“It all adds up. You see an ounce of fat on that man? No sir, that boy’s in fine shape. He’s got a spy butt if I ever saw one. Child, that butt works out. It’s ready for action. And another thing, where do you suppose he gets all his money? Flashy car, expensive house.”

“Do spies make a lot of money?”

“James Bond isn’t hurting.”

Kate chewed her hamburger. “True.”

“Explains your helicopter part, too. I knew from the beginning that was no accident. Some sucker dropped that thing on the wrong house. They were aiming for Dave’s house. That David person is a marked man. This here’s Washington. This here’s Spy Central.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but he’s not a spy. He was a down-and-out photographer, and he won the lottery.”

“Get out. No one wins the lottery.”

“He did. I saw a picture of the ticket and of him getting his money.” She crumpled the hamburger wrapper into the bag. “That was a great hamburger. Thanks.”

Mark Beaman sauntered down the stairs and saluted the women on his way to the kitchen. “Howdy.”

“Carpenter,” Kate explained to Elsie. “He’s fixing the ceiling.”

“Don’t look too bright.”

“He’s okay.”

Elsie snorted. “Don’t know much about music.”

“He’s from Virginia.”

“That’ll do it.” Elsie turned toward the stairs. “It’s time for my afternoon nap. I get real grouchy if I don’t get my nap. And I’m never gonna be able to sleep with that pathetic whining going on. You don’t suppose Mr. Muscle’d mind if I throw his radio out the window, do you?”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that.”

Chapter 5

Kate squinted at her watch in the darkness. Six o’clock. She was late, and Washington was gridlocked. So what was new? She blew out a sigh and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Less than a mile from her house. So near and yet so far, she thought grimly.

She looked at her watch again. One minute past six. If traffic wasn’t moving by six-fifteen, she was going to leave the car in the middle of the road and walk home. The hell with it. Let them tow it away. She inched forward and stopped. One block more and she’d turn onto First Street.

“Come on, First Street!” she urged. Wonderful. Talking to yourself while stuck in traffic was a sign of mental instability.