It was crazy. She knew he’d entered this level of the garage. Even if he’d walked up or down a flight, she would have seen or heard his vehicle depart.
She moved slowly through the rows of cars, her footsteps echoing sharp and hollow, thinking he had to be sitting in one. But they were all empty.
She waited there another five minutes before heading back to his building.
There was only one explanation. She’d been mistaken; the man had only looked like Dylan. He was probably at his apartment.
She fetched her car where she’d abandoned it and drove down into his building’s underground garage. Then she laughed in relief when she pulled up to his reserved spots and saw the Forester sitting there.
Idiot. He’ll have a good laugh, too, when you tell him.
Knowing it would be a presumption, she left her overnight bag in the car. On the way over to the elevator, she felt damp from the drizzle and sweaty from the running. Her hair would be a frizzy mess, too. Great.
She used the key card he’d given her to enter the elevator and ride up to his floor. Walking down the hallway toward his door, though, she felt her anxiety growing again. She tried to remember some of the words she had thought of to explain things to him-then gave it up. No, she had to be spontaneous about this. Authentic. And just hope for the best.
She paused outside his door to gather herself. Then pressed the bell and waited.
After thirty seconds, she tried again.
Nothing.
Well, he has to be here; his car is downstairs. Maybe he’s in the shower.
She pressed the bell again.
No answer. Then a faint meow from the other side of the door.
She knocked, long and hard. “Dylan? Are you there?” No response. “Dylan?”
Then she heard a door unlatch, just down the hall. A distinguished-looking older woman with well-coiffed white curls poked her head outside, frowning slightly.
“Oh! I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” she said to the woman. “I was just trying to let Mr. Hunter know I’m here.”
The woman smiled. “Ah. Well, it won’t do you any good, my dear. He’s not in. I arrived home about fifteen minutes ago, and he was just leaving. If he’s expecting you, though, I’m sure he’ll be back presently.”
She forced a smile, tried to say it calmly. “Perhaps I saw him outside when I drove up a little while ago. Do you remember what was he wearing?”
“Mmmm… Dark hat, dark trench coat or raincoat, I think.”
“Yes. That was him… Thank you.”
“You have a nice evening, my dear.” The woman closed her door.
She stood there a moment, trying to make sense of it. The only sound was Luna scratching at the door.
Falls Church, Virginia
Saturday, November 22, 9:15 a.m.
Even her third cup of coffee couldn’t compensate for the lack of sleep. And nothing she told herself could tamp down the rising tide of fear that had kept her awake.
She knew what she had seen. She spent all night trying to force it to fit into her conception of a sane world. But she couldn’t.
She had seen him leave his building, on foot-his departure confirmed by another eyewitness. She had seen him enter a public parking garage. And she had seen only one vehicle leaving that garage, right after he entered.
When they were training her in investigations, they made a big deal of Occam’s Razor: the principle that the simplest explanation for a given phenomenon was almost always the valid one. Now, Mr. Occam was telling her something both mysterious and ominous.
The simplest explanation was that a man known to her only by an admittedly false name, Dylan Hunter, had left his own car parked in the garage of his residence, and had taken instead a second vehicle- a pizza delivery van -from a parking place at a nearby garage that he could reach quickly, on foot. Occam told her that the van had to belong to Dylan, and that he was parking it there because he didn’t want it to be linked to him.
She didn’t know why. But she couldn’t imagine any reason that wasn’t criminal.
His false name. His secrecy about his past.
How well do you really know him? So far, we’ve been accepting him on blind trust.
Trust.
She knew so little. But what little she did know now shattered her resolution to confide in him.
During the night, she ordered herself to begin to detach from him, emotionally. She knew she had to put aside her feelings, now. She had to reclaim her objectivity. She had to use her skills as an investigator, if she were ever to find out the truth about the man calling himself Dylan Lee Hunter.
She went to the kitchen counter, where she had dropped her purse last night. She opened it and removed her cell and the business card. She tapped in the number.
“Cronin here.”
“Oh. Annie Woods here, Detective. I didn’t expect you to be at your desk on a Saturday. I figured I’d have to leave a voice mail.”
“Yeah, well, duty calls and I’m not at my desk. What can I do for you, Ms. Woods?”
“You said to call if I had any further information about Dylan. Well, I’m afraid I do.”
“‘Afraid.’ That doesn’t sound good. Look, I’m kind of busy right now. Can you give me the headlines?”
She did. She wondered why he remained silent after she finished speaking.
“Ms. Woods,” he said, his words sounding measured, “is there any chance we could meet today? Like, in an hour or two?”
“Why, sure. I suppose so. I have to warn you, though, I’m running on fumes. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Me either. We had another vigilante murder late last night.”
The way he said it bothered her. “Well, it sounds as if we both had busy nights. Before we meet, though-” She stopped.
“What?”
Just say it.
“I want to give you Dylan’s home address.”
Bethesda, Maryland
Saturday, November 22, 9:55 a.m.
The sky had cleared from last night’s rain, so, still in his bathrobe, he took his coffee out onto his balcony. He bent and rested his elbows on the damp railing, sipping the hot liquid. That, combined with the chilly November air, helped to restore his alertness.
He was thinking about the events of the previous night when he heard the slider door open on the next balcony. Sarah Oglethorpe emerged, bundled in a long coat and carrying a black garbage bag, which she crammed into the trash bin she kept out there.
“Morning, Sarah,” he said, nodding.
She looked over, her face brightening. “Oh, good morning, Dylan. Did you have a nice evening?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
She looked impish. “I’ll bet you did. She is certainly adorable.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your lady friend. My, she’s lovely!”
He lowered the cup to the railing, steadying it there. “Are you referring to the woman I’ve been dating recently?”
“Well, before last night I didn’t know you were seeing anyone. But she certainly was eager to see you.”
Keep smiling. “I didn’t know you two had crossed paths.”
“Just after I came home. You remember that you and I passed each other near the elevator? Well, she happened along just a few minutes later. I heard her banging on your door and calling for you, so I told her you’d just left. She mentioned that she thought she saw you go, but wasn’t sure. Anyway, I told her that you’d probably be right back, then. I’m so glad she waited.”
Whatever you do, keep smiling. “Me, too. I really appreciate that, Sarah.” Confirm it was her. “So. I gather that you approve. Did you like her new hairstyle?”
“Oh, yes! So cute, those shorter cuts. They go so well on brunettes with wavy hair like hers.”
“That’s what I told her, too… Well, Sarah, it’s a bit cold out here. Perhaps I’ll see you later this weekend.”
“You give the lady my regards, now.”
Smile. “I will.”
The smile vanished the second he got inside.
TWENTY-EIGHT