CASSIOPEIA DROVE AWAY FROM SHIRLEY KAISER’S NEIGHBORHOOD, found an empty shopping mall parking lot, and called the White House.
“You’re not going to like this,” she said to Edwin Davis.
And she told him everything, holding back only the last thing she and Kaiser had discussed.
“This has potential, though,” she said. “We could draw Hale out, if played right.”
“I see that.”
There was a lot more to say, but she was tired, and it could wait. “I’m going to get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
A moment of silence passed before Davis said, “I’ll be here.”
She ended the call.
Before she could restart the motorcycle and find a motel the phone dinged again. She checked the display. Cotton. About time.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Just another fun night. I need the Secret Service to run a license plate. But I think I already know who the car belongs to.”
He gave her information for a Maryland tag.
“But there’s a bright spot,” he said.
She could use one of those.
“The cipher’s been broken. I now know the message Andrew Jackson left for the Commonwealth.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Richmond. At a lovely hotel called The Jefferson.”
“I’m in Fredericksburg. Is that nearby?”
“About an hour away.”
“I’ll join you.”