“I can go home today?”
“Yes. You’ll see your parents very soon, and either they’ll take you home or the police will.”
“Okay.” She looks out the window again.
“The police will ask you a bunch of questions, like how long you’ve been held there against your will, what they did to you, how they made you do drugs. They’ll have some tough questions.”
“Okay.”
“They’ll even ask about me and how I got you outta there. You just tell them what you know, and if and when there comes a time they have to talk to me, I’ll fill in the rest, all right?”
“Okay.”
I can tell she’s in shock, so I leave it at that. I pull out my cell phone to call Leslie’s office. It kicks into her voicemail. I let her know I’m on my way and that it’s extremely important.
Traffic is heavy once I hit downtown DC. I look at my watch again. I still have time, but I gotta make my way through all of this. I hate this city, hate this damn traffic. I usually avoid having to come downtown as much as possible. The only time I’m down this way is when I have to meet up with Costello for a job she has for me, or sometimes for a sandwich at Jack’s Deli with my old partners Luna and McGuire.
I hang a left onto F Street. Traffic eases up a bit.
At 5th, I swing right and try to find parking, which is usually next to impossible, but it’s better than 6th. You got the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the mayor’s building, police headquarters, the Office of the Corporation Counsel, Superior Court, and District Court all located within a short walking distance of one another. And this city doesn’t have one public parking structure to ease the pain. There are a couple of private underground ones if you want to pay up the ass, but that’s it. I manage to hit a curb spot just as someone is pulling out. It’s only half a block from Costello’s building on Indiana Avenue, near 6th. A moment of grace.
After I take off my seat belt, I untuck my shirt so that it’ll conceal my holstered weapon. I pick up my backpack from the front seat and place it on the floor behind my seat. I exit the car and walk around to open the door for Amanda.
“Do you think you can walk now?” I ask, but then look at her bare feet. “Maybe I should carry you.”
“I can walk.”
I take her hand as she steps out of the car and close the door behind her, then let go of her hand to lock the doors.
She grabs my other hand and holds tight.
We walk toward Costello’s office, and I think about how tight her grip is, as if she’s afraid that if she lets go I’ll lose her. I feel uncomfortable and sad, two feelings I don’t usually surrender to.
“Watch where you’re walking,” I tell her.
Costello’s office is located in one of the older buildings on the south side of Indiana Avenue. It’s connected to another large redbrick building that takes up half the block. Most of the offices in the buildings on either side of the street are occupied by attorneys who work in private practice. Some of them have big names and even bigger clients. And many of them, like Costello, used to work for the U.S. Attorney’s Office, but chose the dark side after they realized the hours they were working for the government didn’t justify the paychecks they were getting.
Costello’s an unusual breed, though. She began her career in law as a police officer. That’s how we met. We were in the academy together. Developing a friendship with someone while going through the academy strengthens the bond, makes the relationship more like family. She already had an undergrad degree from George Washington University. She worked hard for seven years to obtain her graduate degree, and after that she resigned from the department, passed the bar, and worked for one of the larger corporate attorneys here in DC for a couple of years. Now she has her own practice. She is like a Swiss Army knife. Now she does a lot of pro bono work, takes on cases for the “less fortunate.”
Amanda’s still squeezing my hand when we step out of the elevator and walk down the hall to a corner office. There’s a plaque affixed to the wall to the left of the door; it reads “Law Office of Leslie Costello.”
The receptionist shoots me a sweet smile when I open the door, then furrows her brow when she notices Amanda, wearing my large suit jacket like a dress, walk in after me.
“Morning, Leah.” I smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Marr.” She smiles again and looks down toward Amanda.
“This is Amanda. I need to see Leslie right away.”
Five