Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (11 page)

“I’m fine. I was just getting something from your office.”

“You didn’t happen to see a phone in there, did you? I’ve misplaced mine somewhere.”

“It’s on your desk.”
And you have no idea how glad I am it was there.

“What a relief. I am always losing that thing.” He sounded tired and distracted. “I’d better go get it. I’ll see you later.”

He opened the door and I slipped into the crush of people still waiting in line for their things. Luke found me at the desk in the Founders’ Room a few minutes later.

“Where’ve you been?” he said. “I texted you twice.”

“Oh, gosh, sorry. I ran into Seth and we started talking. Everything all right?”

He sighed. “Katya Gordon wants to see our photos first thing tomorrow.”

Somehow that wasn’t a surprise. “Did you manage to get her together with Scott Hathaway?”

“No, just some pictures of him with his wife and a couple of the deep-pocket donors. Moses was happy about that.”

“What about Hathaway and Arkady Vasiliev?”

Luke shrugged. “Vasiliev left his own party early. He and Lara Gordon took off with a bunch of his people twenty minutes ago.”

Twenty minutes ago. That meant Vasiliev was gone before I overheard the conversation in the conference room. So who knew about that room besides him and probably whoever was part of his inner circle? Who else would have used it?

“Earth to Sophie?” Luke tapped me on the shoulder. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, of course. We’ve got to get the pictures edited right away.”

“Yeah, that, too.” He gave me a sideways look as Ali joined us, hopped up with excitement, bright red lipstick freshly applied, her party face on. I thought I smelled alcohol on her breath, but I couldn’t be sure.

“Do you guys need me anymore?”

Luke glanced at me and I shook my head. “I think we’re good,” he said. “Don’t you need a ride home?”

“I’m all set, thanks.”

“A date?” Luke asked as her cheeks bloomed a pretty shade of pink. “You met someone? Here?”

“Your Russian sugar daddy.” I teased her, smiling.

Ali put her hands behind her back like a little kid and flashed a don’t-you-want-to-know smirk. “Maybe tomorrow morning I’ll call you from a yacht somewhere in the Caribbean and tell you how delicious it is to have a life like Lara Gordon’s. I’ll be eating caviar from silver bowls big enough to take a bath in.”

“What are you two talking about? Whose yacht? What about Lara Gordon?” Luke asked.

Before she could answer him, something dark and urgent pushed itself into my mind. “Ali, where did you just come from? Were you downstairs in the kitchen again?”

Because if she had been in that corridor, maybe she’d seen one or both of the men who’d been in the conference room. Maybe she’d walked right by the Russian or the American in the underground passageway and maybe she could pick him out, just maybe, if she spent some time looking through our photos. If we’d managed to get a picture of him—or them.

“Whoa, wait a minute. Time out.” Luke held up his hand. “We weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the kitchen. That food and all the booze were strictly for the guests.”

Ali cut me a look like I had violated sisterhood solidarity by ratting her out. “One of the waiters asked if I wouldn’t mind taking a tray down to the kitchen because they needed it, and he was stuck upstairs. I wasn’t going to tell him no.”

“Just now?” I said.

“A couple of minutes ago.”

“Did you see anybody—?” I began.

Ali shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Can we talk about this tomorrow, please? I’m going to miss my ride . . . I need to go. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

“Ali—” I said, but she was gone.

Luke waved a hand. “Let her go. Come on, we need to get our gear from Seth’s office. They’re about ready to turn out the lights on us.”

Reluctantly, I followed him. It sounded as if Ali might have seen at least one of the men in that corridor. It was a missed opportunity letting her leave when she’d have a clearer memory of the encounter, though by tomorrow we’d have downloaded our photos, which might make it easier to identify him.

“Are you all right?” Luke asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”

We found Moses tidying up the conference room, which had been completely cleared out, the bottles of alcohol and bowls of caviar whisked away. “Well, all that hoopla for nothing,” he said. “No one even used this room.”

“How do you know?” I looked around. “How can you tell?”

I had been here with Arkady Vasiliev; so had two men plotting murder. Surely there was some trace of our presence, some clue left behind that would give up our secrets? To me it still possessed an aura of what had happened here, like the foul odor of something rotting. I was almost surprised that neither Moses nor Luke wrinkled his nose and said, “What’s that awful smell?”

Moses gave me an odd look. “I’m just guessing. No dirty glasses or dishes. No open bottles. Room neat as a pin. I can’t imagine having a meeting with a fully stocked bar and bowls of Beluga caviar, and then not eating or drinking anything.”

“So what happens to all of it?” Luke asked.

“Everything that was in here is being delivered to Mr. Vasiliev’s hotel in Georgetown. All the other food, all the hors d’oeuvres, will go to local homeless shelters and soup kitchens. He was kind enough to agree to that.”

“That was generous,” I said.

Moses nodded, joining us in the office as Luke unlocked the storage closet.

Luke passed me my backpack. “Thanks for letting us use this place, Moses. It came in handy.” He tossed him the key.

“No problem.” Moses pocketed it and watched us disassemble our cameras and pack them into Velcroed compartments in our backpacks. “Everything go okay for you guys tonight? No problems or complications?”

“Nope. Nothing. It all went great,” Luke said. “We’ll start editing the pictures right away, hopefully have something for you before the weekend.”

“Katya’s pretty keen to see what you’ve got.” Moses made a face. “Not that I’m rushing you, but she and Lara would like them tomorrow.”

“We’ll do our best. I promise you’ll have them as soon as possible.” Luke picked up his gear and said to me, “All set?”

I nodded. We followed Moses back out to the cloakroom and walked into the silent Founders’ Room, which was now lit only by the golden light of the candelabra sconces on either side of the fireplace mantel and a few tiny ceiling lights that twinkled like night stars.

“Seth asked me to say good night and thanks,” Moses said as we stood next to the leather-clad exit doors. “I’m still hoping I can talk Mr. Vasiliev and Katya into letting us use a few of your pictures for the lifestyle sections of the
Post
and
Trib,
and maybe a spread in
Washingtonian
. Surely they don’t need all of them for that coffee table book they’re putting together.”

He shook Luke’s hand and, to my surprise, leaned over and gave me a one-armed hug and a quick buss on the cheek. “It’s been a pleasure working with you both. I’ll be in touch.”

The door thudded behind us, and Luke and I were alone on the columned portico, overlooking the dark, quiet Mall. My Vespa, pale and washed out under a streetlamp, was the only vehicle still parked on the street. The glass facade of the Air and Space Museum glittered across from us, the lights reflecting off antique silver airplanes and rockets that had traveled to the moon, all now suspended in the air by tension wires.

The federal part of Washington grows quiet at night; no one lives here. At the end of the day, receding taillights stream toward the bridges and highways and to other parts of the city—Adams Morgan, Brookland, Tenleytown, Anacostia. Office lights still blaze here and there inside the massive government buildings along Constitution and Independence Avenues if the cleaning staff is in or someone is burning the midnight oil, but mostly the place is deserted.

The museum itself was dark except for the soft glow of the torchères on either side of the doorway and the lights shining through the wrought-iron grillwork that covered the two windows. On our left, the lighted Capitol dome looked serene and peaceful; to the right, a pair of red lights winked off and on at the top of the Washington Monument like reptilian eyes.

“You going to be okay driving this thing at night?” Luke asked as I stowed my bag in the Vespa.

“Fine. I owned a Vespa in London. Fastest way to get around a city,” I said. “They’re useless in bad weather, but tonight’s lovely.”

“Still feels like summer.” He nodded and segued back to work. “We ought to start editing right away, you know.”

“You mean you want to go back to the studio now?” I stopped in the middle of pulling on my helmet. He hadn’t mentioned the two of us working all night until just this second.

He yawned. “No, I’m beat. I don’t know about you, but I need a second wind. How about if you do what you can at home tonight and so will I? We’ll pick up from there in the studio tomorrow.”

“Fine,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

He nodded and yawned again.

“Where are you parked?” I asked.

“Next block. By the East Building.” He pointed behind him. “G’night.”

I started the Vespa and it grumbled to life. A moment later Luke was a small dark smudge in my mirrors as I sped down Madison Drive. At the 9th Street ramp just after the outdoor sculpture garden, a vehicle turned onto Madison behind me. The driver pulled up too close for comfort so I flicked the handlebar for more speed. He sped up and I veered to the right to let him pass. The headlights swerved right, too, flashing in my mirrors as he closed the gap between us.

Years ago Perry had sent everyone at IPS to a five-day boot camp in northern Scotland that taught survival skills to journalists who worked in hostile environments and war zones. The ex–Special Forces team who drilled us educated us about what to do if we were caught in a gunfight or would-be kidnappers stopped our car, scary stuff like that. Mostly we were taught to think fast, know our surroundings, and have a plan. When the other guys have guns and you have a camera, your options are limited, and the faster you react is the difference between living and dying.

Whoever was driving that car—a kid fooling around, a drunk, or someone who knew exactly who I was—was going to win this drag race in about thirty seconds. All he had to do was hit my rear fender and plow me off the road.

Madison is a one-way street that runs along the Mall and goes downtown. Across the way, Jefferson Drive goes uptown toward the Capitol. He was still on my tail as we raced down Madison, approaching the Natural History Museum on the right.

I shifted my weight as a counterbalance and drove up the ramp onto the sidewalk, looping behind the big car. It was black, a Ford Explorer or a Chevy Suburban, one of those cars that are built like tanks. Tinted windows. I didn’t get a look at the license plate because I didn’t have much time before I figured his reaction to what I’d done would be to shift into reverse. I zoomed across the road and up the crosswalk toward the Mall as his brakes screeched. A few seconds later, I heard a motor grinding and the whine of a car backing up. I hit the gravel pedestrian path and prayed for no potholes, since Vespas aren’t great on uneven surfaces, especially in the dark.

I sped across the Mall to Jefferson Drive and turned left, heading toward the Capitol. For once I wouldn’t have minded seeing the light bar of a park police cruiser come to life next to the Smithsonian Castle, an officer pulling me over for illegal joyriding on the National Mall. But Jefferson was as dark and deserted as Madison had been, except for the pale necklaces of streetlights lining the paths and the two parallel streets.

I made two quick rights and turned on Independence Avenue, heading downtown once again. By the time I zipped through the city and reached my hotel in Foggy Bottom, I knew I’d lost him for good. What I didn’t know was whether he’d been waiting for me, or if it was just some driver out for kicks. It’s been years since D.C. owned the title “Murder Capital of the U.S.,” but the city still has its share of crime—drive-by shootings, random violence—where the victim is unknown to the assailant and did nothing except show up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe that’s what happened to me: a woman alone at night, an easy target on a putt-putt scooter.

Or maybe Arkady Vasiliev wasted no time turning up the heat, letting me know he was serious about getting the well logs from Nick—if he even had them. I pulled into the parking lot behind the Roosevelt Executive Hotel and chained the Vespa to a bike rack. If that car had been driven by one of Vasiliev’s bodyguards—Nick said the Russian mafia word was
byki,
which literally means “bull”—I’d been lucky this time. But from now on, I’d have to watch my back.

I let myself in the rear door with an oversized key. The Roosevelt hadn’t entered the twenty-first century; no key cards here. The lobby was dimly lit and empty. Unlike a regular hotel, no one manned the front desk after eight in the evening. There was a courtesy phone for emergencies and a laminated piece of paper with instructions on whom to call, but that was it. I had wondered if you phoned at, say, two in the morning, whether whoever showed up would be wearing a bathrobe and slippers.

Someone at the embassy in London had told me about this place, an out-of-the-way budget-friendly apartment-hotel on a quiet, leafy street at the edge of the George Washington University campus. The occupants were mostly returning ambassadors and diplomats, international business travelers, and Kennedy Center performers who kept to themselves. I rarely saw the same people in the elevator or the lobby.

It was a small building, only eight stories high, but all the apartments had good-sized balconies; from the top floor, which was mostly occupied by VIPs, you could see the Kennedy Center and the Potomac River. My little one-bedroom apartment was on the second-floor corner facing the back, with a view of the parking lot and the row houses on H Street.

I unlocked the door and went inside. The place was dark and silent, exactly as I’d left it. I flipped on all the lights, and in the cocooned familiarity of the two small, furnished rooms, I calmed down and wondered if, after everything that had happened tonight, I was overreacting about being followed, letting myself get spooked for no good reason.