She was scratching the cat’s ears to accompanying purrs. “Looking for anyone in particular?”
“I’m not certain. I’d be interested in anyone named Uri, Urinov, or something like that.”
Not much chance the man he’d left in the trunk would sign into a hotel under his real name, but worth a shot.
“You’re aware that hacking into private records is illegal.”
Jason cocked an eyebrow, “No doubt the first time you’ve crossed that threshold.”
The ghost of a smile flirted with her face before disappearing. “Well said. I’ll see what I can do. You could have just sent this matchbook to me. I’m flattered you came in person.”
“Getting out of DC at the time seemed like a good idea.”
Besides, he’d gotten a flight that was not Delta.
“Should I come back?”
She shook her head, already concentrating of the screen in front of her. “Not unless you’re in a hurry. I can’t imagine a hotel’s firewall that can’t be cracked in less than an hour.”
Actually, it took seventeen minutes.
She motioned him over. “Come have a look.”
Jason saw a list of names and numbers he guessed indicated dates and room numbers.
He watched her scroll down for several minutes. “Not a Uri in the lot.”
The cat leapt down from her lap to be replaced by another. “Lot of Latino names, though.”
“No wonder. The place is in San Juan.”
She looked up at him. “And just when was the last time you stayed at the Ritz or Willard’s in DC?”
It took a split second for her point to register.
“You’re saying that locals wouldn’t be staying in a hotel.”
“And look at the place.” The screen flashed a virtual tour of swimming pool, spa, and other amenities before going back to the lists. “How many couples do you see on the list of guests? I’d guess if those are legitimate businessmen, they would have chosen something a little less luxurious than a what looks like a beautifully restored old building. If they are tourists, why wouldn’t they want to stay at the Caribe Hilton, the El San Juan, or someplace else on the beach? I’m saying there is something odd here.”
“Can you get the home addresses of the guests?”
She gave him a real grin this time. “Mr. Peters, if it exists on a computer, I can get it.”
A few strokes of the keyboard later, she exclaimed. “Wow! Talk about peculiar!”
Jason had been distracted by a pair of cats that seemed to be disputing possession of a toy mouse. At least he hoped it was a toy. “What?”
She pointed to the screen. “Not only have a number of the hotel guests paid multiple visits in three months, the ones that have give a local address”—she pointed—“see? Same zip code as the El Convento, Calle Luna 23. How weird is that, checking into a hotel in the same zip code as your home address?”
“Maybe they weren’t alone. Maybe …”
He could have sworn Sybil blushed. “I wouldn’t think four hundred dollars a night and up would cater to the hot-pillow trade.”
Jason thought a moment. “Can you call up their bills? I mean, did they have their meals at the hotel?”
Keys clicked.
“I’d say these gentlemen have a strong preference for vodka. Not a piña colada or daiquiri between them. And they must have taken meals out of the hotel. Any other questions?”
Jason patted her shoulder. “Only how much do I owe you?”
“As always, depends. If you’re paying by check or want a written bill, my fee is six-fifty. Five hundred in cash will do as well.”
Like so many small businesses, Sybil operated below the IRS’s radar.
Jason was already going for his wallet. “I remember. Tax evasion is also illegal.”
She was reaching for five crisp bills. “It is also the American pastime.”
As Jason left the house, the heat of a Southern summer hit him like a slap across the face. He slipped off his jacket. The back was covered in cat hair. How had that happened?
39
Jason had returned to Washington and gone from the airport to Brooks Brothers’ Connecticut Avenue store, the one at which Monica Lewinsky purchased a tie for the president whom she would soon bring into national ridicule, if not disgrace. Jason was here not to revisit history but to supplement the meager wardrobe he had brought from Ischia. A half dozen polo shirts (Golden Fleece Performance in varying hues of pastel), a couple pair of Bermuda shorts (plaid), pre-hemmed khakis (with retro pleats), two swimsuits, and a pair of canvas shoes with rubber soles, the sort of things seen in resort areas and on Ivy League campuses.
“Headed to the beach?” the oversolicitous clerk wanted to know as he slid the credit card.
“Something like that,” Jason said noncommittally.
But not the Hamptons, Newport, Martha’s Vineyard, or any of the other places where the people who wore that stuff were likely to go.
Jason’s attention then focused on a homeless man who had staked out his territory across the street. Between Dupont Circle and the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, this section of Connecticut Avenue had heavy vehicular traffic and relatively few pedestrians to panhandle. The begging would be far more lucrative at, say, the National Mall, Capitol Hill, or the hotels clustered around Pennsylvania Avenue, Lafayette Park, and the White House.
The guy wore a long-sleeved, worn flannel shirt, soiled and wrinkled denims belted with a length of rope, and a pair of sneakers. He seemed determined, stopping the occasional few passersby. Most ignored him, a few made a show of detouring around him, and even fewer reached into their pockets. No matter what the result, though, the man seemed to always be in a position to observe the store’s entrance.
The fact he had chosen this specific spot had first attracted Jason’s attention, the long-sleeved shirt despite the day’s heat his suspicion, and his interest in the comings and goings of this particular store his anxiety.
The sales clerk was folding the purchases into paper bags when Jason asked, “Is there a back entrance?”
The young man looked puzzled that a patron of such a high-end store would ask the question. Few if any of his customers would want to sneak out.
“Why, yes, there is. But it’s there because of fire code. An alarm goes off if you open it. Why?”
What do you say? That the bum out there is not really a street person but someone who followed me here and wants to kill me? That he’s part of a group that seems so dedicated to that purpose that I, personally, killed two of them and seriously wounded a third last night?
“Thought I saw my ex on the street. I make it a practice to avoid her whenever possible.”
The clerk’s face registered understanding. “If you’d describe her for me, Mr. Peters, I’d be happy to take a peek outside.”
“Better yet, could you call a cab?”
As the taxi pulled away from the entrance to the store a few minutes later, Jason thought, but could not be sure, the homeless man’s lips were moving as though speaking into the mouthpiece of a concealed cell phone.
Imagination, or was Jason being overly cautious? For certain, he had never known anyone who died from an overdose of paranoia. Four men had been either killed or disabled last night. The force arrayed against him must be substantial if it numbered enough to mount a surveillance operation so quickly.
Good thing Jason wasn’t sticking around.
The cab stopped at the guard shack at the gate of Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. Jason flashed his credentials and temporary visitor pass a second before the armed guard waved them through. The security here certainly wasn’t what it would be in a war zone or even on foreign soil, but being adjacent to one of the nation’s most crime-ridden urban areas assured the fence’s electric charges were constant, the perimeter patrols vigilant, and the gate guards armed. It was, Jason supposed, ironic that here in the nation’s capital, guards were necessary to ensure the safety of the lives and property of a military against the very citizens they had sworn to protect.