“Self-defense,” he said. He put down his glass and folded his hands on the tablecloth. “Early on in my writing career, when I was working for a paper in eastern Ohio, I wrote some things that got me into deep trouble with the Mob. They were very active in some unions over there, and I exposed it.”
Her mouth was hanging open. “You took on the Mafia?”
He shrugged. “A former boss of mine once said I have a nose for trouble. And I have a hard time walking away. Especially when bad guys are doing bad things to good people.”
She stared at him. “I believe it. Okay, so what happened?”
“One day, the FBI paid a visit to the paper and told us that a regional boss had put out a contract on me. Well, being young and cocky, I didn’t mind for myself so much. But I was worried that people I cared about might get hurt if I stuck around.
“So, I figured I’d better vanish. I consulted a professional skip tracer, and he instructed me on how to disappear and leave no tracks. Things like how to obliterate personal information online, how to alter records of my contact information with banks and utility companies, and a lot more. After cutting my old ties, I applied for and got a legal change of name to Dylan Hunter. I moved away, but I didn’t write under that name. Instead, to hide my tracks further, I began to write under various pen names. I telecommuted from home, moved around frequently, used post office boxes and prepaid cell phones. Like this one.” He pulled out his current model and showed it to her.
She looked astonished. “You still do all this?”
“You have no idea just how much I upset them.” He looked straight at her. “And as I said, I don’t want anyone that I get close to, to get hurt.”
She held his glance; his words hung in the air for a moment.
“That explains a few things, I suppose.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the way you look around all the time. You don’t seem to miss much.”
“Given what I’ve just said, I certainly hope not.”
“So you changed your name. Do you mind my asking what your name was before?”
“Go ahead and ask.”
“Will you tell me what your name was?”
“No.”
Her smile vanished. “So how am I supposed to trust some man when I don’t know who he really is?”
Steady now....
He took a breath, released it. Pulled out his wallet and slid it across the table to her. “Go ahead. Look. No, please—I want you to. Check all the IDs and cards. You’ll see they’re real.”
She hesitated a bit more, then took out each item and examined it.
“They all say ‘Dylan Lee Hunter.’”
“And that’s exactly who I am. That other guy you’re asking about—he’s dead and gone, Annie. As far as I’m concerned. I’ve forgotten about him. I hope the guys looking for me have, too.”
She slid the wallet back to him. She still looked troubled. “I would hope that someday you might trust me.”
“You mean: You would hope that someday you might trust me.”
She didn’t reply.
“I guess we both have some trust issues,” he said.
“Mine are pretty serious. I’ve been betrayed before. More than once.”
“Me too, Annie.”
“Somebody hurt you badly?”
He had to smile. “You could say that.”
“Well. What are we going to do about this, then?”
“Maybe we can work on our trust issues together.”
She looked at him a long time.
Say yes.
She unfolded her napkin, spread it on her lap. Raised her head. Smiled at him.
“All right...Dylan Hunter.”
*
He enjoyed the rest of their evening immensely, and she clearly did, too. Over an incredible meal featuring gnocchi, duck, and pork ravioli, she told him that she worked as a claims investigator for an insurance company in Fairfax. He asked about it, but she said she hated her boss, was hoping to find a new position soon, and didn’t really want to talk shop tonight, anyway. He told her that was fine with him.
He learned that she had been raised in Colorado; that her father inherited a family fortune from a California banking chain; that he met her mother out there while she was modeling and trying to break into acting.
“So that explains where you got your looks,” he said.
She didn’t react as he expected. “Actually, it’s best if we don’t talk about my mother. She ran off with another man when I was still in my teens. I don’t have any contact with her.”
Trust issue.
“I’m sorry. Do you care to tell me about your father?”
She hesitated. “Well, that hasn’t been easy, either. He’s a very intelligent man, very idealistic. He’s into all sorts of nonprofit activities. You know, social reforms. Helping the downtrodden.”
Another liberal do-gooder.
“The usual liberal do-gooder stuff,” she said.
He laughed. “Precisely the words I was thinking.”
She laughed, too. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Dad dearly. But he and I don’t see eye-to-eye. At all.... How about your upbringing, Dylan? Or can’t you say?”
“Born and raised in the Midwest. My dad was a successful businessman; my mother was a writer. They’re no longer living, but they were terrific parents. I obviously got my writing bug from Mom, but people who knew them say a lot of my personality came from Dad.” He took a sip of wine. “If you must know a dark secret about me, he once said I was the most stubborn individual he’d ever met. If so, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”
She enjoyed that. “Well, I can be pretty obstinate, too.”
“‘Obstinate.’ And I said ‘stubborn.’ Maybe you should be the writer.... Anyway, we lived well. I had a happy childhood, a great education.”
“Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Actually, I was first interested in government and current events. I began to dabble in writing in school and liked it, but I didn’t really get my journalism career going until years after I graduated.” He paused, thinking back. “Some people would say I had to find myself. Or whatever they call it when you waste a lot of time traveling down a bumpy road and reach a dead end.”
“Are you working on anything special right now?”
“I meant to tell you. I’ve been digging into the crimes against those members of Vigilance for Victims whom we met the other night. I uncovered some explosive information about the perps, and I’ve just about finished a big exposé. The paper will run it on Sunday.”
“Oh! Can you give me a sneak preview?”
“Sure. Here’s one for you. Conrad Williams—the punk who shot Kate Higgins’s son, Michael, eight years ago? That was during a robbery in a Hyattsville, Maryland convenience store that Michael managed. Do you know that Williams never should have been on the street, even then? He was on probation at the time—a suspended sentence for a previous second-degree assault, where he stabbed a guy.”
“Probation—for stabbing somebody?”
“Incredible, right? For that, he should have been behind bars for attempted murder—except for a ridiculous plea bargain rubber-stamped by a lenient judge. The prosecutor pled away the presence of the weapon, in exchange for Williams paying the victim’s doctor bills. Then he and the defense attorney got the judge to suspend even the two-year assault charge.”
“That’s horrible! Poor Kate.”
“And it got worse for her. Because after something like that, she at least had the right to expect some measure of justice. But no. You see, Williams was with two other creeps when he shot Michael. But each guy blamed the other for actually pulling the trigger. The prosecutor could have pushed for felony-murder convictions for them all, meaning: They’re all equally guilty of the murder, because they were all engaged in the same crime. Then he could have enhanced Williams’s sentence, because of his probation violation. If he’d pushed for it, he could have put Williams aw
ay for fifteen to twenty-five years. They call that a ‘life sentence’ in Maryland. But again—no. Instead, the prosecutor, wanting to avoid trial, let the lot of them plead down to a lower-degree sentence. Williams got ten years, but under Maryland law, he was eligible for a parole hearing after serving only half his sentence. Bottom line? He was out in just over six years.”
“That’s disgraceful.”
“You know what I find especially galling? The prosecutor in Williams’s murder case is now a wealthy judge up in Prince George's County. He lives in a gated lakeside community with a private country club. And the defense attorney is now retired and raising horses in Kentucky.”
“All that is in your article?”
“And a lot more. You should see the other cases.”
She reached across the table and lay her hand on his. He hadn’t noticed that he had balled it up into a fist.
“I said it before, Dylan. I just can’t tell you how much I admire you for what you’re doing.”
He saw the look on her face as she said it. His throat tightened again.
“You can try.”
*
It was past eleven when he brought her home. He went around to her side to help her from the car. They were both a bit unsteady from the Chianti, so he put his arm around her. Her thigh brushed against his as they walked toward the house.
The sky was clear, chilly, and brightly moonlit. Once again he felt the rising tension between them. The click of her heels against the pavement sounded like a ticking clock.
As they mounted the steps, she fished nervously for her keys, then turned away from him to face the door.
“Hey you,” he said quietly.
She slowly turned back to face him. The light from the overhead lantern gleamed in her eyes.
“I had a lovely time, Dylan. I really did. I—”
He put his palm gently under her chin, leaned in, and kissed her lightly.
Then their arms were around each other, hands moving greedily, mouths locked with ferocious urgency.
“No,” she gasped, pushing herself away.
He swayed, pulse pounding in his throat. “Why?”
“I.... It’s too soon.” There was naked fear in her eyes. “Dylan—we barely know each other!”
“Don’t we, Annie Woods?”
She didn’t reply right away. She stood there, fidgeting with her keys.
“I know. I can’t believe this.”
“Me either. Annie, I’ve never—”
She raised her fingers to his lips, stopping him. “Shhhhh. Don’t say anything you might regret.”
“I might regret not saying it.”
That made her smile. “Not now. Not tonight. This is way too fast. I need a little time.”
“And trust.”
She looked up at him, her palm against his chest. “And trust.”
He took the hand. “Me too.” He kissed her palm.
Then he turned abruptly and walked back to his car.
*
Tired of thrashing, knowing he wouldn’t sleep tonight, he sighed and turned on his bedside lamp. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he saw that the clock said it was one-fifteen in the morning.
Don’t be an idiot.
But he took his cell from the nightstand, inserted the battery, and pressed the speed-dial number.
She picked up after a single ring. “Well, mister. I see you can’t sleep, either.”
He felt himself grinning. “Not a chance.”
They remained silent for several moments. A comfortable silence. A connection more real than if she were present, here. In his bed. In his arms. Eyes closed, he listened to her breathe, drinking in the sound. Wondered if she were listening to his own breath.
“What are we going to do about this?” she asked.
“Is that an invitation?”
“No, silly,” she laughed.
“What a terrible waste of this great big king bed.”
“Maybe so. But not tonight.”
“Damn.... At least give me a description.”
“A picture present? Okay, then. I’m in a big old four-poster.” He heard a rustling sound. “Lots of soft, fluffy pillows.” A sigh. “Satin sheets.”
He groaned. “What are you wearing?”
Hesitation. Then:
“Not a stitch. Goodnight, Dylan Hunter.”
He heard her chuckle. Then she was gone.
He stared at the phone in disbelief. Then threw it at a stuffed chair across the room. It bounced off, clattered to the floor and popped open, spilling the battery.
“Maaaoowww!”
The cat jumped up on the bed, then strutted majestically toward his hand, where it lay on the covers. She nudged it with her forehead.
He sighed and scratched her between her ears. She purred contentedly, eyes closed.
“Luna, how could I let this happen?”
She opened her eyes. Looked at him disdainfully.
“No, it isn’t just testosterone poisoning.” He remembered how she had looked up at him, put her fingers to his lips. “This is different.”
He fell back onto the pillow, covered his eyes with his forearm.
“You’re insane,” he said. “What in hell are you doing?”
SEVENTEEN
H STREET, N.E., WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monday, September 15, 2:55 a.m.
Two days, two nights. It had been an exercise in patience. A good thing that he was a patient man, used to lying in wait for long periods, and usually under far worse circumstances. But given everything that had happened lately, this target was cautious and didn’t give him any opportunities last night.
Maybe now.
The bearded man had dressed down, far worse than usual. He wore torn, filthy clothes that reeked of the cheap liquor he’d doused them with earlier. In his hands was a paper bag; from its top emerged the mouth of a bottle, from which he occasionally pretended to sip. For most of the night, the booze smell had commingled with that of Caribbean food from the seedy bar and lounge a few doors away. It helped mask the urine stench in the recessed doorway where he sprawled, the entrance to an abandoned shop with plywood over its display window. Across the street from him stood a Salvation Army Thrift Store, a nail salon, and a hair-braiding place.
And down at the corner, leaning against the chain-link fence that surrounded a 24-hour check-cashing joint, was his target.
To put the guy at ease, he had made his presence known during both evenings, with loud, incoherent muttering. Last night, he’d even dared to weave toward him unsteadily, palm out, begging for change. He was rewarded only with a stream of f-bombs, which he returned loudly as he staggered back to his lair in the doorway. Nice touch, that. Because now, the guy wouldn’t see him as any kind of threat.
The target slid away from the fence and approached an ancient Plymouth that slowed and stopped at the curb. He watched the deal go down, saw the furtive swap of coke and cash through the vehicle’s open window. As it pulled away, the target glanced at his watch, then started moving down the sidewalk in his direction.
He waited, mumbling and letting his head bob about, so that he could check the streets and sidewalks. Nobody.
Show time.
As the target drew abreast of his position, he pulled the bottle from his paper bag, then hurled it at him. It hit the guy in the leg, splashing him. A calculated risk, but he knew the target’s reputation: He didn’t like to be dissed.
The guy stopped, looked down at his wet pants. Looked his way. Then stomped toward him, cursing.
He let him get within two strides, then launched himself to his feet, simultaneously drawing the 9mm Beretta 92FS from the bottom of the paper bag. He rammed the barrel into the guy’s solar plexus. As the man doubled over, he cracked him over the head with the pistol’s butt. The guy buckled and fell. He landed on the target’s back with both knees, knocking the wind out of him.
While the punk lay stunned, he checked the street again. Still clear. Then he d
id a fast search, retrieving a knife from his baggy jeans and a .38 Colt revolver from his long coat. He flipped the guy over and shoved the muzzle of the Beretta into the guy’s mouth. The whites of his eyes bugged out as he gasped for breath.
“Okay, Conrad. You and I are going to take a walk. You fight me, you yell, you do anything except what I say—you’re dead, right then. Got that? Nod your goddamned head if you understand.”
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