“I think you’re right. But we need some proof before we pull that fire alarm.”
“Because if I’m wrong, they’ll never give me any credibility? Right now I couldn’t give a shit about tomorrow. Or the day after. All I care about is tonight—making sure my son’s safe.”
“No, Karen. Problem is that they won’t deploy. And if we do get some proof, they’ll have already said no. It’ll be harder to convince them. You’d be the woman who cried wolf.”
“Fine. We’ll give it five minutes. At most. Meantime, call campus police, alert them to a potential problem.”
As Underwood looked up the number, Vail tightened her grip on the wheel.
Potential problem may be an understatement.
60
Jasmine stood inside the large, packed campus Starbucks café, a hot cappuccino in her left hand and her face seemingly fixated on her phone. But in reality she was watching the Phillips Hall exit for Jonathan Vail.
With the information Vail had given her, combined with some internet sleuthing, a phone call, and a couple of assumptions, she was able to ascertain that Jonathan was likely in one of five classes. Upon further narrowing the parameters following a conversation with a helpful junior, she figured he would be coming out of his criminology class at 6:03 PM.
At 6:02, with snow flurries falling and the temperature dropping into the twenties, Jasmine left the warmth of Starbucks and started walking slowly toward the building. It was possible she had miscalculated—her crack detective work notwithstanding, she had to admit she did not have a lot of time to think it through.
But she would deal with a failed attempt by withdrawing and living to fight another day. There were other ways to take care of business. And as long as she was smart about it, she would have enough time to get to both her father and Vail, even if it meant a direct assault rather than taking out Jonathan, someone who meant more to Vail than anything else.
There were, of course, advantages to offing Jonathan: Vail would be forced to live with the pain of having her son murdered by a killer she failed to recognize, despite years of interaction. It would be an ongoing nightmare.
As she approached the recessed glass doors—now only about fifty feet away—Jonathan emerged, phone pressed against his ear.
She quickened her pace, closing the distance, ready to begin her spiel.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said into the handset. “Just got out of class. Taking Uber. Be there in ten.” He started to cross H Street, where a white Toyota Camry had stopped in front of a line of cars.
Jasmine slowed. Change of plans.
Jonathan said something to the driver through the partially cracked window, then pulled open the rear door and got in. As he started to swing it closed, Jasmine grabbed it and stuck her head in. “Mind if I share?”
“This is Uber,” Jonathan said. “I’ve already paid—”
“Not a problem.” Jasmine dug into her purse and pulled out a twenty. “On me. I’ve gotta meet my girlfriend and it’s so cold.” She gave him an award-winning shiver and sad face.
“I’m going into Georgetown, friends are wait—”
“So am I. Please …” she said, drawing it out, again holding up the twenty.
A horn honked behind them. The driver, a slight middle-aged black man, swiveled in his seat and looked at Jonathan. “We need to get going.”
Jonathan took the money and slid over.
Jasmine pulled the door closed as the driver accelerated. “Where in Georgetown are you going?” She could feel Jonathan’s eyes on her as she sorted herself out, reaching into her purse and glancing up at him, then stopping to make eye contact. She could tell he was just now noticing her beauty.
“Uh—Booeymonger’s on Prospect.”
“So what are you studying at GW?” She giggled. “I saw you come out of Phillips.”
Jonathan glanced at the building out the rear window as it receded into the distance. “You know GW?”
“Alum. Criminal justice major.”
“Me, too. Really? Did you have Weitzer?”
“For criminology, of course.”
The driver turned left onto 20th Street, which was clear. He sped up and hung a left onto Pennsylvania.
She adjusted her left hand inside her purse and held out her right. “I’m Jessica.”
He took it and shook. “I’m Jona—”
But he did not get the word out because she yanked him close and slapped a soaked rag up against his mouth and nose. He tried to pull back, but she had done this too many times. She knew the way a person resisted, and she was ready. His fight lessened as he drifted into an unconscious state.
“Hey,” the driver shouted. “The fuck’s going on back there?”
“He passed out,” Jasmine said. “I’ve got him, it’s okay.” She removed the garrote from her purse and whipped it over the driver’s head and pulled it tight. Both hands left the steering wheel as he tried—as they all do—to pry the wire off his neck.