Two women with blue hair wearing orchid corsages crowded one the loveseats in Brett Hillman’s waiting room. Beside them was a man in a hand sewn grey silk suit with a briefcase of soft and expensive leather. He tried to keep a respectable distance from a couple and their teenage son, the family attired in their best nylon polo shirts and vinyl loafers.
Pete DeVane came out of his office and offered Rita a thin binder.
“How come your attitude’s so different these days?” Rita asked as she took it from him.
“I get carried away here.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You spend every minute chasing obscure details and you end up with a very narrow view. You forget the larger world and the meaninglessness of what you’re doing outside a tiny sphere in a corner of the universe.”
Rita noticed for the first time that Devine’s blond hair was thinning at the fringe of his forehead. “A particularly New Age perspective if I ever heard one.”
“Then I take it you’re a New Ager yourself. Kate says that’s why you left the Star after all those years.”
Rita studied the man before her. “Maybe neither one of us are. Maybe we got tired of the illegitimi carborundum .”
“Yeah, I’m getting there.” DeVane’s voice was weary. “Anyway, here’s your scrapbook—or rogue’s gallery—depending on your perspective.”
Rita took the binder and opened it. Inside were plastic photographic inserts with black and whites and news copy pictures. Charles Strutt and Brett Hillman filled the first sheet. Following were the other major senatorial players on the healthcare committee and after that were photos of their chief legislative aides. DeVane and Randy Wyman, both in candid shots from formal fundraisers, were the last two.
“Thanks for taking the time,” Rita said. “I know it’s a premium around here.”
“I hope it’ll help.” DeVane held out his hand. “And that you catch the bastard.”
Rita nodded as she accepted the peace offering. “Me too.” She held his hand for a lingering moment.
♏
Rita cruised around the lighted fountain in the center of DuPont Circle. Male couples, walking close, hurried away from the biting cold. One man in a dark warm-up suit and running shoes walked a yorkie. With everybody home and curled inside against the November night, Rita couldn’t find a parking place.
She passed Bobby Ellis’ old apartment once and then came around again. Somebody else was living there now. The lights were on, curtains drawn. From her car, the place looked warm and homey and not like the empty shell so recently chilled by death.
Brake lights went on. Rita nosed the Jeep along the cars lined at the curb. Back and forth, the old BMW finally extracted itself from the tight space and roared off toward downtown.
Rita slipped the Jeep in effortlessly. I may not be able to track down a murderer, she thought to herself, but I can sure parallel park. Too bad it’s not a vocation.
She pulled the collar of her pea jacket close around her cheeks and drew DeVane’s binder off the passenger seat as she got out. It was late, too late to be in this part of town alone whether you were a man or a woman. The Glock was in her right coat pocket. She carried the binder under her one arm and kept her opposite hand in communication with the weapon.
Young Joe Friendly hadn’t been too clear on the time of Bobby’s Ellis’ death. But with his estimate she added time necessary to get from Harper’s Ferry to this neighborhood. She was grasping at straws at this point, but she knew no other paths to chase down. She was going to hunt these streets in search of anyone who may have been about at this hour on that night. She was going to show them her photographs. And if she was very lucky, she was going to yell Bingo.
She hailed the man with the yorkie as he approached her. “Excuse me.”
“I don’t have any spare change.” The little dog paused to sniff at her slacks cuffs, but his master snapped the leash and maintained his brisk pace.
“I’m not begging for money.” Rita trotted after him.
The man didn’t turn around. “And I’m not interested in women either.”
She stifled her anger impulse. Instead she caught up and strode beside him. “I just want a minute of your time. It could save somebody’s life.” My own, she thought to herself.
The man with a bored and bothered sneer halted. The yorkie pranced around his feet.
“I want you to look at some pictures. See if you might have noticed any of these people around here within the last month or so.” Rita motioned toward a gas lamp standing in a yard.
The man followed, dragging his fluffy charge. Rita opened the binder. The man stared down at the first page and said nothing.
“Look familiar?” Rita was losing patience with the guy, but figured slugging him wasn’t going to get her anywhere.
“No.”
Rita flipped slowly through the book. The man registered nothing. Meantime the yorkie pawed his warm-up pants, begging to be held. When she came to the end, the man shook his head, snapped the leash so that the little dog jerked to all fours, and they both stalked off.
“Have a nice evening—asshole,” Rita mumbled.
For an hour afterward she made an ever-widening circle out from the center, which was Bobby Ellis’ apartment. Her goal was a two-block radius where she might encounter regulars at this time of night in this neighborhood.
She stopped at one point to check her map under a streetlight. She heard the scrape of tennis shoes on sidewalk and turned around. Three young men in sweatpants and hooded sweatshirts stopped when she did, just one block back. Rita touched the Glock’s handle with her leather-gloved hand.
For another block they followed her, slowing when she did, speeding up as she did. At the same time, they managed to close the distance between them and her. Even in the chill she could feel sweat bead at her temples.
Finally they made their move. Rita heard the slap of rubber on pavement as they raced behind her. Instantly she turned, hoisted the Glock over her head and fired. The boys froze in unison, turned heel and sped off in the opposite direction.
“Welcome to the nation’s capitol.” Rita shook her head.
Her feet had lost feeling and her fingers were numb. She was hungry and tired and hadn’t seen another damned person to speak to in the entire time she’d been hunting out here. She had one more corner to turn and she was out of here.
Around the corner was a neighborhood grocery/drugstore/ liquor store. Inside were the young Korean proprietor and his wife behind the counter. They nodded silently as Rita walked in.
“Hi,” Rita went to them. They smiled at first. “I was wondering if you’d mind helping me with something.”
She put the binder down and opened it to the first page. The grocer and his wife looked at each other as their smiles died. Both took a step back. “No trouble with police,” the man said.
“I’m not the police,” Rita answered.
The wife gave her husband a fearful glance. He said, “No trouble with neighbors.”
“This isn’t about the neighbors.” Rita explained Bobby’s death and that she was checking to see if any of the people pictured in the book might have been around here that night.
The wife and husband consulted each other with a silent study of faces. At last the man said, “We will look.”
“Thank you.” Rita turned the pages slowly, giving them time to take in and consider.
“This one,” the wife piped up suddenly. She touched the face with her finger. “This one here.”
Her husband nodded eagerly. “I remember because very unusual—man come in so late at night to buy dish glove.”
Rita looked down at the photograph they had selected. “You’re sure?”
“Sure,” the wife said. “Very strange man wash dishes late at night.”
Rita nodded and closed the binder. “Thank you. You’ve been more of a help than you’ll know.”
Chapter 34
She thought about soldiers. She had interviewed surviv
ors of Vietnam in her time, but she’d never been there. Their eyes were windows to infinity. She’d seen that look in every face. Only now did she begin to understand, and she smoothed the engraving on her father’s lighter.
It was dark in the Belfast Valley. Barn lights were beacons in the night; street lamps were few and far between out here. And marquee across distant house fronts were red and green and blue sparkles of early Christmas decorations. Karin still had three more hours of sleep before her alarm went off.
Rita sat on the edge of her bed to look out the window. She could see the interstate from her hill and even at this late hour, traffic flowed. In one hand was the Glock, unusually heavy at this moment. In her other hand was the extra magazine.
The Great White Hunter purred and rubbed against her leg. She reached down to scratch his eager upturned head and brush the fine blond hairs off her black warm up pants.
“Got to go, kiddo,” she whispered to the cat. Uninterested he jumped to her bed and nestled among the pillows where she’d never slept that night.
She wore a black silk warm up suit over silk thermals. It was too cold to attend a rendezvous in a skimpy outfit and too dangerous not to dress as light for flight. Running would be impossible in her loafers and pea coat. She strapped her shoulder holster on over her jacket. No use pretending.
Rita skipped down the steps and into the kitchen. The house was dark except for the photosensitive nightlights that went on when the sun went down. If anybody was lurking around outside, she didn’t want them to have a clear view of her.
In the kitchen she reached for her cell phone. Instantly the touchtone pad lit as she hit one of her speed dial buttons. She left a message for Bev at the office; Bev would be Karin’s contact for the day. Rita hit the speed dial again.
“Now what?” The voice on the other end was gruff with sleep and annoyance at being wakened.
“Smooth, I need to tell you something.”
“What the hell time is it?”
Rita heard her fumble with a clock. “Look, I need to get on the road. But I want you to know . . .”
“You found him, didn’t you?” Suddenly the voice was clear and awake.
“Found him?”
“Bobby Ellis’ killer.”
“I think so.”
“And you’re going somewhere to meet him?”
“That’s about it,” Rita patted her left jacket pocket for the extra 9mm clip.
“Dammit, girl, have you lost your mind? Where are you going? Tell me. I’ll go with you.”
“What I wanted to tell you was that if something happens to me tonight, you need to know it wasn’t an accident or a mugging or anything it might be cooked up to be. Ok?”
“Dammit, Rita,” Mary Margaret yelled into the phone. “Are you crazy? Let me call somebody. I can have them follow you. This guy would never know you weren’t alone.”
“Can’t trust that, Smooth,” Rita said. “Now look, I don’t have time to explain the whole thing. I wrote it up though and I put it in my safe deposit box. Anything happens, you get the bastard.” Rita took a deep breath.
“Don’t do this, Rita. You’re not a cop, let alone an undercover cop. This is too dangerous.” Mary Margaret grew calmer, more coaxing now.
“The train has left the station.” Rita checked her watch.
“I’m putting a bench warrant on your ass,” Mary Margaret said as Rita hung up the phone.
If something happened tonight, she’d never get to say goodbye to Karin. She hadn’t said anything before bed because she didn’t want to lie. She didn’t wake her now because she might be someone who could talk her out of it.
At the back door, Rita drew out the Glock and inspected the clip. She patted the extra in her pocket. She pulled a black watch cap out of her closet and onto her head. She was on her way to Washington.
In the years she’d written investigative pieces, she’d had showdown after showdown. It was all shadow boxing. This one sued the newspaper; another one called her names on a TV show. Talk was big and there had been some pushing and shoving. She thought about Mary Margaret’s words. Maybe she wasn’t prepared for this.
Too late to turn back she’d said to Smooth—and it was.
♏
At night Washington was the Emerald City. Gold sodium glow from the streetlights promised richness and beauty. In truth, it was a labyrinth of dangerous avenues through the heart of a once mighty kingdom. Pirates owned the streets and citizens fled with the sun to suburban safety beyond the asphalt moat called the beltway.
Traffic was light. Rita knew her route precisely. Like Gawain meeting the Green Knight, she rode unerringly to the temple of the majestic Lincoln. He reigned in white marble bathed in godlike light.
He had said he’d meet her at the base of the statue. Rita took up a position out of the spotlights behind a column. Her watch said she had fifteen minutes until 4 a.m., his chosen hour. The fifteen minutes came and went, but her appointment did not appear.
Rita kept her place.
She did not have to look at her watch to know that time flowed on. In the early morning hours of this nerve center of the country, it was quiet. Car lights had not passed for a long time. She saw no policemen or passersby. She and the enshrined president sat without speaking in his temple.
She heard leather on marble and ducked deeper into the shadow of the column she hid behind. A man emerged on the far side of Lincoln’s mammoth dais. He wore a black scarf with a black topcoat and black leather gloves.
She didn’t remember Randy Wyman as that tall or solid as he appeared now. He surveyed the interior of the memorial. With both hands in his pockets, he stepped forward and looked around again. When he was ready to retreat, Rita spoke.
“I didn’t stand you up.”
Wyman’s head jerked toward the sound of her voice. He stepped back. “I thought you had.” He laughed. “I have the information I told you about.”
“I have some information for you too.”
With his left hand, Wyman reached into the breast pocket of his topcoat and extended a manila envelope. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the monument’s spotlights. His right hand stayed in his pocket.
“Where are you?” he called out in the general direction of her hiding place.
“Here I am.” Rita stepped from behind the column. She had the advantage of herself in shadow, Wyman in full light.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping my distance.” Her hand flexed and she thought about reaching for the Glock, but did not.
The two stood like gunfighters at dueling pace from one another.
“You were Bobby’s source,” Rita said.
Wyman said nothing.
“Until he found something out about you that he couldn’t walk away from. That’s when you killed him.” Rita watched the right coat pocket with Wyman’s hand inside.
“DeVane has certainly fed you a line. You don’t believe that bullshit, do you?”
“DeVane didn’t have to tell me a thing,” Rita called to him. “I learned it all by myself. I learned a lot of things. I know that you paralyzed Dennis Phelps when he threatened to keep you from the NCAA wrestling championship.”
“That’s a lie. That was an accident,” Wyman yelled.
“I know that Bobby kept a mail drop under the name Miriam Blalock and you were the source for dirt on people who stood in the way of what you wanted.”
“Bobby Ellis was a washed-up news junkie who couldn’t write his own name. If it hadn’t been for me, that series would have been a pile of worthless print.” Wyman’s face reddened and the veins in his neck strained tight as he shouted at her.
“He found out you masterminded this little Mexican jumping bean scheme with contribution funds. He found out you became an agent for the Mexican Trade Consul. He knew that Charles Strutt danced to whatever tune you played. You had him line up with healthcare, a piece of legislation that, on his own, he would never have supported. You got paid and
Mexican contract pharma outsourcers got the lion’s share of manufacturing for the healthcare bill’s med fulfillment.”
“He knew nothing.” Wyman’s black-gloved hand coiled from his coat pocket like a cobra.
Rita saw the glint of shining chrome. In turn, she grabbed for the handle of the Glock and ran behind her column.
“The idiot was too stupid to put two and two together.” Wyman ducked behind the Lincoln dais into his own shadow shield.
“Not true, he was a real mathematician.” Rita kept an eye toward the spot where Wyman disappeared, but was wary of a sudden attack from the darkness if he ran around the statue to come up behind her.
A burst of fire from the rear of the dais and a splatter of 9mm shells chipped the marble column she used as cover.
“He was stupid.” Wyman’s voice floated in the darkness and Rita had no idea where he was.
She backed to the next column on the dark west portico. She could hear herself panting and sweat trickled down from the watch cap. She flattened herself and hoped that the black warm up suit was camouflage enough. The smell of cordite spiked the cold still air.
Another burst of gunfire and Abraham Lincoln’s brilliant aura exploded. Wyman had blown out one of the floodlights. The massive marble hall sank into the dusk of reflection from faraway streetlights.
“Shit.” Rita hadn’t seen where the shots came from. She held her breath to listen for footsteps. “Were you the asshole who broke into my office?” Rita called out. She peered around the trunk of her column.
Wyman did not reply.
“Were you the asshole you who broke into my house?” Rita ducked around the column for a quick look and back again.
Wyman kept his silence and Rita could feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down her cheek.
Maybe he left. Maybe he’d run away. This was a perfect opportunity to escape after all. He’d thrown the place into darkness and kept her guessing and under cover long enough to make a clean getaway.
Rita stepped away from the column and padded in front of the darkened Lincoln, pressing her body against the cold marble throne. Before she reached the other side, a chattering blast of bullets raked toward her from behind.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 26