The Watergate Apartments

"Excuse me.  I just moved in down the hall, and my phone isn't hooked up yet.  Would you mind if I made a call?"

Henderson arrived at that decision quickly enough.  Five three or so, auburn hair, gray eyes, adequate figure, a dazzling smile, and fashionably dressed.  "Sure, welcome to the Watergate.  Come on in."

"Thank you.  I'm Hazel Loomis.  My friends call me Sissy."  She held out her hand.

"Peter Henderson.  The phone's in the kitchen.  I'll show you."  Things were looking up.  He'd just ended a lengthy relationship with one of the senator's secretaries.  It had been hard on both of them.

"I'm not disturbing anything, am I?  You don't have anyone here, do you?"

"No, just me and the TV.  Are you new to D.C.?  The night life isn't all it's cracked up to be.  At least, not when you have to go to work the next day.  Who do you work for—I take it you're single?"

"That's right.  I work for DARPA, as a computer programmer.  I'm afraid I can't talk about it very much."

All sorts of good news, Henderson thought.  "Here's the phone."

Loomis looked around quickly as though evaluating the job the decorator had done.  She reached into her purse and took out a dime, handing it to Henderson.  He laughed.

"The first call is free, and believe me, you can use my phone whenever you want."

"I just knew," she said, punching the buttons, "that this would be nicer than living in Laurel.  Hello, Kathy?  Sissy.  I just got moved in, haven't even got my phone hooked up yet . . .Oh, a guy down the hall was kind enough to let me use his phone . . .Okay, see you tomorrow for lunch.  Bye, Kathy."

Loomis looked around.  "Who decorated for you?"

"Did it myself.  I minored in art at Harvard, and I know some nice shops in Georgetown.  You can find some good bargains if you know where to look."

"Oh, I'd just love to have my place look like this!  Could you show me around?"

"Sure, the bedroom first?"  Henderson laughed to show that he had no untoward intentions—which of course he did, though he was a patient man in such matters.  The tour, which lasted several minutes, assured Loomis that the condo was indeed empty.  A minute later there was a knock at the door.  Henderson grumbled good-naturedly as he went to answer it.

"Pete Henderson?"  The man asking the question was dressed in a business suit.  Henderson had on jeans and a sport shirt.

"Yes?"  Henderson backed up, knowing what this had to be.  What came next, though, surprised him.