The Quickie - James Patterson [73]
It was time to find out exactly what — oh, and most especially who — Paul had done.
Chapter 103
THE HOUSE WAS A QUAINT attached brick residence on a low-key, but definitely upscale street in a neighborhood north of Dupont Circle. The rainbow flags outside the coffee bars and the restaurants housed in its old stately buildings reminded me a lot of Greenwich Village, the more yuppified parts, anyway.
From my rented Ford Taurus parked at the corner, I kept my eyes locked on the gleaming black door of 221 Riggs Place.
A quick scan of the block didn’t reveal any black Range Rovers among the several other brands of luxury vehicles parked along both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street.
Well, what do you know? I thought, squinting at the shutter-lined upper windows of the house. In his secret life Paul seemed to be doing darn well for himself.
But was it his house? I truly didn’t want it to be. If I ever wanted to be completely wrong about something, it was this.
Let there be some explanation, Paul. Something I can stomach.
I was about to take a spin for a restroom break an hour later, when the front door finally opened. None other than Paul came down the brick stoop of the town house, carrying the blue Tiffany bag.
He pressed the key fob in his hand, and the headlights of a hunter green convertible Jaguar on the far corner glowed with a double bloop.
That really wasn’t fair, I thought, sublimating the urge to plow the rented car broadside into the Jaguar. Why couldn’t we have the Jag in our dimension?
Next up, I tailed Paul through the afternoon traffic. We made a turn onto 14th Street and passed a bunch of lettered side streets, S Street, R. I followed Paul left onto Q Street, then right onto 13th Street and around the rotary to O Street. I watched as he pulled into the parking lot of an ivy-covered brick building.
The Chamblis School, said a brass sign on its wall. This couldn’t be good. Not a chance in hell that this was the happy ending I was looking for.
I parked at a hydrant, feeling like I was in a trance as I watched Paul get out of the Jag, carrying the Tiffany bag.
So, Veronica Boyd was a teacher? I could just about picture her. Preppy and little and blonde. Not to mention young. And very attractive, of course.
Was that what this was all about? I thought, starting to fume in the car. Out with the old, in with the new?
I watched Paul return to the Jag three minutes later.
What in the world?
She was young, all right.
A three- or four-year-old girl wearing a plaid jumper threw her arms around Paul’s neck. He closed his eyes as he hugged her and then opened the bag. The little girl removed a white teddy bear wearing a silver necklace and kissed it.
Paul lifted her up under her arms and carefully put her and the teddy bear into the car.
I was still sitting, immobilized, when Paul maneuvered the purring Jag around the wagons, SUVs, and Hummers of the other parents picking up their kids. When he stopped at the corner, I got a good look at the girl through the back window.
My lungs quit. No inhaling. No exhaling.
I recognized that pin-straight nose, those blue eyes, that sandy hair. The girl was as beautiful as Paul was handsome. She’d gotten all of his looks.
I couldn’t believe it, absolutely couldn’t. The pain was unreal, impossible to imagine without actually experiencing it, open-heart surgery without anesthesia.
Things were a thousand times worse than I’d ever thought they could be. Paul had pulled off the cruelest trick possible.
A baby, I thought.
Paul had had a baby.
Without me.
Chapter 104
I ARRIVED BACK at 221 Riggs Place just in time to see Paul coming back out of the house with his little girl, and a Dora the Explorer bike complete with training wheels. I nodded ironically as he popped the smiling child onto it and headed the bicycle south down the sidewalk.
Off to the playground, no doubt. I always knew Paul would make an excellent father.
When they were out of sight, I emerged from the Taurus and