Natalie stilled. “Carlos?”
“Yes. Didn’t Angela describe him to you?”
Natalie splayed her hands. “From Angela’s description, it could have been any young Hispanic male. I wondered if anyone recognized the man. Tell me why in heaven’s name Carlos Acosta, my gardener’s assistant, would be writing such awful nonsense in the men’s room?”
“Ma’am,” Hooley said. Natalie turned to him, a half-full glass of water in one hand, the towel in the other. “You know I asked Agent Sullivan to tell me about everyone coming and going. I wasn’t told about Carlos. He should have alerted me immediately. Perry, you’re certain Carlos was the one who posted that graffiti?”
“Yes.”
Hooley pulled out his cell, punched in numbers. “Is this Special Agent Sullivan?”
Connie was looking at Hooley, listening to his low voice. She looked, Perry thought, alert and focused. Like Perry, she was probably wondering what Hooley was saying to Davis. Perry drew closer to her mother and lightly laid her hand on her shoulder.
Hooley punched off. “Agent Sullivan said he still can’t reach Carlos. He said he also spoke again to Mr. Sallivar, who hadn’t heard from Carlos, either. You know Carlos isn’t one to stay out late and party, he’s a responsible kid. Sullivan said neither of you is to leave the house. He’ll be right over.”
Perry said, “Mom, where is the key to dad’s gun case?”
Hooley took a step toward her, held up his hand. “Whoa, Perry, no way. I’m here, Connie’s here, and I’ll get Luis up here from the guardhouse.”
“Don’t bother, Hooley. Mom?”
“Come with me,” Natalie said, all business. “I’ll get it for you.”
Both women walked out of the workout room, Connie and Hooley on their heels. Perry kept her mouth shut—smart, since she didn’t want to end up lying on her back on the floor with a bruised kidney. She never wanted to take on Connie.
Natalie walked into her study, once her father’s study, no longer as imposing as it had been, with oversized dark leather sofas and chairs and shadowy chocolate-painted walls. Now it was a light, airy room, still filled with books, true, still stacked high and tight on deep inset shelves, but somehow they no longer overwhelmed. Natalie opened the drawer of an elegant Regency desk, pulled out a Redskins key ring weighted with a good half-dozen keys, and walked to a discreet cabinet beside a narrow closet door. She unlocked the doors, pulled out another key, and unlocked the glass doors inside.
Hooley was impressed by the collection. Lots of firepower. There were at least a dozen handguns—a couple S&W M625s, a Ruger Redhawk, even a Cimarron Thunderer and an American Lady Derringer. Were those Savage Weather Warriors? Yes, two of them, and there was a SIG Sauer 556 Classic Swat. He watched Perry lift out an automatic and hand it to her mother. “The Walther PPK still your favorite, Mom?”
“Oh, yes.” Natalie took the Walther, racked the slide, checked that the chamber was empty—Hooley saw her whisper “clear,” a well-learned habit. Then she took the magazine Perry held out to her, shoved it in, racked the slide once again to put a bullet in the chamber. “Good to go. You’re quite right, Perry. I should have armed myself the second I got back to the States, or at least after I was nearly run down in Buckner Park. It comes from spending so much time in England, where one doesn’t do that sort of thing, especially not an ambassador.” She patted the Walther’s barrel. “It was Ian Fleming, though, who changed James Bond over to the Walther PPK. It suits me better than the Beretta 418.” She grinned over at her daughter. “I always figured what was good enough for Bond was good enough for me.”
Perry pulled out a nine-millimeter Kimber Sapphire, a striking handgun with its blue three-inch barrel, racked the slide, shoved in a magazine, racked the slide again, checked to see a bullet was chambered, and nodded. She took down a belt clip, fastened the Kimber to it, and clipped it to her jeans. She eased her leather jacket over it.
Natalie looked at her daughter’s gun clip, and then down at her shirt and yoga pants. “Give me one, too, Perry. I’ll go shower and change.”
Hooley wanted to take on both of them, but he knew dead serious when he saw it. He had to admit both women handled the guns competently, with caution and respect. But still he couldn’t help it, the words burst out of his mouth: “Wait a minute, Mrs. Black, Perry, you’re civilians, protecting you is my job. You could hurt yourselves—”
Natalie held up her hand. “Don’t worry, Hooley. We’re both very good shots, and Brundage went to great lengths to secure us all licenses to carry in Maryland. Stop fussing.”