Page 33 of Slow Burn

At the next intersection, a yellow DART bus farted black smoke as it passed. Velvet shifted from one numb foot to the other. She stared straight ahead, aware that Robby was looking at her, not wanting to look back.

“You think they knew we left them to die?” Velvet asked at last. Even though Robby was a shitty liar, she wanted her to lie. Robby didn’t.

“Yes,” Robby said. “Yes, they knew.”

Chapter Thirteen

Martin

Martin Grady hurried down a concrete-floored hallway toward what was politely referred to as his office. Unlike his colleagues from the more Northern states, he’d ended up with a coat closet down here in what he’d heard somebody refer to as the engine room of theTitanic.Which made him, he supposed, the stupid schmuck going down with the ship.

It was two in the morning, and deserted office buildings got his goat, always had. He’d signed in upstairs with the crisp-pressed Marine guard, but supposing he got eaten by the Phantom of the Bureaucracy, would they notice? Not unless it involved cleaning up.

Something clattered in the distance. He froze and listened, but all he heard was his own accelerated breathing. His breath was smoky in the freezing air, which reminded him he hadn’t had a cigarette since dinner. Thinking of cigarettes reminded him of Adrian Carling, the she-beast of Washington; he wondered where her offices were. Upstairs, of course, somewhere with two-inch pile carpeting and imported coffee served in thin china cups.

He counted plain gunmetal gray doors. Six, eight, ten, twelve. At sixteen he stopped and fumbled for his keyring.

Christ, it was quiet. Should have brought a radio, that would help. Something to break the silence. He’d buy one tomorrow, maybe a Walkman. No, he couldn’t hear people coming with headphones on.

“Mr. Grady?”

He spun around, keys clutched like a weapon in his fist, and saw Adrian Carling standing only about ten feet away. She was shorter than he’d remembered, maybe five-foot-five. He couldn’t tell what she was wearing under the calf-length dark-red coat, except that it must have been a skirt because the calves had hose and the feet had medium-heeled pumps.

“Ms. Carling,” he remembered to say. “Surprise.”

“I think that was my line.” She came a few steps closer, and the coat gaped open, showing him a dark brown suit, a cream-colored blouse. “Working late, aren’t you?”

“No, I just thought I’d come in and redecorate, maybe spill a little water in the hall and play ice hockey.”

“Glad you’re keeping your sense of humor.” He didn’t like the hint of pity in her voice, or the sad smile. “You must have enemies on the Hill.”

“You don’t?”

“Mine are more subtle. So, are you going inside, or are we waiting for the faceoff?”

He remembered the keys in his hand and used them. The door swung open on an office as dreary as the rest of the hall, gray walls, a battered Vietnam-era desk, a chair that leaned back enough that it might have been second-hand from a dentist. The corkboard on the wall was more holes than cork, but Grady had managed to pin up a photo—just one. It looked lonely and defiant.

Carling, of course, went over to look at it. She raised her eyebrows.

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sally.” He waited for the inevitable comments, the sympathy, but Carling just nodded.

“I assume there’s a wife?”

Grady sat down in the chair, which squeaked like bed-springs, and fought the gravitational urge to tip over.

“Was,” he said shortly. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Carling?”

She continued to stare at Sally’s photo, her eyes bright and sharp.

“She’s a pretty girl. It’s such a pity.” The words sounded smooth and social, but they burned through him like acid. Her eyes never moved away from the picture, and he had to fight the urge to lunge up and tear the photo off the wall, hide it face down, protect it. “Suzanne left you in—what?—ninety-one? Left you all alone with Sally to care for. That must have been difficult.”

The shock left behind an ache, like arthritis of the soul. He couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, not evenStop.

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