Free Irreparable Harm by Melissa F. Miller Page B

nation’s Capitol,” the pilot said through his tired, plastered-on smile.
    Sasha smiled back and slung her backpack over her shoulders as she stepped off the plane into the tunnel leading to the gate. D.C.’s Reagan International was quiet at this hour. Although it was just past nine thirty, the smoothie stands and pizza places were all closed and the sports bar was almost empty. She walked along the hushed terminal, head down, checking her phone for e-mails, voicemails, and texts.
    She managed to catch the last flight out of Pittsburgh and had spent the drive from the office to Pittsburgh International working her cell phone, making flight and hotel arrangements, leaving messages for Naya, Peterson, and the team, and repeatedly trying Warner’s cell phone with no success. While she was out of reach during the short flight, she knew Naya would be busy getting Sasha the information she needed.
    As Sasha boarded the escalator down to the ground transportation area, she found what she was searching for: a text from Naya with Warner’s home address. Because she was Naya, she had the foresight to also include the neighborhood and a suggested route.
    Sasha shivered against the chill in the air in line at the cab stand. As much as she wanted to stop by the hotel and change into warm, comfortable clothes, she didn’t want to waste any more time. She’d go straight to Warner’s apartment. Another hour or so in heels and a suit wouldn’t kill her.
    “Virginia, Maryland, or D.C.?” the airport worker asked, handing her an information sheet about D.C. taxi fares.
    “D.C.”
    He motioned to the cab second in line and the driver popped the trunk. Sasha shook her head and clicked it closed, before sliding into the back seat with her backpack in hand.
    “How are you, tonight?” she asked the cab driver, whose license hanging from the passenger side sun visor identified him as Hakim.
    “Very good. Nice weather, no?” Hakim smiled at her in the rearview mirror.
    “Yes. I’m going to 3426 16th Street N.W. in Mt. Pleasant. Between Newton and Monroe.”
    “You wanna take Rock Creek Parkway, yes?”
    Sasha checked the text from Naya. “No, let’s take 15th to 16th, please.”
    Hakim nodded his approval and pulled out. D.C. cab drivers, in Sasha’s experience, were always asking you what route you wanted them to take. But, politely suggest a route to a New York cabbie and you were likely to find yourself on the receiving end of a tirade, if you were lucky, or deposited on the side of the road, if you were not.
    As Hakim cruised up the mostly empty streets, she tried Warner once more and, again, got no answer and no voicemail. So, she settled back and listened to Hakim’s cell phone conversation with a woman, presumably his wife. He was speaking Amharic. There was a large Ethiopian population in D.C., and Sasha had heard plenty of Amharic during her college years at Georgetown.
    She knew enough phrases to order dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant, but not enough to understand the cab driver’s end of the conversation. But, she could hear the unmistakable, universal wailing of a colicky baby coming through his handset, even in the backseat. Hakim spoke rapidly in a soothing tone, but it didn’t seem to be helping either mother or child.
    He hung up abruptly and pulled into a courtyard that fronted two massive, white brick Wardman buildings dotted with stone balconies. An old-fashioned street lamp sat in front of the entrance to 3426, the larger of the two, and cast a glow on Hakim’s cab.
    “Do you need a receipt, miss?”
    “Yes, please.” It remained to be seen if this trip would qualify as a business expense or a personal frolic and detour.
    Sasha handed him a twenty and took the receipt. He waited for her to tell him how much change to give back.
    “Keep it.”
    “Thank you, miss. I can wait for you?”
    Sasha looked out the window and saw a steady stream of headlights headed southbound, toward the Madison and