kitchen. âJorge! We got a deadbeat out here trying to skip out on his bill!â
The kitchen door swung open. A mean-looking, heavily tattooed cook walked out. If it was Jorge, I knew I didnât want to tangle with him.
âAll right . . . how much?â I cried.
Through the plate-glass window I could see Jana standing in the parking lot, her arms folded.
Alida pulled out her pad. âLetâs see . . . the lady had a tea with lemon. The gentleman . . .â She spoke the word like it was an obscenity. â. . . had a coffee.â She looked up. âWas that one cup or two?â
âHere,â I said, slapping a ten-dollar bill on top of her pad. âThat should cover it.â
I donât know how a cab got there so quickly, but while I raced the length of the coffee shop, through the window I could see Jana climbing into the backseat. By the time I was out the door, the cab was pulling out of the parking lot. The last I saw of Jana was the back of her head in the cabâs rear window.
The door to Brunoâs opened behind me. Waitress Alida watched Janaâs departure with an expression of mission accomplished. âHey, prize winner,â she said. âDo you want your change?â
I knew she didnât mean it.
CHAPTER 5
W eariness wrapped itself around my shoulders like a shawl as I drove west on Interstate 8 toward my hotel. I hadnât slept in over twenty-four hours.
In that time Iâd delivered a speech to an assembly of high school students who didnât want to hear it, endured the usual badgering of reporters at a press conference, been assaulted by an old classmate with some kind of voodoo or psychedelic drug, learned of a possible plot to assassinate the president of the United States, spent the night in a parking lot chatting with East Coast answering machines, witnessed a fiery death on a freeway, thought I saw a ghost, and managed to infuriate a former girlfriend.
âNot a bad dayâs work,â I muttered.
Before leaving the restaurant parking lot, Iâd tried to reconnect with Christina. She wasnât answering. This time there wasnât so much as an answering machine. She must have turned her phone off.
I also tried Chief of Staff Ingrahamâs number and got hissecretary, Margaret. Finally, I thought, I was getting somewhere! Margaret liked me. Sheâd told me I reminded her of her little brother.
Apparently her little brother had ticked her off recently, because the voice on the other end of the line was very cold and very professional. Biting off the end of each word, Margaret informed me that Mr. Ingraham would not be available for the rest of the day, nor was it likely heâd be available to take my calls anytime soon.
Desperate now, I dialed the presidentâs private cell phone again. Even the phone companyâs computerized voice sounded miffed that I was calling again.
Lack of sleep was catching up with me. Like a horse at the end of a long journey, I headed mindlessly for the barnâthe barn being the Red Lion Inn at Hotel Circle in Mission Valley.
I was functioning in three-word sentences. Take a shower. Order room service. Grab some sleep.
After my batteries were recharged I figured Iâd fire up the laptop, jump online, and see if I could find some answers about Myles Shepherd and exactly what happened in his office.
I didnât have much to work withâa name and an experience Iâm not sure I could put into wordsâbut Iâd started projects with less and researching was what I was good at.
With a game plan established I settled back and enjoyed the ride on rented genuine leather seats. In Washington my car was a rusting Ford Taurus that felt like it was kicking you in the pants every time it shifted into third gear.
Familiar landmarks whizzed past me. Grossmont Shopping Center. The community hospital. Freeway exit signsâJackson Drive,
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