff had a way of hanging around and showing up now and then despite some gentle aversion. It was not a strong aversion; it was merely one at odds with some of the preachers I had in my youth. My Sunday morning class teachers were actually good people who possessed good values and who fervently sought to teach me their ideals chiefly because of my erratic behavior as a girl child. If I had only been a boy, I might have avoided some of the zealous indoctrination from the church ladies.
The waitress walked away without a word uttered. Maybe there was a slight whimper. If I hadn’t had my gun on me I might have whimpered too.
We managed to stay at our eating establishment long enough to be handed a lunch menu. It seemed that somewhere in the kitchen our waitress found her fallen countenance. At any rate, the lunch menu ploy was a not-so-subtle hint from our waitress that it wa
s time to vacate. Despite the fact that I was amused by her humor, I left a nine percent tip as punishment for her telling me that the grits were great and then becoming angry when I chose not to eat them. If you can’t trust your waitress, what is the world coming to?
I shared some leftovers with Sam when we returned to the truck. He sniffed the remaining omelet pieces, toast crumbs, and bacon fragments before gulping down my offering. I think he was checking out the grit-aroma that had surrounded my food earlier on. He did decide not to lick the paper dish I had procured from the restaurant. Unusual. No grits for him as well. The dog knows.
We left a few minutes after noon and drove slowly into D.C. It wasn’t so much that we were taking our time as much as it was the horrendous traffic. It would only get worse if we had decided to wait until late afternoon to enter the city.
Another miracle happened. Another parking space appeared on the Mall. Two days in a row. Diamond must be magic. I knew it wasn’t my luck.
“You need to buy a lottery ticket,” I said.
“Parking places are not miraculous,” Diamond said.
“They are in D.C. With your luck, we could win the Mega-millions.”
“Just what a professional gunman needs to do.”
“Well, there’s that to consider.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go spend some time in the National Gallery of Art,” I said.
“Spending nearly four hours walking around this humongous building and staring at questionable drawings on the walls? You’re a real party animal,” Diamond said.
“You need some culture.”
“Maybe, but staring at old art work is not necessarily my idea for gaining it.”
“You don’t have a favorite artist?”
“Grandma Moses,” she said flatly.
“Really?”
“No, but at least I can understand her work.”
“I prefer the Impressionist – Monet and Renoir are the ones I prefer.”
“Anything in particular work by Monet?” she asked.
Her question surprised me a little.
“Monet’s Young Girl in the Garden at Giverny.”
“Wow, and carries a gun too.”
“Composite of a multiplicity of talents,” I said.
Out Jumps Jack Death: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 8) Page 12