Page 33 of Fire and Bones

“A sleepover. You can do each other’s nails.”

My eyes rolled of their own volition.

“I’m curious,” Ryan said when I failed to acknowledge his joke. “You say Doyle is Katy’s age and seriously ambitious. If her family is wealthy and connected, why isn’t she already the next Barbara Walters?”

“I’ve asked myself the same question.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.”

Following a few tantalizingly unrepeatable suggestions from Ryan, we disconnected.

My navigation app sent me along K Street, eventually onto MacArthur Boulevard, from which I made a right turn onto Chain Bridge Road. Palisades Park stretched to my right, a vast expanse of forest and parkland growing shadowy in the last light of dusk. Well-hidden homes peeked from heavily wooded properties to my left.

Thirty minutes after leaving Foggy Bottom, I pulled onto a winding driveway leading to a very large house. Lots of wood, stone, and glass. In the twilight the roof appeared to glow like copper.

Pulling to a stop in a concrete oval bordered by surgically groomed hedges, I studied the scene.

Certain that the WAZE lady had steered me wrong.

CHAPTER 8

Doyle’s residence was so enormous I wondered if the navigation app had mistakenly sent me to one of DC’s myriad obscure little museums. The Museum of Architectural Ostentation? The Museum of Outrageous Geometrics? The Museum of Creative Concrete?

That last was pushing the simile. But you get the picture.

The ultra-modern design involved the stacking of square and oblong cubes at startling angles. The massive concrete components were white highlighted by black trim around the windows and doors, and black handrails bordering the walkways and stairs. Horizontal surfaces formed patios and walled beds planted with shrubbery and brightly colored flowers. Hidden spotlights illuminated the structure at every architecturally appropriate point.

I was reaching for my mobile when the colossal front door swung inward. Doyle stepped out onto the porch. I guess you’d call it a porch.

Seeing my car, Doyle gestured “come on” with double arm loops.

Alighting, I dug my overnighter from the trunk, climbed the steps, and joined her under the portico.

“This is quite the place,” I said.

“Thanks. I designed it myself.”

Of course, you did. I didn’t say it.

“There was a sad little dump here when I bought the property. The neighbors were outraged when I had it knocked down to build this. But they got over it. Most of them, anyway.”

“Not all?”

“The old fart next door still thinks it’s a crime against humanity. Screw him. The lots are narrow, but you can barely see my house from his.”

“Must make for cordial over-the-fence chats.”

“Like that would ever happen.” She reached for my rollaboard. “Let me take that.”

“I’m good. Lead the way.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The smell of cooking enveloped me the moment we crossed the threshold into the chandeliered foyer. Curry? Mango? Coconut?

Ignoring the growls arising from my belly, I followed Doyle down a long hallway toward the back of the house. The plan was open, and I caught glimpses of many of the first-floor rooms.

---