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Which more than paid for the Sacher tortes flown all the way from Vienna.
And besides, the Wolf was a fan
of fast, beautiful cars . . . of fast, beautiful everything.
Chapter 18
I FLEW BACK TO D.C. the next day and was home at six that night, finished with work for the day. At times like this, I almost felt that maybe I had my life back. Maybe I’d done the right thing by joining the Bureau. Maybe . . . As I climbed out of the ancient black Porsche, I saw Jannie on the front porch. She was practicing her violin, her “long bows.” She wanted to be the next Midori. The playing was impressive—to me, anyway. When Jannie wanted something, she went after it.
“Who’s the beautiful young lady holding that Juzek so perfectly?” I called as I trudged up the lawn.
Jannie glanced my way, said nothing, smiled knowingly, as if only she knew the secret. Nana and I were involved in her practices, which featured the Suzuki method of instruction. We modified the method slightly to include both of us. Parents were a part of practice, and it seemed to pay dividends. In the Suzuki way, great care was taken to avoid competition and its negative effects. Parents were told to listen to countless tapes and attend lessons. I had gone to many of the lessons myself. Nana covered the others. In that way, we assumed the dual role of “home teacher.”
“That’s so beautiful. What a wonderful sound to come home to,” I told Jannie. Her smile was worth everything I’d gone through at work that day.
She finally spoke. “To soothe the savage beast,” she said. Violin under one arm, bow held down, Jannie bowed, and then she began to play again.
I sat on the porch steps and listened. Just the two of us, the setting sun, and the music. The beast was soothed.
After she finished practice, we ate a light dinner, then hurried over to the Kennedy Center for one of the free programs in the Grand Foyer. Tonight it was “Liszt and Virtuosity.” But wait—there was more. Tomorrow night we planned to attack the new climbing wall at the Capital Y. Then, with Damon, it was a video game extravaganza featuring Eternal Darkness: Sanity’s Requiem and Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos.
I hoped we could keep it up like this. Even the video games. I was on the right track now and I liked it. So did Nana and the kids.
Around ten-thirty, to complete the day just right, I got hold of Jamilla on the phone. She was home at a decent hour for a change. “Hey,” she said at the sound of my voice.
“Hey back at you. Can you talk? This a good time?”
“Might be able to squeeze in a couple of minutes for you. I hope you’re calling from home. Are you?”
“Been here since around six. We had a family night at the Kennedy Center. Big success.”
“I’m jealous.”
We talked about what she was up to, then my big night with the kids, and finally my life and times with the Bureau. But I had the sense that Jamilla needed to get off after about fifteen minutes. I didn’t ask if she had anything going for tonight. She’d tell me if she wanted to.
“I miss you way out there in San Francisco,” I said, and left it at that. I hoped it didn’t come off as not caring. Because I did care about Jam. She was in my thoughts all the time.
“I have to run, Alex. Bye,” she said.
“Bye.”
Jamilla had to run. And I was finally trying to stop.
Chapter 19
THE NEXT MORNING I was told to attend a key-person meeting about the Connolly kidnapping and the possibility that the abduction was connected to others in the past twelve months. The case had been upgraded to “major,” and it had the code name “White Girl.”
An FBI Rapid Start Team had already been dispatched to Atlanta. Satellite photos of the Phipps Plaza shopping center had been ordered in the hope that we could identify the motor vehicle the UNSUBS had used to get there before driving away in the Connolly station wagon.
There were about two dozen agents in a windowless “major case” room at the Bureau in Washington. When I arrived, I learned that Washington would be the “office of origin” for the case, which meant the case was important to Director Burns. The Criminal Investigative Division had already prepared a briefing book for him. The important entry point for the FBI was that a federal judge’s wife had disappeared.
Ned Mahoney from HRT sat down next to me and seemed not just outgoing but friendly. He greeted me with a winking “Hey, star.” A tiny dark-haired woman in a black jumpsuit plopped down on the other side of me. She introduced herself as Monnie Donnelley and told me she was the Violent Crimes analyst attached to the case. She talked extraordinarily fast, lots of energy, almost too much.
“Guess we’ll be working together,” she said, and shook my hand. “I’ve already heard good things about you. I know your résumé. I attended Hopkins for grad school too. How about that?”
“Monnie’s our best and our brightest,” Mahoney interjected. “And that’s a gross understatement.”
“He’s so right,” Monnie Donnelley agreed. “Spread the word. Please. I’m tired of being a secret weapon.”
