Stones of Fire

8

Edie Miller replaced the wireless headset in her ear.

She wasn’t going to run. She wasn’t going to hide.

She was going to play dumb.

‘My safety and well-being? Um, gee, I have no idea what your t-talking about. I’m doing just fine.’ Her voice noticeably warbled, bravado slow in coming.

‘Come now, Ms Miller. Let’s not play games with one another,’ the caller replied, seeing right through her. ‘We both know that you were at the Hopkins Museum earlier today.’

Her hands began to shake, the Jeep straying out of its lane. A UPS truck to the left of her laid on the horn causing Edie to swerve back. Hitting the turn signal, she navigated the Jeep into the inner lane of Dupont Circle.

Back-burner. That’s where you need to put the fear.

‘Of course I was at the museum,’ she replied, the best lies those fashioned from the truth. ‘I’m at the museum every Monday. It’s the only day of the week that I can take photos of the collection. But you already know that.’ She dramatically sighed, hoping she sounded like a whipped and defeated cog. ‘Linda in payroll has been threatening for weeks to tell on me for not clocking out when I leave the museum. I know. I know. Really bad habit. Guess you guys in audit finally caught up to me, huh?’

‘Is it also your habit to exit the museum via the fire escape?’

‘Oh, gosh… bus-ted.’ She nervously laughed, the lies fast mounting. ‘All these smoke-free buildings make it hard for us addicts to get our nicotine fix.’

‘And what of your satchel? You left it on your desk. Is that also another of your bad habits?’

Edie braked to avoid a ridiculously long stretch Hummer. ‘Yeah, well, what can I say? Absentminded is my middle name.’

‘According to your driver’s licence, your middle name is Darlene. Lovely picture, I might add. But then I’ve always had a weakness for curly-haired maidens.’

Edie racked her brain for a response, fast running out of lies.

Determined not to end up like Jonathan Padgham, she injected a big dose of fake incredulity into her voice. ‘You have my wallet? Thank God. I was wondering who — You will be a dear and return it, won’t you? It’d be such a pain to have to cancel all my cards.’

‘No need to worry. I’ve already taken the liberty of cancelling your credit cards. I’ve also cleaned out your chequing and savings accounts. My, my, what a thrifty little miser you are. You’ve hoarded away nearly thirty thousand dollars.’

They cleaned out my accounts. How in God’s name did they get the security codes to — The bent cop. He would have access to God knows what records. Her mobile number. Her social security number. Every Big Brother computerized database under the sun.

‘I’d be happy to give you a reward for returning my wallet,’ she said, scrambling for a foothold, a limb, a root, anything she could hold on to. ‘I’d also appreciate if you didn’t let payroll know that I left a couple of hours early. I had a killer headache and —’

‘Thou shall not lie!’ the caller barked into her ear. A half-second later, as though he had reined in his runaway temper, he calmly said, ‘Entertaining though they are, I’m beginning to grow weary of your lies, Ms Miller.’

‘Lies? What lies?’ When that met with silence, she said, ‘Look, you’ve got me confused with another woman in the line-up.’ When the silence lengthened, she said, ‘That was a joke.’ As in people with something to hide are not capable of cracking a joke.

‘A mailman in the apartment building behind the museum, believing he was performing his civic duty, identified you from your DC driver’s licence photo. You see? We know everything about you, Ms Miller. We also know that you were at the museum, on the fourth floor, when Dr Padgham met his unfortunate end.’

Unfortunate end? Was this guy for real? Jonathan Padgham’s brains were blown clear out of his head. Talk about wiping the toilet bowl clean.

‘Who are you?’

‘Who I am is unimportant.’ Then, the caller’s voice dropping a scary octave, ‘Perhaps at this juncture I should mention that you can run but you cannot hide.’

Edie looked in the rear-view mirror.

SUVs. Cars, taxis and delivery trucks of every stripe.

But no dark blue Ford.

And no DC police cruisers.

She decided to call his bluff.

‘Word of warning, fella. When trying to threaten a woman, clichés usually don’t inspire a whole lot of fear. As for threats, here’s one right back at you… Call me again and I will not hesitate to go to the FBI. Normally, I’d call the cops, but I figure I wouldn’t get out of the precinct alive. I can just hear the news broadcast now. “Edie Miller, victim of an unfortunate accident, slipped on a recently mopped floor at DC police headquarters, cracking her skull.” What do you think? Does that sound about right?’

‘I’m certain that the FBI is much too busy tracking jihadist terror cells to take your call let alone give you the time of day.’

‘Ah, but like you said, I’m the sole surviving witness to a brutal execution. One that involves a well-organized art ring,’ she added, laying all her cards on the table. ‘I think the suits at the FBI will be only too happy to spare me a few minutes of their time.’

‘How do you know we haven’t infiltrated the FBI?’

She didn’t. And the cocky bastard knew it.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Merely to talk. To clarify the situation so as to alleviate your unwarranted fears. I have very deep pockets, Ms Miller, and would be only too happy to triple the balance in your two bank accounts.’

Yeah, right. Something told her she’d never see a dime.

Accelerating, she jerked the Jeep over one lane. Then another, exiting the traffic circle at Mass Avenue.

‘You want to talk? Fine. Here’s the only thing I have to say to you —’ She dragged out the silence for several seconds then screeched, ‘Go to hell!’’

Pulling the wireless headset out of her ear, she flung it in the direction of her bag.

Shaking — not like one leaf, but like a whole pile of wind-whipped leaves — she kept her eyes glued to the road, the familiar equestrian monuments passing in a blur as she drove around Scott Circle and under Thomas Circle. She then turned right at 11th, drove a few blocks and made a left turn onto Pennsylvania. In the distance loomed the US Capitol.

The snow started to fall more heavily. Driving on autopilot, she turned up the heater.

At 4th Street, she turned right, the East Building of the National Gallery of Art on her left, the West Building on her right. Not bothering to signal, she made a sharp right into the circular drive next to the museum, pulling the Jeep into the first available parking spot she could find, right behind a snow-covered Lexus. It was a prime parking spot, mere steps from the West Building entrance. It also required a NGA parking sticker.

‘So, sue me,’ she muttered. It was snowing and she didn’t have time to find a legal parking space, the Mall crowded despite the foul weather.

Yanking the keys out of the ignition, she tossed them into her bag and got out of the Jeep. The National Gallery of Art was the most public place she could think of to hide. One of the largest marble buildings in the world, it exuded a sense of strength and security. And there were guards everywhere. Tons of them. As she rushed towards the oversized entry doors, she tried not to think of the two dead guards back at the Hopkins.

Opening a door, she glanced at her watch: 2:30. The museum would be open for another two and a half hours. Enough time to figure out her next move. Hopefully, C.Aisquith had received her email and was on his or her way to the museum.

At the front desk, Edie opened her bag for inspection, the guard giving the contents only a cursory glance. If he noticed the box of spinach, he gave no indication. Edie slung the bag back on her shoulder, unimpressed with the museum’s post-9/11 security measures.

Well acquainted with the layout — she had spent many hours perusing the museum’s collection since first moving to DC nearly twenty years ago — Edie took the escalator down one floor to the underground concourse that connected the two wings. Passing the Henry Moore sculpture at the base of the escalator, she headed into the gift shop. The muffled hubbub was non-stop. People chatting. People talking on mobiles. People waxing poetic about the beautiful boxed Christmas cards. The mingling of all those voices was a comforting sound, reassuring Edie that she was finally safe.

Reaching the Cascade Café, she stood next to the gushing waterfall that gave the café its name. Enclosed behind a giant screen of glass, pumped water continuously flowed over a wall of corrugated granite. One storey below ground, the protective glass wall was the only source of natural light in the concourse. Edie was able to see the wintry grey sky above.

For the next fifteen minutes, she carefully scrutinized each and every museum patron who entered the concourse. Teens garbed in Gap. Ladies who lunch garbed in Gucci. Museum staff garbed in drab grey. And then she saw him, a tall red-headed man, fortyish, who had about him a discernible air of self-assurance. From the cut of his clothes — expensive navy-blue wool jacket, cream-coloured cable-knit sweater, black leather shoes paired with blue denim jeans — she pegged him for a European.

The red-headed man came to a stop in the middle of the crowded concourse. Turning his head, he glanced at her, held her gaze, then looked away.

Edie purposefully strode towards him. Having spent a summer selling timeshares in Florida, she wasn’t afraid of approaching strangers.

The red-headed man’s gaze swerved back in her direction, a questioning look on his face.

‘C.Aisquith at lycos.com?’

He nodded, blue eyes narrowing. ‘And you must be Edie103 at earthlink.com. I would normally say “Pleased to make your acquaintance” but given the dire content of your electronic missive that may be a bit premature.’

Like Jonathan Padgham, he had a cultured English accent.

‘I’m curious. How did you recognize me? There must be a hundred people milling about.’

‘Lucky guess,’ she replied, shrugging. ‘That and the fact that you have the same British I’m-so-superior air about you that Dr Padgham had.’

One side of the man’s mouth twitched up. ‘Had? I can’t imagine old Padge has changed all that much.’

Edie swallowed, the moment of truth having arrived much too abruptly.

‘I said “had” for a reason. He’s dead. Jonathan Padgham was killed a little over an hour ago. And just my luck, I’m the only witness to the murder.’