Jonathan smiled. “You know what?” He reached into his pocket. “This is worth a phone call.” He pressed the speed-dial number for Wolverine.
She answered on the second ring. “Scorpion.”
“We’ve been doing some research here,” Jonathan said. “Is it possible that you’ve been holding out on us?”
“I need more than that.”
It took all of thirty seconds to lay out his concerns. “Has Mrs. Darmond been disappeared for a reason?” he concluded.
Irene said, “This is not a conversation for the telephone.”
Jonathan felt excitement stir in his gut. “Well, Wolfie, I have it on good authority that time is of the essence. It’s your call.”
Hesitation. “Is it fair to assume that Mother Hen has found a way to stymie the National Security Agency yet again?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mother Hen had long been Venice’s radio handle, but Jonathan wasn’t about to confirm that.
“One day, you know we’re all going to share a jail cell, right?”
“Not me,” Jonathan said. “I have immunity. Don’t tie my hands, Irene. You’ve asked me to find the First Lady. If you withdraw the request, I’ll sleep fine. But if you want me to do my job, please don’t get in the way.”
Another hesitation. Much longer this time. “Bravo Four Three,” she said. “In two.”
Jonathan checked his watch. It was well past rush hour, but it would still be tight to get downtown to Saint Matthew’s Cathedral in two hours. Then again, he was carrying a badge now — the absolute privilege to drive at killer speeds with impunity. “Okay,” he said, but Irene had already hung up.
“Come on, Big Guy. We’re going to church.”
David forced himself to suppress a gasp when Becky Beckeman answered the door of her Alexandria Apartment. She wore skinny jeans and some kind of a gauzy peasant shirt that somehow emphasized her nipples in high relief. She’d clearly tied her longish dark blond hair up in a hurry, creating a flyaway disheveled look that he’d never seen before. Her normally painted face was free of makeup, and in a weird way, the plainness of it looked better than the mask she wore at work.
“David!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, are you okay?”
“Can I come in?”
She stepped aside, clearing a path. “Yes, yes, of course. Please, let me take your coat.”
As he shrugged out of his North Face jacket, he took in the details of her apartment. Lots of yellow and lots of cat pictures. And daisies. Maybe they were sunflowers. Only the pictures, none of the living variety of either flora or fauna. Typical, he was sure, of twentysomethings living in the residential purgatory that Eastern Towers was, her chief designer appeared to be the Salvation Army thrift store, accessorized by the occasional slipcover. In yellow, of course.
“You sounded so concerned on the phone,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
Cue the pivotal moment. What was the appropriate amount to share when you suspected that representatives of the United States government, augmented by the Metropolitan Police Department, were conspiring to kill you?
“I don’t think you’re in any danger,” he said. He’d meant the words to be reassuring, but when he heard them, he realized that they were terrifying. Becky’s wide-eyed expression confirmed that for him. “I mean—”
“Oh my God, David. What have you done?”
The presumption of fault startled him. “Nothing. I haven’t done anything. It’s my friend Deeshy.”
“Who?”
“DeShawn Lincoln. You met him once in the office.”
“The African American police officer?”
David would have said the black cop. “Yes. Him.”
“What did he do?”
“I think he got himself killed.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. And I think the guys who killed him know that I know. And they know who I am. That’s why I can’t go home.”
Realization fell across Becky’s face like a shade draping a window.
David spoke quickly. “I didn’t call you from my own phone,” he said. “And I took a cab, and I had the cab drop me off at the Hilton on Seminary Road. I walked over here. It should be untraceable.”
“It’s entirely traceable,” Becky argued. “The Hilton’s a quarter mile from here. We’re coworkers. If people know how to look for you, why wouldn’t they look for you here? Certainly, they’d come by here to ask if I’ve seen you.”
David sighed. “Can we sit down?”
The question seemed to startle her. “Oh. Of course. Yes, please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the yellow love seat, while she headed toward the yellow chair that sat opposite. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Any dark liquor.”
Becky winced. “I don’t keep alcohol in the apartment. I have iced tea. It’s freshly brewed.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.” He lowered himself into the puffy love seat and was surprised to find it comfortable. He inhaled deeply. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put you in this position,” he said. “I was in a panic, and I couldn’t think of anyone else.”
From her reaction, he wondered if the words offended her.
Becky eased herself into her chair. “So, you think that your friend was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
David shifted uncomfortably, and crossed his legs. “I don’t know for sure,” he said. He relayed the details of his last conversations with Deeshy, including the parts about the Secret Service and the police.
Becky’s face formed a giant O. “He was killed by the Secret Service? Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
“I think that ‘crazy’ doesn’t touch how it sounds,” David confessed. “But it is what it is.”
Becky looked to the floor, and silence consumed the room for a good two minutes as the gravity of it all sank in. At last, Becky said, “So, what’s your next step?”
“I need cash,” David said. “Not that I have anything in particular to buy, but once Uncle Sam gets his act together, he’s going to start tracking every electronic transaction. My credit cards are going to be off-limits, and even ATM transactions are going to be like footprints in the snow. I need to pocket as much cash as I can before they lock down my accounts.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
David felt his cheeks turn red. “I was hoping that you might drive me to Annapolis tonight. We could cruise some ATMs there. I don’t know how much they’ll let me take before the system locks down, but I’ll grab as much as I can, and then we come back here. With luck, the cops will think that I’m moving north, and that’ll give them even less reason to come sniffing around here.” It was an unspeakably selfish plan.
Becky looked at him for a long time. He’d never noticed the intensity and intelligence of her brown eyes before. She stood. “Okay,” she said. “It’s after ten. We should get started.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jonathan left the Batmobile in its garage and took the BMW M5 instead. It was a long haul from Fisherman’s Cove to downtown Washington, and he decided to make the trip in style. Since Boxers lived in the District to begin with, he drove separately, thus saving Jonathan the needless bitching about the small size of the sports car. The Big Guy’s vehicle of choice was a black on black on black Cadillac Escalade.
At this time of night, parking was not a problem. Jonathan pulled into a spot directly across the street from the cathedral’s front entrance. Saint Matthew’s looked like a black stain against the night, towering over its corner of Rhode Island Avenue like a monstrous architectural sentry. As Jonathan climbed the steps toward the massive wooden doors, he couldn’t help but recall the iconic photographs of John F. Kennedy’s flag-draped casket making this same journey on the shoulders of Honor Guards selected from every branch of the service.