Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,6
and started to say something. Then she stopped and stared down the street. Before Benedict could ask what she was looking at, Carrie started screaming and ran toward a parked car. The driver gunned the engine and made a U-turn that left dust clouds and rubber. Carrie’s screams had attracted the jogger’s attention, and he turned and watched as the car sped off.
Carrie stopped running. Benedict saw her stare at the rear of the car, where the license plate was attached. Then she bent over, rested her hands on her knees, and took deep breaths to regain her composure.
“What was that all about?” Benedict asked when he reached her.
Carrie turned toward him. She looked furious. Then she walked to her car and drove away without answering Benedict’s question.
Chapter Four
On Thursday, Dana Cutler got out of bed at three in the afternoon, ran five miles, then went through a set of calisthenics. When she finished a third set of fifty push-ups, she collapsed on the floor of the rec room in the basement of the house she shared with Jake Teeny. Jake, a photojournalist, was away on an Arctic expedition sponsored by National Geographic. Dana had met Jake six months before she was kidnapped, and he’d stood by her when she was in the hospital, visiting often and fighting hard to keep her spirits up, even when that seemed impossible. When she was released, he took her to lunch, dinner, and an occasional movie, but he had never tried to touch her until she fell in love with him and let him into her life. Dana had always been a loner until she fell in love. When Jake was gone she felt like a part of her was missing. Tonight, after writing a report on the Jorgenson case, she would try to find something on TV to numb her mind. Then she would go to sleep and wake up to another boring, unfulfilling day.
Dana’s last meal had been the beer and burger she’d downed at the sports bar during her surveillance of Lars Jorgenson, and she was starving. After a shower, she walked to the kitchen to scavenge the fixings for a sandwich. She had just opened the refrigerator door when her business phone rang.
“Cutler Investigations,” Dana said.
“Dana Cutler, please,” a woman said. Dana thought she heard a French accent.
“Speaking.”
“I would like to retain you.”
“To do what?” Dana asked.
“I would prefer that we not discuss the matter over the phone.”
Definitely French, Dana concluded.
“Okay, but can you give me some idea of what you want me to do. If it’s not the type of case I handle I can refer you to someone who does.”
“I really cannot say more. Your retainer will be very satisfactory if you accept the assignment. Meet me and I will pay you three thousand dollars for a consultation even if you do not take the case.”
The sum, which was way more than her normal rate, surprised Dana. “Where do you want to meet?” she asked.
“I do not know Washington. Perhaps you can suggest a place to rendezvous?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Non.”
“Well, I am. Why don’t we meet at Michelangelo’s? I know the owner and he’ll guarantee us privacy. The food is pretty good, too, if you change your mind about dinner.”
Michelangelo’s was a family-owned Italian restaurant located in sight of the Capitol dome, in an area that was shifting from decay to gentrification. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots could be found only blocks away from chic boutiques, renovated row houses owned by young professionals, and trendy restaurants. Michelangelo’s, which was anything but trendy, had been a constant in the neighborhood for over sixty years. Sam and Donna Mazzara opened it with their life savings after emigrating from Sicily. Donna had passed away seven years ago, but Sam still came to work every day. Their son, Victor, helped run the restaurant now.
Michelangelo’s was a few blocks from the offices of Exposed, a supermarket tabloid that had surprised establishment newspapers like the Washington Post and New York Times by winning prizes in journalism as a result of Dana’s investigative work. Patrick Gorman, the newspaper’s owner, ran a tab at Michelangelo’s, and Sam and Victor knew Dana. When she called, they set aside a small private dining room in the back for her to meet with her potential client. The room was paneled in dark wood and the lighting was subdued. Black-and-white photographs of Sicily hung on the walls. Dana sat at a table covered in a white tablecloth and ordered a