HUNTER

by Bidinotto, Robert

  She caught her breath. She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d seen him do that little hop—maybe while they were out at dinner one night—but it had imprinted somewhere in her memory. She watched him run easily, then leap a puddle, graceful a gazelle, to reach the sidewalk.

  Damn. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss him.

  She turned into the street beside his building, pulled into the curb, and hit the four-way flashers. Then she jumped out and ran after him, awkward in her heels, dodging traffic to cross the broad highway.

  He had about a thirty second lead and had disappeared down an alley between two buildings. She ran after him, emerging on Woodmont Avenue. She halted and spun, bewildered. He had vanished. There were no open stores or restaurants—only two parking garages on opposite sides of the street. Not there. Dylan had reserved parking for his Forester beneath his own apartment building, so he wouldn’t need to—

  But then she spotted him, trotting up the glassed-enclosed stairwell of the garage on this side of the street. Before she could shout, he turned off the fourth-level landing and disappeared back inside the garage.

  Maybe she could still catch him.

  She ran to the pedestrian entrance of the garage, then up the stairs as fast as she could manage, cursing her heels with every step. By the time she reached the third-level landing, she heard a car engine rev somewhere above. Figuring that she might intercept him as he descended past her, she yanked open the stairwell door, emerging into the parking area.

  Then saw that the car exit ramp was all the way at the other end of the building.

  She ran toward it, but was only halfway there when the vehicle whipped into view around the descending curve in the distance.

  It was not the Forester, however. It was a white pizza delivery van. It rolled quickly around the ramp and down.

  She stopped, not bothering to shout. That couldn’t be him, he had to be upstairs yet. She might still catch him. She began to run again toward the exit ramp. She arrived about thirty seconds later, gasping, her ankles aching and toes screaming from the narrow shoes. She paused and listened.

  Nothing but the sound of her own heavy breathing.

  Apparently, he hadn’t even started his car yet. She began to relax. He had to come down this way, so she would definitely connect with him, now. She walked up the curving ramp to the fourth level. Then paused again to catch her breath and scan the parked vehicles.

  She heard nothing. Saw no one. Saw no car that looked like his Forester.

  It was crazy. She knew he’d entered this level of the garage. Even if he’d walked up or down a flight, she would have seen or heard his vehicle depart.

  She moved slowly through the rows of cars, her footsteps echoing sharp and hollow, thinking he had to be sitting in one. But they were all empty.

  She waited there another five minutes before heading back to his building.

  There was only one explanation. She’d been mistaken; the man had only looked like Dylan. He was probably at his apartment.

  She fetched her car where she’d abandoned it and drove down into his building’s underground garage. Then she laughed in relief when she pulled up to his reserved spots and saw the Forester sitting there.

  Idiot. He’ll have a good laugh, too, when you tell him.

  Knowing it would be a presumption, she left her overnight bag in the car. On the way over to the elevator, she felt damp from the drizzle and sweaty from the running. Her hair would be a frizzy mess, too. Great.

  She used the key card he’d given her to enter the elevator and ride up to his floor. Walking down the hallway toward his door, though, she felt her anxiety growing again. She tried to remember some of the words she had thought of to explain things to him—then gave it up. No, she had to be spontaneous about this. Authentic. And just hope for the best.

  She paused outside his door to gather herself. Then pressed the bell and waited.

  After thirty seconds, she tried again.

  Nothing.

  Well, he has to be here; his car is downstairs. Maybe he’s in the shower.

  She pressed the bell again.

  No answer. Then a faint meow from the other side of the door.

  She knocked, long and hard. “Dylan? Are you there?” No response. “Dylan?”

  Then she heard a door unlatch, just down the hall. A distinguished-looking older woman with well-coiffed white curls poked her head outside, frowning slightly.

  “Oh! I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” she said to the woman. “I was just trying to let Mr. Hunter know I’m here.”

  The woman smiled. “Ah. Well, it won’t do you any good, my dear. He’s not in. I arrived home about fifteen minutes ago, and he was just leaving. If he’s expecting you, though, I’m sure he’ll be back presently.”

  She forced a smile, tried to say it calmly. “Perhaps I saw him outside when I drove up a little while ago. Do you remember what was he wearing?”

  “Mmmm.... Dark hat, dark trench coat or raincoat, I think.”

  “Yes. That was him.... Thank you.”

  “You have a nice evening, my dear.” The woman closed her door.

  She stood there a moment, trying to make sense of it. The only sound was Luna scratching at the door.

  FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

  Saturday, November 22, 9:15 a.m.

  Even her third cup of coffee couldn’t compensate for the lack of sleep. And nothing she told herself could tamp down the rising tide of fear that had kept her awake.

  She knew what she had seen. She spent all night trying to force it to fit into her conception of a sane world. But she couldn’t.

  She had seen him leave his building, on foot—his departure confirmed by another eyewitness. She had seen him enter a public parking garage. And she had seen only one vehicle leaving that garage, right after he entered.

  When they were training her in investigations, they made a big deal of Occam’s Razor: the principle that the simplest explanation for a given phenomenon was almost always the valid one. Now, Mr. Occam was telling her something both mysterious and ominous.

  The simplest explanation was that a man known to her only by an admittedly false name, Dylan Hunter, had left his own car parked in the garage of his residence, and had taken instead a second vehicle—a pizza delivery van—from a parking place at a nearby garage that he could reach quickly, on foot. Occam told her that the van had to belong to Dylan, and that he was parking it there because he didn’t want it to be linked to him.

  She didn’t know why. But she couldn’t imagine any reason that wasn’t criminal.

  His false name. His secrecy about his past.

  How well do you really know him? So far, we’ve been accepting him on blind trust.

  Trust.

  She knew so little. But what little she did know now shattered her resolution to confide in him.

  During the night, she ordered herself to begin to detach from him, emotionally. She knew she had to put aside her feelings, now. She had to reclaim her objectivity. She had to use her skills as an investigator, if she were ever to find out the truth about the man calling himself Dylan Lee Hunter.

  She went to the kitchen counter, where she had dropped her purse last night. She opened it and removed her cell and the business card. She tapped in the number.

  “Cronin here.”

  “Oh. Annie Woods here, Detective. I didn’t expect you to be at your desk on a Saturday. I figured I’d have to leave a voice mail.”

  “Yeah, well, duty calls and I’m not at my desk. What can I do for you, Ms. Woods?”

  “You said to call if I had any further information about Dylan. Well, I’m afraid I do.”

  “‘Afraid.’ That doesn’t sound good. Look, I’m kind of busy right now. Can you give me the headlines?”

  She did. She wondered why he remained silent after she finished speaking.

  “Ms. Woods,” he said, his words sounding measured, “is there any chance we could meet today? Like, in an hour or two?
”

  “Why, sure. I suppose so. I have to warn you, though, I’m running on fumes. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Me either. We had another vigilante murder late last night.”

  The way he said it bothered her. “Well, it sounds as if we both had busy nights. Before we meet, though—” She stopped.

  “What?”

  Just say it.

  “I want to give you Dylan’s home address.”

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Saturday, November 22, 9:55 a.m.

  The sky had cleared from last night’s rain, so, still in his bathrobe, he took his coffee out onto his balcony. He bent and rested his elbows on the damp railing, sipping the hot liquid. That, combined with the chilly November air, helped to restore his alertness.

  He was thinking about the events of the previous night when he heard the slider door open on the next balcony. Sarah Oglethorpe emerged, bundled in a long coat and carrying a black garbage bag, which she crammed into the trash bin she kept out there.

  “Morning, Sarah,” he said, nodding.

  She looked over, her face brightening. “Oh, good morning, Dylan. Did you have a nice evening?”

  “Yes. You could say that.”

  She looked impish. “I’ll bet you did. She is certainly adorable.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your lady friend. My, she’s lovely!”

  He lowered the cup to the railing, steadying it there. “Are you referring to the woman I’ve been dating recently?”

  “Well, before last night I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. But she certainly was eager to see you.”

  Keep smiling. “I didn’t know you two had crossed paths.”

  “Just after I came home. You remember that you and I passed each other near the elevator? Well, she happened along just a few minutes later. I heard her banging on your door and calling for you, so I told her you’d just left. She mentioned that she thought she saw you go, but wasn’t sure. Anyway, I told her that you’d probably be right back, then. I’m so glad she waited.”

  Whatever you do, keep smiling. “Me, too. I really appreciate that, Sarah.” Confirm it was her. “So. I gather that you approve. Did you like her new hairstyle?”

  “Oh, yes! So cute, those shorter cuts. They go so well on brunettes with wavy hair like hers.”

  “That’s what I told her, too.... Well, Sarah, it’s a bit cold out here. Perhaps I’ll see you later this weekend.”

  “You give the lady my regards, now.”

  Smile. “I will.”

  The smile vanished the second he got inside.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  BETHESDA, MARYLAND

  Thursday, November 27, 8:07 p.m.

  For a special task force, they really weren’t very good.

  The trick to surveillance detection is to never let them know that you’ve made them. Let them think they’re observing you undetected. Meanwhile, to make them start to doubt that you’re really a viable suspect, you do nothing but innocuous things. You bore them to death.

  He’d picked up the team following him the minute he left his apartment, just before six o’clock. He drove over to the city lot across from the Barnes & Noble and parked. Then he spent half an hour browsing its bookshelves, before taking the thriller he’d purchased to a restaurant right around the corner. He sat there reading and eating for a bit, forcing the plainclothes cop they sent in to keep an eye on him nurse a beer at the bar. Finally, he led them on a grocery-shopping expedition before returning home.

  There were two more unmarkeds staking out his building tonight, parked in spots different from the ones they occupied last night. He made them the minute he turned into the short side street running alongside the highrise. Never glancing in their direction, he swung down the ramp into the garage, leaving the Forester in its usual space.

  Tonight, like all the previous nights since Annie had tipped them to his address, he’d been working to lull them into thinking that he wasn’t going anywhere.

  He flipped on all the lights when he entered the apartment, left all the curtains wide open, too. See, fellows? Nothing to hide. Even though he swept his car and apartment and found no bugs, so far, he whistled while he put away the groceries and fed the cat—just in case they’d installed some while he was out.

  The absence of bugs told him they didn’t have enough on him to get a court order. So this was still just a fishing expedition. Cronin and his buddies had suspicions, but nothing solid. Tonight, though, his goal was to satisfy them that they could rule him out as a suspect.

  He turned on the TV in the living room, cranked up the volume a bit. Poured a glass of wine and made a show of walking past his windows with it in hand. Yep, just another lonely single dude, dumped by his girlfriend, spending another quiet, pathetic evening home alone with his cat. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along....

  He collapsed onto the sofa, not bothering to watch the popular amateur dance competition on the tube. Luna had disappeared somewhere else in the apartment, leaving him alone with his plans. And his demons.

  His “girlfriend.” He remembered when he’d called her that. He fought down his anger as her image flashed into his consciousness. It had been so long since he’d let anyone in. He’d let her in, all right. He had to admit it: He’d fallen in love. Hard. Like he’d never fallen for anyone before. Yes, he had opened himself, even admitting to her that he had been betrayed before.

  And he’d been prepared to open up even more. All the way. To tell her everything, past and present. He had understood from the beginning that if this were to grow into something important, he couldn’t keep her in the dark. Eventually, she’d have to know.

  For him, it had become something important. So important, that he was ready to walk away from everything else. Ready to let all the chips fall as they might, when he told her. Ready, because he thought she was worth it.

  And look where it had gotten him.

  She’d been playing him. How long, he wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that she loved him, either. Of that, he had no doubt; he could tell how conflicted she was. But he didn’t give a damn about her conflicts. You either love someone, or you don’t. You either trust somebody all the way, or you don’t. And she had betrayed him. That was all that mattered. She was working with the cops to bring him down. Why, he didn’t know. And couldn’t care less.

  Not anymore.

  Okay, so if she wanted to play him, he’d play her right back. She’d become part of his alibi for this evening.

  He pulled a cell from his pocket, inserted its battery, and keyed in her number.

  “Hello?”

  He felt in icy control. “Hi, you.”

  Hesitation. “Hi, you.”

  “I’m just calling to tell you how much I miss you, Annie.”

  Silence. Then: “Oh, Dylan. Me, too.... I wish I could be there tonight.... I’m so confused.”

  Sure you are. “You still haven’t told me about what.”

  “It’s so complicated.” She paused, then added: “There’s so much that we don’t know about each other.”

  “Apparently not.” He heard the edge creeping into his voice. Careful.

  “Remember what we talked about on our first date? That we both have trust issues?”

  “I remember. Very well, in fact.”

  “I...I just can’t seem to get past mine.”

  He found himself gritting his teeth. “Well, I thought I’d gotten past mine. But maybe not.”

  “Dylan—I keep going back and forth on this in my mind. Some days, I want desperately to see you. But other days, I just want to run away.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  A long pause.

  “You sound so distant,” she said.

  The undertow of anger began to tug at him. He didn’t want to say it, but he had to.

  “I thought we had something very special, Annie. I don’t exactly know what happened. I feel blindsided, though. I
t still sounds as if you have some things to sort out. ‘Things,’ plural.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Okay, so how about we leave it this way: Let’s take a bit of a break, a couple of weeks. Take the time to try to figure out what we each need. And whether what we each need can mesh together.”