“Actually, I was first interested in government and current events. I began to dabble in writing in school and liked it, but I didn’t really get my journalism career going until years after I graduated.” He paused, thinking back. “Some people would say I had to find myself. Or whatever they call it when you waste a lot of time traveling down a bumpy road and reach a dead end.”
“Are you working on anything special right now?”
“I meant to tell you. I’ve been digging into the crimes against those members of Vigilance for Victims whom we met the other night. I uncovered some explosive information about the perps, and I’ve just about finished a big expose. The paper will run it on Sunday.”
“Oh! Can you give me a sneak preview?”
“Sure. Here’s one for you. Conrad Williams-the punk who shot Kate Higgins’s son, Michael, eight years ago? That was during a robbery in a Hyattsville, Maryland convenience store that Michael managed. Do you know that Williams never should have been on the street, even then? He was on probation at the time-a suspended sentence for a previous second-degree assault, where he stabbed a guy.”
“Probation-for stabbing somebody?”
“Incredible, right? For that, he should have been behind bars for attempted murder-except for a ridiculous plea bargain rubber-stamped by a lenient judge. The prosecutor pled away the presence of the weapon, in exchange for Williams paying the victim’s doctor bills. Then he and the defense attorney got the judge to suspend even the two-year assault charge.”
“That’s horrible! Poor Kate.”
“And it got worse for her. Because after something like that, she at least had the right to expect some measure of justice. But no. You see, Williams was with two other creeps when he shot Michael. But each guy blamed the other for actually pulling the trigger. The prosecutor could have pushed for felony-murder convictions for them all, meaning: They’re all equally guilty of the murder, because they were all engaged in the same crime. Then he could have enhanced Williams’s sentence, because of his probation violation. If he’d pushed for it, he could have put Williams away for fifteen to twenty-five years. They call that a ‘life sentence’ in Maryland. But again-no. Instead, the prosecutor, wanting to avoid trial, let the lot of them plead down to a lower-degree sentence. Williams got ten years, but under Maryland law, he was eligible for a parole hearing after serving only half his sentence. Bottom line? He was out in just over six years.”
“That’s disgraceful.”
“You know what I find especially galling? The prosecutor in Williams’s murder case is now a wealthy judge up in Prince George's County. He lives in a gated lakeside community with a private country club. And the defense attorney is now retired and raising horses in Kentucky.”
“All that is in your article?”
“And a lot more. You should see the other cases.”
She reached across the table and lay her hand on his. He hadn’t noticed that he had balled it up into a fist.
“I said it before, Dylan. I just can’t tell you how much I admire you for what you’re doing.”
He saw the look on her face as she said it. His throat tightened again.
“You can try. ”
*
It was past eleven when he brought her home. He went around to her side to help her from the car. They were both a bit unsteady from the Chianti, so he put his arm around her. Her thigh brushed against his as they walked toward the house.
The sky was clear, chilly, and brightly moonlit. Once again he felt the rising tension between them. The click of her heels against the pavement sounded like a ticking clock.
As they mounted the steps, she fished nervously for her keys, then turned away from him to face the door.
“Hey you,” he said quietly.
She slowly turned back to face him. The light from the overhead lantern gleamed in her eyes.
“I had a lovely time, Dylan. I really did. I-”
He put his palm gently under her chin, leaned in, and kissed her lightly.
Then their arms were around each other, hands moving greedily, mouths locked with ferocious urgency.
“No,” she gasped, pushing herself away.
He swayed, pulse pounding in his throat. “Why?”
“I… It’s too soon.” There was naked fear in her eyes. “Dylan-we barely know each other!”
“Don’t we, Annie Woods?”
She didn’t reply right away. She stood there, fidgeting with her keys.
“I know. I can’t believe this.”
“Me either. Annie, I’ve never-”
She raised her fingers to his lips, stopping him. “Shhhhh. Don’t say anything you might regret.”
“I might regret not saying it.”
That made her smile. “Not now. Not tonight. This is way too fast. I need a little time.”
“And trust.”
She looked up at him, her palm against his chest. “And trust.”
He took the hand. “Me too.” He kissed her palm.
Then he turned abruptly and walked back to his car.
*
Tired of thrashing, knowing he wouldn’t sleep tonight, he sighed and turned on his bedside lamp. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he saw that the clock said it was one-fifteen in the morning.
Don’t be an idiot.
But he took his cell from the nightstand, inserted the battery, and pressed the speed-dial number.
She picked up after a single ring. “Well, mister. I see you can’t sleep, either.”
He felt himself grinning. “Not a chance.”
They remained silent for several moments. A comfortable silence. A connection more real than if she were present, here. In his bed. In his arms. Eyes closed, he listened to her breathe, drinking in the sound. Wondered if she were listening to his own breath.
“What are we going to do about this?” she asked.
“Is that an invitation?”
“No, silly,” she laughed.
“What a terrible waste of this great big king bed.”
“Maybe so. But not tonight.”
“Damn… At least give me a description.”
“A picture present? Okay, then. I’m in a big old four-poster.” He heard a rustling sound. “Lots of soft, fluffy pillows.” A sigh. “Satin sheets.”
He groaned. “What are you wearing?”
Hesitation. Then:
“Not a stitch. Goodnight, Dylan Hunter.”
He heard her chuckle. Then she was gone.
He stared at the phone in disbelief. Then threw it at a stuffed chair across the room. It bounced off, clattered to the floor and popped open, spilling the battery.
“Maaaoowww!”
The cat jumped up on the bed, then strutted majestically toward his hand, where it lay on the covers. She nudged it with her forehead.
He sighed and scratched her between her ears. She purred contentedly, eyes closed.
“Luna, how could I let this happen?”
She opened her eyes. Looked at him disdainfully.
“No, it isn’t just testosterone poisoning.” He remembered how she had looked up at him, put her fingers to his lips. “This is different.”
He fell back onto the pillow, covered his eyes with his forearm.
“You’re insane,” he said. “What in hell are you doing?”
SEVENTEEN
H street, N.E., Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 15, 2:55 a.m.
Two days, two nights. It had been an exercise in patience. A good thing that he was a patient man, used to lying in wait for long periods, and usually under far worse circumstances. But given everything that had happened lately, this target was cautious and didn’t give him any opportunities last night.
Maybe now.
The bearded man had dressed down, far worse than usual. He wore torn, filthy clothes that reeked of the cheap liquor he’d doused them with earlier. In his hands was a paper bag; from its top emerged the mouth of a bottle, from which he occasionally pretended to sip. For most of the night, the booze smell had commingled with that of Caribbean food from the seedy bar and lounge a few doors away. It helped mask the urine stench in the recessed doorway where he sprawled, the entrance to an abandoned shop with plywood over its display window. Across the street from him stood a Salvation Army Thrift Store, a nail salon, and a hair-braiding place.