Two Nights

by Kathy Reichs

  The scene cut to a somber-looking anchor. Immobile hair, capped teeth, salon tan. His lips formed words, then a graphic appeared above his left shoulder. The headline SHOOTOUT ON VENICE BEACH was superimposed above a shot of the mustard-colored building on Rose Avenue.

  The anchor spoke earnestly, then handed off to another journalist live on location. This one was female. She was outside, behind a police cordon surrounding the entrance to Kerr’s apartment. Gawkers lined the tape. Other reporters flanked her. She spoke silently but solemnly for a moment, then the picture shifted to footage of a body bag being wheeled to a coroner’s van.

  As I groped for the remote, the action jumped to a police official with very severe eyes. Or maybe his squint was due to the camera lights. Microphones hovered close to his mouth. A gaggle of reporters circled him. A crawler gave his name as Alves.

  I found the remote. Searched for the mute button. The ABC reporter shifted her mic to her own face and spoke. Even without sound I knew her question. Alves ignored her.

  “—received a 911 call at approximately 7:10 this evening. The responding officers entered the home and found two Caucasian males. Both men had been shot. One was DOA, the other remains in critical condition.”

  “Have the victims been identified?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you know who was living at that address?”

  “I’m not at liberty to go into detail at this time.”

  “Are the murders gang-related?”

  “Were drugs involved?”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “I’m not at liberty to go into detail at this time. But rest assured there will be a full and thorough investigation. We will find the person or persons responsible. Thank you.”

  Alves stepped away from the scrum. As he climbed the steps and disappeared through the door beyond the mind-boggling junk, shouted questions followed his retreating back.

  The ABC journalist turned to her cameraman.

  “This is Emily Mattimore-Green reporting live from Rose Avenue in Venice.”

  I dialed Gus.

  “I saw it,” he said in way of greeting.

  “Kerr and Bronco sure as hell aren’t going back to that apartment.”

  “I have a feeling you’re about to explain our next move.”

  I reminded Gus about the four emails I’d found on the Argyle Street laptop. “I did some IP geolocation. Two people were contacting Kerr from Washington, D.C. Her passport lists her place of birth as Alexandria, Virginia.”

  “Just outside the District.”

  “Yes.”

  “Six million people live in the Washington metropolitan area.”

  “I found a bottle of Brahmi–Gotu Kola in her kitchen.”

  “Kerr must feel stressed. Or fatigued. Brahmi is supposed to boost energy and calm the mind.”

  “Does it?”

  “No.”

  “The point is, she bought the stuff online. The Amazon mailer was still in the drawer. Delivery was to J. Kerr at an address on Mount Pleasant Street in Washington, D.C.”

  “Looks like we’re heading to our nation’s capital.”

  “I’ll book a morning flight.”

  “Text me the info.”

  “I suggest you travel, how shall I put it? Unencumbered? Some ME’s probably digging lead from Bronco’s pal as we speak.”

  “I have contacts in D.C.”

  I didn’t ask.

  “I’ll miss this place,” Gus said.

  “You’ve been here a total of two days.”

  “Lots of sunshine, naked people.”

  “It’s spring. The cherry trees will be blooming.”

  Gus blew out a breath. “Think we should contact this guy, Alves?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How about Capps and Clegg? Explain the JJ, the organization, that the grocer was the intended target?”

  “Yes, they should have that. But by text from a suitable phone. I don’t want Capps grilling my ass.”

  “Have you reported our Left Coast adventure to Drucker?”

  “I will. She owes me another twenty-five K.”

  “I hope the old gal’s still happy with you.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Keeping me armed is getting damn expensive.”

  Six Days

  They are moving again.

  All day the house sizzles with preparations. The others trade glances, tense lines between their brows. No one will say where they’re going. Or when. Perhaps no one knows.

  She is largely ignored. She uses the rare pocket of freedom and, in the afternoon, finds a flashlight in the basement. Hides it under her bed.

  She hasn’t told him what she overheard. What she found. There’s been no chance. No time when they were alone long enough. Just snatches. Passing moments when she could plead with a word or a phrase. Sometimes only with her eyes.

  But her persistence has paid off. He has agreed to meet her in the clearing.

  He shares a room with three other men. She hopes he’s following their plan. Doing exactly what she’s doing.

  Fifteen minutes before the agreed-upon time, she tiptoes to the bathroom. Sits on the toilet. Smells mildew, Clorox, and soap. The lid feels cold through her jeans. She counts out ten sixties.

  Satisfied that no one is awake, she sneaks downstairs and into the kitchen. The ladder is gone from below her window. The roof is no longer an option.

  Out the back door. A quarter-moon throws some light, not much. Standing there in the chill, she wonders why the moon affects her as it does. Wonders why she wonders that.

  She runs, not exhilarated now. Terrified. Of discovery. Of what she has learned.

  Over the grass. Across the alley. Into the trees.

  Her heart stops.

  He isn’t there.

  She calls out, barely a whisper.

  No answer.

  A fresh kind of fear rears up inside her.

  He is loyal. It’s his nature. But to whom? What if he has betrayed her to them?

  She refuses to believe that.

  She pulls the quilt from the hollow in which she conceals it. Sits cross-legged. Indian-style, they called it as kids. Moonlight through the branches stripes her legs.

  He’ll come.

  Minutes pass. She’s unsure how many. Is way too wired to count.

  She lies back. Closes her eyes. Hears voices in her head. Soothing, from when she was little. Mama. Speaking of love. Of bravery. Telling her not to be afraid of anything. Not spiders or snakes, or monsters or bogeymen. Now voices cajole that she not fear death. Demand commitment, courage. Promise a better world.

  An old tune. But now she understands the lyrics.

  A twig snaps.

  Her lids fly open. Adrenaline fires through her.

  She listens, motionless, fighting hard to muffle her breathing.

  She wants to scream. She can’t scream.

  A blackness shapes up in the trees to her right. Moves toward her.

  Our flight left at 7:45 A.M. It was dark when I woke. It was dark when the taxi dropped us at LAX. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Nor was Gus.

  We got our boarding passes. I checked my bag, then we cleared security and went to the gate. Gus strolled off, reappeared wearing a tan windbreaker he hadn’t owned before.

  Our first full sentence was exchanged at thirty-four thousand feet.

  “You really think Kerr and Bronco are in D.C.?” Gus asked.

  “I don’t know about Bronco. But two emails, a passport, and an Amazon mailer suggest D.C. might be within Kerr’s comfort zone.”

  “Hmm.” Gus had his seat tilted back, his eyes closed.

  “On the other hand, Kerr bolted Chicago and that didn’t work out for her. She could still be in L.A.”

  “Or Paris. Or Cincinnati. Or San Juan.”

  “Admittedly, it isn’t a dream lead,” I admitted.

  The Stella voice in my head had echoed all night. The pull to her w
as now so strong I could feel it in my marrow. She was out there, calling to me. From a closet? A shallow grave? I shared none of this.

  After a pause, Gus said, “Lots of targets in Washington for Islamophobic pricks.”

  “The Islamic Heritage Museum. The mosque and cultural center on Mass Ave.”

  “Certain members of Congress or the Senate.”

  “The Supreme Court, the Joint Chiefs of Staff—”

  “Et al. Where are we staying?”

  “The Morgan Inn.”

  “Not the Ritz?”

  “Not the Ritz.”

  “Why?”

  “The inn’s website described their rooms as unfussy.”

  “Unfussy?” Rolling his head to raise skeptical brows.

  “Understated.”

  “Meaning cheap.”

  “The Morgan Inn is close to the address on the Amazon mailer.”

  “Do I get my own bath?”

  Before I was forced to acknowledge the possibility that might not happen, a flight attendant reached our row to query our happiness and thank us for flying American. His name was Justin. Justin also asked about our breakfast preferences. I ordered the omelet. Gus went for the healthier yogurt, fruit, and granola option. Justin noted our choices on his clipboard and moved on.

  After attempting to eat the rubbery yellow lump Justin served, I tried reading, ended up watching an old Bond movie until I dozed off. Gus slept most of the flight. God bless first class. God bless Opaline Drucker.

  We landed at DCA just before four. Split up and headed for separate taxi stands.

  My driver was a dandruffy guy named Moses. Not a talker. Another blessing.

  Moses took the George Washington Parkway. While skimming along the shore of the Potomac, I saw the top of the obelisk built to honor the first of our founding fathers; closer to the water, the Roman pantheon designed as a tribute to Jefferson. Crossing Memorial Bridge, I admired the Doric temple created for Lincoln. I thought about architecture. I thought about dead presidents. I thought about Stella Bright.

  Eventually, we wound through the urban canyon known as Rock Creek Park. Wooded banks, tunnels, and jogging trails flashed by outside the windows. I thought about Chandra Levy. I thought about Stella Bright.

  Like many American cities, the District of Columbia is a crazy quilt of quartiers, each with its own history, name, personality, and style. Capitol Hill. Dupont Circle. Georgetown. Mount Pleasant. Columbia Heights.

  Moses pulled to the curb at a double-wide three-story in a row of three-stories on Lanier Place in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Except for the hotel and a fire station, all red brick, the block was entirely residential.

  Out front, two short staircases rose through disinterested landscaping to side-by-side porches enclosed by white picket railings and outfitted with chairs and potted plants. Rusty AC units jutted from windows on all three floors. A quaint-as-hell sign hung by chains to the right of the main entrance.

  I paid my fare, got out, and scanned the street. The curbs were lined with vehicles parked nose to tail in both directions. Before climbing the steps, I did another visual sweep. No vehicle was occupied. No aloha-shirted thug was hanging out behind a lamppost or shrub. Or Stetsoned.

  The hotel’s interior lived up to its sign. Lots of knotty pine and collectables. A globe. A wall-mounted pay phone. Overstuffed sofas and chairs. The wood-paneled dining room offered family-style seating conducive to making new friends. That wouldn’t happen.

  The desk was manned by a nice old fella in need of breath mints. I asked for a room with a bath for two nights. Gus was bringing out the daredevil in me.

  As the nice old fella assessed availability, I read the screen upside down. It appeared no one else had checked in that day. He concluded that only one en suite remained unoccupied. I left it for Gus.

  After raising his wire-rims to glance at the ID giving my name as Susan Bullock, the nice old fella accepted cash, entered a few keystrokes, then took a large brass key from a hook at his back. Smiling, a decidedly bad idea, he explained that Wi-Fi, breakfast, and snacks were free. Then he told me not to smoke.

  “I have rules, too,” I said.

  The nice old fella’s mouth popped open, clamped shut. His brows floated high enough to clear the wire-rims.

  “No one goes into my room. Ever. Not for any reason.”

  “Maid’s gotta clean.”

  “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Not sure we allow that.” Laying his open palm on the counter. Seemed the nice old fella was up to his halitosis in greed.

  I pulled two twenties from my purse and placed them on the glass. He scooped them into his fist and smiled.

  “Hang the sign on the knob, your room is Fort Knox.”

  “Thank you.”

  The nice old fella wished me a pleasant day.

  I ascended a broad staircase that made a hard left from a landing five treads up. My room was at the end of the hall on the second floor. It had yellow walls, white trim, a fireplace and radiator painted white, a crooked white sink with a mirrored medicine cabinet above. The bed had dark head- and footboards probably carved during the Great Depression. The single chair was wood and needed repair.

  I ran my usual check. The lock worked. The phone worked. Filmy white curtains covered a window overlooking a tiny yard at the back of the property. No fire ladder or rope. No tree branch within reach. Though far from secure, it was acceptable.

  After removing my jacket, I sent a text. Got no answer.

  I set up the motion detector, then went through the routine of arranging my few belongings and reassembling the Glock. That done, I Googled directions to the Amazon mailer address. Then I waited, certain of the errand that was delaying my twin.

  My mobile buzzed at 6:15. The text said: 37.

  Gus’s room was grander than mine. It had two queen beds, red walls, black furniture, and a bath large enough to share with a very small pet. I was envious.

  There was no need to ask where Gus had been. He was in shirtsleeves and a shoulder holster housing a Glock 17. Twin siblings. Twin guns. Snap!

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Ready.” Gus slipped on the airport windbreaker and we headed out.

  The trip took less than ten minutes. Lanier to Argonne, then left on Mount Pleasant. Dusk was settling in and the temperature was a pleasant sixty-something. It was nice to be outside.

  As we walked, I watched everything. The pedestrians. The bikers. The cars and buses. The doors, windows, walkways, and roofs of the buildings around us. So did Gus.

  Argonne was lined on one side by well-kept row houses with postage-stamp yards. Lots of trees. Lots of brick. Facing them was a 1920s-era low-rise apartment complex.

  Where Hobart T-boned into Mount Pleasant, we went by a church and a small park. Beyond that, the street was largely commercial. We passed stores offering coffee and tea, booze, groceries, paint. An auto repair shop, a dry cleaner, a laundry, a nail salon. Many restaurants. Thai. Vegan. Dos Gringos, Haydee’s, and El Pollo Sabroso were serving up salsa close enough to one another to tango. That and the snippets of Spanish I caught suggested a robust Latino presence.

  Bigger complexes stretched along the sidewalk opposite the one Gus and I were on, most with rental units above and businesses below. Kerr’s Amazon herbs had been delivered to an address with this arrangement. Situated near the intersection of Mount Pleasant and Irving, its upper two floors were residential. At ground level were a unisex hair salon and a used-clothing store.

  Gus and I stood a few moments studying the setup. Directly in front of the building was a covered bus stop. Affixed to the Plexiglas walls were WMATA route maps and a poster advertising a production at the Kennedy Center. Two women were in the shelter, one standing, one sitting on the metal bench. Both wore black jackets embroidered with brightly colored flowers, mid-calf floral skirts, white cotton socks, and sneakers. Both carried double-handled woven bags that looked heavy.

  The building entrance was
through a centrally positioned door directly behind the bus stop. Flanking the door were picture windows covered with bars. The unisex salon was on the left. It was called Rosa’s. Behind Rosa’s bars were Styrofoam heads with wigs cut into styles that might have been big in the eighties.

  The resale shop, Ginny’s Gently Used, was on the right. Behind Ginny’s bars were three torso-only mannequins. One wore a blue polka-dot tank, one a pink sweater, the third a red sundress with its skirt spread around it like poppy petals.

  “You got an apartment number?” Gus asked.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the photo of the Amazon mailer.

  “206.”

  We both considered the top floor. The building ran deep but was narrow on Mount Pleasant. I guessed that one of each pair of upper-floor windows facing us belonged to a separate unit.

  The sky was fading from dirty yellow to charcoal. Street- and store lights were coming on. Traffic on Mount Pleasant was bumper-to-bumper and creeping. The faces behind the windshields seemed tired and cranky.

  A woman passed pushing a kid in a stroller. Both had long black braids. The kid was screaming. The woman looked exhausted. I felt for her. A dirty diaper and an uncooked meal probably awaited her at home.

  “We going 24/7 on this?” Gus asked when the woman was out of range.

  “How about we start with days?” I said. “See how it goes.”

  “Kerr’s no night owl.”

  “My thinking exactly.”

  “Allows us time to enjoy all the amenities at the inn.” Gus, king of sarcasm.

  “Your room has a bath.”

  “Yours doesn’t?” Gus shot me a look of genuine surprise.

  “It’s fine. You need more prep in the morning than I do.”

  “You say that because I always look bona fide.”

  “I say that because it’s true. We should move.”

  “To the Ritz?”

  “From this spot. Surveillance is going to be trickier now. Kerr knows us on sight.”

  “And she knows we might shoot her.”

  “A fact that probably has her on edge.”

  “If we loiter too long, D.C.’s finest might also have questions for us. Maybe not you, definitely me.”

  “That’s racist.”