The Planck Factor

Cotter and Billy surveyed the living room of Jessica’s empty condo. “Looks like she blew outta here, huh?” Billy said. “I think we freaked her out.”

“Your sheer brilliance is surpassed only by your ability to state the completely obvious,” Cotter observed.

Billy frowned. “Huh?”

“Exactly.”

The freckled redhead muttered, shook his head. “So we blew it.”

Cotter’s eyes flashed. “Did we? Or did we do her a favor?”

Billy nodded. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

Cotter retrieved his cell phone and made a call. “She’s gone,” he said into the phone. A moment passed, then he added, “Is that so?” Cotter nodded and said, “Okay, thanks.” He ended the call.

“Here’s the latest. She’s flown the coop. Literally.”

He sighed and shrugged. “Like I said, maybe it’s for the best.”

“But the others—”

“I know.” Cotter cut him off. “We still have a job to do.”

“Couldn’t we just . . . talk to her?”

Cotter looked at him. “That would be nice, but I’m following orders here.”

“So what’s next?”

Cotter pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. As the phone at the other end rang, he said, “We need to hop the next plane to D.C.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jessica

I waited, laptop case leaning against my bag, and scanned the throng of traffic moving through National Airport (I refuse to add Reagan to the name). I’d reached my sister while waiting for my connecting flight in Dallas. Liz seemed happy to hear from me, even eager to see me. Truly odd. I’d expected at least a bit of resistance, if not indignation, given the last-minute nature of my appearance.

I spotted Liz’s cherry red Porsche, not exactly the least conspicuous of cars, as it cruised around the curve toward the pickup area. I waved and grabbed my bags as she eased up to the curb.

She slid out, tapped around the car in high heels, and embraced me in a cloud of expensive, spicy fragrance. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”

Liz studied my face, then smiled. She had obviously come from work, despite the late hour. She wore a gray linen suit, the skirt’s accordion wrinkles suggesting time spent at her desk at the Justice Department. She tucked a wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Let me help you with your bags,” she said. “You must be starving. I know just the place to eat . . . .”

After subsisting for the past few hours on Starbucks coffee, a prepackaged sandwich grabbed on the run in Dallas, plus a thimbleful of airplane peanuts, I couldn’t have agreed more. As we placed my bags in the trunk, I took one last glance around the crowd and saw nothing of concern.

Everything’s fine. You’re safe here.

If only I could believe that.

It was nearly midnight when we arrived at a restaurant on Capitol Hill, a historic-looking place, all done up in mahogany and brass. We slid into a velvet-cushioned booth and scanned the menu.

“I didn’t know anything was open this late in D.C.,” I said. “I

thought they rolled up the streets around eight.”