phone. Stu Maislin told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t pleased to have me snooping around in his house. He indicated I might lose a part of my anatomy if I continued to harass him.”
Louisa propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him. “I’m afraid to ask which part.”
“Your favorite.”
“Bummer.”
Louisa’s phone rang in the kitchen.
“Probably your mother,” Pete said.
Louisa rolled out of bed. “I’m going to tell her everything.”
Pete grabbed for her ankle, but she was too fast.
A moment later she yelled out to him. “It’s for you. It’s some guy named Kurt. Says you gave him my number.” She covered the mouthpiece and lowered her voice. “Who is this guy? He sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s cousin from New Jersey.”
Chapter 7
Louisa pushed her tangled hair back from her face and wished she’d been more insistent about taking a shower after all their lovemaking. It was close to eight. The lights on the Duke Ellington Bridge lobbed by as the Porsche rolled over Rock Creek into Adams-Morgan. “Okay, tell me one more time about this Kurt person.”
“I met him when I was working in South America, and we’ve stayed in touch.”
“He’s a friend?”
“Yeah. He’s a friend,” Pete said, “sort of.”
“And you’ve hired him to tap Maislin’s phone.”
Pete slid a glance in her direction, waiting for the inevitable follow-up.
Louisa didn’t disappoint him. “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Pretty much.”
“Just exactly what does ‘pretty much’ mean?”
He turned onto Columbia Road and the heart of the Hispanic community. “I think Kurt sort of operates on the fringe.”
“Uh-huh.”
He didn’t know how to explain it to her…the way you just knew about someone. The way he knew about her. It had to do with trust and gut-level feeling.
“Kurt’s too much of a patriot to be entirely outside of the law. Most likely, he’s one of those maverick CIA types.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Technically, Kurt might be considered to be police.”
“We’re gonna rot in jail.”
Pete parked the Porsche in front of an Ethiopian restaurant. “We’re not going to rot in jail. Kurt’s the only one taking a risk, and believe me, this doesn’t rate high on the risk scale for Kurt.”
He put a proprietary arm around her shoulders. It was cold and most of the restaurant crowd had dispersed. The streets were eerie with artificial light and the kind of late-evening desertion you found in a commuter city.
“Here,” he said, maneuvering her through the double glass doors of a yellow brick apartment building. There was a small vestibule with a second security door. Mailboxes and intercoms were built into one wall. Pete pressed the button for number 315, no name.
The voice on the intercom was flat and unwelcoming. “Yeah?”
“It’s Pete.”
Nothing else was said. The security door buzzed open. It was a five-story building with one elevator at the far side of a small lobby. The lobby carpet needed more than cleaning. The walls were painted rent-control-green. Pete shouldered Louisa into the elevator, punched the button to the third floor, and the elevator doors slid closed. The elevator smelled faintly of urine.
Louisa imagined this as being the odor of poverty. She imagined substandard apartments with broken plumbing and roach-infested kitchens where immigrant families crowded chockablock, struggling to hold their lives together. They worked as dishwashers and cabdrivers, and many didn’t work at all. Some used drugs, some spent their welfare checks on alcohol, some sent their money home to relatives even more impoverished. They were individuals, she thought, each with their own set of dreams, their own set of skills, their own moments of despair. And they were united by a common odor that hung in the stairwells and corridors of government-controlled housing.
Pete also sniffed the air, but his observations didn’t wax nearly so profound. Pete decided Kurt had recently used the elevator.
“Why does Kurt live in this apartment building?” Louisa asked. “Doesn’t he have any money?”
“Guess he likes it here.” And it was a place Kurt could become invisible. Not many questions were asked in a building like this.
The doors opened to an institutional corridor. Apartment number 315 was to the right, halfway down. Pete knocked and waited patiently while dead bolts were slid free and locks were clicked open.
“About Kurt,” he said to Louisa, “…be careful.”
Louisa thought that was an odd thing to say about a friend. “Careful of what?”
“For starters, don’t eat anything that isn’t cooked to a crisp.”
The door swung wide, and Louisa found herself staring down the barrel of a Smith & Wesson forty-five.
Kurt immediately lowered the gun and