Marcia Talley - This Enemy Town

I could have spent hours playing with the sophisticated DOD search engine, experimenting with various combinations of search terms-how many contracts were awarded to the Megatron subdivision in Providence, Rhode Island, in 2001, for example-but people were waiting in line to use the terminals, and Paul was waiting patiently for me at home. I jotted down the URL of the DOD website and signed off.

It wasn’t until I reached the front door that the heebie-jeebies returned. Was my stalker still out there? I loitered by the front entrance, casually reading the community notices, until a young couple joined at the hip breezed past.

I fell into step behind them and followed them onto the sidewalk. “Nice evening,” I said, thinking just the opposite.

“Yeah.”

“You students at GMU?”

They quickened their pace. “No.”

I had to hustle to keep up. “Going to the Metro?”

“No.”

Even though I was fairly well dressed, they probably thought I was one of those creepy bag ladies who seem to be drawn to public libraries the way my sister Ruth is drawn to garage sales. I dogged their tail until, with a quick glance at me chugging along behind them, they turned into the park, the guy’s arm looped around his girlfriend’s waist, guiding her along with a thumb hooked through a belt loop on her jeans. I watched until they disappeared into the shadows. No way I was going into that park, or back down the deserted street to the Virginia Square Metro station, either.

I pulled the little map out of my purse, checked it, then reversed direction and headed south. With one ear cocked for the sound of anyone on my tail, I made my way to the corner of Fairfax and Quincy, where someone, I swear, had built the next building just to creep me out: the Arlington funeral home, a two-story brick mansion with a pillared entrance and an American flag flapping away under a spotlight. I veered away from it, heading right on Fairfax, and hustled straight to the Ballston Metro Center and the welcoming lights of the Hilton Hotel.

I couldn’t get down the escalator fast enough.

Then the turnstile rejected my fare card. I swore softly and trotted back to the solemn rank of fare card machines, where I slipped it into the “Trade in Used Fare Card” slot. The card’s value-a buck twenty-five-flashed up on a tiny screen. It was off-peak hours, so I’d need to add a dollar ten before I could get me and my aching feet back to New Carollton. Still standing in front of the machine, I rummaged in my purse, but only managed to come up with two quarters, a nickel, and a Canadian dime. Why hadn’t I saved my cash by paying for my sandwich with a credit card? I was such a moron!

I rode the escalator up to street level and made my way to the Hilton, looking around for an ATM. I found one tucked away in a corner of the lobby, but it kept spitting out my ATM card. “Something wrong with this machine?” I asked a passing bellman.

“Out of order, ma’am.”

“Damnit!” I looked around until I found the tiny surveillance camera mounted in the ATM, faced it bravely and mouthed, “Why don’t you fix your damn machine?”

I turned back to the bellman. “Know of any other ATMs around here?”

He squinted up at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. “Over to Ballston Mall.”

“Thanks.”

Following, his directions, I made my way to the glass-covered pedestrian bridge that spanned Ninth Street, wound through the atrium of the National Science Foundation building at treetop level, and trotted across another bridge with colored glass insets that would have caught the sunlight in the daytime but now reflected the headlights from cars driving on Wilson Boulevard some thirty feet below.

At the mall, I found an ATM that accepted my card, whirred for a moment considering it, decided I wasn’t a deadbeat, and spit out two crisp twenty dollar bills. “Thank you!” I kissed the bills, tucked them into my purse, and headed back in the direction of the Metro.

I had almost forgotten about being followed until I heard the footsteps again, directly behind me. I stopped. The footsteps stopped.

I hurried along to the National Science Foundation, where I pretended to be fascinated by the sculptures and palm trees in the tropical wonderland below. Without turning my head, I skewed my eyes to the right. If someone had been behind me, they were gone now.

Walking quickly, I entered the next pedestrian bridge, at the end of which was an elevator that would take me down to Metro level. Suddenly, the footsteps were back, echoing hollowly along the glass walls, moving quickly and coming closer.

At the other end of the bridge a couple emerged from the Hilton, arms linked and laughing. Witnesses! It came back in a flash, something I’d learned in a self-defense class many moons ago. I spun around, raised both arms and confronted my pursuer. “ Kee -yah! It’s an attack! Call the cops!” I screamed.

“I am the cops.”

It was Special Agent Amanda Crisp, dressed in blue jeans, a hooded gray sweatshirt, and well-worn tennis shoes.

I bent over, rested my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “What the hell ?” I panted. I squinted up at her through a fringe of damp hair. “You’ve been following me for days, haven’t you? Why?”

“You have a certain reputation,” she said. “We know about your background. We were afraid you’d go off on your own like V.I. Warshawski.”

“Afraid or hoping?” I snapped.

We stood on the darkened bridge, staring each other down.

“You okay?” The male half of the couple that had been coming out of the Hilton had arrived, cell phone at the ready. “I’ve dialed 911.”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “A misunderstanding.”

Crisp flipped open her Nextel, identified herself and cancelled the 911 while the young man looked on, curiosity all over his face.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” I said, leaning against the wall. “Tell me your name?”

“Mick.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

“No problem.” He stole a quick glance at his date, who hadn’t budged from the protection of the Hilton. “If you’re sure…”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

When they’d passed on, I turned on Special Agent Crisp. “So, why were you tailing me? You scared me half to death.”

“We wanted to keep an eye on you, and-”

I cut in. “Afraid I’ll skip town?”

She raised a hand. “Let me finish. Because of some new information we’ve received.”

“What? You think I’m in danger?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Best if you stayed home and let us run the investigation, Mrs. Ives.”

I had the childish urge to say, “Make me,” but counted silently to ten before answering instead. “I don’t intend to spend one more minute in a jail cell, thank you very much, so I want to go on record right now that I’ll do whatever it takes to find out who really killed Jennifer Goodall.”

“We want you to go home and stay put. Stop talking to people. You’re just going to screw things up.”

“How can I get any more screwed than I already am?”

Crisp sighed and seemed to be weighing her words. “Because you’ve just come very close to blowing a carefully orchestrated, multiagency sting operation.”

I stared at Crisp, my mouth hanging open. Literally. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jennifer Goodall had been cooperating with us and with the Navy I.G. to bring the admiral and his accomplices down.”

“The I.G.,” I repeated, stunned by this information.

“Inspector General.”

“I know what the I.G. is,” I snapped. “So, you think one of them -whoever them is-killed Jennifer Goodall?”

“It’s certainly possible.”