The Planck Factor

Liz ignored my little slam at D.C.’s nightlife and kept reading. She still hadn’t asked me why I was here.

“Everything looks good,” I said.

“Everything is good.” Her tone turned surprisingly sharp. Setting the menu aside, she added, “The food that is.” She peered at me across the table. “Jess, what’s going on?”

Here it was. I’d been wrestling with how much to tell Liz and how much to leave out. Given Liz’s high-level attorney job, did I really want to tell her about Fred’s murder? Or the fact that I’d found him dead and told no one? I had absolutely no idea what obligations, if any, she’d have if I told her.

I launched into the little speech I’d prepared, only to be interrupted by our waiter. After we’d placed our orders, I told her everything—everything except the part about Fred. Instead I said I’d tried to talk to him but couldn’t, which, strictly speaking, was true.

Liz mostly listened, her expression patient, her eyes serious, but with a hint of sympathy in them. Now and then, she’d ask for clarification of some point or my thoughts on why this was happening. I could picture her wearing that same face and asking similar questions while meeting with someone from a client agency.

By the time I’d finished my story, our food had arrived and I tucked into my cheeseburger with gusto. Its smoky flavor was intoxicating. Liz poked about at her salad.

“I know you must think I’m crazy,” I said, between mouthfuls. “But I just felt like I had to leave. Go somewhere that felt safe, you know?”

“Sure.” Liz sounded uncertain, distracted for a moment. She stopped torturing her salad. “You did the right thing.”

She returned to her food, then added, “And, no, I don’t think you’re crazy. Although it does sound rather strange.”

You have no idea, I thought.

After we ate, we drove directly to Liz’s Capitol Hill condo. Parking was a bitch. Liz just managed to squeeze the Porsche into a spot four blocks away. She couldn’t abide the thought of paying for a space. After securing a bar lock on the steering wheel, she locked the car and set the alarm.

“Does it worry you to park such a nice car on the street?”

Liz shrugged. “If they want to steal it, they will. That’s what insurance is for.”

As we trooped the four blocks past genteel brick row houses, I thought, Who’d want to live in this berg? Liz saw it differently, of course. She liked being a Washingtonian. She actually thought it was exciting to have a senator living in her neighborhood. Whoopee.

Liz had a first-floor unit in a rowhouse of whitewashed brick—a tiny, but no doubt expensive, piece of real estate. The one small bedroom barely elevated it above the level of an efficiency. She placed her purse and keys on a small table near the door.

“Let me take the futon,” she said. “You can have the bed.” She unfolded the futon so it could serve its function as a cot.

“No, I’ll take the futon. I don’t want to put you out. You’ve done enough for me already.”

“Are you sure?”

I nudged her aside. “I’ll be fine, Liz. I’m so tired, I could sleep on the floor.”

Liz hesitated, then relented. “Well, okay, if you insist.” She smiled. “I’ll let you get some rest, then. Got an early morning myself tomorrow. There’s cereal in the cupboard, eggs in the fridge, bagels in the freezer . . . .” Her voice trailed off and it hit me how drained she looked. “Just help yourself to anything you like.”

“Thanks, sis. Now get some sleep.”

“You, too. We can talk more about this tomorrow, if you like.”

“I appreciate that. G’night.”

“Night.”

I watched her shuffle off to bed. I was exhausted, but wired. Probably all that Starbucks coffee on top of eating late. By the time I changed into my PJs, brushed my teeth, and stretched out on the futon, I hoped I’d be sleepy. But the events of the last couple of days kept reeling through my mind like a never-ending movie montage.

Finally, after half an hour of lying still with my eyes shut, I gave up and turned on the TV, keeping the sound low. I flipped through the channels halfheartedly, stopping abruptly on CNN when I saw the words “Murder in Boulder” emblazoned across the bottom of the screen.

If I wasn’t wide awake before, I was now. I sat up and tapped the volume up.

“. . . victim of the execution-style killing has been identified as Fred Berwin, a graduate student at the University of Colorado.”

A picture of Fred flashed to the anchor’s right.