Jayla had awoken at three that morning. Her first thought was that she was fully dressed and had to fight through the mental haze of a sudden awakening to remember why. A few seconds later her time spent with Nate Cousins came into focus and she smiled. Leaving her to fall asleep the way he had, without pressing for anything beyond being supportive and caring, said something good and positive about him.
But then the memory of Eugene Waksit’s heavy cologne hit her hard.
She sat up and looked around the bedroom, whose only light came from streetlamps outside the window. A moment of panic set in. She got out of bed and cautiously entered the living room, standing motionless in the silence, her eyes taking in every corner. He’d been there, had violated her space, her life. Anger replaced anxiety.
She checked that the door was securely locked. It was. But the locked door hadn’t prevented Waksit from entering and using her computer. She considered wedging a chair up against the door but dismissed that idea.
The lock would have to be changed.
Thoughts came and went as she continued to survey the apartment.
She wondered why Cousins hadn’t stayed the night with her, knowing that Waksit had been there. But there had been no reason for him to stay to protect her. Protect her from what? Waksit was gone.
She started to get undressed but stopped after removing her teal V-neck sweater. She patrolled the apartment again, looking into closets and behind chairs and the couch. “Stop it!” she said aloud. “Get a grip on yourself!”
She got out of her street clothes, wrapped herself in a powder-blue terrycloth bathrobe, turned on the living room TV, and stared blankly at the screen on which a paid commercial program played, a toothy young man selling a device that promised to peel vegetables like vegetables had never been peeled before. As his voice droned on, every other sound that came from outside—a car’s horn or the screech of tires—or from within the building caused her to stiffen.
She eventually dozed off sitting up. When she awoke the commercial show had been replaced by a movie featuring zombies. She turned off the set, and after another check of the door’s lock she shed the robe in the bathroom and stood under a hot shower, unable to shake the image of the woman in the shower being slashed to death in the film Psycho. Dressed, she passed the time until Cousins arrived, nibbling halfheartedly on a bagel and sipping tea that quickly became cold.
Cousins arrived at eight thirty and they drove to the bank where she retrieved her father’s research material and packets of seeds from the safe deposit box. After rejoining him in the car they drove to Renewal Pharmaceuticals to drop her off for work.
“I’ll take a look at this as soon as I get to the office,” he told her as he pulled up in front of the pharmaceutical company’s building.
Her creased face spoke volumes.
“Hey,” he said, taking her hand in his, “get that frown off your pretty face.”
She forced a smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
She placed her hand on the thick envelope resting on the console between them. “This means so much,” she said. “Even if nothing ever comes of it it’s what my father left to me.”
“I understand how important it is to you, Jayla, but you have nothing to worry about. I’ll see if I can come up with an idea about what to do with it. As I said, once I’ve reviewed it I’ll get it to Mr. Smith.”
“I’d rather you give it back to me,” Jayla said.
“Sure, if it makes you feel better. What are you going to do about Waksit?”
“I’d like to do nothing and just see him disappear.”
“You can’t do nothing, Jayla. He broke into your apartment and—”
“He had a key.”
“Get the lock changed.”
“I intend to today.”
“What about that private detective, Brixton? He might be able to help.”
“I’ll call Mac Smith and see what he suggests.”
“Good idea,” he said.
She drew a deep breath and kissed his cheek. “I’d better get inside. You’ll call me after you’ve looked at it?”
“Count on it.”
She got out of the car and walked to the front entrance, turning halfway there and waving at Cousins, who’d just begun to pull away. He returned the gesture and disappeared into traffic.
Until that moment she’d felt comfortable turning over her father’s research to him. But as he drove away a sinking feeling settled in on her. She’d shared the research with no one, and now wondered if she’d become too trusting of him. She was second-guessing her decision as she entered the building, swiped her employee card in the slot, and walked through the door in the direction of the lab to which she was assigned.
Once settled in her cubicle she looked up locksmiths and arranged to meet a technician at her apartment at three that afternoon. After informing the lab’s supervisor that she would have to leave at two on personal business she called Mac and explained what had transpired the previous evening.
“No sign of forced entry?” he said.
“No. Eugene must have a key he took from my father.”
“I don’t blame you for being concerned,” Smith said.
“I’m having the lock changed at three,” she said. “I was wondering, Mac, whether Mr. Brixton might be able to find where Eugene is in Washington.”
“It’s probably a long shot, but I’ll ask him. Where can I reach you?”
She gave him the number at Renewal and he promised to get back to her as soon as he’d made contact with Brixton.
After speaking with Jayla, Smith tried Brixton’s cell phone.
“Robert, it’s Mac Smith. I received a call a few minutes ago from Jayla. That fellow, Waksit, who worked for her father, has evidently broken into her apartment. Jayla wonders if you would try and locate Waksit for her.”
“There’s got to be a thousand hotels in D.C., Mac.”
“I told her that it would be a long shot.”
“Try ‘impossible.’”
“Just thought I’d ask. I’d like to help her. She’s liable to be in danger.”
“Has she mentioned anybody here in D.C. who Waksit might have gotten in touch with, you know, somebody from back home?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Does that place they’re from have an embassy here?”
“Papua New Guinea? I assume so, at least a consulate or trade mission. Want me to check?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Smith made the return call twenty minutes later and caught Brixton as he munched on a donut and sipped coffee at a Dunkin’ Donuts.
“The Papua New Guinea embassy is on Massachusetts Avenue,” Smith said. “Here’s the phone numbers.”
Brixton noted them on a napkin.
“Jayla told me that she’s meeting a locksmith at her apartment at three this afternoon.”
“I’ll swing by,” Brixton said.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate that. Oh, by the way, I’ve decided to take on that client we talked about. I hope you can clear your schedule to work on the case with me.”
“‘Clear my schedule’? What schedule? I’m yours, Mac.”
When Brixton reached Jayla’s apartment the locksmith was there. While the technician plied his trade at the door, Brixton enjoyed a cup of tea with Jayla in her kitchen. He told her that Smith had mentioned Waksit having entered her apartment, and they discussed the potential ramifications.
“Mac wants me to try and find Waksit,” Brixton told her.
“I’d almost rather not know where he is,” she said.
“That’s up to you.”
“Do you think you can find him?”
“Probably not but I’m willing to give it a try.”
Brixton remained at the apartment after the locksmith had left. He enjoyed being with Jayla, appreciated her beauty, warmth, and intelligence. When it was time to leave he promised to do what he could to locate Waksit.
“Is there someone in D.C. he might have contacted?” he asked.
“There was a girl he dated in Australia. After college she went to work in New York City, but Eugene once said that he’d heard from her and that she’d moved to Washington to work at—ah, at the embassy, I think. Dorence was her name. Her first name was something like Mickey or Vickie.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“No.”
“How about we call the embassy and see if she’s there?”
“You want to call the embassy?” she said.
“Might be better if you did, you know, say you’re from—what is it, PNG?—and just say you’re looking to catch up with an old friend named Mickey Dorence.”
“And what if she’s there and comes on the line?”
“You can hang up, or tell her that you’re looking for Waksit. If he’s been in touch with her she might acknowledge it.”
She grimaced.
“Want me to make the call?”
“Would you?”
“Sure.”
He removed the napkin on which he’d written the embassy phone number and dialed it from the kitchen extension.
“The Embassy of Papua New Guinea,” a woman answered.
“Would you please connect me with Ms. Mickey Dorence.”
“I’m sorry but we have no one here by that name. There is a Ms. Dorence but—”
“And?”
“Her name is Nikki. She works in our visa office.”
“Right, sorry, I made a mistake on her first name,” Brixton said. “Nikki. That’s right. Please connect me with her.”
A man came on the line.
“I’m calling for Nikki Dorence,” Brixton said.
“Sorry, but Ms. Dorence is away for the day.”
“Oh, my bad luck. Thanks.”
“I can leave her a message and—”
Brixton clicked off the phone.
“She’s not there, but you were right. She does work at the embassy. Let’s find her home phone and—”
“Do we have to do it now?”
“No, of course not. I’ll do it later. You told Mac that Waksit had accessed your e-mail. Anything interesting on it?”
“I’ll show you.”
She brought up the copy of the message that her PNG attorney had sent to Mac Smith. After reading it Brixton said, “If Waksit saw this when he was in your apartment it must have spooked him and sent him into hiding—either that or caused him to contact the authorities and make himself available to them for questioning. Of course, if he had anything to do with your father’s murder it’s unlikely that he’d do that, at least voluntarily.”
“He also took a group of crime scene photos taken at my father’s lab,” Jayla said. “They were in this drawer.” She tried to not cry. “What do you suggest I do?” she asked.
“You have any pictures of Waksit?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
She dragged a green leather photo album from where it shared space with books on a bookcase and flipped the pages until reaching what she was looking for. “Here he is,” she said, handing the book to Brixton.
The photo was of Waksit posing with Jayla’s father. Waksit had his arm around the physician and a big smile on his face.
“Looks like they got along pretty good,” Brixton commented.
“Eugene could be charming,” she said. “I don’t think that my father ever looked beyond that charm.”
“Good-looking dude,” Brixton said. “Mind if I take this?”
Jayla carefully removed the picture and handed it to Brixton.
“I’ll swing by this Nikki Dorence’s place on my way back to the office and see if Mr. Waksit is sitting in front sunning himself. Probably not, but sometimes you get lucky.”
“I appreciate you doing this, Robert.”
“Hey, what’s a friend for? Besides, Mac Smith wants this resolved. Whatever Mackensie wants, Mackensie gets.”
She laughed. “You sound like that song about Lola from Damn Yankees.”
“Yeah, I guess it did come out that way. You know, because the police back in PNG want to talk to Waksit again, I might be able to get the local PD to lend a hand in finding him. I still have friends there.”
“Whatever you think is best.”
On his way out he asked about Nate Cousins. During Brixton’s visit and the locksmith’s arrival Jayla had pushed aside thoughts of having given Cousins her father’s research results.
“He’s fine,” she said, her face creased.
“Nice guy. Say hello for me.”
* * *
Eric Morrison’s three o’clock meeting with George Alard of Alard Associates had not gone smoothly.
“How can I again be of service to you?” Alard asked after Morrison had been seated in the sparsely furnished office.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Morrison replied.
“Try starting at the beginning,” Alard said through a slit of a smile, which annoyed the lobbyist, whose pique level was already high.
“There’s a man, a private investigator here in Washington, who is threatening me.”
Alard raised his eyebrows.
“His name’s Brixton, Robert Brixton. He’s a lowlife, been in lots of trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“He had his PI license pulled, shot a senator’s son, a whole lot of things.”
“And you say he’s threatening you?”
“Yes. He’s a loose cannon. Oh, and there’s a woman, Paula Silver, a former B-movie actress—actress? Ha!—try bitch. She says she’s writing a book about me and her—we had a short affair—and a situation I got involved with concerning a leading U.S. senator—oh, and the project you handled for me in Papua New Guinea—she wants money from me and—”
“Is there anyone else threatening you?” Alard asked.
“Isn’t that enough?”
Alard shrugged his small shoulders and examined the fingernails on his right hand. He looked up at Morrison and said, “Is this Brixton fellow threatening you physically?”
“No, but you never know about scum like this. I wouldn’t put anything past him. He knows a few things about me that are better left secret.” Thinking his statement might be misconstrued, he quickly added, “Not that I’ve done anything wrong but I know things about other people, important people, that are better kept—well, kept a secret.”
Alard prefaced his next comment with an editorial sigh. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, Mr. Morrison, but I don’t see how I can be of help.”
“You don’t? Listen, I know that you can do damn near anything you want if the price is right. What I want you to do is get these losers off my back. Chances are they’re just looking for a payoff. I know that Paula is. She’ll probably get lost for ten grand. Brixton, he won’t come that cheap, maybe twice that.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Morrison,” Alard said. “If all it will take is money why don’t you simply pay them yourself? My second bit of advice is that once you pay someone off, as you put it, it won’t be the end of them. They’ll come back for more.”
Morrison felt his anxiety, coupled with rage, rise.
“Look,” he said, “I have a reputation here in D.C., which I’m sure you know. Pay them off myself? Getting my hands dirty by meeting with these two and handing over cash won’t do that reputation any good. I want it to come from a third party.”
Alard started to say something, but Morrison interrupted. “That’s what you do, isn’t it, do what other people don’t want to do? I mean, paying somebody off isn’t beneath you, right?” He forced a laugh to soften what he said. “Look, let’s face it, you didn’t hesitate to burn the doctor’s plot of land in Papua New Guinea or arrange to steal his research. I never asked how the doc died. I have my own theory about that but what you did is your business.”
Alard grunted. Had he spoken what he was thinking his words would not have pleased Morrison.
“So all I want from you, or the people who work for you, is to buy off these two clowns and make sure they understand that if they make any more trouble they’ll have to—well, you know what I mean. Scare ’em off. Don’t get me wrong. No rough stuff, maybe just some harsh words that’ll get their attention and make them think twice about threatening me again. How much do you want for your service?”
“I’ll have to give this some thought, Mr. Morrison.”
“You want to think about it? What’s to think about? If it’s money there’s no problem. Just tell me your fee and you’ll get it.”
“I don’t rush into things, Mr. Morrison,” Alard said. “I’m sure that you can appreciate that.”
“Yeah, sure, I’m cautious, too, only I don’t want to see this situation drag on. There’s no telling what this Brixton might do, go to the press with his claims, who knows? There’s a lot at stake, Alard, including the reputation of a leading U.S. senator.”
Morrison calling Alard by his last name nettled him but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “I might be able to help, Mr. Morrison. I take it that it is this Mr. Brixton who you are most concerned about.”
“That’s right. Paula Silver, she’s a drunk with a big mouth. Writing a book? That’ll be the day. A few bucks and she’ll leave town. But Brixton’s a different story. I don’t care what you have to do to shut him up, get him the hell out of my hair. By the way, you’ll also be doing the country a favor, a big favor. Brixton is out to take down this senator, which would be a tragedy.”
A tragedy for you? Alard mused.
“Here’s what I suggest, Mr. Morrison.” Alard picked up a slip of paper, wrote on it, and handed it to Morrison.
“What’s this?”
“A secure number for you to call to inform me when and where you and Brixton will be meeting.”
“Why. Whose number is it?”
“Do you have a problem with this, Mr. Morrison?”
“No, no problem, it’s just that—”
“I suggest that you arrange to meet with this Brixton fellow as soon as possible, perhaps tomorrow night, say at eleven o’clock.”
“Meet with him? I want nothing to do with him.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Morrison, it is the way I wish to proceed, assuming of course that you still want my services.”
“I—I just want Brixton to go away.”
“Which is the outcome I’m offering.”
“Okay. So you want me to get ahold of Brixton and arrange to meet him tomorrow. Where?”
Alard wrote on a second sheet of paper and handed it to Morrison. “It’s a secluded area along the river in southwest D.C., Gravelly Point, a few miles north of Reagan Airport. It runs parallel to the George Washington Memorial Parkway on the Mount Vernon Trail.”
“Why there?”
“Because it is sufficiently secluded, Mr. Morrison, unless you would prefer to meet Mr. Brixton on the stage at the Kennedy Center.”
“I don’t need your sarcasm, Alard.”
“Then you will meet him there and perhaps find out more about what he knows about you and this senator and anything else you’re concerned about.”
“That’s it? We just talk?”
“Talk, and offer him the twenty thousand dollars you will have with you.”
“I don’t get it,” said Morrison. “Where do you come in?”
“I will arrange for someone to be there in the event Mr. Brixton balks, makes trouble for you. Hopefully, the money will smoothly change hands and your troubles with this gentleman will be over, assuming, of course, that you are correct in judging him as someone who can easily be bought off.”
“I’m guessing but—”
“Hopefully your guess is a good one. Should Mr. Brixton take the money but not agree to let up on his threats to you, my colleague who will be there—discreetly I assure you—will step in and make Mr. Brixton see the wisdom of getting out of your life and—and out of the life of this unnamed senator.”
“Who is he?” Morrison asked.
“A trusted aide. It isn’t necessary to know his name. Mr. Smith, or Mr. Jones, whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“What will he say to Brixton? Do to him?”
Alard shook his head and waved a hand in frustration. “Mr. Morrison,” he said, “I do not have time to take you by the hand and lead you through this. You’re free to simply meet with Brixton without my operative, give him the money, and hope that he sees the wisdom of bowing out. If he doesn’t—well, that’s your problem.”
“But this operative of yours. What can he possibly do to make that point?”
Alard smiled in response. “Mr. Morrison,” he said, “you may be a successful lobbyist here in Washington, D.C., but you are also a very naïve man.”
“What about your fee?”
Alard cracked a rare smile. “Mr. Morrison, you and I have done business before. You’ve proved that you’re an honorable man who pays his debts. My fee will be ten thousand. You can pay me after we’ve concluded our business with Mr. Brixton.”
“Glad you see it that way. Look, Alard, I don’t want any funny business, okay? Frankly, I wasn’t happy the way the last project worked out. You never got the doctor’s research results but insisted I had to pay the entire fee. Don’t get me wrong, I know that you and your people work in the shadows and don’t mind getting your hands dirty. But I think that you owe me. As far as I know you also—well, took care of the doctor—which, I remind you, I specifically forbid. Whatever you and your so-called operative did to the doctor is our little secret. Right? Just so we understand each other.”
Morrison had been tempted to thank Alard for his not wanting his fee up front but decided not to bother. He intensely disliked the man and wasn’t in the mood to thank him for anything.
“I still don’t like having to call this bozo and arrange a meeting with him. I’d rather stay out of it, completely out of it.”
“Do you expect me to call him?” Alard said. “He won’t respond to me. When you place the call say that you wish to cooperate with him. Tell him that you wish to give him a sizable gratuity. Offer to share with him the information he is seeking about this senator. Tell him anything that will entice him to meet with you.”
Morrison pouted, his mouth moving silently as though chewing on what to say next. Finally he said, “All right, Alard. I’ll call and see if he’ll meet with me.”
“And if he does agree, call the number I’ve given you and inform us. You know where the meeting will take place.”
“Gravelly Point,” Morrison muttered. “Yeah, I’ll find it.”
“Eleven o’clock.” Alard checked his watch. “I have another appointment,” he said. “Are we going forward with what I have suggested or—?”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, Alard. You’re calling the shots. I just hope it works out better than the last time we got together.”
After Morrison had left, Alard called someone in MPD’s firearms registration section who’d been of help to Alard in the past.
“I need to know about a concealed weapon permit issued to a private detective, Robert Brixton,” Alard said.
His MPD contact checked his computer files and came back on the line within minutes. “I’ve got it here,” he said. “Robert Brixton. He carries a Swiss-made Sig Sauer P226 pistol, nine millimeter, with a heavy double-action trigger. You need the serial number?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Alard said. “Thank you. Payment will be sent the usual way.”
* * *
While Morrison met with Alard, Brixton drove to where Nikki Dorence lived, parked across the street, and casually eyed the entrance to her apartment building. He didn’t expect to see anything or anyone of interest, certainly not Eugene Waksit, but the act of being there gave him a certain satisfaction.
Waksit sat inside the apartment, unaware that a private investigator was outside. The photos of Dr. King dead on the floor of his lab were lined up on a coffee table. Waksit had looked at them whenever he was alone, fixated on the doctor’s face and the pool of blood in which he lay. Nikki was at work and wouldn’t be home until later in the evening, something about a dinner and meeting to attend. His agitation level was elevated, and he moved the heel of his left and right foot up and down in rapid succession. He was befuddled, couldn’t decide what his next move was.
He’d been close to picking up the phone and calling Eric Morrison again in the hope of convincing him that the research he possessed would be extremely valuable to one of Morrison’s pharmaceutical clients. But each time he reached for the phone he pulled back. He wasn’t sure that he could deal with another harsh rejection.
He also pondered calling Jayla King. But what would he say? That he had her father’s research results and was willing to partner with her in seeking a company to further develop it? He tried to conjure what her view of him might be at that moment, and the picture he painted wasn’t positive.
And there was the message he’d read on Jayla’s computer about the authorities in Papua New Guinea wanting to question him again about Dr. King’s murder. That posed another decision to be made. Should he contact the PNG police and submit to their stupid questions? No, he couldn’t do that. Chances were they’d make him a scapegoat in order to boast at having solved the crime. He also considered contacting the PNG attorney with whom he’d spoken about having been verbally deeded the results of King’s research. He ruled that out, too. The attorney, whom he’d met on occasion when he’d visited King, was a pompous ass who was probably in cahoots with the local police.
Finally, after giving himself a pep talk, he pulled himself together to a degree and called the office of Eric Morrison.
“I’m sorry,” the woman who answered said, “but Mr. Morrison isn’t available at the moment. I’ll be happy to take a message for him.”
“No, that’s okay. No, tell him that Eugene Waksit called again. I have something new and exciting to talk to him about.”
He couldn’t see the amused expression on the woman’s face as she jotted the message on a pink pad. “Is there anything else?” she asked.
“No, I’ll—”
“Do you have a number where he can reach you?”
“No. I’ll call again.”
The woman was truthful when she’d said that Morrison wasn’t available.
He’d returned from his meeting with George Alard and secluded himself in his office with orders not to be disturbed. The moment he’d left Alard he’d been swamped with second thoughts about the plan to buy off Brixton. What was most upsetting was having to personally take part in the meeting. He couldn’t understand why Alard, or one of his so-called operatives, couldn’t just meet with Brixton and hand him the money, paired, of course, with the sternest of warnings to get off Morrison’s case and never bother him again.
He justified having agreed to Alard’s plan based upon what he considered necessity. Someone like George Alard operated in the shadows; Morrison certainly did not want the sun to shine on what he intended to do about Robert Brixton. Alard did business in a netherworld, a world that Morrison wished he’d never entered. But now that he had, he wanted it over and done with.
He knew one thing for certain. Once Brixton was out of the picture he’d see to it that Senator Ronald Gillespie was made fully aware of the sacrifice he’d made on his behalf. Gillespie owed him big-time and he intended to cash in on that debt.
He drew a deep breath and called Brixton’s cell number. Brixton still sat in front of Nikki Dorence’s building hoping that Waksit would make an appearance, and was about to leave when the phone sounded.
“Mr. Brixton?”
“Yes.”
“This is Eric Morrison. We’ve spoken before.”
“Morrison. Sure. Good hearing from you.”
“Is this a good time to talk?”
“I can’t think of a better one. What’s on your mind?”
“I would like to meet with you,” Morrison said, working to keep his voice calm.
“Yeah?”
What was this all about? Brixton mused. Why would he want to meet?
“Why?” Brixton asked.
Morrison had decided to not mention the $20,000 payoff he was prepared to offer in return for Brixton dropping queries into his life. When Brixton had called earlier he’d asked about Senator Gillespie and the abortion, as well as about Dr. King’s research and plot of land on PNG. He’d wanted information about those events. Offering it stood the best chance of wooing Brixton to a meeting.
“I have information,” Morrison said, “about Senator Gillespie.”
“I’m listening,” Brixton said.
“I don’t want to talk on the phone,” Morrison said.
Where’s this going? Brixton wondered.
“All right,” Brixton said. “Lunch? Dinner? My treat—provided the information you have is worth anything.”
Morrison hoped that the laugh he forced sounded dismissive and wise. “Oh, no,” he said, “It can’t be a public place. I’m really sticking my neck out. I’m sure you understand that.”
It made sense, Brixton decided.
Morrison read from the note he had. He’d practiced it a few times before making the call to have it sound as though Gravelly Point was a location with which he was intimately knowledgeable.
“Never heard of it,” Brixton said.
“It’s a favorite spot of mine,” Morrison said, “very secluded after dark. Can we meet there at eleven tomorrow night?”
Brixton’s antenna went up as he processed the situation. He wasn’t concerned that Morrison would be a physical threat. He was a fat-cat lobbyist, probably balding and flabby. Was there something else to worry about? He couldn’t come up with one. He’d participated in a number of late night meets with a variety of lowlifes while a detective on the Savannah PD, usually informants looking to cut a deal to get them off the hook. Despite these questions, Brixton saw only an upside to meeting with Morrison. If the lobbyist was about to sell out Gillespie—and why he would do that was irrelevant—Will Sayers would be as happy as the proverbial pig in mud.
“Okay,” he said, “eleven o’clock tomorrow night at this Gravelly Point.”
“Good,” Morrison said. “I’ll be carrying a yellow umbrella and wearing a navy blue blazer.”
Brixton almost laughed out loud. It was beginning to sound like a scene from a bad Cold War novel.
“I’ll be looking for a guy in a blue blazer carrying a yellow umbrella. See ya.”
Brixton lingered in front of Nikki Dorence’s apartment building for another fifteen minutes before heading home to have dinner with Flo, who announced that sales that day at Flo’s Fashions had been the most lucrative since the shop opened. They toasted the news and settled in for a night of domestic bliss—Welsh rarebit and bacon on English muffins, pecan pie à la mode, single-malt scotch, and Netflix.