Chapter 67
I spend the night at Anne’s to ensure her safety. Strictly for her protection. No other reason. I mean, there are bad people out there, right? In fact, I might need to come back again tonight to make sure she’s still safe.
But this morning, I’m on the move. My calves and triceps and abdominal muscles and neck are sore beyond description. Apparently I’ve been lacking physical exercise. I also forgot, in the heat of things last night, how much my leg was killing me after I wiped out on the Triumph a few nights back. Luckily, I have this morning to remind me.
In the gym bag that I’m carrying with me everywhere these days, in addition to a few items of clothing and toiletries and my laptop computer, I’ve been accumulating baseball caps that help shield me from detection by someone who might be, say, scanning the streets for me.
But I know the truth: they’re going to find me eventually. Washington, DC, isn’t Manhattan. They could just position themselves at various posts and not move an inch, and sooner or later I’ll walk into them. So I try to keep my head down and baseball cap on and hope I can figure everything out before they find me.
Now all I have to do is figure out what it is I’m supposed to figure out.
As I’m walking down T Street, I call my trusted colleague Ashley Brook Clark, who is basically running the Capital Beat in my absence.
“Any luck on Jonathan Liu’s computer?” I ask.
“They’re getting there, Ben. I told them it was high priority, but that computer was beat to hell. What did you do, throw it on the ground?”
Something like that.
“One other thing, Ben. A guy came by looking for you. A guy with a real attitude.”
“Was he wearing sunglasses and a trench coat, and did he move furtively?”
“None of the above. His name was…here it is…Sean Patrick Riley.”
“Sean Patrick Riley? What is that—Pakistani? Somalian?”
“I think it’s Venezuelan.”
“Okay, Sean Patrick Riley,” I say. “And what did this Irishman want?”
“He says he’s a private investigator.”
“And what is he privately investigating?”
“He was very, um—”
“Private?”
“Yes, private with that information. Boy, you’re in a good mood, Ben. Did you get laid last night or something?”
She’s right, there’s been a skip in my step this morning. Maybe things are looking up. Or maybe I just hadn’t had sex for a really long time before last night.
“Did this guy give you a bad vibe?” I ask. “I mean, does he seem like a shady bloke?”
“A private investigator? Shady?”
“Okay, shadier than usual. Like, for example, rather than ask me questions, he’d like to put a bullet through my head?”
“No, I didn’t get assassin from this guy. Chauvinist, maybe. Asshole, definitely. But not assassin. I think he’s looking for a missing person.”
A missing person.
I reach Vermont Avenue, where a big crowd is gathered at the intersection. I hang back rather than mix in too closely with a bunch of people I don’t know.
“As long as he doesn’t want to kill me, I’ll talk to him,” I say. “Give me his number.”
Chapter 68
I see Sean Patrick Riley seated near the window of the café before he sees me. It’s not hard to spot a guy wearing a leprechaun suit and eating Lucky Charms.
Okay, he’s more like a middle-aged guy with a full head of reddish-blond hair, a weathered complexion, and a drinker’s nose, wearing a button-down oxford-cloth shirt and blue jeans. And no Lucky Charms, as magically delicious as they may be; this afternoon it’s a cup of joe.
Yeah, I’m still in a pretty good mood from the sex last night.
We shake hands. “Nice bike,” he says.
Okay, there goes my good mood. Normally, that would be a compliment, because normally he’d be talking about my Triumph, which is a nice bike. But the Triumph is in a parking garage in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Now I’m riding a real bike—a bicycle—specifically, a used Rockhopper I picked up at City Bikes. It’s more suited to trails than city riding, but I may have to make some acrobatic moves with it one day, and I want something that can handle some quick turns and rough riding.
Anyway, I’m not too happy about it. I already miss my motorcycle. But the Triumph made me visible. With the Rockhopper, plus a helmet and a fluorescent Windbreaker, I look like one of those bike couriers who risk life and limb weaving through traffic all around the capital.
“You’re the Ben Casper who runs that newspaper?” he asks.