“
When Pittman turned, he saw their waiter and the maitre d’ glowering at them from the restaurant’s open door.
“We needed to see if our friend was all right,” Pittman said.
The maitre d’ fumed. “This is what happens when I make an exception to our dress code.”
“We were coming back.”
“Certainly. But in case you’re detained, I’m sure you won’t mind paying for your cocktails before you look for your friend.”
“Jill, run down to the corner on the right,” Pittman said. “Maybe you’ll see him on the next street. If we get separated, I’ll meet you at the car…. How much do we owe?” Pittman quickly asked the maitre d’.
“Four Jack Daniel’s, a Heineken, and-”
“
“Twenty-eight dollars.”
Pittman shoved thirty dollars at the waiter, seriously depleting their money supply, and hurried in the opposite direction from Jill, wincing from cramps in his legs after having been in the car for so long.
At the corner to the left of the restaurant, he gazed intensely toward pedestrians on the next street. Immediately he straightened at the sight of Denning, a quarter of the way along the block, lurching from between parked cars to hail a taxi. The elderly man looked more agitated as he got into the taxi, blurting instructions to the driver before he closed the door.
Pittman ran to try to reach the taxi, but it pulled away, and at once Pittman raced back toward Jill, his cramped legs protesting.
“I didn’t see him.” Jill was waiting where they’d parked the car across the street from the restaurant.
“
Pittman started the engine and steered impatiently from the curb, narrowly missing a BMW. A horn sounded behind him. He ignored it and turned left, reaching the street where he’d seen Denning get into the taxi.
“Where do you suppose he’s going?” Jill asked.
“I don’t know. But this is a one-way street headed north. Denning wouldn’t have waited until he was around the corner before he hailed a taxi unless he intended to go in this direction. There’s a good chance that the taxi is still on this street.”
“You’ve already passed two taxis. How will you know which one is Denning’s?”
“I got the license number.” Pittman kept driving. “I don’t see… Damn it, do you suppose we lost him?”
“There.”
“Yes! That’s the taxi.”
Pittman immediately hung back, keeping a reasonable distance between his car and the taxi so the driver wouldn’t realize he was being followed. Fifteen seconds after he obeyed the speed limit, a police car passed them.
“It’s your lucky night,” Jill said.
“I wish I
“Back to where he lives?”
“In the heart of Georgetown? No way. He doesn’t have enough money.”
Elegant town houses gave way to mansions.
Pittman followed the taxi, turning left onto a street paved with worn bricks, streetcar tracks embedded in them. The taxi stopped in front of one of the few mansions set back from the street. The brightly lit building was on top of a slight hill and had a large landscaped yard, its shrubs enclosed by a waist-high wrought-iron fence.
Denning got out of the taxi and hurried up concrete steps toward a spacious porch, its pillars reminding Pittman of a Greek temple.
“I wonder who lives here,” Pittman said.
“And why was he in such a rush to get here?”
They watched Denning knock repeatedly on the mansion’s front door. A uniformed male servant opened it. Denning gestured, talking insistently. The servant turned to request instructions from someone inside, then allowed Denning to enter.
“Now what?” Jill asked.
“I’m tired of sitting in this damned car. Let’s make a house call.”
SIX
1
The uniformed male servant opened the door in response to Pittman’s knock. “Yes, sir?” He was middle-aged and somewhat portly. So much unexpected activity evidently puzzled him.
“A minute ago, a man named Bradford Denning came here,” Pittman said.
“Yes, sir?” The servant looked more puzzled.
“Did he mention that he was expecting us?”
“No, sir.” The servant’s brow developed deep furrows.
“Well, we’re with him. It’s important that we see him.”
“George?” a woman asked from inside. “Who is it?”
“Someone who claims to be with your visitor, ma’am.”
Pittman peered inside toward a tall, slender woman in her late fifties. Her hair was short and frosted. She wore a scoop-necked designer dress made of silk, the blue of which brought out the sparkle in her diamond earrings. Although attractive, her features had the severe tight-skin-against-prominent-cheekbones look of someone who’d had numerous face-lifts.
The woman stepped forward, her high heels clicking on the mirror-like finish of the vestibule’s hardwood floor. “You know Bradford?”
“We were supposed to have dinner with him tonight.”
“The last time we saw him, he didn’t look well,” Jill said. “Is he all right?”
“Actually he looks dreadful.” The woman’s expression became tighter. “But he didn’t mention anything about you.”
Pittman tried to remember the false names he’d given to Denning. “Tell him it’s Lester King and Jennifer.”
“Don’t listen to them, Vivian.” Denning appeared suddenly at a doorway on the left. With a wrinkled handkerchief, he continued to wipe glistening sweat off his face. “They’re reporters.”
The woman’s gaze darkened, her voice deepening with disapproval. “
“But we’re not here to make trouble,” Jill said quickly. “We’re here to help.”
“How?”
“We suspect Bradford Denning came here to tell you what we spoke to him about earlier. You might want to get the story directly from the source.”
The woman’s severe face didn’t develop lines of emotion. Instead, suspicion and confusion were communicated by the rigid tilt of her head and the hardness of her gaze. “Come in.”
“No, Vivian,” Denning said.
The woman ignored him. “It’s all right. Come in.”
“Thank you,” Pittman said.
“But if it turns out that you
The threat caused a further surge of adrenaline to roil Pittman’s stomach. He fought not to show his concern.
As the servant shut the door behind them, the woman led Pittman and Jill toward Denning. They went through the doorway on the left.
