Cross Fire

front of the house.
Better late than never anyway. Nice car.
    She checked her teeth in the rearview mirror, ran a hand through her short auburn hair, and got out to meet the client.
    “Mr. Siegel?”
    “Max,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m not used to the city traffic.”
    His handshake was warm, and he was just tall, dark, and hot enough to forgive easily. Considering all the eye contact, she figured he liked what he saw as well. Interesting guy, and well worth the wait.
    “Come on in,” she told him. “I think you’ll like this place. I know I do.”
    She held the door open for him to go first. The place was a half-decent row house on Second in Northeast, a little overpriced for the current rental market but a good fit for the right tenant. “Are you new to Washington?”
    “I used to live here, and now I’m back,” he said. “I don’t really know anybody in the city anymore.”
    He was doing the code thing — new in town, alone, etc. No ring on the finger either. Lisa Giametti was not an easy mark, but she knew a hungry man when she saw one, and if something happened to happen here, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
    She closed the door and locked it behind them.
    “It’s a great block,” she went on. “You’ve got the back of the Supreme Court Building right across the street. Not exactly a lot of loud parties over there. And then a nice little yard in the back with off-street parking.”
    They came through to the kitchen, where the garage was visible outside. “I don’t have to tell you how handy that can be around here.”
    “No,” he said, looking somewhere south of her eyes. “That’s a very nice pendant you’re wearing. You have good taste — in apartments and jewelry.”
    This guy didn’t waste any time, did he?
    “And how about the basement?” he asked next.
    “Excuse me?” she said.
    “I’d like to see the basement. There is one, isn’t there?”
    Normally the client might have asked about the upstairs at this point. Maybe even the bedroom, if she was reading this guy correctly. But whatever. The customer was always right, especially when he looked like this one did.
    She left her briefcase on the kitchen counter, opened the basement door, and led him down the old wooden stairs.
    “You can see it’s nice and dry. The wiring’s been redone, and the washer and dryer are only a couple of years old.”
    He walked around, nodding approvingly. “I could get a lot of work done down here. Plenty of privacy, too.”
    Suddenly, he took a step toward her, and she backed into the washing machine.
    If there had been any doubt about where this was headed, it was gone now. Lisa tossed her hair. “Do you want to see the upstairs?”
    “Of course I do — just not quite yet. You mind, Lisa?”
    “No, I guess not.”
    When she went to kiss him, he reached between her legs at the same moment, right up her skirt. It was a little presumptuous — and a little hot, too.
    “It’s been a while,” he told her apologetically.
    “I can tell,” she said, and pulled him closer.
    Then, before they ever got to the paperwork still waiting on the kitchen counter upstairs, Lisa Giametti got the fuck of her life, right there on the two-year-old Maytag washer. It was hot, and dirty, and quite wonderful.
    And the 12 percent commission was very nice, too.

Chapter 32

    THE FEDS DIDN’T KNOW SHIT. Metro Police didn’t know shit either. All anyone knew was that Washington was becoming one very hot and scary place to live.
    Denny ate up the headlines — page A01 every morning, lead story every night at five, six, and eleven. He and Mitch sold their papers in the afternoon, then caught the evening news at Best Buy or, if they had a few extra bucks, at one of the watering holes that didn’t mind a couple of dusty guys like them sitting at the bar.
    It was always the same story: unknown assailant, phantom fingerprint, and very high-grade weaponry. A few channels were throwing around rumors about a Buick Skylark with New York plates, and a supposedly dark-blue or black rusted-out Suburban — which would have worried Denny a lot more if his own Suburban wasn’t white. Even eyewitnesses were going south these days, just like everything else in the republic.
    For Mitch’s part, he liked the hoopla well enough, but as the days slipped by, he seemed to get a little more sluggish, a little less engaged. There was no doubt about it in Denny’s mind: these “missions” were the