“I’d like to see the basement. There is one, isn’t there?”
Normally the client might have asked about the upstairs at this point. Maybe even the bedroom, if she was reading this guy correctly. But whatever. The customer was always right, especially when he looked like this one did.
She left her briefcase on the kitchen counter, opened the basement door, and led him down the old wooden stairs.
“You can see it’s nice and dry. The wiring’s been redone, and the washer and dryer are only a couple of years old.”
He walked around, nodding approvingly. “I could get a lot of work done down here. Plenty of privacy, too.”
Suddenly, he took a step toward her, and she backed into the washing machine.
If there had been any doubt about where this was headed, it was gone now. Lisa tossed her hair. “Do you want t
o see the upstairs?”
“Of course I do — just not quite yet. You mind, Lisa?”
“No, I guess not.”
When she went to kiss him, he reached between her legs at the same moment, right up her skirt. It was a little presumptuous — and a little hot, too.
“It’s been a while,” he told her apologetically.
“I can tell,” she said, and pulled him closer.
Then, before they ever got to the paperwork still waiting on the kitchen counter upstairs, Lisa Giametti got the fuck of her life, right there on the two-year-old Maytag washer. It was hot, and dirty, and quite wonderful.
And the 12 percent commission was very nice, too.
Chapter 32
THE FEDS DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Metro Police didn’t know shit either. All anyone knew was that Washington was becoming one very hot and scary place to live.
Denny ate up the headlines — page A01 every morning, lead story every night at five, six, and eleven. He and Mitch sold their papers in the afternoon, then caught the evening news at Best Buy or, if they had a few extra bucks, at one of the watering holes that didn’t mind a couple of dusty guys like them sitting at the bar.
It was always the same story: unknown assailant, phantom fingerprint, and very high-grade weaponry. A few channels were throwing around rumors about a Buick Skylark with New York plates, and a supposedly dark-blue or black rusted-out Suburban — which would have worried Denny a lot more if his own Suburban wasn’t white. Even eyewitnesses were going south these days, just like everything else in the republic.
For Mitch’s part, he liked the hoopla well enough, but as the days slipped by, he seemed to get a little more sluggish, a little less engaged. There was no doubt about it in Denny’s mind: these “missions” were the thing that kept Mitch focused. Nothing else did it for the big guy.
So on the seventh day of no action, Denny told Mitch it was time to go again.
They were driving on Connecticut, away from Dupont Circle in rush-hour traffic, which was perfect, as it turned out. The longer it took to crawl past the Mayflower Hotel, the more they could scope it out on the first pass.
“That the place?” Mitch asked, looking up from the passenger seat.
“We’ll do a full recon tonight,” Denny said. “Tomorrow night, we go.”
“What kind of crumbum we bringing down this time, Denny?”
“You ever heard of Agro-Corel?”
“Nope.”
“You ever eat corn? Or potatoes? Or drink bottled water? They were into everything, man, a whole vertically integrated conglomerate, and our boy sat right at the top of the pyramid.”
“What’d he do?”
Mitch kept picking Taco Bell crumbs out of his lap and eating them, but Denny knew he was listening, too, even if some of it went over his head.