The Camel Club (Camel Club 1)

“You like it out in Manassas?” she asked, eyeing his card.

“My wallet likes it a lot.” He glanced at her address and got a funny look. “R Street? Georgetown!”

“Don’t get your hopes up, mister. I’m not an heiress masquerading as a DOJ do-gooder. I live in the carriage house behind the mansion. The woman who owns the place is a widow and likes having someone around. She’s really nice. Quite the pistol actually.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“But that doesn’t mean that you don’t want one.” She poured him a fresh drink. “On the house, since you seemed to have spilled yours.” She handed him a rag.

“While you’re in a cooperative mood, where does the ‘total package’ work and what project are you two involved in?”

Kate put a finger to her lips. “Lawyer confidentiality thing, you understand. But without breaking any state secrets I can tell you I’m working with his agency on its request to reuse an old building. But I don’t think we’re going to reach such an agreement. So what’s going on at work that has you ticked off?”

“You don’t hear enough sob stories as it is?”

“We’re officially going out. So, in for a dime, in for a dollar.”

Alex smiled. “Okay. There’s this rookie at work I’m partnering with on an investigation. She’s got a bigwig daddy who’s pulling strings for her upstairs. I’m trying to explain to her that that’s not how you make friends at the Service.”

“And she’s not getting the concept?”

“If she doesn’t soon, it’ll come down on her like a ton of bricks.”

“So what’s the case you’re working on with her?”

“Now it’s my turn to plead confidentiality.” Suddenly, Alex’s gaze was riveted on the plasma screen TV on the wall behind the bar.

A camera shot of Roosevelt Island was in the foreground of the screen as the big-toothed news anchor teleprompted her way through the story of a mysterious suicide. There was no report on the Secret Service’s involvement, Alex noted. However, the heroin find at Patrick Johnson’s house was prominently mentioned.

“Is that your case?” Kate asked.

He glanced back at her. “What?”

“I was hoping that’d be the only reason you were so totally ignoring me.”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s it. But no more details.”

They both turned to the TV when they heard a familiar voice.

The man was articulating NIC’s official response to the tragedy. And it wasn’t Carter Gray, who probably didn’t want to make this an ongoing national story by lending his considerable presence to it. However, Tom Hemingway was polished and efficient, the total package, as he presented NIC’s spin to the country.

Alex looked back at Kate, who for the first time seemed at a loss for words. He smiled triumphantly. “Busted.”

CHAPTER

24

CALEB PICKED UP OLIVER STONE near the White House in his ancient pewter-gray Chevy Malibu with a fidgety tailpipe. They headed to Milton Farb’s house near the D.C. and Maryland line, where Reuben would meet them. Stone sat in the front seat holding Caleb’s dog, Goff, a small mongrel of unknown provenance named after the first chief of the Rare Books Division, Frederick Goff. As they pulled up in front of Milton’s modest but well-kept home, Reuben jumped up from the front steps, walked over to the car and climbed in. He was dressed in his usual jeans, moccasins and a wrinkly red-checked flannel shirt; a pair of work gloves stuck out of his back pocket, and he carried his safety helmet in his hand.

“Grabbed some overtime at the loading dock,” he explained. “Didn’t have a chance to go home.” He looked in surprise at Stone’s new haircut and clean-shaven appearance. “Don’t tell me you’re rejoining mainstream America.”

“Just trying to remain incognito and alive. Is Milton ready?”

“Our friend will be delayed a bit,” Reuben said with a wink.

“What?” Stone said.

“He’s entertaining, Oliver. You remember? His new lady friend?”

“Did you meet her?” Caleb asked excitedly. “Maybe she has a friend for me.” Although a confirmed bachelor, Caleb was always on the lookout for new prospects.

“Just got a glimpse. She’s actually a lot younger than Milton and damn nice-looking,” Reuben replied. “Hope the poor fellow doesn’t go and commit himself. I’ve had three trips down the aisle, and there won’t be a fourth unless I am ungodly drunk. Blasted women. Can’t live with them, and they sure as hell can’t live with me.”

“Your third wife was quite a nice woman,” Stone noted.

“I’m not saying that the ladies don’t have their uses, Oliver. I’m just of the opinion that long-lasting relationships are not the product of legal commitment. There have been more good times bashed by the covenant of marriage than I could count in several lifetimes.”

“So your logic is what, ban marriage and you’ll see the divorce rate plummet?”

“That too,” Reuben said gruffly.

They all looked over as the door to Milton’s house opened.

“She is good-looking,” Caleb said, peering around Stone.

Milton and the woman kissed lightly on the lips, and then she walked down the steps to her car, a yellow Porsche that was parked in front of Caleb’s Malibu.

“I wonder if Milton’s OCD creates a problem for her,” Caleb said thoughtfully. They had all spent hundreds of hours of their lives waiting through Milton’s rituals. Yet they’d accepted it as an element of their friend’s personality. They all had such “elements,” and Milton had been diligent in seeking help for his disorder. And after years of medication, counseling and occasional hospitalization, he led a fairly normal existence, only resorting to his OCD for brief periods when locking his doors, sitting, washing his hands, or during moments of intense stress.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem for her,” Reuben said, pointing.

They all watched as the woman tapped the pavement with her high heels and then pecked on the car window with her finger, silently counting and muttering before opening her car door. Then she performed a similar exercise checking her seat, before climbing in. She left a considerable amount of rubber on the pavement as she hit sixty miles an hour six seconds later, before she slammed on her brakes at the next intersection. Then she roared off again, the deep-throated decibels of the Porsche’s turbo actually causing Caleb to wince.

“Where the hell did he meet the woman, at a NASCAR event?” Caleb asked as he stared wide-eyed at the smoke still rising off the tire marks on the street.

“No, he told us he met her at the anxiety clinic,” Reuben reminded them. “She was there getting treatment for OCD too.”

Milton closed his front door, went through a brief ritual and came out to join them carrying his knapsack. He climbed into the backseat next to Reuben.

“She’s a real looker,” Reuben said. “What’s her name?”

“Chastity,” Milton replied.

Reuben snorted. “Chastity? Well, for your sake, I hope she doesn’t live up to her name.”

Traffic was fairly heavy, and by the time they got to Patrick Johnson’s neighborhood it was quite dark. This suited Stone well. The nighttime was where he was most comfortable.

He checked house numbers as they drifted down the street. “All right, Caleb, it’s coming up in the next block on the left. Park the car here.”

Caleb pulled the Malibu to the curb and looked at his friend.

“Now what?” he asked nervously.

“We wait. I want to get the lay of the land a bit, see who’s com

ing and going.” Stone pulled out his binoculars and gazed through them up the street. “Assuming that those Suburbans parked out front are Bureau cars, I’m guessing that the third house up on the left is Johnson’s.”

“Nice digs,” Reuben commented, following his friend’s gaze.

Meanwhile, Milton had been studying his laptop computer. He said, “It was reported that they found heroin in the house. And Roosevelt Island was where Johnson spent his first date with his fiancée. They’re