"You think you could do me just one more favor, Roger? Just one, and I'm gone."
"Shoot," he said.
"I'm looking for an owner's list of 2007 Range Rovers. DC plates starting with ninety-nine."
"More Unsolved Mysteries material, huh? All right, you got it. But fraternal order of police cooperation aside, this has to be the last one. My lieutenant is due back from a department conference any second. There's a bookstore right down the block. Why don't you catch up on some reading, and I'll see you in about an hour."
It was more like half an hour. I was sitting in front of the magazine rack, paging through a Vanity Fair, when Zampella tapped me on the shoulder.
"I think you dropped something, miss," he said, handing me an envelope with a wink before heading off toward the exit.
I ripped the sheet of paper out of the envelope. The list was twenty-one vehicles long. I traced my finger down the owner's column, looking for Stillwell.
No dice. I did it again more slowly. Again nothing.
I rubbed my overcaffeinated, tired eyes. What the hell? It was worth a shot.
I went into the bookstore's café, sat down, and pulled out the hotel guest list. One by one, I cross-referenced each Range Rover owner with the hotel list. It was maybe fifteen minutes later, pins and needles tingling my butt, when I found a match.
Veronica Boyd. 221 Riggs Place.
Veronica? I thought, seething. I knew it! A woman! Paul, you goddamned bastard!
I jumped out of my seat and bolted for the front door. I needed to rent a car. And maybe do some surveillance work.
It was time to find out exactly what – oh, and most especially who – Paul had done.
Chapter 103
THE HOUSE WAS A QUAINT attached brick residence on a low-key, but definitely upscale street in a neighborhood north of Dupont Circle. The rainbow flags outside the coffee bars and the restaurants housed in its old stately buildings reminded me a lot of Greenwich Village, the more yuppified parts, anyway.
From my rented Ford Taurus parked at the corner, I kept my eyes locked on the gleaming black door of 221 Riggs Place.
A quick scan of the block didn't reveal any black Range Rovers among the several other brands of luxury vehicles parked along both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street.
Well, what do you know? I thought, squinting at the shutter-lined upper windows of the house. In his secret life Paul seemed to be doing darn well for himself.
But was it his house? I truly didn't want it to be. If I ever wanted to be completely wrong about something, it was this.
Let there be some explanation, Paul. Something I can stomach.
I was about to take a spin for a restroom break an hour later, when the front door finally opened. None other than Paul came down the brick stoop of the town house, carrying the blue Tiffany bag.
He pressed the key fob in his hand, and the headlights of a hunter green convertible Jaguar on the far corner glowed with a double bloop.
That really wasn't fair, I thought, sublimating the urge to plow the rented car broadside into the Jaguar. Why couldn't we have the Jag in our dimension?
Next up, I tailed Paul through the afternoon traffic. We made a turn onto 14th Street and passed a bunch of lettered side streets, S Street, R. I followed Paul left onto Q Street, then right onto 13th Street and around the rotary to O Street. I watched as he pulled into the parking lot of an ivy-covered brick building.
The Chamblis School, said a brass sign on its wall. This couldn't be good. Not a chance in hell that this was the happy ending I was looking for.
I parked at a hydrant, feeling like I was in a trance as I watched Paul get out of the Jag, carrying the Tiffany bag.
So, Veronica Boyd was a teacher? I could just about picture her. Preppy and little and blonde. Not to mention young. And very attractive, of course.
Was that what this was all about? I thought, starting to fume in the car. Out with the old, in with the new?
I watched Paul return to the Jag three minutes later.
What in the world?
She was young, all right.
A three- or four-year-old girl wearing a plaid jumper threw her arms around Paul's neck. He closed his eyes as he hugged her and then opened the bag. The little girl removed a white teddy bear wearing a silver necklace and kissed it.
Paul lifted her up under her arms and carefully put her and the teddy bear into the car.
I was still sitting, immobilized, when Paul maneuvered the purring Jag around the wagons, SUVs, and Hummers of the other parents picking up their kids. When he stopped at the corner, I got a good look at the girl through the back window.
My lungs quit. No inhaling. No exhaling.
I recognized that pin-straight nose, those blue eyes, that sandy hair. The girl was as beautiful as Paul was handsome. She'd gotten all of his looks.
I couldn't believe it, absolutely couldn't. The pain was unreal, impossible to imagine without actually experiencing it, open-heart surgery without anesthesia.
Things were a thousand times worse than I'd ever thought they could be. Paul had pulled off the cruelest trick possible.
A baby, I thought.
Paul had had a baby.
Without me.
Chapter 104
I ARRIVED BACK at 221 Riggs Place just in time to see Paul coming back out of the house with his little girl, and a Dora the Explorer bike complete with training wheels. I nodded ironically as he popped the smiling child onto it and headed the bicycle south down the sidewalk.
Off to the playground, no doubt. I always knew Paul would make an excellent father.
When they were out of sight, I emerged from the Taurus and headed for the stoop. Just one more thing to do here, I thought as I climbed the stairs mechanically and rang the doorbell. One final detail to take care of.
I just needed to core out the very last remnants of my heart.
"Yes?" said the woman who opened the door.
She was blonde, all right, but not preppy. And not little. At least not her chest. I guessed she was about my age, which, honestly, didn't help one bit. I scrutinized her heavy-handed makeup, the way her tight black skirt cut into her tummy. She looked like she'd recently put on weight.
An attractive woman desperately battling the onslaught of her late thirties. Welcome to the club.
I stared into her dark brown eyes under the razor streaks of blonde, an off-putting clash of light and dark. When I smelled her perfume, something cold drew across my stomach. Like a razor.
"Veronica?" I finally spoke.
"Yes," she said again. I noticed she had an accent, Texan maybe, definitely southern.
I took out my badge.
"I'm Detective Stillwell," I said. "May I please have a word with you?"
"What's this about?" she said tensely, not budging from the doorway. I couldn't tell if she knew me or just didn't like badges.
I took out the DMV printout I'd gotten from Zampella.
"Do you have a 2007 black Range Rover?" I asked the blonde woman. Paul's other wife?
"Yes," she said. "What about it?"
"I'm investigating a hit-and-run accident. May I come in? It will only take a moment."
"Why does a New York City detective want to investigate a hit-and-run accident in Washington, DC?" she asked, keeping herself wedged in the doorway.
I already had an answer for that. "I'm sorry. I should have explained. My mother came down three days ago with her church group. She was the victim. If there's some sort of problem, I could always just go ahead and have your vehicle impounded."
"Come in," she said, stepping to the side. "This has to be some kind of mistake."
There was an off-white pub mirror and a cute espresso-stained mail desk in the front foyer. The design was contemporary, moderately tasteful. The rooms were sunny and cozy.
She led me into the kitchen, where she'd opted for retro appliances. A pink mixer sat on the butcher-block island next to a bag of flour. She was cooking dinner for Paul? Sweet girl.