In His Line of Work

Chapter 1 Deuce Pettigrew entered Lacey’s Café on 14th St. SW. When he’d first come to DC, back in ‘93, it had been known as Java Joe’s. The place was mobbed, filled with men and women who were taking a break from work or from class. It looked like he’d need to find another coffee shop to frequent. He shook his head and got on line. “So what’s the skinny, Dix?” the young man ahead of him asked his companion. “I’m at loose ends right now. Charles has gone down to Disney World to see a friend of his.” “A male friend?” “No. Jeanette Van Orden and her kid are down there.” Deuce made every muscle in his body relax. He knew that name. He’d looked for the woman and her son for most of the past year. “I haven’t been to Disney World in ages,” the young man observed. “It’s not a vacation. She’s working there.” “So was I, last time I was there.” He bumped his shoulder against Dix’s. “Is she one of the characters?” “No, she’s at the Contemporary, in housekeeping.” “Well, since Chuckles isn’t here—” “You’d better never let Charles hear you call him that,” Dix warned. The barista gave them their coffees then, and they paid her and wandered off. Deuce didn’t hear the rest of their conversation, but that wasn’t important. He knew where the woman and the kid were, and that would give him leverage with his boss. And since she was up in New York just then, he’d have plenty of time to make his plans. “This one’s on me, handsome.” He accepted the cup of coffee the barista offered him and gave her an absent smile. She’d been trying to flirt with him since she’d started working at Lacey’s Café. She was persistent; he’d say that for her. “Thanks very much,” he murmured. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty, because she was; it wasn’t because she was too young, although she was that also. The thing was, Deuce was already attracted to someone. And okay, so that someone was probably the barista’s age, but as it happened, he was also male. Deuce retrieved the morning’s copy of the Washington Post someone had left lying around and retreated to a chair in the corner, where he wouldn’t be noticed. He made himself comfortable, took a sip of the coffee, and grimaced. It wasn’t sweet enough. Dammit, just because he was a guy and a tough one at that, it didn’t mean he had to take his coffee black and strong enough to float a horseshoe. He set aside the cup, snapped open the newspaper, and thumbed the pages to the obituary section. Most men read the sports section first, but he always checked out the obits. In his line of work, it paid to know if someone you were on the hunt for no longer needed to be dead, because they already were. “Son of a b***h!” He ignored the startled looks his exclamation caused. The first obit at the top of the page was for Eric Jameson, the man he’d done some odd jobs for the year before. Of course, what Jameson hadn’t known was that Deuce actually worked for Dr. Pandora Gautier and had for the past twelve years, since he’d left the military. It was under her direction that he and his team—Ace, Stan, and Trip—did those jobs for Jameson. Last year the job had entailed getting their hands on a seven-year-old boy, but damned if the kid and his mother hadn’t managed to slip through their fingers. Although now it seemed they were in Florida. He never asked why Dr. G. wanted something done. She paid well, and if you lived long enough, the benefits were decent. That was the problem. Sometimes you just didn’t live long enough. He studied the obit thoughtfully. Eric Jameson, 38, suddenly. A native of Washington, DC, he worked for the CIA from the time of his graduation from George Washington University in 1987 until he left to pursue his options in the private sector in 2002. He was predeceased by his parents, Elizabeth and Bernard Jameson, and is survived by his brothers Bernard, Jr. (Christine) and Andrew (Samantha), his sisters Beatrix (John) Merrill and Isabelle (Forest) Pollard, and numerous nieces, nephews, and cousins. Services will be held privately for the family. Suddenly? Jameson had been healthy as a horse. He’d been a supercilious major pain in the ass, but he should have had a lot of years ahead of him. It would pay for Deuce to look into what had really happened to Jameson. Absentmindedly, he took another sip of coffee. “Jesus.” He rose, dropped the paper cup into the trash can, and then headed out the door. * * * * Hit by a bus? By a f*****g Westbound 36 bus? How the hell did a grown man who’d lived his entire life in DC do something so asinine? Now Deuce really needed to find out what was going on.