Sean raised a finger and started to speak until Emily cut him off with a shake of the head.
“Yesterday—three o’clock on the nose—but this time I followed in the SUV. He rode to a home in Arlington. Same drill. Envelope in the mailbox. Three days, three deliveries. Each time he wore glasses and a hat that made it difficult to see his face. And the two times I saw, he wiped down the envelopes before giving them up.”
“Did you write down the addresses?” Sean asked.
“Yes,” Emily said, a hint of hope in her voice. “I Googled the addresses, but couldn’t find anything.”
“There could be some valid explanation,” Sean said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Sean said. “A payoff or something for the senator.”
“Politicians usually are on the receiving end of envelopes full of money, not delivering them,” Emily said.
“Unless they’re not getting a bribe, but giving one—or more likely blackmailing someone,” Sean said. He thought of that moment in James’s hideaway office when James and Mole Face slapped the folder on the table threatening Sean with evidence against Ryan.
“There’s one way to find out,” Emily said.
Sean gazed at his wife.
She said, “It’s quarter to three and Mole Face’s condo is just down the street from here.”
That explained why his wife had wanted to meet in Dupont Circle. Whatever Emily had in mind, he owed her this.
CHAPTER 62
The wind pushed a mist of water out from the fountain at Dupont Circle. Several homeless men and women, some holding signs, others with garbage bags stuffed with their belongings, monopolized the benches that ran along the perimeter. Closer to the fountain were children dipping their hands in the water or watching the jugglers, bucket drummers, and other street performers. Tourists from nearby hotels wandered around, taking it all in. The place was as close to bohemian New York as D.C. could manage. Sean and Emily lingered near the chess tables where street prodigies were known to checkmate Ivy League grads.
At just past three, Mole Face fast-walked into the lobby of Dupont Towers, a ten-story modern structure, undoubtedly pricey, nestled next to historic brownstones in the middle of the action. And, just as Emily had described, ten minutes later he came out wearing a ball cap, tight T-shirt hugging chiseled muscles, and aviator shades. A designer-label disguise. An envelope was tucked under his arm. Sean thought again of the folder presented to him that surreal day in James’s hideaway office. It would have fit perfectly into the six-by-nine-inch envelope.
They trailed him to the subway entrance, keeping their distance. The Dupont Metro escalator was lined with tourists who gawked at what had to be one of the longest stretches of rotating metal in the country. It must have plunged two hundred feet into the tunnels below. Walkers plodded down the left side of the escalator, standers to the right. Sean kept his eyes on Mole Face’s ball cap, which bobbed down the left lane, periodically stopping, probably because of a tourist standing to the left, not catching on to the unwritten rule of the subway.
Mole Face took the red line to Metro Center, the hub of the line. He trotted to the lower level and jumped on an Orange Line train.
“That train heads back toward the Capitol. He’s probably going back to his office at Hart,” Sean said.
“No,” Emily said. “You don’t go home, change, then go back to work. He’s making another delivery.”
And she was right.
Mole Face got off the train at Capitol South. It was indeed a stop near congressional offices, but instead of walking the five blocks toward the dome that dominated the skyline, Mole Face hurried south away from the Capitol.
“What’s down there?” Emily asked as they held back, allowing Mole Face to pace just far enough away that they could get lost in the crowd of pedestrians milling about the Hill.
Sean stared ahead. It was an industrial section of Capitol Hill—elevated rail tracks and two smokestacks. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve never been over here.”
They stalked Mole Face for three blocks on crumbling brick sidewalks that were lined with dilapidated row houses. Mole Face turned right down a side street, then rambled down the sloped street toward a four-story building. The structure was faded orange with rust stains streaking from metal railings lining a rooftop patio. Mole Face walked to a windswept outdoor parking lot in front of the building.
“Do you know what’s in that building?” Sean asked his wife.
Emily shook her head.
They lurked at the top of the hill shielding themselves with some shrubs. Mole Face paced through the parking lot until he stopped in front of a Range Rover. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He then fiddled with something in his hand and the Range Rover chirped and its lights flashed. Mole Face opened the vehicle’s door. His back was to Sean and Emily so they couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he walked away, he no longer had the envelope.