by Ana Barrons
“So, this is a way of making it up to her.”
“I can’t make it up to her. I used her. She trusted me and I stomped on her.” Like her husband. He sagged in his chair. “As far as she’s concerned I’m living proof that all men are bastards.”
“I never figured you for the guilty type,” Frank said. “All this mea culpa shit doesn’t suit you.”
“Hey, don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think of me.”
Frank smiled and punched Joe in the shoulder. “Now go charm the pants off her.”
* * *
Catherine got back to the apartment at five o’clock, having finished the best part of a bottle of Prosecco and talked with Betsy Eberhart for nearly four hours. She had called to apologize that morning and Betsy had insisted she come by for lunch. They’d talked about grief—to which Betsy was no stranger, having lost her husband and her grandson within a year of each other—about Washington and the Democrats, a little about Ned Campbell and a lot about Joe Rossi. Catherine had been fascinated.
“Joe can be ruthless when he wants something,” Betsy had told her. “He’s smart. Ambitious. He’ll win a Pulitzer one of these days.”
Alone now, the thoughts that had been churning around in her brain came rushing back. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Joe had said before she hung up on him.
“Something big’s going down, Catherine. I don’t buy this ‘handyman’ crap, and neither should you.”
What did he have to gain by calling her, knowing she wouldn’t want to talk to him, that she’d as soon shoot him as look at him?
“He knows everybody,” Betsy had said. “And he can be a real charmer when it suits him. Use him like he used you.”
Catherine took some Advil and lay on the sofa, her arms folded behind her head. Maybe Betsy was right. The older woman had understood Catherine’s anger at Joe, but as she had said, Joe didn’t kill Blair.
“Oh, sure, I should trust Joe Rossi,” she mumbled. She pried herself off the couch and went into the kitchen for more water. An image flashed into her mind of Joe gazing into her eyes, his hand on her arm. She shook her head to get rid of it, but her body remembered.
And wanted.
Forget it.
It didn’t matter that an electric current had shot through her when he touched her. She would never forgive him. And she would never, ever trust him.
Chapter Five
Catherine couldn’t believe what the young female officer in the white shirt was telling her. “He’s not here?”
The officer shrugged. “Said he had to go over to superior court. Guess he forgot you were coming.”
Bullshit. “I called him at nine o’clock this morning,” Catherine said. “And I spoke to someone who said I could catch Detective Sadler if I got here by eleven-thirty. It’s now eleven-oh-eight, so I’m early.” It was a struggle to hold onto her temper, but this woman was not to blame. “Is there any way I can reach him?”
“Not when he’s in court,” the officer said. “You could try back later, I guess, but it’s a good idea to phone first.”
“When I phone he never takes my calls. When I show up he disappears.” She let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t what I’m supposed to do now.”
“Look, honey.” Her tone took on an air of impatience. “Detective Sadler’s a busy man. Just be patient.”
That did it. “Patient? I’ve come all the way from New Hampshire to see the man. Does he know I’m Blair Morrissey’s sister? You know, the one they dug up on Roosevelt Island back in May?”
The officer had the grace to bow her head, and Catherine could feel the stares of the civilians moving about the Violent Crimes Branch of the Metropolitan Police Department. Even some of the uniforms stopped their banter for a moment. Maybe they, like she, were recalling the TV images of men dragging a black body bag out of the woods.
“I’m real sorry about your sister,” the officer said in a low voice. “I’ll personally make sure he gives you a call later today, okay?”
Catherine sighed heavily. Tears threatened, but this was not a good time to lose it. “Sure. Thanks.”
She pushed through the glass door and spotted a wooden bench with red plastic cushions that were pink in the center from wear. The air was about as humid and miserable as Catherine had ever experienced. She dropped down on the bench and literally sagged. After a moment she pulled out her cell phone and punched in the number for Diamond Cab, then settled back to wait.
Between the cab fare and tip, she’d tossed away twenty dollars getting from Blair’s apartment, in the upper northwest quadrant of the city, to Anacostia in southeast Washington. She’d been fully prepared to go by Metro, given that she was within walking distance of both the Woodley Park and the Cleveland Park stations, but when she’d checked with Martin about directions to MPD from the Anacostia station, his light eyes had gone wide.
“I don’t think you should go there alone,” he’d told her.
She’d been so exhausted anyway, she’d allowed him to call her a cab, and she was glad he had. The Violent Crimes Branch was part of a Municipal Center located in the lower level of a worn down brick shopping center at the corner of Branch and Pennsylvania Avenues in a troubled section of the city. She kicked at a foam cup that rolled under her foot and marveled that the Penn Branch Shopping Center was on the same street as the White House.
She felt like crying. Why was Sadler shutting her out like this? Did he think Blair’s own family would leak information that could jeopardize the case? If he would just tell her something, anything, about the man they had in custody, maybe some of her doubts would be put to rest.
She’d subscribed to the New York Tribune after Blair’s body was found, and watched the articles shrink until they were nothing more than summaries of what the police didn’t know. There hadn’t been more than a four-paragraph article about the case in weeks, and they were getting buried inside the local section. Her sister’s murder apparently didn’t rate the news section anymore.
“I know just how you feel,” a voice said.
Catherine peered into dark brown eyes filled with sympathy. The woman sat down beside her. She was small, probably only in her fifties, but the lines of pain etched into her chocolate skin made her look older.
“You were in there,” Catherine said.
The woman nodded. “Honey, I’m in there every week, and every week I walk out of there feeling as miserable as you do right now.”
Catherine searched her face. “What happened to you?”
The woman sat back against the plastic cushion and stared straight ahead. “My grandson. Gunned down on the sidewalk, a block from school.” She shook her head. “There were lots of kids around, but nobody saw who was in the car. Or nobody’s talking.”
Catherine felt cold inside. “How awful. How old was he?”
“Thirteen. And the most beautiful child you ever saw.” Her hands were clenched together on her lap. Catherine laid her hand over the other woman’s.
“I’m sorry.”
The woman nodded. “I saw a picture of your sister in the newspaper. Pretty little thing, wasn’t she? Blonde.”
Catherine swallowed back sudden tears. “Yes. Blair was very pretty. How long have you been coming here?”
The woman smiled bitterly. “Two years next month. Nobody knows nothin’, they tell me. ‘We got no evidence.’ But I go in, just in case, make sure they don’t forget about him.” She sighed heavily. “What’s one more dead black kid in this city?”
Catherine didn’t know what to say.
The woman rose without waiting for a reply. “Good luck, honey. Hope you get some answers.”
Catherine watched her walk away. Her heart ached for the poor woman. Two years of waiting for answers. It seemed inhuman.
Five minutes later a
cab nearly mowed down an old man crossing the parking lot and screeched to a stop beside her. The driver was clearly Indian or Pakistani and spoke little English, but he did understand “zoo” and “Connecticut Avenue.” It was cooler in the cab, but the humidity, the depressing setting and her frustration still gripped her. She tried to remember when she had last felt so discouraged. She couldn’t.
The cab pulled in front of Blair’s apartment building, and Catherine handed over another twenty and got out. As she paused on the curb, stuffing her wallet back into her leather purse, she felt eyes on her.
Watching her.
She raised her head and scanned the immediate area, but a river of bodies streamed by on both sides of the wide avenue, and no one appeared to be looking in her direction. At least, not in a way that justified the prickly feeling on her skin.
Great. Now she was getting paranoid. Like Blair had been.
“Cathy, I’m scared.”
Of who, Blair?
She rode the elevator to the fifth floor dispiritedly. Her conversation with the grandmother had depressed her as much as Sadler’s obvious attempt to avoid her. As she walked down the corridor from the elevator she noticed a florist’s box leaning against her door. She picked it up and was greeted by the intoxicating scent of roses. Puzzled, she opened the card and read it.
“Catherine— Please give me a chance to redeem myself. Let me buy you lunch tomorrow and tell you what I know. Joe Rossi.”
He had left his number at the Herald.
Her chest ached just seeing his name. Oh, man, he’d really done a number on her head.
Inside the apartment she found a tall glass vase in a cupboard and arranged the yellow roses, letting their fragrance wash over her. Betsy’s words came back to her.
Use him.
Catherine picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. When it started to ring she hung up.
She would use Joe Rossi if she had to. But not yet. Not until she’d gotten it through her thick head that the other Joe—as she’d come to think of the sweet, funny, sexy man on the phone—simply did not exist. Once she accepted that, really accepted it, maybe she could be around the real Joe Rossi—the handsome, conceited man who ate naïve women like her for breakfast—without hurting so much.
Chapter Six
Catherine gazed up at the high ceiling, the dark wood paneling, the multitude of New York photographs and prints at Maggiano’s Restaurant, and smiled across the table at Ned Campbell. He had surprised her by calling that morning while she was boxing up Blair’s clothes and shoes and asked if she were free the same evening. She had assured him that her social calendar was wide open.
“I like the way this place feels,” she said. “It’s like being in New York without getting mugged.”
Ned chuckled. “In a lot of ways Washington is like a small town. You walk a couple of blocks and run into someone you know.”
“I can’t imagine anyone saying that about the Big Apple.”
“You’d be surprised. If you live in any city long enough, it begins to feel like a small town. But Washington actually is pretty small, especially considering it’s one of the most powerful cities in the world.”
Catherine studied him in the candlelight. His glasses made him appear studious, but didn’t detract at all from his looks. Light brown hair fell across his forehead, and he had to keep pushing it back. He was handsome, all right. So why couldn’t she get Joe’s face out of her head?
“You probably get this a lot,” she said, “but what’s it like being the White House Counsel?”
“Frantic.” He smiled. He didn’t appear to mind the question at all. “Exciting, heady. Incredibly stimulating in a million ways. I learn so much every single day it’s mind-boggling. And it feels like such a big goddamn privilege to go to work every morning. Hard to beat that.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s funny. I often think going to school, working with kids all day, is a privilege too. And I learn so much from them. I guess it’s a matter of loving what you’re doing.”
Ned took a sip of his wine and winked. “I think we should switch jobs. Then I’d have the summer off.”
“Teacher salaries being what they are, I normally teach a couple of summer courses,” she said. Sadness washed over her. “This summer, well...that wasn’t an option.”
Ned reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “This is probably the most miserable summer of your life. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
They sipped their wine—a Sauvignon Blanc that would have cost her three tutoring sessions—in silence for a few moments. It was as good a time as any to bring up the question that was burning in her gut.
“I hope I’m not being presumptuous in asking this, Ned. But do you know anything about this handyman the police have in custody? They won’t tell me anything, and Detective Sadler refuses to see me or take my calls.”
Ned frowned. “You can’t be serious. The lead detective on the case is refusing to speak to you?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Unconscionable is more like it. I’ll look into it. Maybe I can get some answers.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she admitted. “I’ve been jerked around for so long I’d sort of given up hope that I could find anyone in this town to be straight with me.”
“I’ll be as straight with you as I can be. I wish I had the inside scoop on the case, but I don’t. At least not yet. A few well-placed phone calls could clear some things up, but I can’t come up with answers where there aren’t any. And, of course, I can’t interfere in a police investigation.”
“No, of course not. But why do you suppose they’re keeping the case so under wraps? They haven’t revealed his identity other than to say he’s Syrian. I don’t know how old he is, if he’s married, has kids...”
Ned sat back and swirled his wine thoughtfully. “Hard to know. It’s been a strange case from the beginning, starting with the Herald pointing fingers at elected officials.”
“You mean, like the men who were named in Joe Rossi’s articles?”
“You know what I think of Rossi’s articles,” Ned said. “It’s too easy for a reporter to hide behind his ‘confidential sources,’ in my opinion. And Joe can be a ruthless bastard when he wants something, as you well know.”
Catherine regarded him closely. “What exactly was the relationship between you three at Georgetown? You and Joe and Suzannah.” In all their conversations, Joe had never mentioned having known Suzannah in college. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really confided much about his college years.
Ned took a long swallow of his wine then topped off both their glasses. “We were a threesome in our first two years. Lived in the same dorm and hit it off. Went to bars together, studied together sometimes, went to movies and the Kennedy Center, that kind of thing. Joe had it bad for Suzannah right from the start, but she was dating someone else. Anyway, they wound up being together for a little while in junior year. Then, during our senior year, Sam Mitchell swept her off her feet and that was that.”
“So Sam Mitchell was responsible for ending her relationship with Joe?”
“Oh, yeah. Suzy and I both worked in Sam’s office that summer, so I watched it happen.” He chuckled, but it sounded a bit forced. “You never saw a guy so totally head over heels. I think he would have married her right away, but she insisted on finishing school first.”
Catherine hesitated, wanting to know, but not wanting to sound too interested. “So...how did Joe take it?”
“Badly. It was a major blow to his ego.”
“Is that all?” At Ned’s puzzled expression she added, “I mean, do you think he really loved her?”
“Drop the past tense.”
“Excuse me?”
Ned leaned forward. “Just between
you and me, as far as Joe is concerned, every other woman pales by comparison to the lovely Mrs. Mitchell.”
Chapter Seven
By eight o’clock the following night, Catherine decided she either had to do something positive or pack up her bags and go back to New Hampshire. Ned hadn’t contacted her with any new information about her sister’s death, in spite of his assurances that he would call her today. She wasn’t angry about it, really. She knew better than to take any man’s word at face value. Her experience with Joe had confirmed that in spades.
Ned’s revelation about Joe and Suzannah, so shocking the night before, had actually helped Catherine let go of the childish fantasy she had woven around him. Not only was Joe Rossi not the caring friend she had believed him to be, he was probably still in love with an unattainable woman. And what if she still had feelings for him? No, Catherine’s fantasy was over, and with it went some of the pain that had weighed her down all these weeks. She actually felt lighter.
It was time to confront Joe and move forward. She’d take whatever she could get from him if it meant getting some answers about Blair’s death.
She called directory assistance, took a deep breath and waited to be connected to Joe’s home phone. If she called his cell, it would feel too much like old times, and she wasn’t going there. She reached his voice mail, which said the line was in use. Okay, so he was at home. He’d told her his little brother would be spending the summer with him, which no doubt put a serious crimp in his social life. After a few minutes she tried again, and this time she left a message.
“It’s Catherine Morrissey,” she said, keeping it as impersonal as possible. “I’d like to come by and talk to you, if that would be okay. I’ll try you again in a little while, or you can call me. You have my number.” She replaced the handset and sat down. After twenty minutes of staring at the phone, she tried his number again and then gave up.
Exhausted from lack of sleep but far too restless to go to bed, Catherine headed outside for a walk. With each excursion around the Cleveland Park section of Washington, she discovered new sights and landmarks that made her feel slightly less alien. She took a left in front of her building, crossed Cathedral Avenue and headed down Connecticut Avenue away from the zoo. At this hour the crowds had thinned considerably, but she passed several couples, holding hands, pushing strollers, swinging toddlers up onto their shoulders. These were most likely residents out for an evening stroll, rather than tourists. The neighborhood was a mix of old and young, predominantly white and well heeled.
