WASHINGTON, D.C.
Platt had always thought the Washington monuments were at their most awesome at night. The bright spotlights cast halos in the dark and the guided tours drew whispered reverence from the tourists—that didn’t happen in the daylight.
The whistle-blower had agreed to meet them at the FDR Memorial. In the movies wasn’t it always the Lincoln Memorial? But now Platt saw the wisdom. FDR’s was all ground level, no steps to get trapped on. There were separate sections, actually what they called “rooms,” but even that was beneficial. The person could wander through each, bypassing Bix and Platt at will if he didn’t feel comfortable.
Bix traded his suit jacket and Platt his uniform jacket for Smithsonian sweatshirts. Bix carried their folded jackets in a paper bag with the Smithsonian logo, making them look like tourists.
“So how long do we give him to find us?” Platt asked.
“He’s only ten minutes late.” Bix checked his watch. “Twelve minutes.”
Platt still didn’t like this idea but they had no choice. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whistle-blower ended up being someone from the media: a reporter wanting to confirm his tips. Maybe Bix didn’t mind being sent on wild-goose chases but Platt was tired of it. Especially when the chase might involve his parents.
They were staring at one of the walls, neither of them reading the engravings, when a woman came up beside Bix. As long as tourists kept coming and going, their guy would probably stay away. Platt elbowed Bix and nodded for them to move on just as the woman said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
Both men did a double take. What the hell was Irene Baldwin doing here? They were so busted. Had she followed them?
Bix glanced around and Platt knew he was looking to see if they had just scared away the whistle-blower.
“Hello, Ms. Baldwin,” Platt finally said when it became obvious that Bix couldn’t find his voice.
“How’s the weather in Chicago?”
That was the line. How did she know the line the anonymous caller said he would use?
Then Platt took a good look at her. She, too, was wearing a Smithsonian sweatshirt, jeans, her usual swept-up hair now flowing over her shoulders. Even the eyeglasses were new. Had it not been for her distinctive voice he wasn’t sure he would have recognized her.
“You?” Bix asked. “What the hell’s going on?”