A queue of cabs waited out in front of the Four Seasons. I climbed in the first one, gave the driver the address of the Amble Inn, and sat back while he hit the lock switch.
We rode in silence until we passed through the blinking stoplight at 18th and Rhode Island Avenue and I saw the swirl of red, white, and blue lights from the two D.C. fire trucks pulled up in front of the inn. Smoke poured from my bathroom window. A ladder stood propped against the wall, a fire hose snaking up beside it.
I could see it all unfolding in my mind's eye: the lock popped out in the hall or the hasp just ripped off the jamb, the room tumbled, finally a gloved hand (no prints) flicks on the bathroom light and opens the door just as the bulb explodes and burning embers tumble into the little pool of gas in the sink below. Was the gloved hand surprised? I wondered. Did it try to grab the envelope off the Gideon Bible in that fraction of a second before it realized its flesh would melt if it tried? Did it have any idea the paper inside
was blank? No, it would have happened too fast. I still had surprise on my side.
But the point was, only two people knew where I was staying, India and Willie, and between them, it was no choice at all.
"Change of plans," I told the driver. "Tuttle Place."