Sex Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 6) (22 page)

“You sure you give me the right address?”

“Yes.”

“You know somebody up there?”

Pause.

“Yes,” she lied.

“It’s good you know somebody up there, cause’—well, when I let you out, I’d like to see you meet somebody you know.”

“It will be okay.”

“Lot of guys won’t go up there. Lot of robberies happen up there.”

“If you want more money…”

A shake of the driver’s head:

“Naw. I just want to be sure you’re safe. Want to be certain you know somebody up in that neighborhood.”

“I do,” she said for the third time.

Then she simply pressed her nose against the window, and watched Washington flow past.

Leaving Mr. Vernon Square, they drove north on 7
^th
St., through a neighborhood where the two Starbucks on each block had just closed; through a seedier neighborhood that housed only one Starbucks per block (that one having closed hours earlier in the evening), into a neighborhood with only nondescript coffee shops, into a neighborhood of taverns, into a neighborhood of bars, and finally into a neighborhood of brothels.

The rain continued to pour down.

Through garishly open windows she could see people drinking and playing pool; outside, between the drinking establishments and below seedy hotel windows, women dressed in colored underwear and foot-tall high heels were huddled back into alleys, points of fire designating the middle of their lips.

Nina paid the driver, opened the door, and got out, putting her rain boot squarely in a six-inch puddle.

“Who you know up here?” asked the driver.

She had to shout to make herself heard over the rattling of the rain on the cab, and over the sounds of music wailing, pool balls clicking, big men cursing, and bigger men replying, that were oozing out into the street around her.

“My aunt.”

“Your what?”

“My aunt lives up here.”

The driver shook his head:

“You’ve got some aunt.”

Nina nodded:

“Yes. She’s a tough old bird.”

“Good luck to her. And good luck to you.”

“Thank you.”

“Six eleven is right over there.”

And so saying, the cab driver pulled away.

Leaving her in the middle of the toughest neighborhood she had ever seen, except when she visited Tom Broussard.

She breathed deeply, and the rain pelted her.

This was insane.

Nothing was to keep this man from killing her; from killing both of them.

But if she turned now and ran away, simply ran until she had covered the five or ten or fifteen blocks where Starbucks again thrived and cabs still prowled—if she did this, she could be back home under her own sheets within an hour.

And Laurencia would almost certainly be dead, lying in a seedy apartment bed with her throat cut.

So she turned and walked toward a metal railing on the sidewalk, beyond which was a lighted window, beside which was a darkened five-foot flight of descending stairs.

Ending in a doorway.

Above which had been nailed the dingy gray numbers
six eleven
.

The window glowed yellow, but it was so dirty that she could make out nothing inside.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

She walked down the stairs.

The heavy wooden door confronted her.

There was a button of some kind on the wall just beside the handle.

She pressed it; a buzzing sound could be heard from within.

But nothing seemed to move.

She knocked on the door.

Again, nothing.

Summoning all her courage, she found that she was able to shout:

“Laurencia!”

The thunder rumbled in answer and the lightning flashed and the rain deluged and a rat ran across the ground between her feet and the door stop.

But nothing else.

So she turned the door knob and pressed.

The door swung open.

Before her loomed a lighted, narrow hallway, with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, held up by a frayed cord.

“Laurencia?”

She stepped forward.

No reply.

She walked on.

Then she looked left.

The apartment, she could see, consisted only of one room, with a bathroom tucked into one corner and the semblance of a kitchen tucked into another.

On the far side, through the window, she could see rain pellets spattering off the sidewalk.

Then she looked at the walls.

They were covered with signs, made out of butcher paper and carrying messages scrawled in red, blue, or black markers:

GOD IS COMING!

HOMOSEXUALITY IS BESTIAL!

ABORTIONISTS WILL FRY IN HELL!

WOMEN—KNOW YOUR MASTERS!

There, just to her left, in the center of the room, was a stack of envelopes, and beside it a few sheets of stationery.

Cream colored.

And just beyond that was the single bed.

And on it, lay a body.

Despite herself, and knowing somehow, seeing the lifeless blue eyes fixed unseeingly on a spot in the ceiling, the hand hanging never again to be moved over the bedside, the fingertips reaching almost to faded carpet—knowing of course that she had nothing to fear from this figure, she made her way across the room and peered down into the corpse’s face.

Straggled white hair, still ruddy complexion…

Baggy, formless slacks, white shirt, now stained…

…those eyes, staring upward.

“That
,” she whispered to herself, the words floating down to ears that could not hear, “is Jarrod Thornbloom.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: WHERE ONE GOES IN OUR NATION’S CAPITAL WHEN IT IS VERY LATE AT NIGHT AND ALL OF THE STARBUCKS ARE CLOSED

They all went to the headquarters of the Secret Service.

Sylvia was there.

Laurencia had been brought there.

Dicken Proctor had been brought there.

Jeb Maxwell, the House Majority Whip had been brought there.

Nina was there.

And Stockmeyer, Head of the Secret Service, had just strode into the room.

He looked around the table where they all were sitting and said:

“It’s not Thornbloom.”

No one spoke.

Stockbridge continued:

“It’s a dead ringer for the man. Six foot two, white beard, blue eyes, same facial structure…but it’s not Thornbloom.”

Silence.

Finally, Nina:

“I’m sorry that I said it was. I had never seen Jarrod Thornbloom. Only pictures of him, and, of course, only on TV.”

Stockbridge merely nodded:

“That’s all right. The resemblance is remarkable.”

Dicken Proctor:

“You’re sure it’s not him?”

“We’re sure. Fingerprints.”

“Well. Now that I think back upon that morning in the office. The sun had not come up. The lights were dimmed.”

“You made a mistake. It happens. And you, Congresswoman Bannister, made an even bigger mistake.”

Nina nodded, knowing what was sure to come.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You went up there by yourself.”

“Yes.”

“What in God’s name were you thinking?”

“He had Laurencia. He said he was going to kill her.”

But Laurencia merely leaned forward and said:

“I was on the Hill, dear. We had an emergency meeting in response to a bill that is to come up tomorrow. These things happen frequently.”

“I heard you. I heard your voice on the phone.”

No one spoke.

Finally Stockmeyer:

“I’m not sure how that is possible. I’m also not sure how this man was able to get your number.”

“But who,” asked Nina, “is the man, anyway?”

A shrug of Stockmeyer’s shoulders:

“We were able to identify him a little over an hour ago. I could give you a name, but it wouldn’t matter. He’s a small time crook and drug dealer. The city’s full of them. Quite a few arrests.”

“How did he die?”

“Drug overdose. Heroin.”

“He said,” Nina said quietly, “that the voices had told him to end it.”

Sylvia Morales spoke up.

“All we can figure, Nina, is that this guy went from penny-ante drug pushing to crazed social activism.”

“Or just insanity.”

“Maybe it was that. Maybe the drugs had something to do with it. But whatever caused it, he was clearly the nut who was writing you all those letters, and the nut who stalked you to the library, and the nut who shot at you.”

Silence for a time.

Finally, Dicken Proctor, quietly:

“Well, I’m sorry he did it, and I’m sorry he’s dead. I also realize this means Jarrod is where we thought he was, at the bottom of the sea. But it means too, that there are no ghosts walking around, and that I’m not insane.”

Stockmeyer:

“No, Mr. Proctor; you aren’t insane. And maybe, maybe, this nightmare is over for all of you.”

“Will we still need protection?” asked Nina.

Stockmeyer nodded:

“There are still a lot of crazies out there, and this Lissie movement is getting more and more controversial as the 4
^th
of July approaches. I understand you’re going to be flying to Bay St. Lucy—along with Laurencia and you, Mr. Proctor,—for the theatrical production?”

“For
Lysistrata
, yes.”

“Well, Sylvia will be going along, and we’ll have some other folks there who we’re coordinating with in the Mississippi branch. Don’t run away from them, all right?”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“We can’t help you if you don’t work with us.”

“I understand.”

Smiles all around.

And somehow, Nina began to realize, there should have been smiles all around.

She was crazy.

She had done a stupid thing.

If the voices had told the lunatic not to kill himself with a drug overdose, but to kill her…

…but that did not happen.

And now she was all right.

She was going home.

To Margot.

To Alanna.

To Jackson.

To her little shack...

And to Furl.

She was going home, and the danger was over.

These things she told herself.

And these things…all of them…were completely wrong.