* * *
A little later, I’m several cars behind Polly’s white VW Rabbit, heading toward Dupont Circle. The gentle rain that began earlier this afternoon has picked up in intensity; my wheels splash through a pothole, spraying up an arc of water.
I know from Polly’s résumé that she lives near American University in D.C., close to the Maryland line. We’re heading in the opposite direction, deeper into the city.
Could she have also fabricated her address? I wonder.
My tank is full of gas, I fed and walked Romeo before I left the house, and I’m riding a caffeine wave. I can track Polly as long as I want. I’ve followed plenty of people since I embarked upon the new phase of my career, and I’m certain she’ll be simpler than most.
Polly swings around the circle and continues down Massachusetts Avenue. We’re moving against the flow of rush-hour traffic, so we make good time. When Polly turns the corner of Fourteenth and H Streets, I momentarily lose sight of her. Then I see the tail end of her car disappearing into an underground parking garage.
This area is filled with office buildings, restaurants, and a few bars. Ford’s Theatre is within walking distance, and so is Chinatown. She could be going anywhere.
I follow Polly into the garage—it’s fairly empty, since most commuters have headed home by now—and find a parking spot close, but not too close, to the one she selects. I wait until she gets into the elevator, then I leap out of my car and sprint up the stairs to street level.
The sidewalks aren’t crowded, and even under an umbrella, Polly, who’s wearing a turquoise jacket, is easy to spot.
She walks about a block, then takes her phone out of her bag and stares down at it. I can’t tell if she’s checking her messages or writing one. She tucks it away, then takes a few more steps and enters a small bistro with a red awning emblazoned with the name Giovanni’s. I walk to the cover of the awning and hesitate, trying to decide whether I should go in, too.
There’s no good reason for her to drive all the way downtown, passing dozens of restaurants, simply to have a meal. She must be meeting someone here.
When I asked Polly if someone she knew could have written her that note, she claimed she hasn’t dated anyone recently, so it isn’t a boyfriend. Maybe a friend then, or a Tinder date. I glance around; every square inch of real estate is claimed, with tall office buildings pressed together like commuters on a crowded subway. The one directly across from me is more elegant looking than its neighbors, with large glass windows dominating its facade. My attention is caught by a middle-aged, dark-haired woman who exits the building and stumbles when one of her heels snags in a sidewalk crack.
I watch as she steadies herself, then I glance back at the restaurant. I pretend to scan the menu that’s posted in the window while I look through the glass for Polly, but I can’t see her.
For the first time, I begin to question my decision to follow Marissa’s assistant. I’m not going to learn the reason why she came here by simply standing outside in the rain. But if I go in, there’s a good chance she’ll spot me.
I’ll deal with that complication if it presents itself, I decide. I pull open the heavy glass door and step inside. Luckily, the bistro is half-full, and the lighting is dim. It’s an upscale place, the kind you don’t frequent on a saleswoman’s salary, adding to the mystery of why Polly came here.
I scan the bar, but I don’t see her among the half dozen or so patrons claiming the polished wooden stools. I make my way to an empty one on the side, which gives me a better view of the restaurant’s floor, and its patrons.
Polly is seated at a table for two toward the center of the room, chatting with a waiter. I angle my body so that I’m slightly blocked by a pillar, but she never even glances my way.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, pulling away my attention.
“Tequila on the rocks with a few limes.” Mindful that I’m driving tonight, I add, “And a water, too, please.”
“You got it. Want to see a menu?”
“Sure.” If Polly is staying for dinner, I will be, too.
Polly must have ordered a glass of white wine because the waiter delivers one to her on a tray. She takes a sip. Even from a distance, I can see she’s wearing a bright shade of lipstick and her hair looks freshly brushed.
Polly glances at the door, and so do I, just in time to see the brunette in heels from across the street walk in. She strides directly to the bar, stepping into an empty space a few feet down from me. But she doesn’t claim a stool. She simply looks at the bartender while he prepares a martini in a silver shaker, apparently waiting to get his attention.
Polly is still sipping her wine, but she has now pulled out her phone. I’d give anything to be able to see the screen.
“… to drink?” I catch the tail end of the bartender’s question to the dark-haired woman.
“Actually, I’m picking up a take-out order. For Matthew Bishop?”
The name sends a shock wave through my body.
Don’t react, I warn myself, quashing my instinct to whirl around and stare at the woman.
This intersection of Polly and Matthew can’t be a coincidence.
“Sure.” The bartender checks the paper receipt stapled to a brown paper bag by his register, then carries the bag to the woman. “Medium-rare burger with lettuce, avocado, and tomato?”
“I think so.” The woman hands over a credit card.
“Don’t worry, it’s his usual.” The bartender smiles at her as he swipes the card through a machine. “Matthew must be busy tonight; usually he comes in himself.”
“Yeah, he was just walking out when he got a call from overseas.” The woman signs the receipt.
“Tell him Jimmy says hi. And I’ll have his Scotch waiting for him next time he comes in.”
I catch sight of the credit card as the woman tucks it back into her wallet. It’s an American Express corporate card, but I can’t see the lettering that identifies the company.
I don’t need to, though.
I pull out my phone to confirm what I already know: Matthew’s company, Bishop, Simms & Chapman, is located in the elegant building directly across the street.
I move a few feet to my left, so that Polly’s view of me is almost completely blocked by two men who are at a high-top table near the edge of the bar area. Before I wasn’t too concerned about her spotting me; now it’s vital that I stay concealed.
I watch the dark-haired woman as she disappears through the door, my mind scrambling to sort the information I’ve just gathered into a cohesive narrative: Matthew must be a regular here on nights when he works late. He probably sips a Scotch at the bar, chatting with the amiable bartender, while he waits for his food to be prepared. Then he brings his styrofoam container back to the office and puts in a few more hours.
But tonight, he sent someone else—an assistant, or a junior colleague—to retrieve his dinner.
His routine changed at the last minute.
I observe Marissa’s assistant take another sip of wine, wondering when she’ll realize that Matthew isn’t going to wander into the restaurant tonight.
What was Polly’s plan? To pretend to “bump into” him and invite him to join her at her table?