Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

He shrugged.

“Can’t you ever admit I’m right?”

He shrugged again. She went to punch him again, this time with feeling, but he caught her fist in his right hand and squeezed it. Briefly. Not too hard, but hard enough to hurt.

A whisper thin layer of civilization separates men from animals , her father had warned many times. When she let her guard down, she always regretted it.

Traffic snarls slowed them through two intersections. Gaspar said, “Bernie owning the place might mean there’s more dodgy customers. Agents are already on the way to the judge for warrants on the remaining mailboxes. Doubtful they’ll get a lead on Jimmy Hoffa, but you never know.”

She took his concession as an apology for hurting her hand. Welcome, but insufficient. No matter. She’d long ago learned to mask her heart effectively. Kim understood the game, and played it expertly, even when she didn’t feel like it. Nothing personal. Just business. Professionalism demanded no less.

She said, “The photo ID on 4719 is definitely Sylvia Black. But we won’t find any usable prints. She never touched any of that stuff in the boxes. Face recognition?”

“Already in process.”

“Maybe we’ll find something when we sort through the mail.”

Gaspar pulled the Crown Vic into a budget hotel driveway. They stacked a luggage cart with the contents of the trunk.

“I’ll check us in,” she said. She pulled the cart and left him to stow the car.

At the counter she used the first of the pre-paid gift cards to reserve a second floor room near the side exit for two nights. She used Sylvia Black’s name and address.

Washington, DC

November 3

1:05 p.m.

The room service menu offered limited options. Kim chose coffee and pastries, French fries, mixed nuts, and bottled water. She placed the order and left cash on the table and headed for the bathroom. She locked the flimsy hollow door and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes. She breathed the stale air and the faint antiseptic fumes in the darkness. She stayed that way for a good long time. She vaguely heard Gaspar accept the room service delivery, but still she didn’t move.

Eventually she did what she needed to do, washed, dried, tucked her hair into a fresh chignon, and examined herself in the mirror.

Competent. Professional. Unyielding.

Perfect.

She squared her shoulders, opened the door, and rejoined her partner, for better or worse.

The curled contents of mailboxes number 4719 and number 4720 were dumped on one queen bed, and the surplus from the banker’s boxes was on the other. Years of accumulated mail made surprisingly small piles. Gaspar had taken off his shoes and his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He had eaten his pastry.

He asked, “Who keeps two P.O. boxes open for five years, but never collects the mail?”

Kim said, “Someone who doesn’t want to be found. Everybody gets mail. Has to go somewhere.”

“If she wasn’t going to deal with it, why pay for storage?”

“If mail is returned, senders get curious.”

“Why two boxes, then? One would do the job, wouldn’t it?”

Kim picked up envelopes and thumbed through them. All were addressed to Sylvia Kent, at either P.O. Box 4719 or P.O. Box 4720, in Crystal City, Arlington, VA 22202. All were postmarked five and six years ago.

She said, “Maybe she planned to come back someday.”

Gaspar did the eyebrow lift. Good. That point hadn’t occurred to him. She needed to stay a few steps ahead, anticipate what he might do, make a plan B.

He said, “But if she planned to return, then why not just tell people she was taking a year or two off to live in France or something?”

Kim tossed the pile of envelopes back in the box. She stretched her back. She collected a black coffee from the tray, and returned to sorting. The letters were depressingly similar. She saw most of them repeatedly, with no variation aside from dates. “Maybe she was hiding from someone. That’s what she told Roscoe. Could be true.”

He shrugged.

They worked in silence.

Gaspar finished the packing box stack. “Looks like Bernie should have hired Alfred Lane years ago. The prior clerk wasn’t as competent. The early stuff is all mixed up.”

Kim found Alfred Lane’s computer print-outs at the bottom of the pile. Eight pages. The printer was low on ink. The font was tiny. She sought brighter light to read.

Gaspar’s phone rang. He walked his own kinks out as he listened. Then he said, “OK, keep me posted. Thanks, Jenny.”

Kim asked, “So is Alfred Lane in custody?” She opened the drapes and tilted the print-outs to the light. She scanned them.

She stopped on page two.

How could that be?

She flipped to page four. She barely heard Gaspar’s reply to her question.

He said, “No, some genius got held up at the courthouse. Duty judge out to lunch or something. By the time they reached Crystal City, Alfred was long gone.”

She asked anyway, “Did they get any data?”

He said, “The whole freaking place was on fire. They’re still fighting the blaze. Jenny says there will be nothing left but the cinders.”

Then there was a knock at the door behind her.

The knock sounded like a rhythm. Like a pre-arranged code. Like Morse.

Dum -diddy-dum-dum; dum-dum.

Housekeeping?

Kim looked at Gaspar. The only name registered downstairs was female. So Kim called out, “Who is it?”

A voice said, “Sylvia? It’s Elle. Gabrielle. Can I come in, honey?”

What the hell?

Gaspar shook his head, raised both palms to indicate he was equally clueless.

The knock code came again. Dum -diddy-dum-dum; dum-dum. Elle or Gabrielle sounded happy but urgent. And too loud. “I want to see you, Sylvia. You know that. Come on. Let me in.”

Kim navigated around the bed, and looked through the peep-hole. Saw a woman about Sylvia’s age, and well dressed.

“How’d you find me?” Kim asked, in a stage whisper, and watched.

Elle chuckled and said, “Some things haven’t changed, honey. I still know every front desk clerk and every security chief in every hotel in DC. I knew you were in town. I asked my friends to call me if you checked in anywhere.”

No one else within the fisheye’s range. “Are you alone?”

“Just me, myself, and I, honey. Open the door.”

Gaspar pulled his gun and moved silently into the bathroom, and left that door open an inch. Kim folded Alfred’s printouts and stuffed them in the back pocket of her slacks. She slipped on her gun and added her jacket to cover both bulges. She flipped the safety lever, turned the deadbolt, twisted the knob. She stood a little behind the door, where Elle wouldn’t see her immediately. She swung the door half-way open.

Elle came in like a runway model, hips thrust forward, all angles and elbows. She was dressed in vintage Jackie Kennedy pink, from the pill box hat and the pale lipstick all the way down to the tan hose and the pumps. She was wearing Chanel No. 5. She was giggling like a teenager.

“I can’t believe you’re back, sweetie. You’ve been gone so long! I thought I’d never see you again!”

Elle cleared the threshold.

Kim body-pressed the door and clicked the deadbolt.

Elle turned.

She blinked several times as if Kim would become Sylvia if only her emerald contact lenses would clear.

Didn’t happen.

Elle said, “Who are you?”

Up close, she looked a few years older than Sylvia. Well-groomed, expensive style. A pink purse in white-gloved hands. Maybe wondering if she should pull out the pepper spray right now.