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Gregor Kepelov was waiting for Lacey as she exited the G Street doors of the Portrait Gallery.
It was impossible to miss that car: Marie’s ancient purple Gremlin, which unbelievably was still on the road. His cowboy hat and Hawaiian shirt were equally outrageous. He grinned his lopsided grin, but he didn’t speak until she was in the car with the door shut. He took off before she had a chance to put her seat belt on.
“I could have taken the Metro, you know.”
“Not while Gregor Kepelov is on the job. Actors can be pushed off platforms! Reporters can be pushed in front of subway cars!”
She had ridden with Gregor before. It was a frightening excursion. Who knew an old purple Gremlin could go so fast? Securing the shoulder harness and locking the side door, Lacey also made sure the phone in her pocket was turned off. At a red light, a man on the street stopped and slid his sunglasses to the top of his head to peer at the Gremlin.
“Gregor. Isn’t this car a little too noticeable?”
“But of course it is. No one would suspect a man of Kepelov’s capabilities would drive a purple Gremlin.” He pulled into traffic between two taxis. “I drive in plain sight.”
“You were listening in this afternoon,” she said.
“Every word. It was my turn. Victor’s too.”
“What did you think?”
“A man who tries to warn you off does not know Lacey Smithsonian.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the actress’s death?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you think he’s a spy?”
“This one? Could be. Very slick. Like they say, spy from Central Casting. But if he wanted to hurt you, he would already do it.”
“Gregor, Marie said you could be a target.”
“Occupational hazard when one defects to the West as I did. That was many years ago.”
“There are a lot of dead Russians lately.”
“What? Are you keeping count?” He hit the accelerator on a yellow light, barely missing an oncoming city bus.
“No, but Brooke is.”
“All of natural causes, I am sure. After all, poisons are natural. And heart attack when pushed out of window, also very natural. Hitting the sidewalk at a hundred kilometers per hour would give anyone a heart attack.”
It was a grim joke. Lacey held on tight to the passenger grab handle as he took a corner at a ridiculous speed.
“Please be careful. These are dangerous times. Like these streets.”
He glanced over at her and grinned again. “See what good friends we are becoming? You care about the safety of Gregor Kepelov?”
“Yes! You’re driving! So please get us both to The Eye in one piece,” she said. First, however, she insisted Kepelov stop at a CVS, where she purchased the largest bottle of Maalox she could find. A gift for her editor. She also bought two chocolate bars, one for herself and one for her driver.
“Good stuff, Godiva.” He tucked the chocolate away, stepped on the gas and sped her to The Eye Street Observer, narrowly missing a D.C. police car.
***
IT WAS QUIET IN THE newsroom. About half of the reporters had managed to slip away early. Even on a Friday afternoon in the summer, escaping before deadline these days was an impressive feat. Obviously, certain deals had been cut among Lacey’s coworkers to cover each other’s beats.
Young denizens of the District lived for the weekend. After work on summer Fridays, they raced to their group beach houses in Rehoboth, Delaware, or Ocean City, Maryland. Their favorite beach bars with their umbrella cocktails were at least three hours away in weekend beach traffic, dodging road construction and Delaware state troopers. Beachgoers watched the clock, counted the minutes, and worked themselves into an exhausted lather. Lacey was not one of those frazzled beach people.
Relaxing can be so stressful.
But news was a tossed salad on Friday. Government agencies often waited until after the big media’s deadlines to dump unfavorable news, such as the economy tanking, healthcare legislation collapsing, or investigations into Russian espionage, hoping it would be forgotten or buried in the Saturday papers. Which, they hoped, no one would read. Because they were at the beach. Therefore, smart news teams were now on the Friday late-breaking-news watch. Generally, the fashion beat was not part of that news watch. Today was different.
Lacey ran into Mac, looking for crumbs from Felicity’s baking. Alas, the cupboard was bare. Felicity had left for the day. Her editor wearily acknowledged Lacey’s presence with a question.
“What have you got, Smithsonian?”
“A headache.”
“Take an aspirin. Don’t call me in the morning.”
“How do you feel about a picture story on the theatre costumer’s craft?”
“If you can fill a big hole in Sunday’s edition, I’m thrilled.”
“Those words make my heart sing. I took some pictures with my trusty digital.”
“Good. Deadline’s at five. Any developments on the red dress?” She handed him the fresh bottle of Maalox. He looked at it and made a sour face. “Oh. My favorite. This doesn’t bode well, does it?”
“For a five o’clock deadline, I can work on one story or the other. Not both. And I don’t have anything solid on the red dress story. Not yet. The theatre costumer thing is a little more solid.”
Mac’s eyebrows undulated quizzically. He gave the bottle of Maalox a shake. “I need the costume thing today. And make it solid.”
He threw one last look at Felicity’s empty desk before walking away. He lifted the plastic bottle of antacid in the air like a trophy.
