when I get through with you.”
I crumpled the paper in a ball and threw it back at him.
“You walk out that door now, Pavlicek, I'm not sure you know what you may be setting yourself up for,” Drummond hissed.
“That's just it, Congressman,” I said. “I'm not sure any of us ever do.”
14
That afternoon I drove up to Washington, D.C. It's a pretty drive from Charlottesville, if you don't mind leaving the Blue Ridge behind and getting sucked up into the southernmost tentacles of suburbia that run practically all the way from northern Virginia to Maine. I spent all my years on the force living and working smack-dab in the New York middle of that great swath of civilization, so the short trip north to D.C. always makes me a little nostalgic.
Toronto had come up with a hot lead for me on the old Post articles. Neither the newspaper nor the police were all that helpful—no one much wanted to be bothered with a two-decades-old dead case file. But a check of the tax records revealed that George and Norma Paitley had lived in McLean, on the westernmost side of the 1-495 Beltway, and that they had a son, still living in their old house, in fact. I'd sent him an E-mail the night before, claiming to represent a foreign bank. I wrote that I wanted to speak with him about some old offshore assets, possibly the property of his long-deceased parents. Perhaps with visions of the Caymans in his head, he'd responded that morning and agreed to meet me at the house after he got home from work.
South of Warrenton, development really starts to pick up. Traffic does too, as U.S. 29 merges into I-66 at Gainesville. From there, the last twenty-five miles into the nation's capital can take you two to three hours during the morning rush hour. But the opposite occurs, of course, in the afternoon, and as I drove along the interstate I was pitying the thousands of poor souls lined up in four lanes of bumper-to-bumper misery just across the median. The backup stretched all the way from Manassas to Vienna.
Half an hour later, I found the brown stucco Mediterranean with excessive plant growth climbing its walls, once the property of George and Norma Paitley, tucked on a side street in McLean. An old BMW was parked in the driveway. In front of it sat a brand-spanking-new Volkswagen Beetle.
I parked the truck behind the cars and went and rang the bell. The son didn't come to the door right away. Probably didn't want to seem too eager to collect on some more of Mommy and Daddy's old booty. I had to ring again.
When he finally did answer the bell, he turned out to be a tall, gangly man about my own age, with a full black beard and a head that was almost completely bald.
“Mr. Pavlicek?” he said.
“I am. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
“No problem. C'mon in.” He held the large oak door open for me.
I passed into an ornate front hall, outfitted with expensive old tapestry and Chinese jade. There was a coatrack off to the side and two pairs of men's hiking boots beside it, one appearing to be at least three sizes larger than the other.
“Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Saratoga water?”
“I'll take the Saratoga, thank you,” I said.
He disappeared into a little alcove and popped back out a few seconds later with the familiar blue bottle and a tumbler full of ice cubes. I took the glass and poured my water. He led me through a door, and we settled on overstuffed chairs in what looked like the library.
“Before we begin,” I said, “I should tell you I lied to you in the E-mail.”
He had been straightening a pillow at his back when he looked up at me with alarm. “You what?”
“I lied to you about the bank. I'm sorry, but I needed information in a hurry, and it seemed like the best way to get you to meet with me.”
He rubbed his beard, perhaps regretting he'd offered me the Saratoga. For the first time he seemed to take note of my size and the bulge created by the .357 in
I crumpled the paper in a ball and threw it back at him.
“You walk out that door now, Pavlicek, I'm not sure you know what you may be setting yourself up for,” Drummond hissed.
“That's just it, Congressman,” I said. “I'm not sure any of us ever do.”
14
That afternoon I drove up to Washington, D.C. It's a pretty drive from Charlottesville, if you don't mind leaving the Blue Ridge behind and getting sucked up into the southernmost tentacles of suburbia that run practically all the way from northern Virginia to Maine. I spent all my years on the force living and working smack-dab in the New York middle of that great swath of civilization, so the short trip north to D.C. always makes me a little nostalgic.
Toronto had come up with a hot lead for me on the old Post articles. Neither the newspaper nor the police were all that helpful—no one much wanted to be bothered with a two-decades-old dead case file. But a check of the tax records revealed that George and Norma Paitley had lived in McLean, on the westernmost side of the 1-495 Beltway, and that they had a son, still living in their old house, in fact. I'd sent him an E-mail the night before, claiming to represent a foreign bank. I wrote that I wanted to speak with him about some old offshore assets, possibly the property of his long-deceased parents. Perhaps with visions of the Caymans in his head, he'd responded that morning and agreed to meet me at the house after he got home from work.
South of Warrenton, development really starts to pick up. Traffic does too, as U.S. 29 merges into I-66 at Gainesville. From there, the last twenty-five miles into the nation's capital can take you two to three hours during the morning rush hour. But the opposite occurs, of course, in the afternoon, and as I drove along the interstate I was pitying the thousands of poor souls lined up in four lanes of bumper-to-bumper misery just across the median. The backup stretched all the way from Manassas to Vienna.
Half an hour later, I found the brown stucco Mediterranean with excessive plant growth climbing its walls, once the property of George and Norma Paitley, tucked on a side street in McLean. An old BMW was parked in the driveway. In front of it sat a brand-spanking-new Volkswagen Beetle.
I parked the truck behind the cars and went and rang the bell. The son didn't come to the door right away. Probably didn't want to seem too eager to collect on some more of Mommy and Daddy's old booty. I had to ring again.
When he finally did answer the bell, he turned out to be a tall, gangly man about my own age, with a full black beard and a head that was almost completely bald.
“Mr. Pavlicek?” he said.
“I am. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
“No problem. C'mon in.” He held the large oak door open for me.
I passed into an ornate front hall, outfitted with expensive old tapestry and Chinese jade. There was a coatrack off to the side and two pairs of men's hiking boots beside it, one appearing to be at least three sizes larger than the other.
“Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Saratoga water?”
“I'll take the Saratoga, thank you,” I said.
He disappeared into a little alcove and popped back out a few seconds later with the familiar blue bottle and a tumbler full of ice cubes. I took the glass and poured my water. He led me through a door, and we settled on overstuffed chairs in what looked like the library.
“Before we begin,” I said, “I should tell you I lied to you in the E-mail.”
He had been straightening a pillow at his back when he looked up at me with alarm. “You what?”
“I lied to you about the bank. I'm sorry, but I needed information in a hurry, and it seemed like the best way to get you to meet with me.”
He rubbed his beard, perhaps regretting he'd offered me the Saratoga. For the first time he seemed to take note of my size and the bulge created by the .357 in
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