Capitol Hill June 29
Addis stood before a closed diner and thought Dunne had given him the wrong address. The windows were boarded up. He saw a gang-banger sitting in a car and thought about several friends who complained they could not find buyers for their homes in this Capitol Hill neighborhood. A townhouse across the street had bricks cemented in the doorway. Three white vans were parked in front of the house. Renovators or narcs, he wondered.
On the front door of the restaurant was a note: “Due to arson, Benny P’s will be closed indefinitely.” He knew the place. He had eaten here when he worked in the Senate. It was not a regular haunt for aides and lobbyists. It was a spot to escape the power-suits. Grilled cheese sandwich, greasy fries, and a Coke. Addis tried the door; it opened.
The smell of soot was in the air. The floor tiling crackled beneath his feet. Smoke stains covered the walls. A large piece of the ventilation system hung from the pressed-tin ceiling. Dunne was in the only remaining booth in the diner. With him was a woman with thick, naturally pink lips and straw-yellow hair. A small bandage was on her forehead.
Addis gingerly stepped between pieces of debris and sat next to Dunne and across from the woman. Late-twenties, he thought, a lot in her eyes.
“Friend owns this place,” Dunne said. “Been in the family for twenty-seven years. Some punks broke in. Smashed it up. Then started playing with the stove. Burnt the place down. Insurance money may not cover it.”
“Too bad,” Addis said. “I used to come here.”
Dunne introduced him to Julia Lancette.
“We think that’s her name,” Dunne joked.
He did not explain further. Addis tried not to let Lancette draw a disproportionate amount of his attention.
“There’s another death,” Dunne said. “Raymond, the owner of First Ladies.”
Before replying, Addis glanced at Lancette.
“She knows,” Dunne said. “We’re engaged in an unprecedented act of interagency cooperation. The Secret Service, the White House and”—he paused for dramatic effect—“the CIA. Ms. Lancette works for our friends across the river. A scout for skeletons and old ghosts, if I have it right.”
“That’s close,” she said.
Addis watched her mouth move.
“She was engaged in extracurricular work of her own,” Dunne said, “and her project overlapped with ours. She’s been looking for a man with a tattoo, similar to the one found on the fellow still known as Max Bridge. And she doesn’t think everyone in her world appreciates her efforts.”
Addis had a dozen questions. He wanted to know more about her. But he told himself to stay focused.
“Raymond—what happened?” he asked.
“Killed in his own apartment. Police say it looks professional. Their theory—not for public dissemination: the never officially acknowledged DC mob. That he didn’t pony up for them. They’ve been making a move on the escort business.”
“And you?”
“All I know is that whoever I go looking for ends up on the done-andgone-forever list. I’d be at a dead end if it weren’t for—”
A tall black man in dungarees entered the diner through a door behind the counter.
“Benny Junior and I were on the Atlanta force years ago,” Dunne said.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Benny said. “Good to see you again, Mr. Addis. Been a long piece. Sorry there’s no Coke for you.”
Addis stood up to shake Benny’s hand.
What do you say to someone who’s lost twenty-odd years of work?
“Me, too,” he said.
“Like I said, I don’t want to interrupt. But I had the television on. Heard something I thought you might want to know.”
“What is it?” Dunne asked.
“Had a report on this program saying that they got evidence the guy who shot up President Hanover was mixed in with white supremacists.”
“Who has evidence?” Dunne asked.
“Don’t know. The reporter didn’t say what the evidence was. And they’re still not sure of his real name. But they know he done it because he hated black people? Figure that one out.”
“Thanks, Benny,” Dunne said.
Benny read the signal.
“Okay, Clarence. Just thought you should know. I’m next door, if you need me. Nice to see you again, Mr. Addis.”
He stepped through the mess and left the diner.
Dunne picked up a piece of newspaper that was on the floor and took out a pen. On the paper he wrote the name Max Bridge.
“Our happy assassin,” Dunne said.
He then diagramed the chain: Bridge to Allison Meade to Raymond DeNoefri to the Gauntlet to the man Lancette was looking for, the man with the tattoo.
Gillian Silva doesn’t even make the chart, Addis thought.
“It’s not a straight line,” Lancette said.
She took the pen and drew an arrow from the tattoo man to Bridge.
“A circle,” she said. “If the tattoos match.”
Dunne pulled out another pen and underlined “Gauntlet.”
“Gay bar,” he explained to Addis. “Seems to specialize in don’t ask/ don’t tell for unconventional Marines. And its owner is trying to keep a secret. Maybe about this one.” He tapped his pen against tattoo man.
“He lied to me,” Lancette said. “Told me he had the bar only two years,” Lancette said. “He’s been the owner for six.”
She paused, and Addis waited for the explanation.
“I checked the liquor license,” she added. “And I think our friend”—she pointed to tattoo man—“worked there during that time.”
“And you don’t know who this guy with the tattoo is?”
“No,” Dunne said. “But the bar owner seems to. Or is it all a coincidence?”
“Clarence, have you shared any of this with the task force?” he asked.
Dunne was silent.
“And you’re a freelancer, too?” he said to Lancette. “Haven’t told Wenner?”
Before she could reply, Dunne answered.
“For some reason,” he said, “Jake Grayton recently has taken a very personal interest in Ms. Lancette.”
“Well, there might be several reasons for that,” Addis said.
Her expression changed for a moment, but he could not tell if she had smiled at him.
“But at this particular moment in the history of the known universe,” Addis said, “we don’t know much, do we?”
“We know five people are dead,” Dunne said.
“Six,” Addis said. “You probably forgot Hanover.”
He immediately regretted saying that. He was feeling irritated, frustrated. There’s too much to process, he told himself.
“What do you want me to do?” Addis asked.
“Two nights ago,” Dunne said, “a car tried to run her off the George Washington Parkway.”
Addis touched his forehead. She nodded.
“Nick, we’re not seeing it all,” Dunne said. “But it’s deep. They got the paperwork piling up on my desk, like they want to keep me inside the office. We have nervous nellies across the river. We’re adding to the District’s body count. And someone wants Ms. Lancette face-down. I’m going to poke around. Will you look after her tonight?”
“He insists,” Lancette said to Addis. “I stayed at a friend’s last night, but she left town on business today.”
“Glad to,” Addis said, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.
Addis stood up so Dunne could get out of the booth.
“So where are you going?” he asked Dunne.
“To our favorite bar.”
Lancette started to speak: “On your—”
“You’ve had enough excitement for the week,” Dunne interrupted. “You and Nick stay at his place tonight. I’ll check in later.”
He started to walk to the door and then turned around.
“And how was New Orleans?” he asked Addis.
“That’s another story,” Addis answered.
Dunne said good-bye, and Addis sat down across from Lancette.
“A few questions?” he asked.
“I have nowhere to go,” she said.
She told him about her job, about her past at the Agency. He remembered her run-in with the Agency brass.
“And I remember yours,” she said, “back when Mumfries was chairing the committee. Honduran business. Guess we have something in common.”
“Yeah, we’re both on the same shit-list at Langley.”
“Well, I happen to know there is no list. It’s really a small metal box containing index cards.”
He smiled at the joke.
“You’re going to stay on at the White House?” she asked.
“For the time being.”
“But they gave you time off to go to New Orleans … . I saw your picture in the paper … with your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said.
“Right, an ex. Just friends?”
“I don’t know. Just echoes.”
Lancette said nothing in response.
“You like Cuban food?” he asked.
“Yes. Reminds me of the Agency’s most foolish days.”
“Good.”
They left the diner and got into his car. He took East Capitol toward the Capitol and saw that one of the white vans had pulled behind him. The sun was low on the horizon.
“See how orange the Supreme Court looks?” she said. “I have a friend who’s a cinematographer in Hollywood. They call this time of day ‘magic hour.’ Must be when they take all those postcard shots. I love the way Washington looks in this light. Almost makes you—”
“Believe,” he interrupted. “Almost.”
The van stayed behind Addis’s Honda as he headed toward Union Station and followed him west on Massachusetts. When he turned on 6th Street Northwest, the van kept going straight.