D.C. Dead

17

The restaurant was not small, but intimate nonetheless. They were seated at a banquette, back-to-back with another. “I’m surprised that the place is so full at this early hour,” Stone said.

“Washington, like L.A., is an early town, because everybody goes to work at the break of dawn,” Holly said.

Stone ordered a second drink for them, and they relaxed. He was vaguely aware of some people being seated behind them, but his attention was on Holly. “I like you with your hair up,” he said. “You have a lovely neck.” He leaned over and kissed it.

“Careful,” she said, “you’ll attract attention.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot we were being discreet. I guess that rules out what I was going to do with my hand.”

“Do it later,” she said. “Look across the room: see the man squeezed into the booth with that distinguished-looking couple? His name is Lyle ‘Scooter’ Hardin. He’s a social columnist, has a blog. He’ll work the room, then move on to Georgetown, and everyone will see their name online tomorrow morning.”

As Stone watched, the man left the booth and crossed the room, headed directly for them.

“Watch yourself,” Holly said, smiling at Stone.

Then the man was hovering over their table. “Good evening, folks,” he said.

“Good evenin’,” Holly replied, affecting an accent slightly more southern than her own.

“You’re at the Agency, aren’t you?” he asked Holly.

She looked blankly at him. “Which agency is that? There’s lots of them, aren’t there.”

“Oh, come on, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve seen you around.”

“Have you spent much time in Atlanta lately?” Stone asked. “That’s where we’re from.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hardin said. “May I have your names for my column?”

“Column?” Stone asked. “You’re with the newspapers?”

“The newspapers are dead media,” Hardin replied. “The Internet is where everything’s at.”

“You shouldn’t end a sentence with at,” Holly said sternly.

“Huh?”

“We don’t want our names in the paper,” Stone said.

“Or on the Internet,” Holly chipped in.

“We don’t do facetube, and we don’t twit,” Stone said.

Scooter smirked at him. “Sir, I don’t think you’re the rube you’re pretending to be.”

“Who are you callin’ a rube?” Stone asked. “Good God, I hope everybody in Washington isn’t as rude as you are.”

“Please let me buy you a drink,” Hardin said, swiping a chair from a nearby table and pullm gu caing it up to theirs.

“We already have a drink,” Stone said, “and tonight, one’s our limit.”

“Now, really,” Hardin said, “that gorgeous dress didn’t come from Atlanta.”

“We have a Saks Fifth Avenue,” Holly said, indignantly. “At Phipps Plaza.”

Scooter pointed at Stone. “That suit didn’t come from off the rack at Saks,” he said.

“I’ve got a tailor in London,” Stone replied. “I’m there a lot on business.”

“And what business would that be?” Hardin asked.

“None of yours,” Stone said.

“Well,” Hardin said, “I know the lady’s at the Agency, and you’re, let’s see, at State?”

“Sir,” Stone said, “I’m a Republican, and I find your suggestion insultin’. The lady’s a Republican, too, and she has a very nice little art gallery at home.”

Holly put her hand on Stone’s arm. “Don’t tell him any more, sugar, we don’t need his kind of publicity.”

Stone took a deep breath and let it out, as if he were trying to control himself. “Sir,” he said to Hardin, “if you want to go on with this, you and I are goin’ to have to do it outside, if you get my meanin’.”

The maitre d’ materialized at their table. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Stone, “is this gentleman annoying you?”

“I guess you could say that,” Stone replied. “Except the ‘gentleman’ part.”

“Mr. Hardin,” the man said, “I’ve spoken with you about this before.”

Hardin threw up his hands. “All right, all right, I surrender.” He beat a rapid retreat.

“I want to apologize to you both,” the maitre d’ said.

“I’d be grateful if he didn’t get my name from the reservations list,” Stone said, slipping the man a fifty.

The maitre d’ declined the money. “Don’t worry, Mr. Barrington, we will see that your privacy is respected.” He bowed and left.

They ordered dinner and another drink, and suddenly, Stone picked up the words “two cops from New York” from the banquette at his back. Holly heard it, too. They stopped talking and listened to the woman’s voice.

“I think this proves that Will Lee is trying to pin that murder on somebody,” she said. “He’s got these out-of-towners in to write a report that he’s going to leak to the media, saying Brix Kendrick didn’t kill his wife. And after he’s already confessed!”

“It is odd,” her companion replied.

“What none of the investigations has turned up is Brix’s affairs,” she said.

“Brix was having affairs?” her companion asked. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, one of his lovers is a friend of mine, and she lives in terror that she’s going to get pulled into the investigation and get her name in the paper and her husband will divorce her.”

Then another couple joined the two, and the subject of their conversation changed.

Holly kept her voice low. “I don’t know which is more interesting: that she knows you’r knrsae in town, or that Kendrick was having affairs.”

“Neither do I,” Stone said. “I thought our investigation was a closely held secret.”

“Well,” Holly said, “it may be a secret, but it’s apparently not closely held.”

“Apparently not.”

“You remember in the movie when somebody says to Jack Nicholson, ‘Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown’?”

“Yes.”

“Well: Stone, it’s Washington.”

“I learn a little more about it every day,” Stone said.

“Oh, by the way, don’t make any plans for lunch tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re going to be invited to have it with the president.”

“How do you know that?” Stone asked.

“Stone, it’s Washington.”