by LS Sygnet
His eyebrows stitched together and slid down in a narrow V. "Did anyone say we thought you were hiding something, Mrs. Hamilton?"
I didn't bother correcting him. He wanted to provoke an angry reaction from me. "I want it entered into the record that I offered my bag and you refused to search it."
Seleeby and I had never been what I would term friendly toward one another, even before Rick's arrest. With an irritated huff, he grabbed the leather straps and dug through the contents of my purse quickly. "There. I searched your purse. Happy now, Helen?"
"Delighted. Good bye, Mark. Please be sure that your team locks up before they leave."
"Where are you going?"
I spun on my heel at the front door. "Am I under arrest?"
"No."
"Then it's none of your business where I'm going." I flung the door open and pointed at the dark SUV with tinted windows. "It's not like you won't have your gang watching every step I take anyway, Mark. Don't play dumb. Or perhaps this is your true intellect surfacing."
He feigned shock, and as if on cue at his appearance at the door, the SUV quickly pulled away from the curb and disappeared.
"Did you get the license plate number?"
I snorted. "Like you need it. Really, Mark, do you think I'm this gullible?"
His eyes fixed out the front door, darting from one end of the street to the other. "I don't think you should leave. Have you forgotten who your husband's business partners were? Whoever was in that SUV wasn't from the bureau."
"They just happen to perform surveillance outfitted exactly like you do? I don't buy it. You're trying to frighten me into cooperation. It won't work."
"If I were you, I'd be more terrified of Sully Marcos and his crew than I would be the FBI, Helen."
"You've forgotten who my father was," bitter words bubbled from my mouth, words I would no doubt come to regret. If they hadn't been so reckless in their search and broken a piece of my heart that still mattered to me, I probably would've kept my emotions in check. Instead, Seleeby had provoked a reaction I was determined not to give.
I pushed my way past him. The reminder of why I needed to leave was imprinted in my mind like a cattle brand. Getting away from the FBI, from all things related to Rick Hamilton, his master, Sully Marcos, it had to be my first priority.
Necessity made that call from George Hardy in Darkwater Bay intriguing. Before I would accept an offer blindly, I needed to do a little research, namely to uncover how anyone that far away could know I was available for work in the first place. Since the bureau was intent on keeping me under its thumb, I'd have to find a way to contact Hardy without them finding out.
Our brownstone, with its beautiful turret and every brick painstakingly restored, mortar perfectly sculpted, looked lonely and desolate. I wondered if I would ever step foot through the old girl's front door again, ever sit on the steps on a balmy summer evening with a glass of sweet tea and watch the world lazily pass. Would I smell the sweet fragrance of our lilac bushes in the garden behind the wrought iron fence next spring? Would my sensible shoes ever clop against the uneven brickwork that served as a dated reminder of what this district of our nation's capital once was?
I swayed and clutched the handrail for a moment. Dad always warned of the dangers of getting too attached to anything. "Be ready to leave it all in a moment, Sprout." Yet it was advice he hadn't followed. If he had … if my father had the common sense God gave a rubber duck, he would've walked away before that accident could've happened.
"Why didn't you walk away, Daddy?" I whispered. "I would've found you. I would've always come for you."
Now it was impossible.
Our rain storm at the apex of Rick's funeral had blown over, but the droplets of moisture clung to the trees overhead and splashed to the sidewalk with each gust of wind. I loved the sound of leaves whispering against each other. I loved everything about my life here. I loved my father too, but hated him at the same time. I despised his wisdom and his caution and the words that still twisted my view of the world into something unimaginably dark.
Would life have been different if I had simply rejected all of it, lived like a normal person? Would I have found true love instead of the farce I invented?
Everyone has secrets, Helen. The mistake normal people make is trusting another with those secrets. Never make that mistake, my dear daughter. You'll be stronger and better for it.
In the clinical sense of my training, I would've diagnosed my father with paranoid delusions. The part of my mind that was still his little girl clung to his words like they were a heritage far more valuable than the piles of cash he had deposited in offshore bank accounts. I could've funneled that money into his defense fund and seen him walk out of court a free man.
The look flashed beneath my eyelids again, the last one I saw on his handsome face. It was worth a thousand words, a million fortunes squired away into secret caches. My father was shoving me out of the nest, his little chickadee ready to spread her wings and fly. My heart ached to hop on the first flight available that could deliver me to the stone walls and iron bars that confined him.
I stepped off the curb. Dad would be disappointed if I came running at the first brush with catastrophe. Not that this was technically the first, it was merely the first time I felt everything crumbling to dust around me. Time for plan B. Or C. Or whichever one looked like it made the most sense.
The first step involved covering my tracks. The last thing I needed was the shadow of my former compatriots lurking behind me. They knew exactly who they were looking for – Helen Eriksson, too tall, too thin, dressed perpetually head-to-toe in black, hair nondescript in its tight bun at the nape of her neck, no makeup, dark horn-rimmed glasses hiding her eyes. They probably started pinging the GPS in my car the moment that Rick's body was discovered. As for my telephones, I had no doubt that they knew every call I made or received for the past two years.
I flung my Blackberry out the window of the car when I started across the Key Bridge. Probably my imagination, but I was certain I heard it splash into the Potomac. The Fashion Centre in Pentagon City would be a one-stop shopping spree. Between Nordstrom's and Macy's, I could replace clothing and purchase luggage. A local salon in the shopping complex could give me a new cut and style. Harris-Teeter would supply a box of hair color. BestBuy would offer a wide variety of pre-paid cell phones that could not so easily be traced to me, particularly if I paid cash.
I patted my purse. Agent Seleeby had a few buttons he wasn't aware were so easily accessed. I pushed every single one of them to first annoy and then refocus his curiosity on my awareness that we were being watched. I shouldn’t have doubted Seleeby's ignorance. David would've sent another team along without telling anyone if it meant keeping track of me.
The GPS in the car was a problem. I arrived in Pentagon City and parked at the metro station in a tow-away zone. Problem solved.
Seleeby missed the wallet entirely when he rifled through my purse in a quick once over. Had he looked inside, he would've found an ungodly number of $100 bills and identification that did not belong to the Helen Eriksson they were investigating. Dad's plan B and beyond thing was truly ingrained in my DNA. I wasn't foolish enough to keep any of it in a bank, where a simple warrant would've opened a safety deposit box. No, I kept my cards close to the vest, and the means to move on in a simple lock box inside Rick's safe in the den.
I've been carrying around plan B since I thundered through the underbrush to play the role of grieving ex-wife. Hope is a crock of shit. My head and my heart knew it would come to this.
The complex in Pentagon City is designed for tourists and residents alike. The metro station is located across the street from The Fashion Centre – a mall that refuses to be named such – and within walking distance is a Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The alternate identification would come in handy, as would my change in appearance prior to check-in. As far as David and his spies were concerned, I simply drove to the metro, hopped on and disappeare
d for parts unknown.
Meanwhile, I could spend a night or two in a comfortable hotel, buy some necessities, take a taxi to Reagan Airport and vanish on my terms.
I dashed into the mall first and purchased a pair of jeans, sandals and a blouse from Banana Republic. The mourning garb got tossed into the trash on my way out of the store. It was a short jog around the block to Harris-Teeter. My hair is naturally chestnut with golden blonde highlights. Black was the obvious choice for a drastic change in my appearance, but I couldn't quite let go of my little bit of Dad that easily. His hair, while probably quite gray now, used to be nearly the same color. Stripping that similarity away seemed a step too far from who I really am. I grabbed a box of medium golden blonde and a cheap beach towel off the rack and asked where the restroom was.
The girl who took my money was an average teenager working her summer job, vaguely disinterested in anything that wasn't Facebook or Twitter or a text message on her cell phone. She glanced up at me briefly, more holes punched in her face than natural orifices, and jerked her head at the sign to her left. I waited patiently for her to count out the change the register told her was due me and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans.
I emerged from the bathroom 40 minutes later with damp hair pulled into a pony tail and exited the store. She kept her nose buried in the smart phone's touch screen.
Next stop, back around the block and across the street to Best Buy. If I spent as much time on the phone as I expected I'd need to, there would be more than 100 minutes necessary for the pre-paid contract. I opted for a Droid model telephone since I could use it for internet access as well, paid my fee and sought out stop number three.
The kiosk inside The Fashion Centre showed a few options for the new hairdo. I went for the cheapest, less concerned about the quality of the cut and style than I was the likelihood of someone remembering me. Cheap place equated higher volume of customers which translated into greater odds of remaining unnoticed.
My stylist unfortunately, was an older woman who moved at the speed of molasses during the dead of D.C. winter. She played with my hair for five full minutes after I told her I wasn't picky, just needed a shorter cut.
"Your hair is lovely. I can't imagine why you'd want to cut it. Or why you colored it."
"I've been coloring for twenty years," I lied.
"Hmm."
Apparently she knew healthy hair versus color damaged better than I would've liked.
"You've got a bit of natural curl. Did you ever see that movie back in the '90s, the one where Meg Ryan falls in love with an angel?"
"Uh …"
"You'd look great with that cut. It's a bit short though, and I'd hate to see you leave here in tears from lopping off too much in one sitting, hon."
"Just cut it. I don't care what style you choose. If you say it'll look good, I'll take it."
She rambled on about things that might well have been a foreign language as far as I was concerned, things like long circle cuts and texturizing with something she called notching. Greek. No, scratch that. Greek would've made more sense to me.
In the end, I was satisfied that I looked nothing like Helen Eriksson. Instead, I resembled one of my childhood nicknames – scarecrow. My too long, too thin neck made me a little too giraffe like, but the last thing I planned to do was bawl about it. Instead, I thanked her, left a modest tip and dashed off to get a room at the Ritz-Carlton. I splurged.
The executive suite was opulent with an expansive view of the capital from the windows. I kicked off the sandals and dug my toes into the sea foam green carpeting. The mini bar beckoned. I could smell the woody currant in the merlot without removing the cork. Unfortunately, I didn't have time for wine. Not while the stores were still open. Not while the FBI expected me to return to the brownstone.
I purchased Louis Vuitton luggage and had it delivered to my room before hitting Nordstrom's and Macy's. I indulged at Nine West to replace the shoes I threw away. Everything was going from the sales clerk directly to the hotel. One last stop, and I would be ready to start making phone calls.
At the Apple store, I replaced the computer that the FBI had no doubt confiscated hours ago. It wouldn't tell them anything they didn't already know. Computers can be great tools, but they are anathema to great criminals. Where legitimate work was concerned, a computer provided documentation, verification, validation. I would need that if the FBI's witch hunt continued. I walked out of the store with a MacBook Pro and an incredibly lighter wallet.
Perhaps it was my preoccupation with the money spent today that dropped my guard enough to be captured. I was certain by the expensive cut of the suits, the Italian branding and the complete lack of identification that the men holding my upper arms in an iron grip weren't part of the government agency with which I formerly associated.
"Come along without a fuss, Helen," one of them growled with a smile masking the rage in his voice. "You wouldn't want to see a bunch of innocent bystanders harmed. Or would you?"
My disguise hadn't fooled them. Maybe I was more preoccupied today than I realized.
"Sweetheart?"
The man with no neck turned his head abruptly to the left.
"Where are you … who are these men?"
I stared blankly into the face of a complete stranger. Somewhere above, my lucky stars were working overtime. I'm not of small stature by any stretch of the imagination, about five eleven barefoot. My captors were taller than me. This guy dwarfed all of us, and his frame left no doubt that the large bones were cushioned by layers of hard muscle. He reached out and plucked me from the clutches of men who I suspected were associated with Rick's former employer Sully Marcos.
"Jennifer?"
I swallowed hard and took the gift he offered. I stepped close, pressed against his side and let him be my armor. "I don't know who they are. They called me Helen."
"Do you have some sort of business with my wife?"
One of Sully's henchmen stared pointedly at my left hand.
My white knight followed his eyes. "Fine. She's not my wife until Saturday. Darling, did they hurt you? Should I call the police?"
"Our mistake," thick neck said. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."
"See to it that you don't make it again," the angry stranger growled. He steered me across the hotel lobby and into an open elevator. Not a millimeter of space separated us until the doors slid closed. He stepped forward and punched the button for my floor.
Hell. Out of the frying pan and into the fire?
"What floor do you need?"
If I was quaking on the inside, at least it wasn't showing outwardly. Yet. I licked my lips. "You already guessed correctly."
"I assume I read that situation correctly. Who were those men? Are you in some kind of trouble, Helen?"
"My name is Diana," I said. As far as the Ritz-Carlton was concerned, my name was Ms. Diana Farber. "I don't know who those men were or what they wanted. It scared the hell out of me."
His eyes were blue as a Tahitian lagoon. I felt layers of lies stripping away beneath that stare. I fidgeted and stared at the floor. "Thank you for rescuing me." He thought I was helpless, not stunned that Marcos had men watching me. Better let him believe the lie or attribute all of this to what he helped Marcos' men believe – that it was merely a case of mistaken identity.
"I'm concerned that they didn't believe our ruse," he said. "What if they come back? Are you traveling alone?"
"I'm not leaving my room again," I shuddered for good measure. "Not until my taxi picks me up to take me to the airport. I'm flying home day after tomorrow."
"Where might that be?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
His eyes twinkled. "I never gave it." Huge paw thrust forward. "Bad form, considering our wedding is on Saturday, wasn't it? I'm Todd."
He didn't look like a Todd. I shook his hand and thanked him again as the elevator chimed.
Todd made a sweeping gesture with one arm. "After you, Diana. Although if
you run into the misinformed suits again, I'd suggest you answer to Jennifer."
"I'll try not to run into them again." My mind was screaming that they knew I was here. The place could be crawling with Sully's men any minute. Perhaps the charade offered by a total stranger was the true gift. "Are you here vacationing?"
"Business," he said. "Four day convention."
"Ah." The conversation was taking a turn for the painfully dull. Since when were businessmen so chivalrous after all? "Well, thanks again."
"Do you have plans for dinner?" Dimples deepened in his tan cheeks.
I shook my head. "In light of what happened, I think room service is on the agenda for tonight." And a hundred phone calls I needed to make to finalize my plans. Going home to the house on Long Island was out if Sully was watching me. Plus, it would probably be on David's radar after I gave his team the slip this afternoon.
"Maybe they'll buy the story that you're my fiancée if we don't let this encounter dampen our trip," Todd suggested. "Cozy dinner for two in the hotel's restaurant, maybe a romantic stroll through the neighborhood later …"
"They could be back with guns next time." The urge to kick myself overwhelmed me. I wanted to quell the cringe, but it was too late. Todd's hand reached for me, cupped my cheek and tilted my face upward.
"Guns?"
"I'm probably letting my imagination run wild. For all I know, they could've been private investigators bringing Helen home to an outraged husband."
Suspicion etched the tiny lines around his eyes. "Are you married?"
"Me? No. Then again, I'm not Helen – whoever she is." Unease chilled my blood. For all I knew, this guy could be part of Sully's work force. "Thanks for the offer of dinner, Mr. –"
"Hunter."
How apropos. "Mr. Hunter. I appreciate the help. I think rather than sticking around for more cases of mistaken identity, I'll see what I can do to get my flight home bumped up to an earlier departure."
He shrugged. "If you change your mind, I'm in the last room at the end of the hall." He pointed to the suite polar opposite mine. "I'll be in town until Wednesday, so …"
