She followed the black Jag, but he didn’t head toward Southeast, which disappointed her. He drove to a trendy supermarket, Sutton on the Run, just off Dupont Circle. Hampton knew the pricey store and called it Why Pay Less.
He parked the sports car illegally, then jogged inside. Diplomatic immunity. That pissed her the hell off. What a weasel he was, real Euro-trash.
While he was in the market, Hampton made a command decision. She was pretty sure she was going to talk to Alex Cross. She had thought a lot about it, the pros and cons. Now she figured that she might be endangering lives in Southeast by not sharing at least some of what she knew. If someone died, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Besides, Cross would have gotten the information if she hadn’t interceded with Chuck Hufstedler.
Shafer shuffled back out of Sutton on the Run and glanced around crowded Dupont Circle. He had a small bag of overpriced groceries clutched in one arm. Groceries for whom, though? He didn’t look in the direction of her Jeep, which was just peeking around the corner.
She followed the black Jag at a safe distance in the light traffic. He got onto Connecticut Avenue. She didn’t think he’d spotted her, though he was an MI6 man, so she needed to be careful.
Shafer wasn’t far from Embassy Row. He wouldn’t be going back to work now, would he? Why the groceries if he was headed to the embassy?
The Jaguar eventually turned into the underground garage of a prewar building in Woodley Park. THE FARRAGUT was engraved on a brass sign in front.
Patsy Hampton waited a few minutes, then pulled into the garage behind the Jag. She needed to look around, check things out if she could.
The garage was public-private, so it wasn’t any big deal. She walked over to the attendant in the small kiosk and identified herself.
“The Jag that came in before me, ever see it here before?” she asked.
The man nodded. He was around her age, and she could tell he wanted to impress her if he could. “Sure. I don’t know him to talk to, though. Comes here to visit a lady on ten. Dr. Elizabeth Cassady. She’s a shrink. I assume he’s a patient. He’s got a funny look in his eyes,” the attendant said, “but so do most people.”
“How about me?” Hampton asked.
“Nah. Well, maybe a little,” the attendant said, and grinned.
Shafer stayed upstairs with Dr. Cassady for nearly two hours. Then he came down and went straight back to the house in Kalorama.
Patsy Hampton followed him, then watched the house for another half hour. She thought that Shafer was probably in for the night. She drove to a nearby diner but didn’t go inside right away. She picked up her mobile phone before she had too many second thoughts. She knew Cross’s street and got the phone number through information. Was it too late to call? Screw it, she was going through with this.
She was surprised when the phone was picked up on the first ring. She heard a pleasant male voice. Nice. Strong.
“Hello. Alex Cross.”
She almost hung up on him. Interesting that he’d intimidated her for a moment. “This is Detective Patsy Hampton. I’ve been doing some work on the Jane Does. I’ve been following a man who is a suspect. I think we should talk.”
“Where are you, Patsy?” Cross said, without hesitation. “I’ll come to you. Just tell me where.”
“I’m at the City Limits diner on Connecticut Avenue.”
“I’m on my way,” said Cross.
Chapter 67
I WASN’T TOTALLY SURPRISED that Pittman had assigned someone to the Jane Does. Especially after Zach Taylor’s article in the Washington Post. I was interested in any leads Detective Hampton might have turned up.
I had seen Patsy Hampton around, and she obviously knew who I
was. She was supposed to be on a fast track; she was a smart and effective senior homicide detective, though from what I’d heard, she was also a lone wolf. She didn’t have any friends in the department, as far as I knew.
She was much prettier than I remembered. She was in very trim, athletic shape, probably early thirties, short blond hair, piercing blue eyes that cut through the diner haze.
She’d put on bright-red lipstick for our meeting, or maybe she wore it all the time. I wondered what was on her mind and what her motives were. I didn’t think I could trust her.
“You or me first?” Detective Hampton asked, after we’d ordered coffee. We were seated at a table in the City Limits diner, near a window looking out on Connecticut Avenue.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what this is about,” I told her.
She sipped her coffee and gave me a look over the cup’s rim. She was a strong-willed, confident person. Her eyes told me that much.