desk.
“No. I’ve been busy visiting boutiques, interviewing an insane supermodel.” Lacey handed him a couple of shots of Amanda from the press packet. “Ah, the glamour of dealing with a real diva. Amanda Manville. You’d like her.”
“Trying to throw me over?”
“She’s available, Tony. Between boyfriends.”
“Yeah, and we all know why. Señorita Matadora. And she’s too skinny. But a pretty face for a femme fatale, a very pretty face.” Tony shuffled through the photos. “I take it you have been staying away from Wiedemeyer like the sensible Smithsonian I know, the one who hides inside your foolhardy Lois Lane exterior.”
“Flattery from you, Tony? Well, that’s just weird, that’s what it is. And to tell you the truth, I’m not that fond of Harlan Wiedemeyer. Besides, he’s fixated on Felicity. Possibly the only lucky thing I can think of regarding him.”
“You’re a wise woman. I’m on my way out; do you need a ride home? You can tell me how Vic plans to seduce you.”
“That sounds like such fun, but I drove my car.”
“The legendary Z? Wow, you never drive.” Tony stood up and stretched. “I thought it was embalmed in the Z Museum.”
It was true she usually took the Metro to work. Driving into Washington was a complete pain, not to mention the savage search for parking, but after her experience with Wiedemeyer and the Krispy Kreme sign the previous night, Lacey had craved the sense of security that driving her own car gave her. There were a limited number of spaces in the paper’s garage, and most were reserved for the resident bigwigs, like Mac and their publisher, Claudia Darnell. But she’d arrived early and parked her vintage Nissan 280ZX in one of the few open spaces set aside for nonmanagement types. She trusted her Z to ward off another encounter with the Wiedemeyer Effect.
“I’ll walk out with you,” he said.
Tony waited for Lacey to gather her things. She was congratulating herself on having driven, but when they reached the garage, her car wasn’t there. It took Lacey a while to absorb the reality that it was gone. Really gone, not just hiding behind an SUV. She and Tony circled the garage three times, then she checked with the attendant while he circled once more. She kept hoping she’d simply forgotten where she had parked her beloved silver-and-burgundy 280ZX, that she would turn one more corner and there it would be. But it had vanished.
Someone had stolen her car right out of the newspaper’s own parking garage.
Chapter 8
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she kept saying. “Who would steal my car? It’s over twenty-one years old—old enough to drink.”
“Maybe we should check the bars,” Trujillo said. “It wasn’t towed by mistake? What did the attendant say?”
“No tow trucks, and he didn’t see anything unusual.”
“Yeah, he was probably asleep.”
“Why would someone take my car?” She found it hard to breathe through her disappointment. She felt tears lurking just out of sight in the corners of her eyes. “And I always lock the Club on the steering wheel! How could someone possibly steal it?”
“That Club is no big deal to a pro, Lacey. They can snap it in thirty seconds. I’ve seen ’em do it,” Tony offered helpfully. “They probably just took the car for the parts.” She glared at him. “It had alloy wheels. Then again, you let Wiedemeyer give you a ride last night. The Jonah of Eye Street.”
“Shut up, Tony.”
“Give you a ride?”
“Please. After I make some calls.”
With Trujillo at her heels, Lacey stormed back up to the office to make a police report. The D.C. police verified that her Z, her lifeline to freedom, the car she’d had longer than any man in her life, had not been towed to an impoundment lot, so it apparently was stolen. Ho-hum. They took her whole report over the phone. They were bored. (“You know how many cars get stolen in the District every day, ma’am?”) After that, she called
“No. I’ve been busy visiting boutiques, interviewing an insane supermodel.” Lacey handed him a couple of shots of Amanda from the press packet. “Ah, the glamour of dealing with a real diva. Amanda Manville. You’d like her.”
“Trying to throw me over?”
“She’s available, Tony. Between boyfriends.”
“Yeah, and we all know why. Señorita Matadora. And she’s too skinny. But a pretty face for a femme fatale, a very pretty face.” Tony shuffled through the photos. “I take it you have been staying away from Wiedemeyer like the sensible Smithsonian I know, the one who hides inside your foolhardy Lois Lane exterior.”
“Flattery from you, Tony? Well, that’s just weird, that’s what it is. And to tell you the truth, I’m not that fond of Harlan Wiedemeyer. Besides, he’s fixated on Felicity. Possibly the only lucky thing I can think of regarding him.”
“You’re a wise woman. I’m on my way out; do you need a ride home? You can tell me how Vic plans to seduce you.”
“That sounds like such fun, but I drove my car.”
“The legendary Z? Wow, you never drive.” Tony stood up and stretched. “I thought it was embalmed in the Z Museum.”
It was true she usually took the Metro to work. Driving into Washington was a complete pain, not to mention the savage search for parking, but after her experience with Wiedemeyer and the Krispy Kreme sign the previous night, Lacey had craved the sense of security that driving her own car gave her. There were a limited number of spaces in the paper’s garage, and most were reserved for the resident bigwigs, like Mac and their publisher, Claudia Darnell. But she’d arrived early and parked her vintage Nissan 280ZX in one of the few open spaces set aside for nonmanagement types. She trusted her Z to ward off another encounter with the Wiedemeyer Effect.
“I’ll walk out with you,” he said.
Tony waited for Lacey to gather her things. She was congratulating herself on having driven, but when they reached the garage, her car wasn’t there. It took Lacey a while to absorb the reality that it was gone. Really gone, not just hiding behind an SUV. She and Tony circled the garage three times, then she checked with the attendant while he circled once more. She kept hoping she’d simply forgotten where she had parked her beloved silver-and-burgundy 280ZX, that she would turn one more corner and there it would be. But it had vanished.
Someone had stolen her car right out of the newspaper’s own parking garage.
Chapter 8
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she kept saying. “Who would steal my car? It’s over twenty-one years old—old enough to drink.”
“Maybe we should check the bars,” Trujillo said. “It wasn’t towed by mistake? What did the attendant say?”
“No tow trucks, and he didn’t see anything unusual.”
“Yeah, he was probably asleep.”
“Why would someone take my car?” She found it hard to breathe through her disappointment. She felt tears lurking just out of sight in the corners of her eyes. “And I always lock the Club on the steering wheel! How could someone possibly steal it?”
“That Club is no big deal to a pro, Lacey. They can snap it in thirty seconds. I’ve seen ’em do it,” Tony offered helpfully. “They probably just took the car for the parts.” She glared at him. “It had alloy wheels. Then again, you let Wiedemeyer give you a ride last night. The Jonah of Eye Street.”
“Shut up, Tony.”
“Give you a ride?”
“Please. After I make some calls.”
With Trujillo at her heels, Lacey stormed back up to the office to make a police report. The D.C. police verified that her Z, her lifeline to freedom, the car she’d had longer than any man in her life, had not been towed to an impoundment lot, so it apparently was stolen. Ho-hum. They took her whole report over the phone. They were bored. (“You know how many cars get stolen in the District every day, ma’am?”) After that, she called
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