Inside Out

53

Washington, D.C.

Saturday

Sean awoke at eight A.M. without receiving the wake-up call she had requested for seven-thirty. Based on what she had seen of the place, she had no trouble believing that the management hoped she would sleep past the ten A.M. checkout time so they could charge her for a second night. The room stank of stale smoke, the carpeting was stained and the curtains frayed. As far as she could tell, the sheets were clean.

She showered under a weak stream of lukewarm water with a minuscule bar of soap and dried herself with a thin towel hardly larger than the washcloth. She rinsed her mouth with tap water and used her fingertip to clean her teeth. She studied the dark bruise on her lip as she ran her fingers through her wet hair.

Now able to think with a clear head, she felt relieved her life was back under her control. She started a mental list of the things she needed to accomplish in the next few hours.

She slipped into her stale clothes, opened the telephone book, and looked for the places most likely to help her with her next step. She found a likely candidate, memorized the address, pulled on her leather coat, slipped her purse into her briefcase, and left. She had eluded the marshals and, at least for the moment, she had what mattered most-her life. Now all she had to do was keep it. She asked the desk clerk to call her a cab.

The sign on the building read, URBAN WARFARE. Below those words, smaller print added, FASHIONS FOR THE BATTLE OF LIFE. Sean studied the mannequins in the windows and decided that they looked as though they had been brought in off an active battlefield. She felt exhilarated as she contemplated the leather and the T-shirts brandishing insults intended to pass for social statements. Satisfied she would find what she was looking for, she walked inside.

The saleswoman peered at her from behind a glass counter. She had luminous white skin, jet-black clothes to match her hair and lipstick, and an extremely large hoop that seemed to run through her septum. Her hair looked like it belonged on a doll found in a landfill. She was wearing dark-framed reading glasses.

“Yeah?” When the woman spoke, a stud in her tongue sparkled.

“I need a new wardrobe.”

“No offense, but you're more the Junior League type. My stuff is a bit more cutting-edge, don't you think?” The clerk's raspy voice sounded like it had been tuned by twenty years of cigarette smoke and liquor.

“I need a change.”

“You think I don't know who you are?”

Sean was stunned. She had assumed it was too soon for Manelli's network to be looking for her.

The woman came from around the counter. “Judging by the lip, you gotta change your look and then run like hell.”

The clerk had her pegged for a battered wife on the run. Perfect.

“What appeals to you?”

Sean looked at the tag on a pair of jeans. “You take Visa, MasterCard?”

“I have to take plastic, but I hate the shit. Costs me three points. I always prefer cash.”

“These clothes are sort of expensive.”

“Quality costs. Some of these are originals. I get famous people in here, you know. Johnny Depp shops here-anyway, he did once. I got an autographed picture he sent me around here somewhere. People are funny. Something's cheap, they stick up their noses, if it's real expensive they'll stick up a bank to get it. My name's Hoover. I own the place.” She glanced at Sean's wrist. “Nice watch. Could I see it?”

Sean promptly removed the watch and handed it over.

Hoover studied the watch. “Real?”

“A gift from my husband.”

“Fakes are so good now. This one's real, it goes for what, four grand?”

“Twelve,” Sean said coolly.

“How do you know it's not a copy? Guy who hits you, sweet pea, could be a liar, too.”

“I had the band shortened myself at Cartier and it's been on my wrist ever since. If it was a fake, they'd have told me.”

Hoover raised her brows. “Tell you what. Let's get you outfitted up and we'll discuss payment options.”

Sean fixed her eyes on Hoover's. “Here's the deal. I need a few changes of clothes, the trimmings, something to carry them in, hair and makeup to fit.”

“Sergio next door is a great hairdresser.” Hoover extended her arms out, cocked her hip in a pose that reminded Sean of a model on a revolving stage posing in front of a new automobile. “He does mine.”

“Perfect.”

Hoover studied Sean carefully, then she nodded. “Let's get started, angel. We'll stick to basic black. You got a great body for my clothes.”

Sean had no problem with black. She was, after all, a widow.

Sean only knew that she was the person staring back at her from the mirror because she had been in on the transformation process. Two hours had passed since she entered the store. Now Hoover and Sergio stood at the counter evaluating their creation.

“You look eighteen!” Sergio cried. “Could be my best work.”

“Yep, a true work of art, sweetie. Now, get the hell out.” Hoover waved a hand in the air, dismissing him. “We'll settle later.”

Sergio blew them a kiss from the front door and was gone.

Hoover folded the clothes they had chosen into a new nylon duffel bag. Sean put her computer and her purse into a small backpack and set her empty leather briefcase on the counter. “My financial situation is this: What cash I have, I'll need for my relocation.”

“The clothes, the hair, and makeup, glasses, boots, socks… Normally that'd run twenty-five, twenty-six hundred, plus tax.”

Sean rested her hands on the briefcase. “This was eleven hundred new.”

“It's used and, anyhow, do I look like I'd carry a case like that? Tell you what, just use your credit card, and, for you, I'll eat the three points.”

If Sean used her plastic, Hoover would get her money, but, it would lead people straight to the store. When Hoover described how Sean now looked, she'd be easier to find than ever. Sean slipped off the Cartier and set it on the briefcase. “This will cover what I owe you and then some.”

“I can't take it.”

“Eighteen-karat. Look at the hands. The second hand sweeps. That means self-winding Swiss movement, not quartz. Listen to it. Look at it. Feel the weight.”

“I believe it's real. Problem is, I can't make change on that. You said twelve grand? What would I do with it? This is no pawnshop.”

Sean thought about it. The watch was worth ten used. It was a magnificent piece of engineering, precious metal, and art. Besides, Dylan had given it to her, which made it worthless. She had another thought.

“Hoover, you wouldn't happen to know where I can get a gun, would you?”

Hoover's right eyebrow rose. After a moment, she reached under the counter near her knees and lifted up a very large revolver. “Forty-four. Storekeeper's best friend. I get some tough customers.”

“I was thinking something smaller.”

Hoover promptly reached into a drawer behind her and took out a small dark revolver with checkered hickory grips. “Smith and Wesson. 38 Chiefs. It conceals like a champ, holds five shots, and has plenty of punch. And it's not hot.”

Sean studied the gun. “The Cartier for everything, the Smith and extra bullets if you have them. We both know a jeweler who thought my watch was stolen would pay three grand, which gives you a nice profit on the clothes, which probably cost you twenty-five percent of what the tags say. Gun's value is maybe three hundred on a good day.”

Hoover slid the gun across the counter to Sean, then lifted the watch and slipped it onto her wrist. “Done.”

Sean lifted the revolver, broke it open, and pressed the ejector to empty the shells into her palm. She looked into the empty ports, eyed the inside of the barrel for dirt. She reloaded it and closed it with a snap. “And keep the change.”

Hoover reached into the drawer behind her again and placed a box of shells on the counter. Then she offered her hand. Sean set the gun down and the two women shook on it.

Sean bought a newspaper before she boarded the train. The front page of USA Today carried two seemingly unrelated stories. A jet carrying United States marshals had crashed while trying to make an emergency landing at an abandoned airfield in rural Virginia. The names of the dead marshals were being withheld until notification of next of kin. In the second article, six sailors at a radar facility on Rook Island, just off the coast of North Carolina, were dead. Neither the Navy nor the FBI would confirm reports that the incident was a shooting rampage perpetrated by one of the six sailors, who subsequently took his own life. An FBI spokesman said only that the details of the tragedy would be forthcoming as soon as their investigation was completed. The names of the six dead sailors were also being withheld. Sean closed her eyes and bit her lip.