MAHONEY CALLED IN our new position as we followed the GPS off the Beltway and onto Eisenhower Avenue. It was getting dark, but the roads were still crowded with commuters. I wondered vaguely when nine-to-five had become an anachronism.
A mile and a half up Eisenhower, we came to a row of identical four-story town houses fronting the street.
A break in the road marked the entrance with a sign welcoming visitors to Avalon at Cameron Court.
The GPS led us through the mini-maze of the compound inside. It was one of those upscale developments, “communities,” with their own everything. Rents here were as high as thirty-five hundred a month, according to Mahoney and his laptop.
“You know, my aunt lives in a place like this, down in Vero Beach, Florida. They have a two-pet maximum, but she’s got four identical little dogs. Just walks them two at a time.”
I sort of listened, until we came onto Nicholson’s block. “Hey, Ned. See that?” A dark blue sedan was just pulling out of a driveway about fifty yards ahead. “Is that Nicholson’s building?”
Mahoney sat up and closed the laptop. “Could be. Let’s find out.”
The other car started up the block, heading right toward us. It had DC plates. Two men in front, two passengers in back who were harder to see.
As we passed, I looked in, and for just a second I locked eyes with Tony Nicholson.