“That’s not Philip Dexter.”
Georgie looked up at her friend. “What do you mean?”
Yardley raised a hand to shield her eyes, watching as the jeep sped away. “The only Philip Dexter I know is piloting that chopper.”
Chapter Two
Two months later. Washington, D.C.
She had been robbed.
Georgie stood perfectly still in the entry of her one-bedroom apartment on I Street in the heart of the Foggy Bottom district of the capital. Only her eyes moved, darting everywhere at once as alarms went off in her brain. Her apartment had been tossed. Books felled from shelves lay scattered like broken-winged birds on the floor. Every drawer she could see from where she stood had been pulled open and left hanging. Every surface had been cleared of the things that made her apartment home. The cold trickle of fear that began somewhere south of her eyes gathered energy as it splashed through her body.
Get out!
She didn’t second-guess her lizard-brain reaction. She dumped her luggage at her feet even as she reached for the front door and backed out onto the landing.
“I want to report a robbery.” Her hand holding her cell phone shook. “My apartment’s been robbed.”
“Is this a robbery or a burglary, ma’am?”
“What are you talking about? Someone came into my apartment while I was gone and tossed my place.”
“That would be burglary, ma’am.”
“Whatever. Get someone over here. Now!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The police arrived after half an hour. By then Georgie had gathered the courage to walk through her apartment, photographing the wreckage of her life.
She had taken photos of disasters many times, especially in her early years on the job. From hurricane damage to burned-out buildings to floods, the tactile evidence of vibrant lives reduced to so much broken glass, wood, ceramics, and brick. This time the wreckage was personal, and it hurt like a thousand paper cuts, a new one opening wherever her eyes focused.
So unnecessary. Nothing was missing. Not her TV or DVD or CD player. Only her tools for work: her cameras and her desktop.
After a few minutes Georgie realized she was no longer able to focus for the dry sobs heaving her chest. She dropped her camera to dangle about her neck and went to lean against the front door to wait.
The police were efficient and quick, one officer asking questions and taking down an initial inventory of what was missing. It was over quickly. This was D.C. There was no harm done, from their point of view. Just a huge mess to clean up. Almost anything else going on in the city this evening was bigger news and more threatening. Coming home to an invasion where the stolen items were insured just about guaranteed that she wouldn’t hear from the D.C. police again. She didn’t begrudge their attitude. But now she understood in a new and intimate way how stunned and frightened the subjects of her disaster photography must have felt.
Objectivity was required to be a good photojournalist. The camera had always given her that distance. Tonight she felt stripped and violated, and wondered how long it would be before she got back to feeling like that intact person she had been before she opened her door.
There seemed no good place to begin the cleanup. She’d been home an hour and she didn’t want to stay here a second longer. But before she left to check into a hotel, she decided to clear the entryway. She picked up the newly framed 16 by 20 inch photograph that had been knocked from the wall. The glass was smashed and lay in gemstone pieces at her feet. Miraculously, the black-and-white surface had not been nicked or scratched. It was the photo of a man sprawled facedown on a bed. Taken from the foot of the bed, the photo made a landscape terrain of long, well-muscled legs and thighs slipping in and out of shadow. In contrast, morning light had caught and given a twin rising-moon quality to the high, taut curves of his male buttocks before the triangular torso with wide shoulders sloped away into deep shadows that obscured his head.
She smiled when it was hung back in place. Doing that much made her feel better.
She began picking up her books, careful not to step on any and break their spines. Many of them were expensive oversize photography books, what most people called coffee-table books. They were art and inspiration to her.
The second knock on her door made her jump. The man in a suit on the other side of her peephole flashed a badge before she opened her door.
“The police already sent someone. I’m sorry but I don’t need a detective.”
“We aren’t the police, ma’am. We’re federal. I’m Special Agent Clinton. With me are Special Agents Hanson and Blackwell.” He indicated the man and woman with him, also dressed in suits. “Can we speak with you about your break-in, ma’am?”
Georgie glanced again at the badge that said FBI. Yet her nerves were shot and trust was long gone. “How did you know about my break-in?”