FALLS CHURCH
,
VIRGINIA
Friday, September 12, 7:35 p.m.
He parked the Forester in the driveway of the elegant two-story brick Tudor. Ivy crept up the wall, over leaded casement windows and soaring eaves. Tasteful placements of ferns, oaks, and rhododendrons graced the front yard. The style spoke of history, culture, and permanence. He smiled; it was the type of home he’d loved since childhood.
A moment after he rang the bell, she opened the door.
He knew he would be delighted. He was not prepared to be dazzled.
The crystal chandelier in the foyer outlined her in soft golden backlighting, while the lantern over the entrance cast a warm glow over her face. The light caught strands of her dark brown hair, bringing out the reddish hints. She wore a V-neck, halter-top cocktail dress, short and russet-colored, with matching heels.
“Hello?” she prompted, eyes sparkling.
He realized he’d stood staring at her for at least five seconds.
“Sorry. You’ve rendered me speechless.”
An impish smile. “And here I was hoping for scintillating conversation.”
“I’ll do better. Promise. But you do look stunning.”
Her smile broadened as she looked him up and down. “You dress up pretty nicely yourself, mister.”
She turned to fetch a gray cashmere coat from a wall hook. As she reached up, her hemline rode even higher, making his heart skip. Though she was not especially tall, her lean legs looked impossibly long, like a model’s.
“Here, let me help you.” He stepped into the foyer and took the coat from her. She turned around. Except for the strap around her neck, her dress was backless to the waist; from there it flowed snugly over the swell of her hips and halfway down her thighs. Heart now racing, he opened the coat for her. Taut little muscles moved beneath the skin of her back as she slid her bare arms into the sleeves. He caught a whiff of a light fragrance.
She turned and looked up at him. Smiled again. “Shall we go?”
He could only nod.
*
She had told him she liked Italian, so he’d made reservations at La Rosa
Ristorante
, an intimate place just two miles away. During the small talk on the drive over, he had to make an effort not to glance down at her half-bare thighs.
Now, seated opposite her in the black leather booth, he could study her openly in the candlelight. It was the first time he’d seen her wear makeup. But she had applied it lightly, deftly, only to highlight the wide, cat-like tilt of her eyes, the high-arching brows, the height of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips. Her naked arms and shoulders were feminine yet toned; she was clearly athletic. Her jewelry—a necklace and bracelet, with matching earrings—consisted of semi-precious stones, alternating black and dusty gray; the latter matched the color of her eyes.
After the steward took their wine order—he was pleased that she, too, preferred full-bodied reds—he noticed that those eyes seemed to be avoiding his.
“You seem a bit preoccupied. Is anything the matter?”
She looked at him. “Okay. I did have something on my mind.”
“Let’s have it.”
“You’re a very good writer, Dylan. You must have had a successful career. Well, a woman dating a strange man can’t be too careful these days. I tried to check you out online. But I can’t find out a thing about you that goes back more than two years.”
Here it comes.
He grinned. “Oh, that. You’re not the first person who has tried to dig into the dark, sordid past of Dylan Lee Hunter. In fact, the
Inquirer
editor said the same thing not long ago. And there’s a reason you don’t find anything. Until the past couple of years, I wrote and published everything under pseudonyms.”
She frowned. “Why would you do that?”
“Self-defense,” he said. He put down his glass and folded his hands on the tablecloth. “Early on in my writing career, when I was working for a paper in eastern
Ohio
, I wrote some things that got me into deep trouble with the Mob. They were very active in some unions over there, and I exposed it.”
Her mouth was hanging open. “You took on the
Mafia
?”
He shrugged. “A former boss of mine once said I have a nose for trouble. And I have a hard time walking away. Especially when bad guys are doing bad things to good people.”
She stared at him. “I believe it. Okay, so what happened?”
“One day, the FBI paid a visit to the paper and told us that a regional boss had put out a contract on me. Well, being young and cocky, I didn’t mind for myself so much. But I was worried that people I cared about might get hurt if I stuck around.
“So, I figured I’d better vanish. I consulted a professional skip tracer, and he instructed me on how to disappear and leave no tracks. Things like how to obliterate personal information online, how to alter records of my contact information with banks and utility companies, and a lot more. After cutting my old ties, I applied for and got a legal change of name to Dylan Hunter. I moved away, but I didn’t write under that name. Instead, to hide my tracks further, I began to write under various pen names. I
telecommuted
from home, moved around frequently, used post office boxes and prepaid cell phones. Like this one.” He pulled out his current model and showed it to her.
She looked astonished. “You still do all this?”
“You have no idea just how much I upset them.” He looked straight at her. “And as I said, I don’t want anyone that I get close to, to get hurt.”
She held his glance; his words hung in the air for a moment.
“That explains a few things, I suppose.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the way you look around all the time. You don’t seem to miss much.”
“Given what I’ve just said, I certainly hope not.”
“So you changed your name. Do you mind my asking what your name was before?”
“Go ahead and ask.”
“Will you tell me what your name was?”
“No.”
Her smile vanished. “So how am I supposed to trust some man when I don’t know who he really is?”
Steady now....
He took a breath, released it. Pulled out his wallet and slid it across the table to her. “Go ahead. Look. No, please—I want you to. Check all the IDs and cards. You’ll see they’re real.”
She hesitated a bit more, then took out each item and examined it.
“They all say ‘Dylan Lee Hunter.’”
“And that’s exactly who I am. That other guy you’re asking about—he’s dead and gone, Annie. As far as I’m concerned. I’ve forgotten about him. I hope the guys looking for me have, too.”
She slid the wallet back to him. She still looked troubled. “I would hope that someday you might trust me.”
“You mean: You would hope that someday you might trust
me.
”
She didn’t reply.
“I guess we both have some trust issues,” he said.
“Mine are pretty serious. I’ve been betrayed before. More than once.”
“Me too, Annie.”
“Somebody hurt you badly?”
He had to smile. “You could say that.”
“Well. What are we going to do about this, then?”
“Maybe we can work on our trust issues together.”
She looked at him a long time.
Say yes.
She unfolded her napkin, spread it on her lap. Raised her head. Smiled at him.
“All right...Dylan Hunter.”
*
He enjoyed the rest of their evening immensely, and she clearly did, too. Over an incredible meal featuring gnocchi, duck, and pork ravioli, she told him that she worked as a claims investigator for an insurance company in
Fairfax
. He asked about it, but she said she hated her boss, was hoping to find a new position soon, and didn’t really want to talk shop tonight, anyway. He told her that was fine with him.
He learned that she had been raised in
Colorado
; that her father inherited a family fortune from a
California
banking chain; that he met her mother out there while she was modeling and trying to break into acting.
“So that explains where you got your looks,” he said.
She didn’t react as he expected. “Actually, it’s best if we don’t talk about my mother. She ran off with another man when I was still in my teens. I don’t have any contact with her.”
Trust issue.
“I’m sorry. Do you care to tell me about your father?”
She hesitated. “Well, that hasn’t been easy, either. He’s a very intelligent man, very idealistic. He’s into all sorts of nonprofit activities. You know, social reforms. Helping the downtrodden.”
Another liberal do-gooder.
“The usual liberal do-gooder stuff,” she said.
He laughed. “Precisely the words I was thinking.”
She laughed, too. “Don’t get me wrong. I love Dad dearly. But he and I don’t see eye-to-eye. At all.... How about your upbringing, Dylan? Or can’t you say?”
“Born and raised in the
Midwest
. My dad was a successful businessman; my mother was a writer. They’re no longer living, but they were terrific parents. I obviously got my writing bug from Mom, but people who knew them say a lot of my personality came from Dad.” He took a sip of wine. “If you must know a dark secret about me, he once said I was the most stubborn individual he’d ever met. If so, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”
She enjoyed that. “Well, I can be pretty obstinate, too.”
“‘Obstinate.’ And I said ‘stubborn.’ Maybe you should be the writer.... Anyway, we lived well. I had a happy childhood, a great education.”
“Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Actually, I was first interested in government and current events. I began to dabble in writing in school and liked it, but I didn’t really get my journalism career going until years after I graduated.” He paused, thinking back. “Some people would say I had to find myself. Or whatever they call it when you waste a lot of time traveling down a bumpy road and reach a dead end.”
“Are you working on anything special right now?”
“I meant to tell you. I’ve been digging into the crimes against those members of Vigilance for Victims whom we met the other night. I uncovered some explosive information about the
perps
, and I’ve just about finished a big exposé. The paper will run it on Sunday.”
“Oh! Can you give me a sneak preview?”
“Sure. Here’s one for you. Conrad Williams—the punk who shot Kate Higgins’s son, Michael, eight years ago? That was during a robbery in a Hyattsville,
Maryland
convenience store that Michael managed. Do you know that Williams never should have been on the street, even then? He was on probation at the time—a suspended sentence for a previous second-degree assault, where he stabbed a guy.”
“Probation—for stabbing somebody?”