State of the Onion (16 page)

The “please” almost stopped me. But in a heartbeat I decided I'd rather be rude than take my chances. Something about this man was unpleasantly familiar. “No!” I dropped into a flat-out run. Up ahead I saw Tom packing up, getting ready to leave. “Tom!”

He turned, gave me the oddest look. “Ollie? What are you doing—”

I stumbled as I reached him. Tom grabbed me by my wrists—holding me at arm's length. My brain ticked off that “distancing maneuver” tidbit despite my panic. “That guy,” I said, panting, pointing behind me. “He's following me. I think he's—”

“Hold on a minute,” he said. “Who?”

And just like at the merry-go-round, he was gone.

“IT WAS THE SAME MAN,” I SAID. “IT WAS THE Chameleon.”

We sat in my car, Tom staring at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“How can you be sure?”

From my pocket, I pulled the picture that sketch artist Darren Sorrell printed for me and now I spread it out against my steering wheel. For some reason I carried it everywhere, thinking it might come in handy. Hoping it wouldn't.

But now it did. I shook my head. Could it have been the same guy? There were similarities in height and build, but the coloring was different. And I couldn't be sure about the face.

“Just…” I hated it when I faltered over words. “Just…I just feel it.”

“But you're not sure.”

I didn't know what to say, what the right answer was. I couldn't swear it was the same man I'd encountered at the merry-go-round, but it
felt
the same. “His hair was different. And this guy wasn't pale. And his eyes were a different color.”

“But you're convinced it was the same man.”

Skepticism in Tom's tone. His expression, too. I couldn't blame him, but I knew what I felt. “I am.”

“Why did you come to the range today?”

Yikes. Good time for a fib. “I needed the practice.”

“And you believe the Chameleon followed you here?” Tom's tone was half-disbelieving, half-coy, as though he saw all this as a manufactured stunt to get back together. I could understand why it looked suspicious. But I couldn't dismiss my very real fear.

“You said yourself I'm the only person who can identify him.”

“Okay, calm down,” he said. “It might have just been a guy who wanted your number. He just got overeager. Guys do that sometimes.”

I usually hate when people tell me to calm down, but I had to face facts. Tom could be right. I could be overreacting. I took a deep breath and gave it one last shot. “Listen, there was something about this guy that felt familiar. Felt wrong. And he followed me. He chased me. And he disappeared into the crowd, just like the other day.”

“You get a good look at him?”

“I did.”

“Do you think another visit from the sketch artist will do any good?”

“So we can have two versions of the Chameleon floating around?” I gave a laugh I didn't feel. “We already know he blends into the background. What good would it do?” Morosely, I added. “And I have to face it, you're right. I'm not even sure it was the same guy.”

“Two minutes ago you swore it had to be.”

I dropped my head into my hands. “I'm confused.”

A long moment passed, both of us quiet.

Tom broke the silence. “For what it's worth, Ollie, I'm confused, too.”

I waited, but he didn't say anything more.

“I guess I should get going,” I said.

“Yeah.”

I still waited. He finally said, “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

I watched him drive away before I started my car.

Some fun day off.

FOR THE SECOND TIME IN LESS THAN A WEEK, I was awakened by pounding at my door before the sun was up.

“Hang on,” I called as I navigated through my dark apartment. What time was it? I squinted at the digital readout on my stove as I scurried past the kitchen. Three in the morning. The door cracked again. Sounded like someone banging against it with a stick.

It had to be Tom. Who else could it be at this hour?

I peered out the peephole.

Mrs. Wentworth had her cane in the air, ready to bring it down against my door again. Before she could, I swung it open.

“Mrs. Wentworth,” I said with alarm. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I'm all right. Damn foolish question. Could I be standing here in the middle of the night talking to you if I weren't? Let me in.”

When an elderly neighbor lady says “Let me in,” you let her in.

I turned on a hallway lamp and ushered her into the living room, thanking heaven that the place was clean. “What's wrong?” I asked.

“Let me sit, first.”

“Can I get you something?” I asked, thinking how ludicrous the question felt at three in the morning with both of us wearing nightclothes. But I didn't know what else to say.

Mrs. Wentworth was tiny in a formerly tall sort of way. She stooped as she toddled over to my leather sofa. Giving it a glance of distaste, she changed trajectory and headed into the kitchen. “Hard chairs are easier to get out of. I'll have tea, if you got it. No caffeine.”

The bright overhead light gave the kitchen a surreal glow. I filled two mugs with water, placed them in the microwave, and sat. Mrs. Wentworth had hung her cane over the back of her chair and folded her gnarled hands atop the table.

“Don't you use a teapot?” she asked.

I bit my tongue. I normally would use a teapot, but I'd opted for the microwave in the hopes of moving this impromptu visit along a little faster.

“Would you like anything else?” I asked. “Cookies?” What I really wanted to know was why she was here at this crazy hour, but she seemed in no hurry, content to study my kitchen's décor.

“You make the cookies from scratch?”

“Yes.”

“I'll have some.”

She took one of my Crisp Triple Chocolate Chip cookies but didn't eat it. Instead she finally turned her shrewd stare in my direction. “Don't you want to know what I saw?”

What I wanted was to go back to bed. But I was raised to be polite. And now that I was awake, I sure as hell did want to know what was so important that had her banging on my door in the middle of the night. “What did you see, Mrs. Wentworth?”

She took a mouthful of cookie, and then took her sweet time chewing. “You did a nice job decorating the place. How come you don't have a boyfriend here?”

Taken aback, I stammered. Then lied. “He's working.”

She nodded. Finished the cookie.

“I didn't think he was here. That's why I chased the guy away. Knew you didn't have anyone here to protect you except me.”

“Chased? What guy?”

She jerked a thumb toward my door. “He was trying to get in here.”

I stood. “Tonight?”

“Just now. I chased him away.”

I opened my mouth, but the microwave dinged, cutting off further comment. I used the distraction of steeping tea to gather my thoughts before asking, “Why don't you tell me what happened—from the beginning?”

Mrs. Wentworth's eyes sparkled. She clawed another cookie from the plate. “I heard the stairway door open,” she said. “You know nobody here ever uses the stairs.”

She waited for me to nod before continuing.

“I happened to be near the door, so I peeked out the peephole.”

“You happened to be near the door?” I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice even as I placed the steaming mug in front of her. “It's three in the morning. Why weren't you in bed?”

She fixed me with that intelligent gaze again. “I'll be sleeping permanently one of these days, you know. I don't plan to waste my time doing it now.”

With no idea how to respond to that, I took a sip of too-hot, pale tea.

“And you should be grateful I haven't keeled over yet. The guy I saw creeping around here was up to no good.”

“Who was it?”

“How should I know?” she asked with asperity. “He was trying to break into your door, not mine. Maybe it's someone you know.”

Suddenly weak at the knees, I sat. After today's encounter at the range, I felt vulnerable. Mrs. Wentworth's pronouncement fed into my newfound paranoia.

Determined to keep a firm grip on logic, I said, “Couldn't it have been James? Or one of the other doormen? Or maybe one of the custodians?”

“Would James be picking your lock?”

I gasped. “You're sure?”

“Honey, I may not be fast on my feet, but there's nothing wrong with my eyes.”

I stood. “I'll call nine-one-one.”

“Already done.”

As if on cue, my buzzer rang, making me jump. “Yes,” I said, pressing the intercom.

James tried to sound official, but his voice came through tinny. “Police here for you, Ms. Paras. Is there a problem?”

Mrs. Wentworth eyed me over the top of her tea mug.

“I need to report something, yes,” I said. “You can let them come up.”

“Should I come up there, too?” James asked.

“You better keep an eye on the door,” I said to him. Mrs. Wentworth nodded her agreement. “By the way, James, was there anyone down there looking for me a little while ago?”

“You mean that one Secret Service guy? I haven't seen hide nor hair of him.”

“No, someone else. Anyone else.”

“No, Ms. Paras. No one's come through the door since before eleven. That's when I locked up. Anybody'd have to ring the doorbell after that.”

“Thanks, James.”

When the police arrived, Mrs. Wentworth gave them a surprisingly detailed description of the would-be intruder.

“Short,” she said. “No taller than five-three, I'd say. He had a clean-shaven head, dark skin.”

Two officers stood in my tiny kitchen. One male, one female. Both in their late twenties. Both buff but looking wide at the hips with all the equipment they wore. The female officer, Duffy, sat next to Mrs. Wentworth and took notes. “Black?” she asked.

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head, clearly enjoying the attention. “No, more like tan. Like somebody who lives at the beach.”

At my sudden intake of breath, they all turned.

“You recognize this individual?” Rogers, the other officer, asked.

“Yes,” I said. “No…well…maybe.”

Twin stares of annoyance from the two cops. I could practically read their minds. They were thinking this was simply a case of boyfriend troubles—that I knew who the intruder was, but was trying to protect him.

Hurrying to dispel that thought, I explained. “Today…er, well, I guess I mean yesterday…a guy followed me. That's what he looked like. He was tan. Very tan, like he sprayed it on or something. Except the guy at the range had dark hair.”

The annoyed looks were replaced by quick concern. “He followed you home?” Duffy asked.

“No.” I went on to tell them about my experience at the shooting range.

Rogers asked, “Do you have a gun on the premises?”

“I do. He made me so nervous that I brought it home with me.”

“You have a permit?”

“Yes,” I said, “of course.”

“May I see it?”

“The gun or the permit?”

“Both.”

I wanted them to jump up and set off to find the guy who'd been at my door—to figure out how he'd gotten up here without James being aware of it—but instead I found myself questioned and my gun examined. They seemed impressed by the fact that I worked at the White House.

“What about the guy?” I asked, as they pronounced everything in order and admonished me to keep practicing.

Duffy said, “We'll talk with the doorman, run prints on your door—don't touch your outer doorknob until we—”

“He was wearing gloves,” Mrs. Wentworth said around a mouthful of cookie.

The officers' eyebrows raised as though impressed. Duffy turned to Mrs. Wentworth. “Is there anything else you can think of that could help us identify the guy?”

She thought about it for a long moment, and I could see her replaying the scene at my door in her mind. “Yes,” she said slowly, stringing the word out. “When I opened the door and yelled at him, he said something. Shouted it, in fact. Like I scared him.”

We all leaned forward.

“I did frighten him, you know. I said that I'd already called nine-one-one.”

“What did he say?” Rogers asked.

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head. “It was another language. I couldn't understand the words, but I most certainly understood the meaning. That's when he took off down the stairs.”

And downstairs, James hadn't noticed anything amiss. How did the guy get out? How had he gotten in?

My building's lack of a security staff had never bothered me before. Now, goose bumps raced up the back of my neck.

Before they left, the officers inspected my locks and told me they were as good as I could get. Rogers said, “No signs of tampering…But if somebody really wants in…”

I must have blanched because he quickly added, “If you hear anything suspicious, call nine-one-one.”

I thanked them, thanked Mrs. Wentworth.

She grabbed a handful of cookies and tottered back to her apartment, leaving me alone, unable to sleep, knowing that nightmares awaited me whether or not I closed my eyes.