Reeder knocked on Rogers’ door.
“It’s open, Joe,” she called.
He went in and saw Rogers and Kevin side by side on the new couch. The boyfriend had wiped off the shaving cream, the blue of beard making his profession seem unlikely. His concerned expression didn’t surprise Reeder, who walked over to face them.
Looking up at him, locking eyes, Rogers said, “Kevin isn’t coming with us.”
Reeder frowned. “He really should. Kevin, you really should.”
She held up a hand to cut him off. “It’s not that we don’t value your opinion, Joe, or your advice... but this is our issue, mine and Kevin’s, and we think it’s safer for both of us if only I know where he is.”
Reeder nodded. She was right, of course, it was their issue. But he did say, to both of them, “Staying here would be foolish.”
They were holding hands. “Kevin won’t be here... he has friends he can stay with.”
Reeder’s eyebrows went up. “He might be endangering them.”
“Kevin doesn’t think so. Joe, other than these friends and a few others, no one really knows about us anyway. We’ve kept it low-key, these months. It’s not like we’re posting selfies on Instagram or Facebook.”
Reeder shifted his gaze to Kevin. “You’re sure about this? You do seem to be living together. I don’t know how much Patti told you, but we’re navigating very treacherous waters right now. I sent my own family away.”
Kevin said nothing, just raised a forefinger in “wait” mode. He got up and disappeared down the hall. Reeder frowned at Rogers again, but she just smiled, and raised a hand in her own “wait” gesture.
Kevin was gone about two minutes, but that was enough time for him to finish his shave and put on his shoulder-length wig of brunette curls. Wrapped in a dark blue silk robe, he was Kevin no more — this was Virginia Plain.
Planting himself before Reeder, Kevin — his voice higher, sharper now — said, “Joe, dear, how long have you and Patti been on the radar of these miscreants? Long enough for them to know about Patti and me, despite our discretion?”
“They might know about Kevin,” Reeder admitted, “but probably not Virginia.”
Startlingly, Kevin’s voice dropped to his normal male pitch. “That’s right. And until we all can come in from the cold, I’ll be in full-on Virginia — clothes, makeup, heels, hair, the whole magilla. Trust me — they’ll never know.”
Reeder nodded. “I’m convinced. But we’re dealing with people who have no compunction about killing, remember... and who have resources that stretch into the highest reaches of government. You need to be good and goddamn careful. Patti, you gave him a burner?”
She nodded.
“Kevin — Virginia — whatever. Anything out of the ordinary, anything scares or disturbs you, you get back to us, now. Understood?”
“Understood, Mr. Reeder.”
“And Kevin?”
“Yes?”
“Goddamnit, it’s ‘Joe.’”
The beautiful face beamed. “All right, Joe.”
Reeder curled a finger at Rogers and said, “Time.” She nodded, went over and gave Kevin a quick kiss, and then she and Reeder were out the door.
They were in the elevator, on their way down, when she asked, “So — Miggie?”
He told her what Mig had shared about the GAO drone.
She frowned. “Lawrence Morris — he even sounds like a damn accountant.”
“Accountants don’t generally threaten to kill you.”
Then he told her that everybody but Ivanek and Nichols had checked in, and gave her the number of Miggie’s new phone.
In the parking garage, Rogers said, “I’m not worried about Ivanek — half the time he doesn’t answer when he knows it’s you.”
“No argument,” Reeder said. “But I’d feel better if we checked on Nichols.”
“No argument,” Rogers echoed.
Anne Nichols lived in a two-bedroom flat in a high-rise on Connecticut Avenue NW, a good neighborhood strewn with apartment houses, south of Melvin C. Hazen Park. The tan-brick building was on the corner, two burning-bush trees guarding either side of the front walk.
At the entrance, up a few steps, Reeder called Miggie and asked, “Any luck reaching Anne?”
“Nope.”
“Can you give me the security code to her building?”
“Give me a second.”
Keystrokes clicked through the phone, then Miggie gave Reeder the requested numbers.
“Thanks,” Reeder said. “You’ll hear from us soon.”
Reeder ended the call.
He and Rogers moved through the outer lobby, passing the wall of mailboxes and a potted plant that did not really bring the Great Outdoors inside.
Next to the security door, a keypad was waiting for Reeder to punch in the code. The door buzzed open.
The interior lobby, unpopulated at this hour, had a little more space than the outer one, accommodating two potted plants, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and one elevator.
Soon they were on Nichols’ floor, moving down the corridor, guns drawn. Reeder kept behind Rogers as she moved down the otherwise empty hall toward the last door on the right.
Not surprisingly, Nichols’ door was locked. Rogers knocked and got no response. She tried again — nothing. They traded a look, and Reeder whispered, “You do the honors,” and she nodded and withdrew a small pouch of lock picks from a pocket.
They were inside in well under a minute. The living room was dark, and Reeder hit the lights — the place was as stylish as Nichols herself, ultramodern, blacks and browns and whites. Nothing looked disturbed. They traded rooms and yells of “Clear!”
No Nichols.
No sign of her.
Reeder had fought the thought that they might find her dead in here, and that she wasn’t, well, that was a relief, at least.
Rogers just behind him, Reeder turned on the overhead light in the galley kitchen, and they both saw it at once — a sheet of copy-size paper on top of the stove.
One oversized computer-printed word, red ink — COLLATERAL.
Reeder shook his head. “Jesus.”
Rogers got her cell out, called Miggie, and reported what they’d found.
She told him, “Have Bohannon stop by Ivanek’s. If Trevor’s not home, have Jerry stake out the place.”
“You got it.”
“And pull Wade in. Give him the Batcave directions. We need reinforcements.”
“Sounding like it.”
“Meantime, while we’re headed back to you, round up the security video from Anne’s building. Can you do that?”
“I can do that,” Miggie said, and clicked off.
Reeder was leaning against a counter. He said to her, “Did you see one thing out of place? Any damn thing at all?”
“No.”
“Whoever took her got her by surprise. Got the drop on her.”
“Joe, they could have taken her any time after Hardesy delivered her that burner phone. No one’s heard from her since.”
He sighed deep. “Let’s hope Bohannon gets to Ivanek in time.”
He glanced at the one-word note, finding one small scrap of solace.
At least COLLATERAL wasn’t followed by DAMAGE.
“How far you can go without destroying from within what you are trying to defend from without?”
Twelve
Lawrence Morris sat at the long narrow table in the expansive private dining room of the Federalist Club on F Street. He had been here a few times, to deliver messages, but had never been admitted past the front vestibule. Tonight, he perched among the chosen, ready to deliver his report when the chairman called upon him.