The Planck Factor

The TV was still on, so I grabbed the remote and flipped through channels until I found a local station. They had a morning show going, so I’d

have to wait until they switched to local news or just check the morning paper and see if I’d ended up being featured on page one above the fold. That seemed unlikely given that this was the Nation’s Capital, which was also homicide central. Yet a murder in a crowd at the Navy Memorial in broad daylight might get a bit more attention than usual. Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

I’d forgotten about Cynthia. “It’s not the way it looks, okay?” I paused to collect myself, before launching into an explanation of the strange phone calls, the two men in the van and my decision to come to D.C. Then the call from the stranger, the meeting, the poisoning and—worst of all—seeing my sister with Flattop and Red.

“Okay, so you lied to your adviser,” Cyn said. “There’s no family emergency. How am I supposed to believe what you’ve told me about Fred?”

“Why would I kill Fred?”

A protracted silence followed. “Fair enough, but it really looks suspicious. And now this latest murder. I mean, what the hell is going on?”

“If you only knew how many times I’ve asked myself that same question.”

“Look, you stay there and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

I sighed. “That’s probably a good idea. I don’t need yet another person recognizing me. Apparently, my face is more memorable than most.”

“It was probably that silly hat.”

“Could be.” I had to admit, in retrospect, it did seem ridiculous. My stomach growled and I realized I was famished. I’d had only a bagel and the granola bar yesterday. I’d left the room service food untouched. “Well, whatever. I’m starving.”

“All right, then. I’ll pick up coffee and some cinnamon rolls.”

“That’ll be fine. Thanks.”

I hung up and kept my eye on the TV, watching for any news about me or yesterday’s murder. I flipped around to more local stations. Nothing. Maybe it was already old news.

Then, on one channel, I saw the photo they’d shown of me on CNN. I turned up the sound.

“ . . . witness noticed Evans talking to the man moments before he was found dead. At that time, Evans wore jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a hat. Police are asking that you call them if you see Evans, the woman in this photo.”

Super. I muted the sound and pondered the strange ways of fate.

Then, I wondered about the description the anchorwoman had given. Apparently, no one had taken a photo of me at the Navy Memorial, or you’d think they would’ve used it instead of the one from CNN. The anchorwoman had also mentioned what I wore but never described the hat and it was pretty distinctive.

I’d left the hat back at Liz’s condo before I took the cab to my hotel. Cynthia had told me she saw me leave Liz’s place, but never mentioned seeing me arrive. So how would she know about the hat?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jessica

The knock at the door had to be Cyn. I grabbed the serrated knife and opened the door with the chain in place.

“I bring breakfast.” Cyn’s cheery greeting could be heard on the next floor.

I unlocked the chain and opened the door. Cyn entered with a paper bag. “These cinnamon rolls look absolutely sinful,” she said. “Better be hungry or I’ll gain a ton eating them.” She moved to the small desk and pulled coffee cups and pastry from the bag.

“Cyn?” Her false bonhomie was wearisome. “How did you know about my hat?”

Cyn hesitated a fraction of a second. “It was on the news.”

“Which channel?”

“I’m not sure. CNN, maybe.”

“And why did you follow me here again?”