The Midnight House

the Tercel. He’d simply lowered his window, said something to the guys in the van — asking for directions, presumably — and driven off. Wells kept driving, reached for his phone, called Shafer.

“ YOU SURE ABOUT THIS? ”

“He’s doing the same thing we are,” Wells said. “Casing Murphy, staking out the neighborhood as quietly as he can.”

“Because if you’re right, then we have to throw everything out. Murphy’s not involved. The killer’s on the outside. Unless Whitby’s put a contract out on Murphy. Which makes even less sense.”

“I’m telling you, this is the guy.”

They decided not to go after him at the house. They had no authority to make an arrest, and if the guy pulled a weapon, they risked getting the real-estate agent hurt and alerting Murphy’s guards. Instead, they would have to chance tailing the Tercel. Wells guessed the guy, whoever he was, was staying at a low-rent motel in D.C., a place that would take cash so he didn’t have to use a credit card.

They split up, positioned themselves at intersections on Braddock Road, which ran between Kings Park and the Beltway. If they missed him, they would have to alert Murphy’s guards to watch for a black Tercel. But Wells much preferred to find the guy himself, figure out who he was, before getting the agency or the Feds involved.

For an hour, Wells sat in a bank parking lot on the corner of Twin-brook and Braddock, watching the lights change. The Tercel didn’t show. He wondered if they had lost the guy, or if maybe he’d been wrong all along.

Then his phone rang.

“I got him,” Shafer said.

Fifteen minutes later, the Tercel was on the Beltway, Wells and Shafer behind. They crossed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge east into Maryland, then turned north on 295. The driver kept in the right lane at a steady fifty-eight. Probably he was worried about being pulled over in a car with fake plates. But caution made him an easy tail.

At Route 50, the Tercel turned west, into D.C., over the narrow, sluggish Anacostia River. Wells felt a faint thrill as he crossed over the bridge. He would always remember meeting Exley at the Kenilworth gardens, barely a mile from here, on the night that Omar Khadri had called him to New York. Exley. He didn’t know how to leave her behind. And yet he had. Maybe he just needed a cute New Hampshire cop who would take him on hikes and bust his chops when he retreated too far into himself. Maybe he needed to give that a try, anyway.

Two miles west of the Anacostia, Route 50 became New York Avenue, a rambling strip of liquor stores, strip clubs, fast-food restaurants, and cheap motels. Surveillance here was trickier. Shafer jumped the Tercel, so that they would at least have a chance at him if he made a light that Wells missed.

Just past Montana, the Tercel turned into the parking lot for the Budget Motor Inn. Wells cruised by in time to see the Tercel pull into a spot in front of room 112. Ten minutes later, Wells and Shafer were sitting down the block at a KFC.

Shafer had insisted on buying a four-piece dinner special, giving Wells the dubious pleasure of watching him eat. As he chewed, he spun the drumstick like an ear of corn. Disgusting but efficient, like so much that Shafer did.

“Sure you don’t want some?”

“Yes,” Wells said. Though he hadn’t eaten KFC in a long time and the chicken looked tasty. Terrible, but tasty. If that combination was possible. “When do we call the cops?”

Shafer laughed. A piece of chicken, or some chicken-like substance, flew from his mouth, landing on Wells’s hand. “Good one.”

“Then could you finish that, so we can go in?”

“He’s not going anywhere, and we’re not going in until after midnight.”

“He could go after Murphy before that.”

“This guy’s careful. He’s not moving until he’s sure.”

“Then I’m going home for a while, pick up some things.”

“Like what?”

“Are you really asking me that? In the middle of a restaurant?”

“It’s a KFC.”

“Things we might need.”

“And it’s finger-licking good.”

“Do not lose him, Ellis. You lose him, I might use those things on you.”

“You promise?”

Wells took the rest of Shafer’s chicken and left.

THE BUDGET MOTOR INN didn’t have a lobby. It had a waiting room, like a doctor’s office, if the doctor worked in Mogadishu. Wood-grain veneer on the walls and thick bulletproof glass protecting the front desk. A sign taped to the inside of the glass explained, “Credit cards or cash only. No checks. No exceptions.” The guy behind the glass was in his late twenties, black, with a shaved head and Urkel-sized black glasses. He barely looked up from his battered copy of Fight Club as Shafer and Wells walked in.

“You want one bed or two?”

“We don’t want a room,” Shafer said. He held up his CIA identification.

“Lemme see that.”

Shafer slid the badge under the glass. The guy frowned at it, handed it back.

“CIA? You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not allowed to do anything on American soil.”

“Everybody’s a lawyer.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m hoping to go to law school.”

Wells pulled out his own CIA identification, held it against the glass.

“John Wells? Mr. Times Square? Seriously?”

Wells nodded.

“Where you been since then?”

“Hanging out on the beach,” Wells said. “Those fruity drinks with the umbrellas? Mai tais?”

“For real?”

“But now he’s back,” Shafer said. “And he’s better than ever. And he and I have business with the guy in room 112. Anything you can tell us about him?”

“You cannot be serious.”

Shafer slid two hundred-dollar bills under the glass. “For your college fund.”

“It’s law school.” The guy pecked at the ancient keyboard on his desk. “You’re gonna be disappointed. He’s registered under the name Michael Jackson.”

“He show ID?”

“Doesn’t say here, but probably not. You don’t have to if you pay cash up front and put down a three- hundred-fifty-dollar deposit. More than the whole room’s worth.”

“We’re going to say hi to him,” Wells said. “All we’re asking is that you ignore him if he calls you when we knock on his door.”

“What if he calls the cops?”

“He’s not calling the cops,” Shafer said.

THE TERCEL SAT in front of room 112, as it had all night, empty spaces to either side. Even with an RV taking up five spaces, the motel’s parking lot was only half full. But New York Avenue was alive with Saturday-night traffic, SUVs cruising by, pumping rap from behind tinted windows. A D.C. police car slowed as it rolled past, the cop inside looking curiously at Wells and Shafer. They ignored him and kept walking, and he disappeared. Wells didn’t want to be here for his next pass.

The noise from the street covered their approach. Wells loosened his jacket but left his pistol in his shoulder holster. He and Shafer were going in cold. They needed this guy alive. Wells reached 112 first, flattened