“Mind if I hold on to that business card?” she asks.
I throw the card at her and laugh, then start the engine and pull out of the lot. We’ve got one more stop to make before we head back to the war room.
Mayhew Residence, Arlington Ridge District; Arlington, VA
“Wow,” Astra says. “Ashley’s man lives in a really nice house. I can see why he doesn’t want to leave this place. I’d probably want to live here forever too.”
“I guess when you’re playing with other people’s money, you can do whatever you want,” I say.
I pull the vehicle to a stop in front of a massive colonial-style house on a street lined with what I can only call mansions, all built in a similar style to the Mayhew home. According to a sign at the head of the street, it’s a historic district, which explains why everything looks so similar in design. Personally, I think it’s got a very cookie cutter feel to it. The only appreciable difference I can see between the houses is the color.
The Mayhew home is classic white with dark blue trim, matching shutters on either side of the windows on all three floors, and a dark slate roof. Red brick steps lead to a dark blue door beneath a high-peaked portico set squarely in the middle of the front façade. Built onto the right side of the house looks like a sunroom made almost entirely of glass. The yard is expertly landscaped and neatly trimmed, and the big flag hanging from a bracket on the portico just makes the place scream that it’s a big slice of Americana. I’m sure Bradley Mayhew’s clients appreciate the patriotic touch.
We climb out of the vehicle and head up the brick walk that leads us to the front door. It opens a moment before I knock, and we find ourselves greeted by the coolly professional face of a stout, middle-aged woman in a dark gray uniform.
“How may I help you?” she asks.
We flash the woman our badges. “We’re with the FBI, and we just need to have a few words with Tyler Mayhew.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“We just need to ask a few routine questions,” I say. “Is he here?”
She looks uncertain about whether to send us packing or to let us in. Obviously, having federal agents knocking on her door isn’t a normal situation for her.
“Ma’am, this will only take a few minutes,” I tell her. “It’s important we speak with Tyler. You’re welcome to call his father if you wish, but I assure you he’s not in any trouble. We have just a few background questions.”
She still doesn’t look incredibly sure, but she finally relents and steps aside as she holds the door open for us.
“Mr. Mayhew is out by the pool with some of his friends,” she said. “Out back. Just go straight down the hall.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I lead Astra through the house. It’s like walking through a museum. Everywhere we look are classic pieces of art and antique furniture. I don’t see family photos anywhere or any other signs that typically make a house a home. The entire place is about as cold and sterile as a museum, with a lot of things under glass. All that’s missing are signs advising people not to touch this or that and velvet ropes blocking off entire areas. Growing up in a place like this would be tough.
“How often do you think they actually cook?” Astra asks as we pass through a gorgeous kitchen filled with all the latest gadgets.
“They probably have a professional chef who cooks for them,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s probably it.”
We step through a pair of French doors that lead us out to the backyard that’s filled with half-naked twenty-somethings flouncing around in and around the large kidney-shaped pool that I recognize from Ashley’s secret pictures. An octagonal gazebo sits in the green space beyond the pool, and half a dozen young men and women are gathered around out there, laughing, talking, drinking, and taking turns passing a bong around. The music is loud, the kids are even louder, and the air is saturated with the pungent scent of pot.
“This is ridiculous,” I say.
“This brings back memories,” Astra replies and laughs.
I look around and spot the sound system on the far side of the deck beside the outdoor range and kitchen and lounge setup. Several guys are gathered around the large flatscreen TV playing video games and seem completely oblivious as we walk by. I stare at the stereo system for a long moment, trying to figure out how to shut it off, but I might as well be staring at the panels in Mission Control before a shuttle launch.
“Allow me,” Astra says.
She reaches around me and hits a button, cutting the music off abruptly. The backyard falls completely silent as conversations cut off just as quickly and all heads turn our way. A moment later, the silence is shattered by the sound of drunk and high twenty-somethings groaning, moaning, and shouting out strings of curses in protest. They’re worse than a bunch of preteens.
“Okay, everybody, listen up,” I announce, and hold my badge up for all to see. “We’re with the FBI, and we need to speak with Tyler Mayhew.”
“Do you have a warrant to be here?”
I turn to see the tall, lanky guy from the photos with Ashley stretched out on a pink flamingo pool floatie looking back at me. Dressed in nothing but a blue Speedo and oversized sunglasses, he’s got a bottle of beer in one hand, a joint in the other, and a stupid grin on his face. We step to the edge of the pool.
“Please tell me we don’t have to talk to him,” Astra mutters to me.
“Sorry,” I say then turn to him. “Tyler, can you come out of the pool and speak with us?”
“About what?”
“We just have a couple of questions we’d like to ask you.”
He frowns and takes a sip of his beer. Everybody else in the backyard is looking at us, standing statue still and looking like they’re barely even breathing. It’s like they think if they don’t move, we can’t see them doing illegal things.
“I know my rights,” he bellows. “And I know you can’t just storm in here like the Gestapo and start searching the place. My dad says—”
“Technically speaking, your maid let us in, and we can absolutely arrest people based on what’s in plain view,” Astra says. “And there are like, a lot of drugs in plain view right now.”
Tyler blanches but keeps it under control. “Weed’s legal.”
