Wyatt and Jordon moved toward the door. They spoke softly, and Sandra couldn't hear what they were saying. Then Annie called her.
She turned back and looked at her sister. Annie had a smirk on her face, but Sandra ignored it. She was afraid for her sister.
"Annie, be careful," she whispered. "I've had the feeling that I'm being followed and I don't want anyone to hurt you."
"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."
Sandra tried to smile but failed. "I know you can," she said. "You were always good at getting yourself out of situations." Sandra still wanted to warn her to be careful. "Just check that you're not followed when you go out. If possible, go out with someone." She glanced toward Jordon. Instinctively she liked him. "Watch out if any accidents start to happen, anyone suddenly gets hurt and needs to be replaced on the shoot. Any strangers that show up, be leery of them."
"Sandra, you're inventing ghosts," she told her, laughing her concerns off.
"I hope so." Sandra gave her a long look and started for the door.
"Don't forget this," Suzanne said. She picked up the thick envelope and slid it across the table. Sandra reached for it. Her hand stopped the forward motion, but knocked the neat stack of mail to the floor. She bent down and picked up the invitations. She recognized several embassy emblems on the expensive paper; Thailand, Japan, Republic of South Africa, Great Britain.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this," Suzanne said when she straightened. "I hate you."
"Annie—"
"Don't interrupt." She held up her hand. "You're in this deep, so deep that you don't know if you'll ever get out of it. But. . ." She paused. Sandra knew it was for affect. "But if you end up with your back against the wall, call Grant Richards."
The name sounded familiar. "Who is he?"
"Don't worry who he is and don't call him unless you're desperate."
"How can I find him?"
"He's listed in the phone book. His wife's name is Brooke. You'll like her. She's good with computers."
Suzanne also grabbed a small leather bag no larger than a briefcase. She stuffed the dry clothes in it and handed it to her sister. They were moving toward the men at the door when the telephone rang.
Sandra jumped at the sudden noise. As Annie picked up the receiver, Sandra joined Wyatt and Jordon.
The strange air of hostility that took over the room like a tangible hand as Annie spoke into the receiver then stopped caused conversation to cease. They all turned to look at her. She held the phone stiffly in her hand and her face was as ashen as it was when Sandra told her Jeff was dead.
"It's for you." She pushed the phone through the air toward Sandra as if it was thick and heavy enough to cut. "It's Dad."
***
Suzanne stood looking through the windows at the ground below. Taxis pulled in and out of the sheltered canopy. She couldn't tell if Sandra and Wyatt were in one of them or if they'd walked away from the hotel and taken a taxi on Independence Avenue.
She followed several yellow cabs as they moved like toys on the wet road below. Suzanne couldn't believe he'd called here. Her father. Sandra's father. He hadn't even asked how she was doing, only if Sandra was there and was she all right. Why was it always Sandra? Why couldn't he for once give her a little of his love?
"So," Jordon said, drawing out the word in a drawl. "You don't really hate your sister."
"What makes you think that?" Suzanne stepped away from the window and faced him.
"Why did you give her the money?"
Suzanne tossed her head. "It wasn't my money. All I did was go get it."
Jordon came toward her. He stopped about two feet away. Suzanne didn't like the way he looked at her, as if he was looking into her mind. "Let me get this straight." He paused. "You go out of your way to get money to help a person you couldn't care less about if she died."
"I never said I wanted her dead." She walked away from him, from those piercingly knowledgeable eyes. Sometimes she hated Jordon, hated the fact that with him she couldn't completely hide behind the mask she erected for the world. Jordon stripped it and she had no power to prevent him from doing so.
"The pearls were a nice gesture, too. If they run out of money they can sell them."
Annie sank into the plush dining-room chair. The debris of the meal they'd eaten was scattered over the table. Annie spied the newspapers. She shuddered at today's story. She thought about how she'd feel if Sandra did die. She felt nothing, only a numbness that sapped her arms and legs of their strength.
"What was it, Annie?" Jordon dropped down next to her and took her hand. "Tell me. I promise not to judge you and not to repeat anything you tell me, but I need to know why you're so estranged from everyone who loves you and why you won't let anyone love you."
"Loves me? He doesn't love me. He's never loved me. Only her!”
***
The Capital Beltway spans a circle around Washington, DC. It traverses southeastern Maryland and northern Virginia, crossing the Potomac River in two spots, but never touches the ten-square-mile tract that houses the U.S. government. Sam Parker left the Pentagon and entered Route 395. He bypassed the city of Alexandria and picked up the beltway. For the last hour and a half he'd driven full circle around the capital keeping a keen eye on the rearview mirror.
He'd driven the fifty-five miles an hour legal limit, careful to not waver from the constant speed as other cars weaved in and out of lanes in a rush that both defined and produced the rhythm and pace the made the capital a unique city. Nearly convinced that he wasn't being followed, Sam took Interchange 30 at Silver Spring. He drove through the streets turning one corner after another to make sure he was not being pursued, before finally heading for his destination—Wyatt Randolph's town house in Georgetown.
Sam parked in the lot on Wisconsin and walked to the house. He let himself in the back door and disabled the alarm system. He remembered the code from one poker night when Wyatt’s dexterity was a little off -- well more than a little off. He kept punching the wrong numbers and finally Sam put in the code, stopping the alarm..
Whoever had done this place was good, Sam thought as he looked around. This was no merely professional job, but a government-authorized military bugging. Few men could do this land of work. Few people could ever afford this kind of surveillance. Wyatt Randolph had needed the best. Sam was better. He had a jamming device. timing was critical if he wanted to be in and out and only have the watchers think the system received a power surge.
Before he'd been confined to a computer desk, he'd been in Intelligence. He could string a site that would throw pictures sharp as a laser disc to a satellite thousands of miles above the earth and print them on a home computer. God, he'd like to talk to the guy who'd strung this. For several moments Sam admired the handiwork, the quiet instruments recording, registering, and transmitting every move made in the space below. Anyone living on the three lower floors wouldn't hear anything more than the steady operation of a refrigerator motor, in fact, the entire setup was synchronized with the refrigerator. Even if the motor wasn’t running no one could discern the low hum of these state-of-the-art devices. Wyatt should be proud.
Sam sighed quietly. He'd better get what he needed and be gone. Being found here wouldn't be good for his health.
***
"Don't argue with me, Wyatt. I have to do this." They were back in Virginia. Sandra found a motel near the airport and they had a room directly under the incoming flight path. Planes approaching the airport for a landing made conversation impossible.
"You don't have to do anything.''
Wyatt grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look at him. "You could be walking into a trap and you won't even know it."
Sandra wrenched herself free. "Like you did when you went to the Pentagon and neglected to tell me anything about it. At least I'm telling you where I'm going."
Wyatt took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about that. It couldn't be helped. I sincerely t
hought I could find something to help us in Chip's office."
"Well, I feel the same. The man is my father, Wyatt." She raised her hands to stop him from saying anything. "I know what you think of him, but I don't believe it."
"Even after what's already happened to you? What do you want . . . him to stand up and say I'm a traitor?"
"If that's what it takes, yes." She calmed herself, lowering her voice before she spoke again. "Wyatt, he won't hurt me. He's my father. He won't lead me into a trap."
Wyatt took her into his arms and caressed her back. "I just want to be there." He wanted to believe her, but he was scared. She scared him the way she made him feel. He wanted to be there to protect her if he could. He squeezed her closer. She smelled like scented soap, probably from the shower in her sister's suite.
"I'll go tomorrow night and find out what he wants. Maybe we can have everything cleared up by this time tomorrow."
"Maybe," he agreed, but didn't feel any confidence in the hope. He kissed her quickly on the mouth and went back to holding her close. What was Brad up to? Why was he meeting his daughter at the Quantico FBI facility? What was wrong with a restaurant in the District, where she could get up and grab a taxi if the need arose? He didn't like this at all. It smelled rotten, but he couldn't convince Sandra there was any reason she should refuse to meet her father.
Sandra hugged Wyatt. She knew some of what he said was right, but Brad Rutledge was her father. In the past two weeks she'd only heard about him from Wyatt. She had to give her own father time to tell her the truth, or at least his version of the truth.
Then it was up to her to decide which of them she'd choose to believe.
She closed her eyes against Wyatt. She wanted him in her life. She also wanted her father. The way things stood now, she was bound to lose one of them tomorrow night.
"Sandra?" Wyatt pushed her back and looked into her eyes. "No matter what happens tomorrow, we have to find those stones. Maybe we should try to find out what Jeff was trying to tell us."
She smiled and released him. They'd found a small hotel room in Arlington, Virginia, and for the better part of the day, when they weren't arguing over her father's phone call and invitation to dinner, they were trying to find something that would tell them what 95147 meant.
"What about part of a phone number?"
"There are many possibilities. He couldn't have begun with an area code. There is no 951 area code, which would mean it would have to be a local number."
"The 9 could be the number you dial to get an outside line."
"In that case the area code would be 514. There is no 514. Five one six is on Long Island and 519 is in the Midwest, but so far the phone company hasn't assigned 514."
Wyatt cocked his head, wondering how she knew that.
"I've always been able to remember numbers." Sandra grinned. Her father had thought it uncanny when she was a child and could add columns of numbers in her head.
"All right, it could be part of a phone number, but not a local one. The metropolitan area doesn't have any 951 exchanges."
"What about zip codes?" Sandra asked.
"95147." Wyatt thought about it. "It would have to be out west. Any idea where?"
Sandra shook her head. She grabbed the phone book and looked up the number of the closest post office. "San Jose, California," she said, as she hung up the phone.
"Do you think there's a connection?"
"I don't know what to think. Jeff wasn't the kind of person to talk in riddles. He liked the direct approach. The easiest route was always the most efficient, he used to say."
"Then whatever or wherever 95147 is, we should be able to find the diamonds."
Sandra nodded.
"You're a numbers person, Sandra," The tension showed in Wyatt's voice. "Think! What could they mean?"
She tried. 95147 could be anything. San Jose was too far away to have any connection. "Safety-deposit box number, post office box number, shipping numbers, receipt number, bill of lading, part of a credit card, the possibilities are endless. Without more information, we're dead in the water."
"Dead being the operative word."
"I didn't mean that."
Wyatt sat down at the circular table. Her backpack with books she hadn't looked at since they left the mountain sat there. He let his head fall back against the upholstery of the wing-backed chair and sighed. Long and slow, it had the sound of defeat in it.
She came to him and began massaging his shoulders. "Wyatt, we're not beat yet."
"We're awfully close. We have nothing. We don't even know who’s looking for us. So far we've run from the District police, a man I thought I could trust bombed the car we were riding in, we've lost the stones, and another man is dead. I spent time uploading gibberish to my email account. We've got a number that could mean a thousand things. We're sitting pretty, that’s for sure."
Chapter 11
The Washington Post was established in 1877 as a four-page arm of the Democratic Party. Since then it has gone through financial difficulties, been a conservative paper, a chronicler of the sensational and the world of society, merged with its competition and evolved into one of the best papers in the United States. Residents of Washington, northern Virginia, and southeastern Maryland wake up to the Post each morning.
Wyatt Randolph loved the Post. It rivaled his states’ Philadelphia Inquirer, but as a news reporter, it equaled The New York Times. For the past few mornings Wyatt had dreaded reading accounts of his life sprawled across the thirty-six ounces of printers ink used to produce the two-and-a-quarter pound paper. This morning he expected to read the story of the death of Jefferson Taylor III. He knew he and Sandra would be implicated if not accused of a direct connection to his murder. He wasn't disappointed. Their names came up in the first paragraph. Sandra's photo, a grainy gray that did no justice to her beautiful ethereal features, sat next to his. Everett Horton and his reception for the Japanese ambassador had been pushed to the bottom section of the paper. Wyatt gave the story a cursory scan. He didn't read the rest of the front page.
Wyatt didn't like being a celebrity. He'd rather read about someone else than have his own life put there for the world to review. What must his family think? He admitted he hadn't had much time to think about them lately. He was too busy trying to save his own life. He needed to call his parents, find out if anyone had questioned them. Were they being followed? He needed to let them know he was all right. He knew his mother would worry, but he wanted to hear her voice.
He looked over at Sandra. She slept soundly in the queen-size bed. After they'd left her sister's. Sandra had been exhausted but restless. By the time darkness fell she was too tired to argue about going to sleep. Wyatt had been awake most of the night. Just as the sun tinged the horizon he'd gone out and bought a paper from the newsstand on the corner near a bus stop. Few people stood there at this early hour and he'd waited until the bus had come and gone before approaching the plastic-covered stand. Returning to the room, he'd sat on the bed and skimmed the news.
He and Sandra hadn't come any closer to finding out what the number Jeff had uttered meant. Neither had he been able to talk her out of meeting her father tonight for dinner. He'd even mentioned going with her, but both of them knew that was a bad idea.
Wyatt turned the page of the daily journal checking to see if the noise aroused Sandra. It didn't. When he turned back to the paper, he nearly lost his grip at what was printed there. His heart thudded against his rib cage. Page three was a full-page ad. In the middle of the white space was what most people would see as a huge computer chip. Wyatt recognized it as a tie tack. Chip had it made, and he'd given it to him one Christmas. In the middle of the gift-chip, Wyatt Scott Randolph, his full name, had been engraved in gold lettering. As he looked at the newspaper reproduction the word CALL in capital letters was written in that space. It jumped out at Wyatt like a four-letter word.
Around the edge of the black center with silver prongs sticking down like m
etal teeth, Wyatt saw his own name. Not his given name, not his family name, but the storybook name that Edward "Chip" Jackson and only a few other people knew—Earp and Scott. Most people thought he was named after Wyatt Earp and Randolph Scott because his mother, Endora Randolph, a teacher in the Philadelphia school system, was a fan of old western movies. Wyatt's name really came from a black Indian who helped carve the West. Chip knew the true story, but Chip was dead. He couldn't have placed the ad.
Then who did and why? What were they trying to say? Call? Call who? He couldn't call Chip.
Wyatt tried to apply logic. Sandra would have done this. She would analyze it and find the inner meaning. He thought it was a cruel joke. Chip was dead. No one but Chip could have sent him a message like this. Was he supposed to call. . .Chip?
***
Weather in the District was changeable. Yesterday's rains gave to a bright sunny morning. The coldness that had chilled Wyatt to the bone twenty-four hours ago had been pushed out to sea. Behind it came a warm breeze that held the promise of spring. Wyatt walked casually with his arm around Sandra's waist. They were close enough to appear to share the same grief and far enough apart to look like they dreaded walking through a graveyard.
In Sandra's case that might have been true. She'd been quiet this morning, agreeing to his decision to visit Chip's grave with little comment. He wondered what was on her mind, but decided not to ask. She'd tell him in due time and he didn't want to bring up her father and the dinner she was scheduled to attend this evening.
Wyatt glanced behind them. He searched the area as if he was a human radar detector. No one else seemed to want to spend the beauty of the morning in a cemetery. They were alone.
Wyatt felt different there. Even though his senses were alert, he felt calm, as if this place was a safe haven. The place commanded silence, reverence. His tennis shoes made a suction sound on the paved passageway, much like rubber sticking to the ground and being pulled free. He walked softer, reducing the sound, as if the noise could disturb the dead.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 49