The Double (6 page)

“I don’t know,” said Lucas. “I guess I haven’t been in touch with them lately. I should try.”

O’Leary looked at him directly. “And how are you?”

“I’m fine. Everything’s going well.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“No worries,” said Lucas.

I killed a man in a church parking lot on Georgia Avenue two years ago. Broke the hyoid bone of his neck as he writhed and struggled beneath me. I shot and killed three others in a Northeast warehouse not long after that. But they all had it coming. They were trying to kill
me.

Dr. O’Leary picked up a book that was sitting on her desk and let Lucas see its cover. It was the popular, recently published memoir written by Chris Kyle, a celebrated Navy SEAL sniper who had served in Iraq. “Have you read this?”

Lucas shook his head. “Not yet. I know of it.”

“It was given to me by a client. I saw the author interviewed on Bill O’Reilly’s show.”

“I met Chris Kyle when he was shooting in Fallujah.”

“Apparently he had one hundred and fifty confirmed kills.”

“Those are the confirmed. There were probably more.”

“On O’Reilly he claimed to have no remorse for the lives he took, including women. Do you find that odd?”

“Not particularly. Kyle took out one hundred and fifty enemy combatants who would have killed countless American marines and soldiers if they had the chance. That Texan saved a lot of lives.”

“By taking lives.”

“Yes.” Lucas gripped the arm of his chair.

“Spero, are you all right?”

I’m fine.

“Why?”

“You seem disturbed.”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

Olivia O’Leary cleared her throat. “You should make an appointment and come in.”

“I’m straight. Anyway, I’m not exactly the type who, you know, sits in a room and discusses his feelings.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you if you do. It’s always beneficial to talk to someone.”

A brief silence settled between them.

“You’re a good person, Olivia.”

“I think you are, too.”

Lucas pushed himself up from his chair and stood to his height. “Take care, Doc.”

“
You
take care.”

On the way out of the building, Lucas passed a woman, early in her middle age, seated in a chair outside a room with a closed door. She had a towel wrapped around one bloodless hand and it was pressed against her face. Her eyes were pink and swollen, and there were mascara tracks on her cheeks. He had heard her deep sobs from far down the hall. He guessed she had been crying for some time. He had seen her kind here before. Another war-fucked soldier’s mom.

Walking on, he thought of the woman he was about to meet for drinks. Sex took his mind off the stink of death.

SIX

L
ucas valeted his Jeep outside a boutique hotel on the 1200 block of 16th Street, four blocks north of the White House. He wore a lightly textured powder-blue shirt, cream-colored 501s, and brown double-buckle monk straps made in Italy. He could clean up when he wanted to, and when it was appropriate. He’d heard about this hotel and its refurbishment in 2009. His brother Leo brought women to the bar here, if they and the occasion were special. Leo had said the place was first-class.

Lucas walked on a checkerboard marble floor through a lobby lit by lamps and dusk filtered through skylights. He passed a pedestaled bust of Thomas Jefferson and a library whose shelves held leather-bound books, and he walked on into the bar, clean and subtly lit, and saw her sitting at the stick. She was wearing a simple orange dress with a low neckline that clung to her nicely rather than cheaply. The orange lighting of the bar complemented her dress. He stepped up to her and reached out his hand. She smiled, took it, and gripped it firmly.

“I’m Charlotte.”

“Spero Lucas. Now we’re properly introduced.”

“Have a seat. I saved it for you.”

“I bet that wasn’t easy. A buncha guys must’ve been trying to score this seat.”

“Tons. I had to beat them off.”

“Your hand must be awful tired.”

Charlotte laughed charitably. “Please, sit down.”

He took a seat beside her in a high black chair. They were by the turn in the bar, nearest the windows fronting 16th. There were others in the room, but Lucas took no notice.

“I’m having wine,” said Charlotte. “Do you like Italian red?”

“Sure, why not.”

“This Barolo’s pretty nice.” She offered him her glass to try it.

He took a sip and nodded. “That’s good.”

Charlotte looked him over. “Let’s have a bottle. You want to?”

He stayed with her lovely blue eyes. “I’m game.”

The bartender, a slender, quiet man, soon came with a bottle, showed its label to Charlotte, then uncorked it and poured a bit in a fresh glass. She tasted it and made a motion with her chin, and he poured her a full portion and some for Lucas.

“Shall I leave the bottle on the bar?” said the tender.

“Please,” said Charlotte.

They tapped glasses. He watched her close her eyes as she drank. Now that he was close, he saw that she was older than him by several years. Late thirties if he had to guess. Her age was in her smile lines and the light imprints around her eyes, but it showed nowhere else. Her skin was smooth and her complexion was flawless.  She smelled faintly of rainwater. He supposed it was her shampoo. For jewelry she wore a thin gold bracelet with a Grecian key inlay, and a strand of ice-blue crystals around her neck. A tan line showed on her ring finger.

“Work today?” she said.

“Yes. You?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a lobbyist over on K Street.” She gave him a brief history of her career. She had been a Hill staffer for several years and eventually had served on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and traveled extensively overseas. The natural progression and her Middle East and Near East connections led her to lobbying, and her current firm.

“Who are some of your clients?”

“Pakistan,” she said.

“Wow.”

“It’s work. What did you do today?”

Lucas described his day. He said that the secret most investigators keep is that the bulk of their modern-day work is done via computer programs, but that he preferred to get out and talk to people when he could. He described the Virginia Christian conversation, that technically they were on opposite sides of the fence, but that he’d liked her, and he felt she’d liked him.

“I’m a marine,” he said, keeping it in the present tense, as he tended to do. He told her where he had served. He told her about his visit to Walter Reed, something he normally wouldn’t share with anyone but fellow veterans and family. It could come off as self-serving, but she seemed interested.

“You look like you came out of the war all right,” said Charlotte.

“I’m ahead,” said Lucas.

“Why’d you settle back in D.C.?”

“Home. Family.” And again, he began to talk unguardedly.

He told her that he was the son of Greek-American parents, one of four siblings, three of whom had been adopted. His sister, Irene, was the biological product of the marriage, and was now an attorney in San Francisco. She was emotionally distant and largely absent from their lives. Dimitrius, the oldest brother, was a charming, degenerate criminal, and currently in the wind. Another brother, Leo, was a local high school teacher and a standout individual in every respect since childhood. A combination of rock star, athlete, do-gooder, and stud. Spero was the youngest of the bunch. High school wrestler, not particularly gifted academically, but a hard worker. Tried community college, then joined the Corps. His father passed while Lucas was serving in Iraq. He was still close to his mom.

“Do you ever wonder who your real parents are?” said Charlotte.

“I know who my parents are,” said Lucas. “Van and Eleni Lucas.”

“Stupid question.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

Charlotte leaned in toward him. “So what do you do for fun?”

“I ride a bicycle and I have a kayak,” said Lucas. “I like to get out there.”

“What else?”

“I’m into older movies and music. I read a lot of books.”

“What kind of music?”

“Smart lyrics with guitars. Solos get me off. That takes away my punk credentials, but hey. I like stuff with a Southern bent or feel. Lucero, My Morning Jacket, DBT. The Hold Steady, Dinosaur Jr., Sonic Youth… guitar-heavy stuff. At home I’ll listen to reggae.”

“That means…”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t smoke marijuana,” said Charlotte.

“I won’t hold it against you.”

“It makes me sleepy.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” said Charlotte.

Lucas studied the curve of her mouth as she poured him more wine. She poured a glass for herself.

“Why’d you leave me your phone number the other night?” said Lucas.

“I’m sure it’s not the first time it’s happened to you.”

“They didn’t look like you.”

“Stop.”

“You’re a knockout,” said Lucas.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

“I liked what I saw in you, too,” said Charlotte. “Even in a white T-shirt and a pair of shorts, you left an impression. And when you walked in tonight…”

“What?”

She looked directly into his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Huh,” said Lucas, clumsily. He felt himself blush.

“Not that I’m all about that. Handsome alone doesn’t close it for me. I went back to Boundary Road the next night and talked with the bartender. She said good things about you. So it wasn’t much of a risk on my part to meet you here.”

“Here we are.”

“Yes.” She reached over and laid her hand upon his, right on the bar. He felt a warm current.

“What now?”

“You like the wine?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got another bottle in my room.”

“You have a room here?”

“Uh-huh. Why don’t we go upstairs?”

Lucas finished the wine in his glass. His trousers were tight, and he could feel his heart in his chest. He reached for his wallet, but she said, “No.” She paid the bartender in cash. Tan line on her ring finger, and she wasn’t leaving a paper trail.

Charlotte Rivers was a bundle of dynamite in a dress. She was smart, accomplished, and funny. She was also married. For now, Lucas didn’t care.

“You ready?” said Charlotte, getting down off her chair.

He was already standing. He stepped aside and let her lead the way.

Her room was an elegant suite, tastefully decorated, and tomb-quiet, with a nearly soundless air-conditioning system keeping the space cool. The bed was a king dressed in custom linens and a down duvet, and at the foot of it sat a black velvet settee facing out. A bottle of the same Barolo they had drunk at the bar sat on a dresser.

“Why don’t you take care of that?” said Charlotte, nodding to the bottle.

Lucas uncorked it and poured wine into two short water glasses, while Charlotte went around the suite, lighting votive candles. When she was done she turned off the lamps and overhead lights and returned to him in the bedroom. The suite glowed in candlelight and the flame-light flickered on its walls.

“You brought your own candles,” said Lucas, incredulously, as he handed her a glass.

“The staff brought them up at my request,” she said. “My firm puts our visiting clients and dignitaries in the deluxe suites on the top floors. We spend a lot of money here, and I’m treated well. And they’re discreet.”

Lucas sipped his wine and put the glass on the dresser. Charlotte set hers down as well.

“You could have been up here with your candles all alone,” said Lucas.

“But I’m not alone.”

“What if I wasn’t what you expected?”

“You are,” said Charlotte. “Stop talking.”

They kissed. He touched her fingers and her hand. Her mouth fit his perfectly. He knew that it would.

Standing, they kissed for ten, fifteen minutes, more. Their tongues touched but just as often it was with crushed lips. They stayed fully dressed. This was enough for now.

Charlotte stepped out of her heels. He gathered her up in his arms, her breath warm on his face. She unbuttoned his shirt and he let her peel it off him and it fell to the floor. She ran her hands up his forearms and biceps and then put her hand under his wife beater and caressed his abs, driving her tongue deeply into his mouth. Both of them broke off and stepped back. They were sweating. Her hair had fallen about her face.

“Badass,” said Lucas, with admiration.

She turned and he unzipped her dress. He kissed her warm, damp neck as he undressed her, and she faced him then and unbuttoned his 501s. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it to the carpet.

She was wearing a thong and a lacy black bra and she was more than he had imagined. He had on only his boxer briefs. She reached out and stroked him through the fabric. He unfastened her bra at the front. When she was free, her breasts, full with dark, raised nipples, barely dropped, and the sight of her took his breath away. Lucas and Charlotte stayed standing in an embrace and kissed, and he set her breasts up high on his chest, and she said his name, and they kissed there and against the wall, and on the bed, and lost the rest of their clothing. Two hours passed with them simply, passionately making love with their mouths and hearts. Nothing like this had ever happened to Lucas before.

Naked on the bed and so hard it ached, he tried to move between her thighs, but she stopped him.

“Why not?” said Lucas.

“Kiss me down there.”

She got up off the bed and went to the black velvet settee at its foot and sat upon it, and Lucas kneeled in front of her on the carpet. He used his mouth, thumb, and forefinger, and his face became wet with her. She climaxed quietly, and after she caught her breath in the hum of the room she looked down at him and said, “Now you.” Back on the bed, she took him in her mouth, tongued his balls and shaft, and artfully, the head of his cock, and he felt himself panting, and his rapid heart rate, and he said, “Charlotte,” and came like a cannonball in a long, hot surge.