David Hagberg - End Game

It actually meant nothing that both cars were there. Nor did it make much sense to her to stay here very long, in case the car was reported missing and the police sent out a stolen vehicle notice on the net.

She thought there might be some obvious sign that Schermerhorn was here, but then she knew she was being foolish to hope for such luck. After twenty minutes she turned around and returned the car to where it had been parked.

After wiping down the steering wheel and door handle, she walked a few blocks to M Street, where she had a drink at Clyde’s in the Shops at Georgetown Park, which backed up on the old C&O Canal. The place was busy with the late after-work crowd.

The problem was timing her disappearance. If she went back to work in the morning, and McGarvey brought Roy over to look at the thirty-six suspects, it was possible they would end up on the seventh floor. She had altered her appearance enough that she was pretty sure she would never be picked out of a police lineup. But she and Roy had been a thing in bed for a short while and had lived in close quarters in Germany and again in Iraq. He might pick up on something if he saw her. Escaping at that point would be problematic.

On the other hand, she wanted to know how close they were to solving the mystery. The only way she could get that information was by sitting in her office and listening in on what was said in the director’s office via the direct wire link between her phone console and his.

She’d removed the light in the director’s console that showed when she was connected. Simple but effective.

The key was if someone had shown up at the Chevy Chase apartment, looking for her. But if they’d come that far, it meant they’d put her file back on the list despite Page’s removing it. It meant she was a suspect. But only Schermerhorn could possibly make that determination, and then only if he could meet her face-to-face.

Another possibility she’d considered, and the reason she’d packed an overnight bag, was her Tysons Corner apartment. There was a possibility, no matter how slight, that they had found the place. That in turn would mean they had discovered her Monica Wrigley persona. All her background preparations would unravel from that point.

But she couldn’t take the risk of phoning Phyllis again in case they’d requested an NSA look and listen. Nor could she avoid the risk of going to the office in the morning as normal to find out what was coming her way, if anything.

A reasonably well-put-together man in a business suit, tie loose, collar open, came over to her. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe forty, and he had a wedding ring. He smiled.

“No line, but you’re an attractive woman,” he said. “My name is Jeff. May I buy you a drink?”

“Why not?” she said, and motioned for the bartender. “Your wife out of town?”

“She works for a senator who likes to go on junkets. They’re probably sleeping together.”

The bartender came and refilled her glass with a Pinot Grigio.

“Kids?”

“No time.”

“Never too late. Leave Washington, get a new life,” Alex said, her problem of staying away from her Tysons Corner apartment for the night solved. But she almost felt sorry for the guy, and she guessed she wanted to give him a chance. “Call her right now, wherever she is, tell her you love her, and ask her to come home.”

“She’s an ambitious girl. It’s one of the reasons we got married. But she won’t leave the senator.”

“When will she be back?”

“Not till Wednesday.”

“Five days,” she said. She took a drink of her wine and then smiled up at him. “Okay, Jeff, your place, or would you rather go to a hotel?”

He returned her smile, only the slight hint of guilt at the corners of his eyes. “I have a small place just up Potomac Street. It’s walking distance.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“Like I said, she’s gone all the time. And we have snoopy neighbors where we live.”

It was nearly ten by the time they’d finished at the bar and walked across the street and up Potomac, to a corner building on N Street NW. His tiny apartment was up on the fourth floor, in what had once been an attic. The ceilings, especially in the tiny bedroom and kitchen, were sloped, and the place was sparsely furnished. It didn’t look lived-in.

Alex dropped her bag beside the couch in the living room and went into the kitchen, where she found a half bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter.

He carried a briefcase, which he dropped on a chair in the living room, along with his jacket. He slipped out of his shoes and took off his tie as he came to her.

Alex opened the Jack and took a deep draught before she handed it to him. “Do you have to go into the office in the morning?”

“I’m giving myself a long weekend,” he said, taking a pull on the bottle. He handed it back to her, and she took another drink.

“Sounds good,” she said. “We have the weekend. So why not get drunk and screw? If you’re up to it.”

He laughed and then took the bottle back. “I’ve been told I’m not half bad.”

They went into the bedroom, where she took off all her clothes first and then turned the covers down on the small double as he pulled off his.

“You like it a little rough?” she asked, facing him.

“I don’t know.”

She shoved him down on the bed and straddled him. “I’ll show you how we did it in Vegas.”

She bent down and kissed him at the same time she caressed both sides of his neck with her long delicate fingers. He slipped inside her, and after that it was easy.

Lightly at first, as she was fucking him, she applied pressure to his carotid arteries, and within ninety seconds he was passing in and out of consciousness, until he stopped breathing.

She held on for another three minutes, then reached down and felt for a pulse. But his heart had stopped. He was dead.

In the shower she vigorously washed her body, and after she had dried off, she rolled Jeff’s body onto the floor, then lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up. She was bone-tired. It had been a long, trying day for her. And the next few could very well be worse.

Schermerhorn stood at one of the bedroom windows on the second floor of the Renckes’ safe house, staring down at the quiet residential street. It was something he’d done a lot of since they’d picked him up. It was midnight, and nothing moved.

Otto was down the hall at his computer, trying to get some background on Dorothy Givens’s friend at the Chevy Chase apartment and trying without any luck to find the George needle in the Georgetown haystack.

Dotty or Alex — whoever the hell she was — had been lying, of course.

“The woman has a sense of humor,” Louise said.

“And she thinks we’re on to her,” Otto said. “The point is, will she show up at the office in the morning?”

“Absolutely,” Schermerhorn had said with conviction. “She wants to know who’s coming after her.”

“If she knows we’re breathing down her back, she’d be a fool not to run,” Louise said.

“Not Alex. Never been her style. She figures she can win with whatever hand she’s dealt.”

“Beer?” McGarvey asked.

Startled, Schermerhorn turned from the window. “Why not?”

McGarvey had brought up two bottles of Heineken. He gave one to Schermerhorn. “Why do you suppose she let us know it was her, with the George joke?”

“It’s always been her way. Whenever she walks into a room, she thinks she’s the smartest person there, and she needs to prove it.”

“Louise thinks we should just arrest her at the gate if she shows up in the morning.”