The Bone Chamber by Robin Burcell

last fifteen minutes, or the driver’s got some obsessive-compulsive complex that requires he stay exactly two cars behind us.”
    “Or,” he said, “the car we’re in looks like any other unmarked police car, and he’s worried about getting a ticket.”
    “He’d be inching up on us if that were the case. Peeking into the window to find out if we really were cops.” She was quiet a few seconds, then, “So what sort of case is this that you have people following you when you leave Quantico?”
    He wasn’t about to answer that, but he decided to find out if they were in fact being followed and he pulled behind a particularly slow motor home. The Honda swept past, and he noted the license number as well as the physical description of the dark-haired male who drove. He continued trailingthe motor home, right up until his exit, satisfied that no other vehicle seemed to be tailing them.
    Then again, if someone knew where he was headed, there was no reason to tail him, a point brought home as he made a left turn toward the office, stopped at a red light—directly behind said Honda. Fitzpatrick crossed her arms, glanced over at him. “Now what?”
    “On the off chance this guy is part of a tail, I don’t think you want me dropping you off at your ex’s place until we lose him. How about we stop for coffee first?”
    “Coffee works for me.”
    The light turned green. The Honda continued through. Griffin made a hard right, took several more evasive turns, all with no idea if the vehicle was or wasn’t following. For him it was just in case. Old habits die hard. When he was certain he was in the clear, he pulled into a driveway of a nondescript warehouse, then hit a remote control on his visor. A bay door opened and he drove into an enclosed garage, the door closing as he pulled in. “Get your things,” he said. “We’ll be changing cars after we get our coffee.”
    Fitzpatrick made no comment, merely got out, opened the back door, and took her possessions.
    He popped the trunk, gathered his briefcase and bag, then slammed the lid shut, hanging the keys on a wall hook. “This way,” he said. She followed him to an innocuous-looking scarred and battered door at the rear of the bay, bearing a sign that read “Janitorial Supplies.” He lifted the air-conditioning thermostat cover set in the wall adjacent to the door, revealing a biometric scanner and keypad. He placed his right index finger to the scanner, then punched in his code. The door buzzed open, three inches of solid steel.
    Fitzpatrick eyed the door, then him. “Must be some damned good coffee you keep in there.”
    He indicated she should precede him, and she stepped through the threshold, onto the top landing of a stairwell, the steps faintly lit by unseen lights at the base of the walls. At the bottom, a brick tunnel stretched off in either direction, and the same base lighting illuminated the concrete floor.
    “Which way?” she asked as they neared the bottom.
    “Turn right. My office is the second door down. The one marked ‘High Voltage.’”
    “How apropos,” she muttered. The rumbling of a passing Metro subway train reverberated through the walls, then quickly faded. “Why not just walk in the front door?”
    “After the tail, I’d rather not take a chance.”
    “And this door?” she asked as they passed one that was unmarked.
    “A convoluted exit into the Metro. Comes in handy sometimes.”
    The “High Voltage” door appeared just as unassuming as the garage bay door, until it, too, was opened, revealing the several inches of solid gleaming steel. The small space looked like any high-voltage electrical room. The only voltage within, however, was the hidden biometric keypad in one of the boxes, which, once engaged, caused the back wall to slide open, revealing a normal-looking elevator. They stepped in, the door slid shut, and up they went. It stopped on the fifth floor of his building. “My office,” he said.
    She looked around,