He decided to proceed with his usual Wednesday morning routine, but he needed to get some food in his rolling stomach first. He put his robe and slippers on, went into the kitchen and made some scrambled eggs and toast with butter. He needed and craved something bland.
I've had enough spice this morning, thank you very much.
He would eat a nice, bland breakfast and then head to Kramerbooks for a cup of coffee, some magazines, and maybe a little shopping. Retail therapy—that's what he needed... something to take his mind away from this bizarre turn of events.
He rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink.
In the shower, he hummedIt's Not Right But It's Okayby Whitney Houston. He used his favorite Aveda shower gel and moisturizer. Everywhere he turned—even in the shower—he was being drawn toward items for their comfort factor.
He selected his favorite pair of faded Levis, a Rehoboth Beach sweatshirt he had bought at the quaint Delaware getaway years ago, and a well-worn but comfortable pair of Reeboks. He looked at himself in the mirror.
Who is this stranger? Why... he doesn't look like a hooker. Look how all American he is. Just your average Joe from Tennessee.
His eyes widened and he reached back into the closet for a wornNatsball-cap. He glanced at the mirror again, telling himself that he was fine—but his nerves had reached a peak he wasn't accustomed to. He lived his life privately, for the most part, Alec, his one true friend, being the exception. He liked it that way and his profession demanded it—being discreet, living on the periphery. Waking up to this sudden exposure was a shock. Even though his name was not included in the article, it still felt like a violation... someone unwelcome trespassing into his world. He was on edge, and none too happy about having been put there.
He put on his jacket, grabbed his keys and Metrorail pass from the dresser, and headed toward the front door, making a quick detour into the kitchen to verify that he had turned the stove off.
That's your mother, he thought.Always worried. You need to call her.
He tried again to push the invasive thoughts away, but obsession had set in. He needed a distraction, and Kramerbooks was the fastest solution he could think of. At least there, he could have some good coffee and get his synapses firing again. Maybe lose himself in a novel for a few hours.
He reached for the knob and opened the front door.
Jack was standing there, poised, hand raised, and ready to knock.
5
"Wha-?" was all Demarco could say.
"I can explain. May I come in?"
Demarco clutched the door frame. "Yes, but I feel a little woozy."
Jack, still clad in his crisp suit from the previous evening—or perhaps a pristine duplicate—put his arm around Demarco and ushered him in, closing the door behind them.
"I had you tailed last night."
"You could have just asked for my phone number."
"I considered it," he said with a wink. "But it's protocol... in the event of asituation."
"Is this a situation? Because I ain't mad if it is."
Jack started to speak but was a little flummoxed by the compliment. He offered Demarco a disarming smile, his eyes shifting from blue winter to warm, sultry, and inviting.
"You were saying..." Demarco prompted before he lost his train of thought.
"Abir is missing."
"Oh... I don't know anything about that."
"You're a terrible liar, Mr. Alford."
"Call me Demarco... or D, if you prefer."
"We think he might have slipped out early... with the morning cleaning crew."
"Good for him."
