“Your arm’s still bleeding,” she said.
“It’s nothing,” he said distractedly as he sat down in a chair, his gaze flitting to the window.
“Listening for more sirens?” she asked as she perched on the bed, drawing her legs up under her.
He shot her a glance and then looked away.
“If it makes you feel better I have a rap sheet too,” said Davis.
“Before you found the pot of gold with your adoptive parents?” he said.
“Something like that. How about you?”
“I never found a pot of gold.”
“I mean the criminal part.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor.” He rose and took off his shoes.
Davis stood, unzipped her dress, and stepped out of it.
Rogers froze. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t look at him as she took off her bra and underwear. “Don’t get crazy. I can’t sleep with clothes on.” She smiled. “The guys usually don’t mind. And it’s not like you haven’t seen me naked.”
She went into the bathroom, washed her face, came back out, and crawled under the covers. Rogers watched her turn on her side and close her eyes.
“Good night, Paul.”
He hit the wall switch and the room became dark. He looked down at the floor and then walked over to the bed and lay down on top of the covers.
Davis turned to face him. “We’re two peas in a pod, right? Damaged goods trying to make our way?”
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
She gripped his hand. “Things will look better in the morning,” she said. “They always do.”
“But what about the rest of the day?” he said dully.
“Well, that’s why I learned to shoot like that.”
She closed her eyes and fell asleep.
47
WHILE THE POLICE continued to process the crime scene, Puller took the opportunity to go upstairs and inside the room where Josh Quentin had been.
The police had questioned and then released Quentin and his group. They had hightailed it out of here so fast one of the ladies had run out of her high heels.
Puller looked around the space. Bottles of beer and whiskey and wineglasses littered the place. So they had been partying.
He went through the door into what was set up as a bedroom. The bed was unmade, the pillows on the floor.
So they had been doing more than drinking. Were the women with Quentin hookers? Was that what was going on up here? Was that why Quentin was so scared about the cops coming? Big executive for a defense contractor caught with his pants down in a sea of hookers? And why would Helen Myers, who seemed to Puller like a sensible and responsible business owner, take that sort of risk? This was not Vegas. Prostitution was not legal in Virginia.
He walked back down the stairs to find Myers watching him from the bar. He walked over to her.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
Her mascara had run from her crying. She seemed to catch what he was gazing at, turned to the bar mirror, saw the damage, and used a wet bar towel to rub off the mascara.
“I guess I look a mess,” she said.
“You’re alive. Count your blessings.”
She slowly put down the towel. “You’re right.”
“Who’s Josh Quentin?” asked Puller.
“I told you, he’s a customer.”
“He uses the upstairs room.”
“He does.”
“What for?”
“A private space.”
“What does he need a private space for?”
Her expression became guarded. “I wouldn’t know. That’s why they call it private.”
“There’s a bedroom up there. And it looks like some action took place there.”
She shrugged.
Puller looked around at the cops and detectives working the bar area.
“These guys will eventually work their way up there. And they’re going to have the same sorts of questions.”
“Upstairs had nothing to do with what happened downstairs.”
“Doesn’t matter if something illegal was going on up there.”
“Nothing illegal was going on up there,” she retorted.
“How do you know? You just said you don’t know what goes on up there.”
“I meant that I know Josh, and he would engage in nothing illegal.”
“Prostitution is illegal.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Those women are not hookers.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes!”
“How? Because Quentin told you? I know for a fact that they’re not coworkers of his.”
She crossed her arms and stared back at him. “I really don’t have to tell you anything.”
“No, you really don’t.” He pointed to the cops and detectives. “But those guys you do. And I’d have a better story prepared than the bullshit you just tried to feed me.”
Myers rose. “I need to attend to some things.”
“I’m sure. Calling a really good lawyer should be first on the list.”
She hurried from the room and disappeared down the hall to her office.
On a hunch Puller went over to the bar where one of the waiters was sitting looking exhausted. He held up his set of keys and said, “Ms. Myers asked me to get something from her car, but she was so distraught she forgot to tell me what make and model.”
The man said, “Oh, it’s the blue BMW 750. License plate says ‘Grunt.’ She parks it in the back lot.”
“Thanks.”
He went outside and got into his car and positioned it so that he could see the big Beemer.
Fifteen minutes passed and then he saw Myers rush out from the back of the bar, climb into the BMW, and fire it up. She drove out of the lot and hit the street.
Puller moved in behind her but kept well back. There was enough early morning traffic that he had some cover behind other cars.
The drive was not a long one. But it was surprising for Puller.
Myers drove into Fort Monroe and made her way along the waterfront before cutting a sharp left away from the channel. A few minutes later she pulled up to the gate at Building Q.
Puller stopped, got out his camera, and snapped some shots of Myers, who after being vetted by the guards was waved through. She parked in a free space.
Before she even got out of the car one of the exterior doors of the building opened and there appeared Josh Quentin. He was still dressed in the same suit and still looked shaken by the night’s events. He and Myers hugged and then he led her inside.
Puller managed to get shots of all this. Then he sat in his car thinking about what to do next.
He had no authority to gain access to Building Q. If he tried he’d either be thrown out on his ass or arrested. Or both.
Two hours passed and he had decided to drive back to his hotel and try a different tack in solving this case when Myers came out of the building. Quentin was not with her.
She drove out of the parking lot and Puller fell in behind her. She apparently was so focused on where she was going that she never once looked back.
He followed her onto Interstate 64 heading west. She got off at the exit for historic Williamsburg.
Puller checked his watch. It was now after eight in the morning.
Puller followed her to the Williamsburg Inn, a stately building a short walk from the downtown shopping area. She opted against the valet and parked her Beemer in the lot on the right side of the hotel’s entrance.
Puller did likewise and pulled out a ball cap and sunglasses and exchanged his jacket for a blue windbreaker he kept in his duffel. He put those on just in case she turned around and spotted him.
She walked past the top-hatted front doorman and into the lobby of the inn.
Puller flitted in after her.
She must have called someone from her car, because Puller watched as she walked straight through the elegant lobby and out through a set of French doors on the other side that emptied into the rear grounds of the inn. There was wrought iron furniture set up there with aged brick underneath forming the patio.