A Quiet Death by Marcia Talley Page A

mirror and, with windshield wipers set to frantic, drove all the way into Washington, DC. I parked in the garage at Union Station, retrieved my umbrella from the trunk and hustled through the rain the few short blocks to the Lynx News headquarters building at New Jersey Avenue and C Street, NW.
    At the information desk in the ultra-modern lobby, I shook out my umbrella, propped it up in the corner with several others to dry, and asked to see John Chandler.
    â€˜Do you have an appointment?’
    â€˜No, but tell him it’s important. I have a story for him.’
    â€˜And your name is?’
    I told her.
    The receptionist looked me up and down, as if checking for explosives. I must have passed muster, because she picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers. Speaking softly, so that I could barely hear her, she said, ‘There’s a Hannah Ives here, asking to see Mr Chandler.’ After a moment, she nodded, hung up, and said, ‘Sign in here.’
    After I showed her my driver’s license and entered my name in her logbook, she gave me a visitor’s badge and demonstrated how to clip it to my jacket. ‘Someone will be right down.’
    I was adjusting my badge when an elevator dinged and a fresh-faced young man sporting a layered do with fashionably shaggy bangs emerged, dressed in khakis, a pale blue tie and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. ‘Hannah Ives?’
    â€˜Yes.’ I shook his hand.
    â€˜I’m Jud Wilson. I work for Mr Chandler. Let me take you somewhere where we can talk.’
    Jud and I rode the elevator up to the sixth floor where he led me on a circuitous route through a maze of eye-level, fabric-covered office cubicles, eventually escorting me into a small, glass-enclosed conference room. Scrawled in a rainbow of colored markers on a whiteboard mounted on the wall were odd notations connected by dotted lines, circles and arrows. Perhaps they’d been discussing football plays at an earlier meeting.
    â€˜Can I get you some coffee? Tea?’
    When I declined, Jud indicated a chair at the head of the table. He sat down kitty-corner from me, folded his hands and leaned forward, preparing to do triage. Is this woman worthy to speak to the great John Chandler?
    â€˜So, you said you have a story for Mr Chandler.’
    â€˜I need to speak to him personally. Is he here?’
    â€˜Yes, he’s here, but he’s asked me to find out what you want.’
    â€˜As I said, it’s a personal matter.’
    â€˜I’m Mr Chandler’s PA. You can tell me.’
    â€˜No, I can’t.’ I laid my hands flat on the table. ‘Look, if Mr Chandler’s here, please find him and tell him this: Lilith Chaloux.’
    Jud didn’t blink. ‘Chaloux.’
    â€˜Yes. Chaloux.’
    â€˜I’ll be right back.’ Jud left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
    Through the glass I watched as he crossed the office and disappeared down a hallway at the opposite end of the building. While I waited I studied the upholstery, the walls, the artwork, and tried to work out what the hieroglyphics on the whiteboard were supposed to mean. On the table was a business card holder made out of granite incised with the Lynx News logo. I picked up one of the cards. It was Jud’s. I was tucking it into my pocket when the door opened.
    John Chandler had taken the bait.
    â€˜That will be all, Jud. Close the door, would you?’
    When Jud left, Chandler remained standing, arms hanging loose at his sides, looking like he’d stepped out of my television screen: dark suit, pale blue shirt, a patriotic red, white and blue striped tie. The commentator was clean-shaven, and his abundant white hair was combed straight back. A trace of make-up on his collar indicated that I might have interrupted a taping. Good.
    â€˜So, Mrs Ives. How can I help you?’
    â€˜I’m trying to locate a woman named Lilith Chaloux, and I