“Hello?”
“Hi, Sam. This is Perri Loliyekar. I was wondering if I could meet you for some coffee this afternoon. Perhaps at that nice coffee house near DuPont Circle. There are items on the menu for light fare, if you’re in the mood for a small bite.”
“Well,” Sam answered, “this sounds quite lovely. How about for lunch—say, around one o’clock-ish?”
“Sounds just wonderful; I’m looking forward to it.’
Poisonous ascended from the DuPont Circle Metro station, walked down 19th Street and turned into the coffee shop located just before N Street, N.W. Sam’s scent wafted into her nose. Something about it seemed familiar—she had come across that scent many times before. But wait…that smell belonged to dark spirits like herself. Now the scent pushed her curiosity up several notches. This couldn’t be, could it? Her interest in Sam Bittenbeidter went up even higher than when she first met him.
Sam sat at a table near the window, and looked up at her as she approached his table.
“My, you’re perfectly stunning,” he gushed. Getting up, he pulled out a chair at the table, and said, “Please. Have a seat.” Once seated, he pushed her chair underneath the table and sat down beside her. Now that she was next to him, she focused on his scent. It was unmistakable: this was the scent of a demon. But why would a demon be ‘courting’ her? The only thing she could do was to play along.
“So, where are you from?” she asked.
“I’m from here. Been in D.C. all my life. Started out in Chevy Chase; even went to Bethesda-Chevy Chase High School. I live in an apartment complex a couple of blocks from here on N Street. How about you? Where are you from?”
“I live in the Metro View condo complex in the Mount Vernon Triangle area: been there for a couple of months. I moved to D.C. from an obscure city in India fifty kilometers outside of Mumbai.” Eager to be more intimate with him, she asked, “So what’s your apartment like?”
“Why don’t I give you a tour?” Sam said.
“I’d love it,” she said, feeling heat rising in her. The hunt had returned, demon or not.
* * *
Saturday, September 13th
Officer Charlie Walters drove along his beat in the Penn Quarter and Chinatown neighborhoods. He cruised up 9th Street, and took a left onto F Street, since many of the young folks were busy partying at the Capital Scene. Drunk and disorderly conduct arrests happened frequently at this club, and he had participated in nearly all of them. He had made several of the arrests himself, as only one other cop drove this beat, and her job took place during the day. As per his usual procedure, he stopped in front of the club and stayed there a while. On a Saturday night like this, most of the rowdier crowd gathered here, usually resulting in some sort of disruptive behavior. After about fifteen minutes, nothing of note had occurred, except the relentless pounding of the Electronic music. “I’ve had enough of this. That stuff gives me a headache.”
His cruiser made another circuit of the area enclosed to the North by K Street, to the South by E Street, and to the East and West by 5th and 10th Streets, NW. As he drove down E Street, he turned right onto 7th Street, going North, since many of the popular venues, mostly restaurants, lined the street. Observing the clientele gathered inside and outside the restaurant, most of them quietly ate, had conversation, and lingered here, because restaurants, especially Chinese, often had a milder ambiance than those to the West along K Street and Connecticut Avenue in the DuPont Circle area. Satisfied that this area was under control, he took a right turn on K Street, which turned into New York Avenue, took a left on 9th Street, and headed back towards the Capital Scene. The time was a little past ten fifteen p.m. This was the time the partyers started revving their motors, and were on their way to being wild and crazy out of control – ‘krunk’ was the term used in popular parlance. He stayed put, in spite of the music pounding on his eardrums and his nerves, and watched for something crazy to happen.
Looking up and down the sidewalk along the North side of F Street, and trying desperately to ignore the pounding music, the sight of a young man and what appeared to be a teenaged girl caught his eye. Reading over the dossier of the pedophile case on the police-issued laptop, a picture of a man named Rob Quayle came up on his computer screen. Altering between his screen and the young man, he positively ID’ed the young man, who matched his picture to the smallest detail.
Pressing the button on the Police Band radio, he said, “Calling all units; calling all units. This is unit 957. Have made a positive ID on one Rob Quayle, wanted for rape of a minor. Need some backup. Over.” A few seconds later, a response crackled from his radio.
“Copy, unit 957: this is Unit 217. We have your six. Will arrive in five minutes. Over.”
“Copy that, 217. Over.”
He jumped out of the cruiser, and approached the man.
“Stop right there!” he shouted, pointing his police-issue Glock at the man’s chest. “Put your hands up where I can see them.”
The man froze, and slowly lifted his hands above his head. The young girl beside him wailed, “What’s going on, Rob? Why is a policeman stopping you?”
“Don’t worry, honey,” he said to the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Lisa…Lisa Hargrove,” she said.
“Tell you what, Lisa: why don’t you go and have a seat in my cruiser—in the front seat. I have some business to attend to with this man, and it
