by Nora Roberts
“Will I have to go in?”
“We’ll need you to sign a statement.” Ben shook out a cigarette of his own.
“Man, I just want to go home.”
“We’ll get you home.” Ben looked at Tess through the haze of his smoke. “Just take it easy and tell it from the beginning.”
“I was at a party.” He stopped dead and looked at Tess. She gave him an encouraging nod. “You can check, it was over on Twenty-sixth. Some friends of mine just got the apartment, see, and it was like a moving-in party. I can give you names.”
“That’s fine.” Ed had his notebook out. “We’ll get them from you later. When did you leave the party?”
“I don’t know. I had too much to drink and got into it with my girl. She doesn’t like it when I party too hard. We had words, you know.” He swallowed, drew in smoke again, then let it out on a shuddering breath. “She got pissed and left, that was about one-thirty. Took the car, so I couldn’t drive.”
“Sounds like she was looking out for you,” Ed put in.
“Yeah, well, I was too wasted to see it that way.” The rumblings of a heroic hangover were already beginning. Gil preferred it to the nausea.
“What happened after she left?” Ed prompted.
“I hung around. I think I crashed for a while. The party was winding down when I woke up. Lee—it was his apartment, Lee Grimes—he says I can sleep on the couch, but I … well, I needed air, you know? I was going to walk home. I guess I was already feeling pretty sick, so I stopped, just across the street there.” He turned and pointed. “My head was spinning, and I knew I was going to toss up some beer. I just rested there a minute and got it under control. And I see this guy come out of the alley—”
“You saw him come out,” Ben interrupted. “You didn’t hear anything? See him go in?”
“No, I swear. I don’t know how long I’d been standing there. Not too long, I think, ’cause it was cold as hell. Even drunk I was thinking I had to move to keep warm. I saw him come out, then he leaned up against the lamppost for a minute, like he was sick too. I thought it was kind of funny, two drunks weaving across the street from each other, like something out of a cartoon. And one of the drunks is a priest.”
“How do you know that?” Ben paused in the act of offering Gil another cigarette.
“He’s wearing this priest’s suit—the black dress with the white collar. I was laughing to myself. You know, looks like he’s been hitting the communion wine. Anyway, I’m standing there wondering if I’m going to piss in my pants or barf, and he straightens himself up and walks away.”
“Which way?”
“Toward M. Yeah, toward M Street. He went around the corner.”
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“Man, I saw he was a priest.” Gil pounced on the fresh cigarette. “He was white.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Yeah, he was a white dude. I think he had dark hair. Look, I was wasted, and he was standing with his face against the lamppost.”
“Okay. You’re doing good.” Ed flipped a page in his notebook. “How about build? Could you tell if he was short, tall?”
Gil screwed his face up in concentration. Though he still consumed the cigarette in great gulps, Tess saw he was calming. “I guess he was pretty tall, not a little guy anyhow. He wasn’t fat. Shit, it’s like average, you know. About like you, I guess,” he said to Ben.
“How about age?” Ben put in.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t old and feeble. His hair was dark.” He said it quickly as it flashed into his memory. “Yeah, I’m sure it was dark, not gray or blond. He had his hands in it like this.” He demonstrated, pressing his hands against the side of his head. “Like his head was hurting him pretty bad. His hands were black, but his face was white. Like he had gloves on, you know. It was cold.”
He stopped again as the full implication hit him. He’d seen a murderer. Fear doubled back, a personal thing. If he’d seen, he was involved. The muscles in his face began to tremble. “He’s the one who’s been doing all these women. He’s the one. He’s a priest.”
“Let’s finish this up,” Ben said easily. “How’d you find the body?”
“Oh, Christ.” He closed his eyes, and Tess moved toward him.
“Gil, try to remember it’s over. What you’re feeling is going to fade. It’ll start to fade a little bit after you say it all out loud. Once you say it out loud, it’ll be easier.”
“Okay.” He reached for her hand and held on. “After the guy left I was feeling a little better, like maybe I was going to keep everything down after all. But I’d had a lot of beer and I had to get rid of some, you know. I still had myself together enough to know I couldn’t just piss all over the sidewalk. So I walked over to the alley. I almost tripped over her.” He ran the back of his hand under his nose as it started to leak. “I had my hand in my pants and I almost tripped over her. Jesus. There was enough light coming in from the street so that I saw her face, real good. I never saw anyone dead before. Not ever. It’s not like the movies, man. It ain’t nothing like the movies.”
He took a minute, sucking on the cigarette and crushing Tess’s fingers. “I gagged. I took a couple of steps trying to get out, and I just started throwing up. I thought my sides would bust before I stopped. My head was going around again, but I got out somehow. I think I fell down on the sidewalk. There were cops. A couple of them stopped their car. I told them … I just told them to go in the alley.”
“You did good, Gil.” Ben took his pack of cigarettes and stuffed it in the boy’s pocket. “We’re going to have one of the officers take you home, let you get cleaned up and eat something. Then we need you at the station.”
“Can I call my girl?”
“Sure.”
“If she hadn’t taken the car, she’d have been walking home. She might’ve walked past here.”
“Call your girl,” Ben told him. “And ease off the beer. Whittaker.” Ben signaled to the driver of the first cruiser. “Take Gil home, will you? And give him some time to clean up and pull it together before you bring him in.”
“He could use some sleep, Ben,” Tess murmured.
He started to snap at her, then cut himself off. The kid looked ready to drop. “Right. Drop him off, Whittaker. We’ll send a car for you about noon. Okay?”
“Yeah.” He looked at Tess then. “Thanks. I do feel better.”
“If what happens gives you some trouble and you want to talk about it, call the station. They’ll give you my number.”
Before Gil was in the car, Ben had Tess by the arm, leading her away. “The department doesn’t approve of soliciting for patients at the scene.”
Tess shook off his arm. “Yes, you’re welcome, Detective. I’m glad I could help you get a coherent story out of your only witness.”
“We’d have gotten it out of him.” Ben cupped his hands around a match and lit a fresh cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harris arrive on the scene.
“You really hate it that I helped, don’t you? Because I’m a psychiatrist, I wonder, or because I’m a woman?”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he warned, tossed his cigarette into the street, and immediately wished it back.
“I don’t have to psychoanalyze to see resentment, prejudice, and anger.” She broke off, realizing how close she was to losing control in public and creating a scene. “Ben, I know you didn’t want me to come, but I didn’t get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” He laughed and studied her face. “No, you’re a real pro, lady.”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she murmured. She wanted to shout, to sit down, to just walk away. It took the rest of her control not to do any of those things. Whatever you begin, you finish. That, too, was part of her training. “I walked into that alley with you and stayed on the same level. I didn’t fall apart, get sick, run away. I didn’t get hysterical at the sight of a body, and that really bothers you.”
“Doctors are objective, right?”<
br />
“That’s right,” she said calmly, though Anne Reasoner’s face flashed into her mind. “But maybe it’ll soothe your ego to know that it wasn’t easy for me. I wanted to turn around and walk out of there.”
Something inside him jerked, but he ignored it. “You held up pretty good.”
“And that strips me of my femininity, maybe even my sexuality. You would have been happier if you’d had to carry me out of that alley. Never mind the interference or inconvenience. That would have been more comfortable for you.”
“That’s bullshit.” He pulled out another cigarette, cursing himself because he realized it was true. “I work with plenty of women cops.”
“But you don’t sleep with them, do you, Ben?” She said it quietly, knowing she’d hit a button.
Eyes narrowed, he drew in smoke, long and deep. “Watch your step.”
“Yes, that’s just what I intend to do.” She pulled her gloves out of her pockets, realizing for the first time that her hands were freezing. The sun was up now, but the light was still murky. She didn’t think she’d ever been so cold. “Tell your captain that he’ll have an updated report by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”
“I want to walk.”
“No.” He took her arm before she could turn away.
“You’ve mentioned that I’m a civilian enough times to know you can’t order me.”
“Press charges of harassment if you want, but you’re getting an escort home.”
“It’s two blocks,” she began, and his grip tightened.
“That’s right. Two blocks. Two blocks, and your name and picture have been in the paper.” With his free hand he gathered up her hair. It was nearly the same shade as Anne Reasoner’s. They both knew it. “Use some of those brains you’re so proud of, and think.”
“I’m not going to let you frighten me.”
“Fine, but you’re getting an escort home.” He kept his hand on her arm as he walked her to a cruiser.
Chapter 8
The five detectives assigned to the Priest homicides logged better than two hundred sixty hours in legwork and paperwork in the week following Anne Reasoner’s murder. One of them had a spouse who threatened divorce, another worked through a nasty bout of the flu, and another around a chronic case of insomnia.
The fourth in the series of murders was the top story on both the six and eleven o’clock news, beating out such items as the President’s return from West Germany. For the moment Washington was more interested in murder than politics. NBC planned a four-part special.
Incredibly, manuscripts were being peddled to major publishers. More incredibly, offers were being made. Paramount was thinking miniseries. Anne Reasoner—in fact, none of the victims—had ever earned such attention alive.
Anne had lived alone. She had been a CPA attached to one of the city’s law firms. Her apartment had shown a taste for the avant garde, with neon, free-form enameled sculptures and DayGlo flamingos. Her wardrobe had reflected her employer, running to softly tailored suits and silk blouses. She’d been able to afford Saks. She’d owned two Jane Fonda workout tapes, an IBM personal computer, and a Cuisinart. There was a man’s picture in a frame beside her bed, a quarter ounce of Colombian in her bureau drawer, and fresh flowers—white zinnias—on top of it.
She’d been a good employee. Only three days out sick since the first of the year. But her coworkers knew nothing about her social life. Her neighbors described her as friendly and described the man in the bedside picture as a frequent guest.
Her address book had been neatly ordered and nearly full. Many of the names were passing acquaintances and distant family, along with insurance brokers, an oral surgeon, and an aerobics instructor.
Then they located Suzanne Hudson, a graphic artist who had been Anne’s friend and confidante since college. Ben and Ed found her at home, in an apartment above a boutique. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and carrying a cup of coffee. Her eyes were red and swollen, with bruising shadows down to the cheekbones.
The sound on the television was off, but the Wheel of Fortune played on screen. Someone had just solved the puzzle: WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS.
After she let them in, she went to the couch and curled up her feet. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want it. I’m having a hard time making the effort to be sociable.”
“Thanks, anyway.” Ben took the opposite end of the couch and left the chair for Ed. “You knew Anne Reasoner pretty well.”
“Did you ever have a best friend? I don’t mean someone you just called the best, but someone who was?” Her short red hair hadn’t been tended to. She combed a hand through it and sent it into spikes. “I really loved her, you know? I still can’t quite grip the fact that she’s …” She bit down on the inside of her lip, then soothed the hurt with coffee. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“I know. Ms. Hudson, it’s a hell of a time to bother you, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“John Carroll.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“John Carroll.” Suzanne repeated the name, then spelled it meticulously when Ed produced his notebook. “You wanted to know why Anne would have been out walking alone in the middle of the night, didn’t you?”
The grief and anger were there as she leaned forward and picked up an address book. With the coffee still in her hand, she used her thumb to page through it. “Here’s his address.” She passed the book to Ed.
“We have a John Carroll, a lawyer who was on staff at the firm Ms. Reasoner worked for.” Ed flipped back in his notes and coordinated the addresses.
“That’s right. That’s him.”
“He hasn’t come into the office for a couple of days.”
“Hiding,” she snapped. “He wouldn’t have the courage to come out and face what he’s done. If he comes tomorrow, if he dares to show his face tomorrow, I’ll spit in it.” Then she covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head. “No, no, it’s not right.” Fatigue came through now as she lowered her hand again. “She loved him. She really loved him. They’ve been seeing each other for almost two years, ever since he joined the firm. Kept it quiet—his idea.” She took a big gulp of coffee and managed to keep her emotions in check. “He didn’t want office gossip. She went along with it. She went along with everything. You can’t imagine how much she swallowed for that man. Anne was the original Miss Independence—I’ve made it on my own and like it, single is an alternative life-style. She wasn’t militant, if you know what I mean, just content to carve out her own space. Until John.”
“They had a relationship,” Ben prompted.
“If you can call it that. She didn’t even tell her parents about him. No one knew but me.” She rubbed her eyes. Mascara had been clumped on her lashes and came off in flakes. “She was so happy at first. I guess I was happy for her, but I didn’t like the fact that she was … well, so controlled by him. Little things, you know. If he liked Italian food, she did. If he was into French movies, so was she.”
Suzanne struggled against the bitterness and grief for a moment. Her free hand began to clamp and un-clamp over the lapel of her robe. “She wanted to get married. She needed to marry him. All she could think of was bringing their relationship out and registering at Bloomingdale’s. He kept putting her off, not saying no, just not yet. Not yet. Anyway, she was sinking pretty low emotionally. She made some demands on him, and he dumped her. Just like that. He didn’t even have the guts to say it to her face. He called her.”
“When did this happen?”
Suzanne didn’t answer Ben for several seconds. She stared blankly at the television screen. A woman spun the wheel and hit Bankrupt. Tough break.
“The night she was killed. She called me that same night, saying she didn’t know what she was going to do, how she was going to handle it. It hit her hard. He wasn’t just another guy, he was it for Anne. I asked her if she wanted me to come over, but she said she wanted to be al
one. I should have gone.” She screwed her eyes closed. “I should have gotten in my car and gone over. We could’ve gotten drunk or high or ordered pizza. Instead she went out walking alone.”
Ben said nothing as she wept quietly. Tess would know what to say. The thought came from nowhere and infuriated him. “Ms. Hudson.” Ben gave her a moment, then continued. “Do you know if anyone had been bothering her? Had she noticed anyone around the apartment, around the office? Anyone who made her uneasy?”
“She didn’t notice anyone but John. She’d have told me.” She let out a long breath and rubbed the back of her hand under her eyes. “We’d even talked about this maniac a couple of times, talked about being extra careful until he was caught. She went out because she wasn’t thinking. Or maybe because she had too much to think about. She’d have pulled herself out—Anne was tough. She just never had the chance.”
They left her on the couch staring at the Wheel and went to see John Carroll.
He had a duplex in a part of town that catered to young professionals. There was a gourmet market around the corner, a liquor store that would carry obscure brands, and a shop specializing in athletic wear, all tucked within reasonable walking distance of the residential area. A dark blue Mercedes sedan was parked in his driveway.
He answered the door after the third knock. He was wearing an undershirt and jogging pants and carrying a fifth of Chevas Regal. There was little resemblance to the young, successful lawyer on his way up. Three days’ worth of beard shadowed his chin. His eyes were swollen and the skin had folded into pockets that drooped beneath. He smelled like a vagrant who had crawled into an alley on Fourteenth to sleep it off. He took a cursory look at the badges, hefted the bottle for another swig, and turned away, leaving the door open. Ed closed it.
The duplex had wide-planked oak floors partially covered with a couple of Aubussons. In the living area the sofa was long and low; the upholstery on it and the chairs ran to masculine colors, grays and blues. State-of-the-art electronic equipment was displayed on one wall. Along another was a collection of toys—antique slots, banks, trains.
