Page 111 of Fire and Bones
“Well done, Tempe.”
“Thanks.”
I downed the last of my coffee, now unappealingly tepid.
Checked the time. Noon. Four hours until Deery’s arrival.
I got my ass out to go see Griesser’s bitsy little trees.
CHAPTER 25
It was going on six when Deery pulled up and blasted his horn. I hurried out the big front door and slid into the passenger seat of his black Dodge Durango.
And nearly gagged.
The SUV’s interior smelled of perspiration, drugstore aftershave, and cheap hair gel. A Febreze odor fighter was trying its best, but the syrupy overlay only made matters worse.
I switched to drawing air through my mouth. Wondered fleetingly if the noxious mix could be the source of Deery’s nasal issues.
Deery mumbled a halfhearted apology but offered no explanation for being two hours late. I merely nodded.
Deery waited until I’d secured my belt, then carefully repositioned the gear selector, double-checking visually to be certain he’d shifted into drive. Satisfied that all was well, he gently pressed one giant shoe down on the gas. The Durango crept forward, slow and steady as a barge being dragged through a lock.
Though the view was unobstructed at the end of the drive and showed not a single vehicle on Chain Bridge Road, Deery made a full stop. Looking left then right then left again, he cautiously made the turn.
My grandmother was in good standing with the DMV until her ninety-first birthday. Even when her eyesight began to fail and she gave up her license, the old gal never drove this timidly.
Totally focused on the road, Deery made no attempt at conversation. Suited me. I concentrated on keeping the contents of my stomach where they belonged.
The sun was preparing for its daily adieu, promising, but not yet delivering those golden tones so passionately sought by Monet. As we blistered along at thirty miles an hour, I watched a feebly bronzed capital roll by outside my window.
Nebraska Avenue. Ward Circle. Massachusetts Avenue. We were turning from Florida onto U Street when I stole my first sideways glance.
Deery’s tie hung loose, and a sweat crescent darkened the pit I could see. Today the neckwear was carrot, the shirt periwinkle blue. No jacket. Black framed Ray-Bans rested low on his nose.
I noted that, in keeping with his feet, the man’s hands were extraordinarily large for his frame. And tense. His knuckles bulged yellow-white in their death grip on the wheel. His chest rose and fell in steady waves as he inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose.
A calming yogic exercise? Postnasal drip?
Whatever the reason for the judiciously paced breathing, it was clear that the man was stressed. Not wishing to elevate his level of anxiety, I kept silent.
Sunday traffic was light. Twenty minutes after leaving Doyle’s house we were turning from 17th Street onto Willard.
A long twenty minutes. My brain had responded to the cloying atmosphere by setting up a metronome pounding in my frontal lobe.
Deery pulled to the curb at the far end of the block. Cut the engine. Checked the side and rearview mirrors. Leaned back, hands still clutching the wheel.
Apparently, we’d be doing some surveillance before approaching the Stoll brothers. An activity as exciting as watching dust settle.
I surveyed my surroundings.
Willard was as polychromatic as the street that had hosted the second Foggy Bottom fire. Multihued two- and three-story brick town houses ran along each side. Desert tan. Butter yellow. Royal blue. Lots of gray and white.
A two-part staircase connected each building with a glaringly bright red brick sidewalk. One set of treads rose to a painted front door, another wound down and sideways into a concrete well. Curtained windows at ground level suggested basement units.
There were no real yards, just a few reasonably happy-looking flower beds. Trees and shrubs rose from rectangular dirt patches spaced at intervals along the walks.
My impression: the street was a tad shabby—rust-stained paint here, a broken railing there—but had the vibe of a place whose residents liked it that way.