Page 24 of Wicked Sin

“We did find you on the footage, though, loitering outside the building for a while.”

“I didn’t want to go in and risk her heading out the back. Thought it would be better to wait for her to come out to her car.”

“She knew you were there, according to the volunteer who manned the front desk. They give each other a heads up when they see anyone out there.”

“Interesting.” So she wasn’t too worried about a strange man waiting for her. “Any reports of other strangers in recent days?”

“Uh…” There’s a shuffle of papers in the background. “That’s not in the interview notes. I can follow up on that.” Then she swears under her breath. “Sorry, Vasquez. I gotta go. We’ve just heard of another body dumped in the reservoir.”

“Shit.” I scrub my hand over my face. “Good luck. Thanks for taking those reports while I was in the air.”

Taylor re-emerges from the bathroom when I hang up the call. She’s put on fresh makeup, and her hair doesn’t look like it was jammed into an economy aircraft window well for five hours. Not that it really had before she went into the bathroom, either.

One thing my witness is unquestionably good at is making herself look like a socialite on the red carpet, even when she’s wearing leggings and a couple of layered tank tops.

“What’s the plan?” she asks crisply.

I stand up. “That’s up to you. You wanted to talk to your sister.”

“That’s easier said than done.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “My sister hates my guts.”

“You left that bit of information out of your persuasive case to the FBI.”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

“To them, maybe. To me? Do I need to remind you of our agreement?”

“I know. You’re in charge. And you are, but I know how to handle my family. I need to bring my sister something that proves I’m not going to double-cross her.”

“And where are we going to get that?”

“Tabard Inn. Where all of Washington’s worst snakes go to make deals and be seen.”

“I have a problem with both making deals and being seen.”

“Why am I not surprised?” She points to the door.

“I’m going to need more than an imperious demand.”

That gets me a roll of her eyes. “Fine. My name is good there. I’ll be able to find out the last time my mother was there, for example. If we’re in luck, she might even be there today. And if she isn’t, then our next stop will be the St. Regis.”

“The thing you’re going to bring your sister is your mother’s social calendar?”

“My mother doesn’t have a social calendar. She has a sociopath’s calendar, and yes, it’s worth quite a lot.”

That is not entirely surprising after my reading on the red-eye flight here, but I’m still struck by the cool way she says it. Like mommy dearest being dirty is a foregone conclusion.

Outside, I plug the inn she mentioned into the rental’s GPS. None of the routes it suggests are good. Forty minutes to go the six miles into downtown Washington. Traffic here makes L.A. look like heaven. So does the weather. It’s only mid-morning and already it’s hot and sticky.

I keep my thoughts on the east coast to myself, and head into the non-stop traffic snarl.

When we arrive at the inn, an unassuming grey brick row house on a street of similar buildings, she sweeps in like she owns the place. “Taylor Dashford Reid,” she says to the clerk who greets her. “We’re here for lunch. Is there a private room available?”

“Of course, Ms. Reid.” The staff person disappears, returning in moments with a manager in tow.

“Ms. Reid,” this man says. “Sorry to hear about all the fuss.”

“Mmm, I know,” she murmurs. “But, you know.”

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