Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (26 page)

He shrugged.

They worked in silence.

Gaspar finished the packing box stack. “Looks like Bernie should have hired Alfred Lane years ago. The prior clerk wasn’t as competent. The early stuff is all mixed up.”

Kim found Alfred Lane’s computer print-outs at the bottom of the pile. Eight pages. The printer was low on ink. The font was tiny. She sought brighter light to read.

Gaspar’s phone rang. He walked his own kinks out as he listened. Then he said, “OK, keep me posted. Thanks, Jenny.”

Kim asked, “So is Alfred Lane in custody?” She opened the drapes and tilted the print-outs to the light. She scanned them.

She stopped on page two.

How could that be?

She flipped to page four. She barely heard Gaspar’s reply to her question.

He said, “No, some genius got held up at the courthouse. Duty judge out to lunch or something. By the time they reached Crystal City, Alfred was long gone.”

She asked anyway, “Did they get any data?”

He said, “The whole freaking place was on fire. They’re still fighting the blaze. Jenny says there will be nothing left but the cinders.”

Then there was a knock at the door behind her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The knock sounded like a rhythm. Like a pre-arranged code. Like Morse.

Dum-diddy-dum-dum; dum-dum.

Housekeeping?

Kim looked at Gaspar. The only name registered downstairs was female. So Kim called out, “Who is it?”

A voice said, “Sylvia? It’s Elle. Gabrielle. Can I come in, honey?”

What the hell?

Gaspar shook his head, raised both palms to indicate he was equally clueless.

The knock code came again.
Dum-diddy-dum-dum; dum-dum.
Elle or Gabrielle sounded happy but urgent. And too loud. “I want to see you, Sylvia. You know that. Come on. Let me in.”

Kim navigated around the bed, and looked through the peep-hole. Saw a woman about Sylvia’s age, and well dressed.

“How’d you find me?” Kim asked, in a stage whisper, and watched.

Elle chuckled and said, “Some things haven’t changed, honey. I still know every front desk clerk and every security chief in every hotel in DC. I knew you were in town. I asked my friends to call me if you checked in anywhere.”

No one else within the fisheye’s range. “Are you alone?”

“Just me, myself, and I, honey. Open the door.”

Gaspar pulled his gun and moved silently into the bathroom, and left that door open an inch. Kim folded Alfred’s printouts and stuffed them in the back pocket of her slacks. She slipped on her gun and added her jacket to cover both bulges. She flipped the safety lever, turned the deadbolt, twisted the knob. She stood a little behind the door, where Elle wouldn’t see her immediately. She swung the door half-way open.

Elle came in like a runway model, hips thrust forward, all angles and elbows. She was dressed in vintage Jackie Kennedy pink, from the pill box hat and the pale lipstick all the way down to the tan hose and the pumps. She was wearing Chanel No. 5. She was giggling like a teenager.

“I can’t believe you’re back, sweetie. You’ve been gone so long! I thought I’d never see you again!”

Elle cleared the threshold.

Kim body-pressed the door and clicked the deadbolt.

Elle turned.

She blinked several times as if Kim would become Sylvia if only her emerald contact lenses would clear.

Didn’t happen.

Elle said, “Who are you?”

Up close, she looked a few years older than Sylvia. Well-groomed, expensive style. A pink purse in white-gloved hands. Maybe wondering if she should pull out the pepper spray right now.

Kim said, “I’m a friend of Sylvia’s.”

Elle scanned the room. Saw the room service tray, set for two. Saw two suitcases. Two laptop cases. She saw Sylvia’s name on the mail.

She called, “I’m so glad you picked this stuff up, Sylvia,” clearly thinking Sylvia was in the bathroom. “I went over there like you asked me to and cleaned out a couple times. Some new guy started working there this summer. A real stickler. He wouldn’t let me take any more.”

Then Elle saw Gaspar’s shoes and jacket. “Where
is
Sylvia?”

“She dashed out to pick up a few things,” Kim said. “You know Sylvia.”

Big smile from Elle. And a wink. “Forever, honey. We worked all around the world together. I mean, really, Zurich, Paris, New York. Me and Sylvia, we had some good times. She’s like me. Loves the job. Loves the adventure. It’s exciting, you know? Will she be back here before the party? I have
really
missed that girl. I’d love to see her before the crowd gets to her.”

The boss’s cell rang. Elle looked toward the source, which was Gaspar’s jacket. She nodded knowingly, as if unanswered ringing from a man’s pocket should absolutely always be ignored.

Why was he calling right this moment?

Split second decision. Kim said, “I’m meeting Sylvia in the bar in a minute. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll be fun.”

Another ring.

She ushered Elle out to the corridor and closed the door firmly behind them. Gaspar could deal with the boss. In the elevator Elle said, “You don’t look like a working girl.” She scanned Kim’s black suit and her work shoes. “Are you going as a cop? Is that what they want? You could be real FBI in that costume. Do you know Sylvia’s FBI boyfriend? Was that him in the bathroom? Oh my God! I didn’t interrupt did I? You were done, right? All the cops ever want is oral, anyway.”

Kim covered the jolt with what she hoped was just the right amount of salaciousness. “Her FBI boyfriend?”

Elle’s unfazed babbling continued, as if now she and Kim had a great deal in common. “I only met him once. Tall. Built. Gorgeous eyes. High level job over there in the Hoover building. He’s the one kept Sylvia out of jail when we all got jammed up a few years back. Set her up out of town someplace. She just couldn’t say enough about him. Sounded like a boyfriend to me.”

Elle saw Kim’s sickened expression, and patted her hand. “But I maybe read it wrong. I’m sure they’re just friends, honey. You don’t need to worry. Sylvia’s got her head on straight. She keeps her mind on the money. No silly romance for working girls like me and Sylvia. We don’t want that. Gets in the way, you know?”

The elevator opened in the lobby. Elle waved to her friend at the front desk. They entered the bar, where Elle knew the bartender, too.

“Jimmy, send us over two gin martinis, will you, honey? Bleu cheese olives? Just a little dirty, like me. Thanks, honey. But weak, OK?” She slid into the first booth. Giggled. Delivered another body slam to Kim’s gut. “Don’t want to get drunk before we get there. Marion Wallace throws the best parties in DC. Booze flows like water. And the food! To die for, honey, just you wait.”

Elle laughed as if free flowing alcohol at a Marion Wallace party was the height of luxurious joy.

Marion Wallace?

How could this be happening?

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C.

November 3

5:05 p.m.

Wallaces had lived on Dumbarton street in Georgetown “since Eve ate the apple,” as Marion Wallace often said. Gaspar parked down the block and Kim watched him limping back toward her, trying to hide the pain. She knew he’d walk it out. She wished her own anxiety was as easily dealt with.

She saw fall leaves and green spaces and tired jack-o-lanterns nestling on stoops. She was hunched into her jacket against the frigid wind. She was repeating her silent mantra on a constant loop:
One choice, right choice. One choice, right choice. One choice, right choice.

Marion Wallace’s place was a Colonial revival mansion, all red brick, white trim, Doric columns, eyelid windows, and keystone lintels. The exterior had been well maintained since the nineteenth century. Kings had slept there, and waltzed there. Diplomats. Presidents, senators, governors. A few other worthy celebrities from time to time.

“Where’s your new best friend?” Gaspar asked, only slightly winded when he got next to her.

Kim nodded toward the house. He raised his eyebrow. She couldn’t speak quite yet. But she would. She opened the white wrought iron gate. Preceded him along a red brick walk lined by tended hedges. Four steps up, under a canopy, a double entry door separated the past from the present. Kim pushed the bell and heard chimes pealing inside. She fought nausea.

One choice, right choice.

A liveried butler opened the door. “Welcome to Wallace House,” he said. He indicated an open archway on his right. “Guests will be received in the ballroom.”

“Thank you,” Gaspar said.

One choice, right choice.

Kim stepped across the threshold.

The ballroom was alive with beautiful women. Champagne and hors d’oeuvres were delivered and removed by tuxedoed servers. A string quartet played lively classics in the far corner. Stargazer lilies and gardenias battled vintage perfumes.

“Wow,” Gaspar said. “What’s the occasion?”

One choice, right choice.

She cleared her throat.

“Hump day,” she said.

“Say what?”

“Wednesday party. Every week.”

Gaspar nodded. Looked around the room as if he’d never attended a prom. “Don’t get me wrong. I love all these gorgeous women. But where are the men?”

“Too early. Events start at seven.”

“What events?”

“All events. The ballets, the symphony, state dinners, the theater. Whatever is going on in DC tonight where diplomats and dignitaries need escorts.”

“These gorgeous creatures are hookers?”

Gaspar seemed bewildered; she had no patience for silliness. Not now.

“This is
Wallace and Company.
Try not to be such a Miami rube, will you?”

Too harsh.

He snapped back, “Little Miss Detroit knows all things Washington?”

Softer reply. “Four years of Georgetown law school for my JD/MBA left me no choice. DC overwhelms you even more than New York. Seeps into your bones. Never leaves.”

One choice, right choice.

Kim led Gaspar to a line of guests awaiting their hostess poised amid a gaggle of beauties at the receiving line’s end. They shuffled forward after each guest was welcomed, ever closer to humiliation. Her heart pounded, and her breathing was shallow. Acid churned in her stomach. She wiped sweaty palms on her thighs. Her hands didn’t get drier.

The final group moved past their hostess. Straight ahead now was Marion Wallace. Perhaps the most famous courtesan to power since Madame de Pompadour. Vivid beyond reason. Exquisite alabaster skin. Amazing violet eyes and inky lashes. Lush full lips perpetually upturned. Leonine mane loosely flowing from crown below taut chin. Diamonds and sapphires adorned lobes and clavicle above perfect neckline.

Intimidating as hell.

And as poisonous as she’d been on Kim’s wedding day.

“Welcome to my home,” Marion said. A white-gloved hand was extended for a brief squeeze.

Kim’s voice deserted her. She squeezed back, and was released.

Gaspar stepped up. He said their names and handed over two business cards, one for each of them. Marion glanced at the cards and placed them on a silver tray next to her throne with all the others.

Gaspar said, “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Wallace. Maybe five minutes. After you’ve received your guests.”

Marion exhibited the kind of grace under pressure that Kim had yet to master. “I’ll be pleased to help you if I can. We will talk privately in my salon when I’m free. In the meantime, please enjoy yourselves.”

Thus dismissed, an assistant waved them forward.

Was it possible Marion didn’t remember Kim at all?

Thank you, God.

Gaspar shifted his weight, and clasped his hands and said, “Let’s find a less conspicuous place to cool our heels. I feel like an underdressed prune in a loaf of angel food cake.”

Kim moved toward Marion’s salon. He followed, entranced by the spectacle.

She said, “Don’t worry. Dressed in FBI ugly, people will think we’re the security team. Totally ignorable.”