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Hours ticked by. By quarter past noon, Cotter decided it was time for lunch. He dug into a sandwich and Billy followed suit.
Between bites, Cotter pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
At the other end, his client said, “Yes?”
“Just to let you know, no movement. In or out.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Cotter closed his phone and finished his sandwich in three bites.
“Surveillance sucks,” Billy grumbled.
“Tell me about it.”
“She’s bound to stay in there all day. What with the news and all.”
Cotter nodded. “Probably. Question is, who’ll try to come to her?”
Billy grunted assent. Cotter felt like his eyes might cross if he had to stare at the building much longer. Both men jolted when Jessica emerged and scurried down the front steps. Cotter could tell it was her, although she wore a pair of dark glasses and a floppy hat. She nibbled on a snack as she walked, head bowed, but swiveling now and then, as if to check her surroundings.
Cotter weighed the possibilities. She could be taking the subway or cab. Or she could be walking. The safest alternative for a fugitive seemed to be a cab.
She had passed them going down the opposite side of the street, when he started the car.
“Won’t she notice us?” Billy said.
“Not if we take it slow. And careful.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing before.”
Cotter gave him a hard look. “This time, we’ll do it better.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jessica
So much for lunch. I snatched a granola bar from Liz’s stash, headed out the door, and took a right toward the main road. I thought about the subway, but worried that the Metro security people might recognize me, despite my feeble attempts to disguise myself. Assuming I could remember where the nearest Metro stop was.
I felt ridiculous in the hat that I’d found in Liz’s closet, but it had a nice, wide brim that flopped over my face just enough to hide my features. I couldn’t help feeling it was just a touch too sophisticated for my jeans and T-shirt. At least it was a silk T-shirt. Still the hat seemed to cry out to be matched with something more like a little black dress or a long gown like Holly Golightly wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Hopefully, it wouldn’t have the opposite effect of making me even more conspicuous.
I was idly considering the possibility of taking up smoking through a long-handled cigarette holder and living the Bohemian life—just me and a cat holding parties every night in a New York apartment—when I reached the corner and noticed a couple of cabs roll by. Hmm. Should I take a cab or walk? The walk was several blocks. Now, in Boulder, several blocks is nothing. In D.C., even one block can seem close to a mile. It depends on which block you’re talking about. On the stretch of Constitution Avenue I was headed for, a block could stretch out for some distance.
“Oh, hell.” I waved down the next cab I spotted. He pulled up to the curb, with an abrupt squeak of tires.
As I climbed in and pulled the door shut, I said to the Plexiglas partition behind the driver, “Could you take me to the Navy Memorial on Constitution, pl—”
The cab took off with a squeal of tires—so fast I was thrown back against the seat.
The cabbie’s radio was tuned to NPR. I pulled the hat’s brim lower over my face. If this guy listened to NPR, he might follow the news in other media. He might have seen my picture in the papers, on the Web, or on TV. It was hard for me to fathom. I’m just a student, not a killer, I wanted to snivel.
Fortunately, the cab driver was so busy trying to wreck his car, barreling through yellow lights turning red as we hit the intersection and taking the cab through slalom turns around slower-moving vehicles (which is to say, everyone else), I doubt my face even registered on his radar. For my own part, I simply clung with grim determination to the seat back and sent up a prayer or two. I’ve never considered myself particularly religious, but there are no atheists in D.C. cabs.
I arrived at my destination in one piece. I was so grateful, I threw in a couple of extra bucks toward the tip. The driver smiled, his teeth gleaming from a mahogany face. His right front tooth was rimmed with gold. “Have a good day, miss,” he said, with an accent that sounded British, and he barreled back into the traffic.
I stood by the curb and looked around. The caller said he’d know me. Before we’d hung up, I’d asked him (assuming it was a “him”) how he knew me, but he’d never answered the question.
I walked toward people congregated on the amphitheater steps surrounding the Navy Memorial. Many were seated and enjoying a late lunch or just talking, legs stretched out, and soaking up the sun.
