A car pulled out of a parking place at the curb, so I pulled in. Killed the headlights and engine and sat watching the screen of the cell phone. Mrs. Grafton had the boob tube on, but she was making something in the kitchen.
After a half hour sitting there contemplating the state of the universe and watching people on the sidewalk and in cars, I locked the car and walked across the street to the pizza joint for a beer.
When Jake Grafton was behind the wheel of his car he checked his watch. Ten after 10 P.M. He checked the list of contacts on his cell phone and called the chief of naval operations, Admiral Carter McKiernan. He called him on his private home number.
“Yes.”
“Jake Grafton, Admiral. I’d like to stop around in about thirty minutes and see you.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow, Jake?”
“I’m up to my eyeballs, Admiral. I’d like it to be tonight, and off the record.”
“I’m not in bed yet. Come on over. You know where I live?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll tell the gate guards to admit you.”
“About half an hour, sir.”
“Right.”
The CNO lived in a mansion on government property at the old Washington Naval Yard. At this time of night, traffic into the district from Silver Spring was light. McKiernan was a naval aviator and had actually been the air wing operations officer aboard United States when Jake was the air wing commander. He had been a lieutenant commander then, selected early for commander. God, Jake thought, that was a long time ago. McKiernan had been selected for nuclear power school, and had gone on the usual career path to executive officer of a carrier, commanding officer of a supply ship, then commanding officer of a carrier. From there he had been promoted to rear admiral and had worked his way up the ladder. He was bright, loved the navy and knew how to lead. Jake had followed his career from a distance and had been pleased with each and every promotion.
Grafton wondered if Cart McKiernan would be candid.
I watched people on the sidewalks and in passing cars and trucks from the window of the pizza joint across the street from Grafton’s condominium building in Roslyn. The place was well lit and cheerful and smelled of wonderful comfort food. One guy worked the counter and phone; through the pass-out window I could see two more making pizzas in the kitchen. There were three couples and one guy with two kids in there munching pie when I arrived, laughing and whispering and relaxing after a day at desks somewhere. Other people came in from time to time, replacing the folks leaving, or to get a takeout pizza they ordered by phone. That phone. It was at the far end of the counter and never stopped ringing. I made myself at home on a counter stool where I could watch the street.
I was sipping a beer when I saw the homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of junk come slowly up the sidewalk from the direction of the Metro stop. He turned into the alley between Grafton’s condo hive and the one just down the hill. Going to mine the Dumpster behind the building, probably, or homestead a place to sleep.
I signaled for the bartender, who came over wiping his hands on a white towel. “How long would it take you to make me a pizza to go?”
“About twelve minutes or so.”
“Do you have one already made up you could stick in a box?”
“What kind?”
“Whatever you have ready to go.”
“I’ll see.” He was back a minute later. “Yeah, we got one we can warm up in about two minutes. Sausage, pepperoni and olives.”
“Fine.”
The derelict came out of the alley between the buildings, crossed in front of Grafton’s building and went down the alley to the loading dock and Dumpster behind it.
I watched him on the video on my cell phone.
When the pizza came, I paid for it and the beer and left a tip. “Thanks,” I said, and hit the door.
I crossed the street. My jacket was unzipped so I could get to the gun under my shoulder easily, if need be. I tried to whistle as I walked down the alley. My lips were too dry and I had to lick them. I got some noise out, but if there was a tune there I don’t know what it was.
The derelict was half in and half out of the Dumpster. He was bent over the lid of it with his upper body inside and his feet out.
I waited until he straightened up and could see me.
“Hey, dude. Can you eat a pizza?”
He eyed me and the pizza box. “Yeah.”
He climbed down. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble, and his clothes looked dirty enough. I looked at his hands and neck. Fairly clean. Through the years and various adventures, I have noticed that men who never bathe take on a rich, ripe odor, not too bad. That’s after they quit stinking. I was downwind of the derelict, and I couldn’t smell that odor. Nor was he stinking.
He was about five feet nine inches tall, and compact. He looked fit, not skinny and starving like an alcoholic or drug addict. He had even features and brown eyes, a tad too close together, wide cheekbones and a chin that should have been a trifle smaller if he was ever going to get a job posing for magazine ads or strutting in front of a television or movie camera. Maybe he didn’t have those ambitions.
I glanced at his hands as I handed him the box containing the pizza, said, “Eat it in good health,” and started to turn away.
“Was you gonna throw it away?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “Got it for my kid, who just called and said he was staying at a friend’s house tonight. Not a pizza person myself.”
“Thanks,” he said, and opened the box.
I turned my back and walked around the corner of the building and up the incline to the street.
Fish watched Carmellini until he disappeared around the building. He wiped his hands on his trousers and helped himself to a piece of pizza from the box. Still warm. As he munched he looked around at the building, the four cars parked in this area, the Dumpster. He stood thinking about the four FBI dudes last night.
Man, shooting them had been fun!
He shook his head at his own stupidity. Shooting people is just a job, he told himself. You get to liking it too much and they’re going to get you, sooner rather than later.
He tore another bit off the pizza, popped it into his mouth and chewed, savoring the tomato-and-cheese taste as his eyes roamed across the rear of the building.
That guy … a good Samaritan, or a security guard?
Not that it mattered. He’ll never see me again, Fish thought, and tore off another piece of pizza.
Cart McKiernan still had every hair he had been born with, Jake Grafton thought, although it was salt-and-pepper now, not jet black. His eyes still smiled when his lips did. Square jaw, good teeth — he looked like the admiral from Central Casting. “Send me an admiral for my movie.” They would send McKiernan.
Tonight he was in sweats. He had a towel around his neck. “Was on the treadmill,” he apologized as he led Jake into the kitchen. “Want a beer or drink or something?”
“Got a Diet Coke in the fridge?”
“Sure.”
McKiernan filled a glass at the tap with water for himself and led his guest into the den. High ceilings, at least ten feet, Jake noticed. A packed bookshelf. Comfortable furniture. Naval paintings from the days of sail on the walls. Seeing Jake look at them, McKiernan explained. “They’re on loan from the National Gallery.”