Pulling into his parking lot, I give a double tap to the car horn and brace for the worst. It’s nearly seven o’clock the next morning. Being late is the least of my problems.
As the door to his townhouse opens, even Tot’s Merlin beard doesn’t move. His herringbone overcoat is completely buttoned. He wants me to know he’s been waiting. Uncomfortably.
“Get outta my car,” he growls, limping angrily around the last few snow pucks on his front path.
“I’m sorry-I know I should’ve done that,” I say as I scootch from the driver’s to the passenger seat.
“No. Out,” he says, pulling the driver’s door open and thumbing me into the parking lot.
He won’t even look at me as I climb past him.
“Tell me you didn’t sleep with her,” he says as he slides behind the wheel.
“I didn’t.” I take a breath. “Not that it’s your business.”
He looks up. His eyes are red. Like mine. He’s been up late.
“Beecher…”
“I’m sorry-I shouldn’t’ve snapped-”
“Stop talking, Beecher.”
I do.
“Now listen to what I’m saying,” Tot adds, holding the steering wheel like he’s strangling it. “Girls like Clementine… they look nice-but they can also be as manipulative as a James Taylor song. Sure, they’re calming and bring you to a good place-but at their core, the whole goal of the damn thing is to undo you.”
“That’s a horrible analogy.”
His glance tightens.
“What happened to your face-to your chin?” he asks.
“Brick steps. Clementine has brick steps. I slipped and fell. On my face.”
He watches me silently. “That’s a tough neighborhood you were in. Y’sure nothing else-?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Pardon?”
“The neighborhood. How’d you know it was tough?”
“I looked it up,” he says without a moment’s hesitation. “What else was I supposed to do when I was sitting in my office, waiting for you?”
A gust of cold air sends a whirlwind of remnant snow swirling in front of Tot’s car. I ignore it, my gaze locked on Tot.
“Thank you for at least filling up the car with gas,” he adds.
I nod even though it wasn’t me. I forgot about the gas. The Culper Ring clearly didn’t. I’m still not sure I trust them, but if I’m keeping score, including the videotape, that’s at least two I owe them. And regardless of what they expect in return-regardless of what was really hidden in that dictionary-one thing is clear: Getting to the bottom of the Culper Ring and their enemies-these so-called Plumbers-is the only way I’m getting to the bottom of Orlando and saving my own behind.
“You getting in the car, Beecher, or what?” Tot asks.
As I circle around to the passenger side, I notice a redheaded woman walking a little brown dachshund. The thing is, it looks like the exact same dog that man with the plaid scarf was walking outside of my house yesterday. Still… that can’t be the same dog.
“C’mon, we’re late enough as it is.”
As I plop into the passenger seat, Tot punches the pedal and blows past them without a second glance.
I watch them in my rearview until they fade from view.
With a flick of the dial, Tot turns the radio to his favorite country music station. If Dallas is right, and Tot’s in with the Plumbers-though I’m absolutely unconvinced he’s in with the Plumbers-this is the moment he’ll try to gain trust by offering me another bit of helpful advice.
“So guess what else I found last night while I was waiting for you?” Tot asks as we join the morning traffic on Rockville Pike.
From his pocket, he takes out his own photocopy of the message that was in the dictionary:
FEBRUARY 16
26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET
WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427
“Get ready to thank me, Beecher. I think I know what happened on February 16th.”