| |
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Naim walked out of the Capitol Building with Thurman by his side dressed in a T-shirt from the Capitol’s gift shop.
An excellent magician was a man that excelled in the art of misdirection. The same was true for lawyers. Attorneys used sarcasm and feigned naivety to distract local authorities. They thought they’d trapped him in a hard to reach place, but they had no idea what he planned to pull from his other sleeve now that he’d gotten his client out of one jam as a more murderous one loomed.
Out on East Capitol Street, attorney and client were quiet, and it remained that way until they reached the Library of Congress. Naim wondered if they were being followed, flagged down a taxi that scooped them up. Inside the cab, Naim had the driver head to Sixth Street and Independence Avenue. Eight blocks later they exited the cab in front of the National Air Space Museum and hustled inside.
“Why are we here?” The killer asked, breaking his silence.
“The food court. It’s the best in town.”
“You’re hilarious,” Thurman said, walking through security. “I’m not into comedy.” His face was deadly serious.
“OK,” Naim said and stopped. He looked around the entry of the museum at the huge missile on exhibit. “We may be followed and we need to rocket up out of DC without detection. We’re going to hit a side door, skedaddle to the National Mall, then hop on the local Metro train at the National Mall Station. We’ll get off at L’Enfant Square. Exit. And Brandy will be there to grab us.” He started to walk away, but Thurman stood there. He pointed and walked back towards his client. “You got a better idea?”
“I can handle myself from L’Enfant. I have a local hideout.”
“Do you now? My plan is better.”
“It’s not.”
“You haven’t even heard it.”
“I’ve gotten this far.”
“Not going back and forth with you.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“I’m getting you out of DC, and someplace safe in friendly, Maryland. We can get to Potomac Airfield quickly from there. We will then craft a plan to get you safely to the authorities to take care of that other issue.” Naim blinked uncontrollably. He did that when in deep thought.
“Not happening. I have a safe place here. It is absurd to leave this area. They expect that. I’m going to hide right under their noses before I bring that wasteful US attorney to full froth. In the meantime, it’s PCP and cheap prostitutes. You got a problem with?”
“Listen here, you son-of-a-bitch. This is not your show, it’s mine.”
“Since when?”
“Since you called for my services. Let me say this in a way that you can comprehend. I’m assuming director duties.”
“Have a good day,” Thurman said, walking away, throwing the peace sign over his back. He had paid for Naim’s services and like many defendants labored under the delusion that made him the boss. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!”
Thurman stopped.
Grin on the murderer’s face, ten to one, he contemplated strangling his attorney as he turned around. “Don’t be a hero.”
“Oh, I’m not. And I don’t make threats. I want you to know that people who don’t listen to me go to jail. For you, I’m sure the prosecutor will bake you a vicious cake.”
“Ah. The scent of flesh burning on the electric chair. Mouthwatering,” he replied, walking away.
__________
At the pavement, Thurman made a sweeping right passing several food carts. He bought a water from one of them, before walking at a fast pace in the direction away from the U.S. Capitol. If his lawyer had made any sense he had to take advantage of his head start. There were no witnesses to his murders, but he knew that there was an aggressive manhunt to find him.
Passing the National Museum of African Art, Thurman’s cell phone chimed. The caller ID read: Unavailable. A call from his wife was right on time. He needed consoling and motivation: she would deliver both.