Washington, DC
November 3
1:05 p.m.
The room service menu offered limited options. Kim chose coffee and pastries, French fries, mixed nuts, and bottled water. She placed the order and left cash on the table and headed for the bathroom. She locked the flimsy hollow door and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes. She breathed the stale air and the faint antiseptic fumes in the darkness. She stayed that way for a good long time. She vaguely heard Gaspar accept the room service delivery, but still she didn’t move.
Eventually she did what she needed to do, washed, dried, tucked her hair into a fresh chignon, and examined herself in the mirror.
Competent. Professional. Unyielding.
Perfect.
She squared her shoulders, opened the door, and rejoined her partner, for better or worse.
The curled contents of mailboxes number 4719 and number 4720 were dumped on one queen bed, and the surplus from the banker’s boxes was on the other. Years of accumulated mail made surprisingly small piles. Gaspar had taken off his shoes and his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He had eaten his pastry.
He asked, “Who keeps two P.O. boxes open for five years, but never collects the mail?”
Kim said, “Someone who doesn’t want to be found. Everybody gets mail. Has to go somewhere.”
“If she wasn’t going to deal with it, why pay for storage?”
“If mail is returned, senders get curious.”
“Why two boxes, then? One would do the job, wouldn’t it?”
Kim picked up envelopes and thumbed through them. All were addressed to Sylvia Kent, at either P.O. Box 4719 or P.O. Box 4720, in Crystal City, Arlington, VA 22202. All were postmarked five and six years ago.
She said, “Maybe she planned to come back someday.”
Gaspar did the eyebrow lift. Good. That point hadn’t occurred to him. She needed to stay a few steps ahead, anticipate what he might do, make a plan B.
He said, “But if she planned to return, then why not just tell people she was taking a year or two off to live in France or something?”
Kim tossed the pile of envelopes back in the box. She stretched her back. She collected a black coffee from the tray, and returned to sorting. The letters were depressingly similar. She saw most of them repeatedly, with no variation aside from dates. “Maybe she was hiding from someone. That’s what she told Roscoe. Could be true.”
He shrugged.
They worked in silence.
Gaspar finished the packing box stack. “Looks like Bernie should have hired Alfred Lane years ago. The prior clerk wasn’t as competent. The early stuff is all mixed up.”
Kim found Alfred Lane’s computer print-outs at the bottom of the pile. Eight pages. The printer was low on ink. The font was tiny. She sought brighter light to read.
Gaspar’s phone rang. He walked his own kinks out as he listened. Then he said, “OK, keep me posted. Thanks, Jenny.”
Kim asked, “So is Alfred Lane in custody?” She opened the drapes and tilted the print-outs to the light. She scanned them.
She stopped on page two.
How could that be?
She flipped to page four. She barely heard Gaspar’s reply to her question.
He said, “No, some genius got held up at the courthouse. Duty judge out to lunch or something. By the time they reached Crystal City, Alfred was long gone.”
She asked anyway, “Did they get any data?”
He said, “The whole freaking place was on fire. They’re still fighting the blaze. Jenny says there will be nothing left but the cinders.”
Then there was a knock at the door behind her.