Page 82 of Fire and Bones
Several of the pieces were accompanied by photos of the Warrings and their associates, men with flash and cash, all jaunty fedoras and cocky smiles. Men who’d made their fortunes in booze, numbers, bookie joints, craps tables, and dope. Men who’d partied till dawn at after-hours clubs, paid off cops, fought turf wars, scandalized Congress.
Men who’d killed people.
Had one of them beaten a small woman to death, stuffed her into a burlap sack, and hidden her in an underground chamber?
I’d learned something about the possible early owners of the Foggy Bottom house. Sadly, nothing about the life or death of the corpse in its subcellar.
I glanced at the stacks of unread articles.
At my watch.
Six-thirty.
No wonder a headache was knocking at my frontal bone. I’d been squinting at photocopies all day.
Crapballs!
I had to be elsewhere in half an hour.
An Uber arrived quickly. Still, I got to my destination twenty minutes late.
Nara-Ya was one of many eateries to have sprouted like mushrooms after a rain in the trendy Wharf District in Southwest Washington.
Ornately decorated glass doors opened onto a lobby leading into a tunnel covered on all sides with geometrically patterned and very sparkly foil paper. Backlit flowers hanging from the ceiling and neon-eyed faces lining the walls made for a dizzying effect.
The restaurant itself, a short elevator ride up, was all glass on one side, providing a spectacular view of the marina and Potomac River. The floor was gleaming red tile.
Doyle and Zanetti were seated at a window table. As the maître-d’ brought me to them, Zanetti did that half-rising thing men do when women approach.
“I am so sorry—”
“Tempe.” Zanetti’s smile had enough wattage to attract moths. “I’m delighted you could join us.”
Zanetti indicated the chair held open for me. The one with the best view of the water and boats.
I sat. The waiter presented me with a menu the size of a spin-naker.
Nara-Ya described itself as innovative Japanese. Whoever named their cocktails certainly was. Exit the Dojo. Shogun and Unicorn. Origami on a First Date.
Doyle’s choice of beverage was very large and very pink. Zanetti had a Sapporo Premium. I went with Perrier and lime.
“She won’t be needing this.” Zanetti gestured to the waiter that he should reclaim my menu. “We’ve already made our selections.”
Normally, such presumption would irk me. This time it didn’t. As food started to appear, it seemed Zanetti had ordered every item listed. Sashimi. Nigiri. Rolls, some of which were called Ballers. And a generous portion of caviar.
As we dipped and devoured, I shared some of what I’d read about the Foggy Bottom Gang. Zanetti talked of a client who turned out to be a scam artist, visiting property after property with no intention of buying.
While eating my green tea ice cream—additional calories I seriously did not need—I felt a bit wistful at how well-suited my dinner partners seemed for each other. And guilty over my antisocial attitude of late. The pair really were good company.
Doyle bunched and set her napkin on the table. From which it was immediately whisked away.
“I hate to be a buzzkill,” she said. “But I think I’ve found intel that will blow the roof off the Foggy Bottom fire investigation.”
She wasn’t wrong.
However.
Within twenty-four hours another event would blow that roof even higher.