by Ana Barrons
A few blocks down toward Calvert Street, both sides of the avenue were lined with an array of ethnic restaurants—Indian, Lebanese, Mexican, Greek, Italian. Maybe when her appetite picked up she’d check out the Lebanese Taverna with Betsy, who claimed they served the best, most authentic Lebanese food outside of Beirut.
Lights from hundreds of windows in the Shoreham Hotel blinked at Catherine as she strolled past two lion sentries and over the Taft Bridge, which spanned a twisty section of Rock Creek Parkway. When she reached the middle of the bridge, she stopped and rested her forearms on the thick iron railing and watched the cars zip past below. She glanced back at the restaurants and spotted an enormous mural of Marilyn Monroe painted on the side of brick building above the Chipotle Mexican Grill.
Beautiful blonde, died young.
Like Blair.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied a man at the end of the bridge, standing in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.
Watching her. She was sure of it.
A frisson of fear slithered up her spine. She swallowed, unable to turn away. She could make out almost nothing about him at that distance, but...she’d swear he was smiling.
A cab pulled onto the bridge and she hailed it a little frantically. Lucky for her it was available and she climbed in. She was about to give the driver her address but on impulse she gave him Joe’s address on MacArthur Boulevard and sat back, trying not to think about what she was about to do. When they were safely across the bridge she checked behind her to see if the man was still there.
Gone.
She let out a breath. Probably just her imagination running wild.
Ten minutes later she was peering up at a small, neat brick colonial with two tall maples in the front yard. Most of the house lights appeared to be on.
She paid the cabbie and climbed the steps. Oh, God, what was she doing showing up at Joe’s house unannounced?
Getting answers.
That’s what she had come to Washington for, and she would bargain with the devil himself if it meant finding her sister’s murderer. At the moment, that seemed to be exactly what she was doing.
She didn’t see a doorbell, so she knocked at the door and waited. There were voices inside, but no one came to the door. She knocked again. Almost immediately a girl—Catherine guessed thirteen or fourteen years old—pulled open the door. She offered Catherine the sullen expression perfected by teenage girls everywhere.
Damn. She must be the babysitter. “Hi,” Catherine said. “I’m looking for Joe. Is he here?”
“No, unfortunately,” the girl said. An unwilling babysitter at that.
“Do you know when he’ll be back? I’m Catherine Morrissey. I left a message for him, but—”
“Oh.” The girl pulled the door open a bit farther. “If you’re a friend of Joe’s, you can come in, but I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
Catherine stepped inside the cozy living room. Photo and print-covered walls were painted a Southwest red, which brought out the red in the worn Persian carpet. Like the rug, the overstuffed furniture was worn but welcoming with colorful throws and pillows on every chair. Sneakers and sandals were strewn around, newspapers and magazines everywhere. It was messy but charming. Like a whole family lived there, not just a bachelor.
“How late do you think he’ll be?” she asked. From the other room she heard someone gagging, and the girl shut the door with a bang.
“Oh, gross,” the girl said. “Mike’s throwing up again. Shit.”
Mike. The little brother she’d heard so much about. “Um, does he need some help?”
The girl grimaced. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He keeps saying he wants his mom, but she’s like in Europe or someplace. I tried to call Joe but his phone must be off, and no one’s picking up at his work.”
Catherine frowned. How irresponsible, to leave this young girl here with a sick eight-year-old. The gagging came again, followed by a very human whimper. She started to move in the direction of the sounds. “How long has he been throwing up?”
“I don’t know. Like, an hour?”
Catherine pushed open the bathroom door and saw a small boy sitting on the tile floor of the bathroom, leaning his head against the toilet seat. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy. Tears glistened on his cheeks. She knelt beside him and touched his arm.
“Mike, have you had anything to drink?”
He shook his head. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Catherine. I’m uh...a friend of Joe’s.”
“I wish my mom would come.” His voice was thin and raspy with tears. “I want her to come and take me home.”
Catherine’s heart ached for him. “I know, sweetie.” She pushed back his wet bangs to feel his forehead. He was burning up. She turned, hoping to find the girl at the door, but she wasn’t there.
“What’s her name, Mike?”
“Tiffany. Is Joe coming home?”
“We’re trying to reach him. Tiffany!” she called. She heard bare feet shuffling toward her and Tiffany appeared in the doorway with her arms wrapped around her stomach. “Oh, no, are you sick too?”
Tiffany shook her head, grimacing. “Listening to him puke makes me sick.”
“Have you given him any Tylenol or ginger ale or anything like that?”
She shook her head again. “He’d just throw it up anyway.”
Catherine went to the tub, found the stopper and began running a bath. She had to get that fever down, and if Mike couldn’t keep anything in his stomach, she’d have to do it this way.
“Tiffany,” she said, “keep trying Joe’s cell phone, okay? And leave a message for him to come right home.”
“I already did that. I’ve left him like five messages.”
The idiot probably doesn’t know his phone’s off. “Pour Mike a little soda of some sort, okay?” Tiffany shuffled toward the kitchen, and Catherine said, “Mike, can you get those pajamas off, or should I help you?”
Mike shrugged, so she pulled off his top and lifted him to his feet. “I can’t take off my bottoms with you here,” he said.
“How about if you leave on your underpants?”
“Okay.” He moved listlessly, and Catherine wondered how dehydrated he was. She half lifted him into the tub and he shrieked when he felt the tepid water.
“It’s too cold! I’m shivering,” he whined, grabbing at her.
“I know,” Catherine said, using her best sympathetic-but-firm teacher voice. “But I want to get your fever down, and this is the best way to do it. You don’t have to stay in for a long time, just enough to cool you off a little.”
Mike held his body stiff in the water while Catherine mopped his face and head over and over with a washcloth. It gave her plenty of time to study his face. He was cute as hell and looked a lot like Joe, even though they were half brothers. She knew their mother had divorced Mike’s father and was currently in Europe with her fourth husband. During one of their late night phone calls, Joe had shared his feelings about his mother, who’d left him at the tender age of seven. He still struggled with abandonment issues, he’d told her, which was why he focused on his career and avoided getting serious with anyone.
“I don’t know why I feel so comfortable telling you this,” he’d said. “I don’t talk to anybody about my mother, not even my dad.”
It had been a particularly poignant conversation, one that had made Catherine want to open up about her own family. What a mistake that had been.
Twenty minutes later Mike felt significantly better—his eyes were less glassy, and he managed to sip on a little ginger ale. There was still no word from Joe.
Catherine left Mike alone in the bathroom to put his pajamas back on. Some kind of punk rock drifted from upstairs and she followed the music. The door to one
of the bedrooms was open a crack and Catherine could see Tiffany sitting in front of a computer, apparently having an online chat with a friend. She knocked.
“What?” Tiffany didn’t bother to turn around.
“Any luck getting through to Joe?”
“Nope. But he should be home pretty soon. Sometimes he has to finish something at work and he stays late, but he’s usually home by ten.”
Catherine moved into the room a little farther. Was Tiffany also a relative or friend of the family? “Are you and Mike visiting for the summer?”
Tiffany stopped typing for a second and glanced back at Catherine. “Mike’s here until his mom decides to come back.”
“How about you?”
“Oh, I’ll just be here until my mom gets out of the hospital.”
That piqued her curiosity. “Is she having an operation or something?”
Tiffany kept on typing, and Catherine didn’t think she was going to answer. She turned to leave.
“She has AIDS.”
Catherine froze. “Oh, Tiffany. I’m so sorry.”
Tiffany shrugged. “She’ll be okay, she just has to build up some strength. Anyway, I’m tired now, okay? Would you mind going downstairs?”
Catherine resisted the urge to go to Tiffany and hold her. How did a girl her age, whose mother was lying in a hospital dying, find the courage to keep going? She closed the door most of the way and went back downstairs to find Mike. There was no way she was leaving these children alone until Joe showed up. Whenever that would be.
She found Mike curled up in a ball on the sofa. She sat beside him and stroked his hair. The fever was definitely down, thank God, and he looked exhausted. “How about if we go on up to bed, Mike?” she said.
“My stomach doesn’t feel so good right now,” he whispered. “I think I’m gonna throw up again.”
Oh, great. “Then let’s get you back into the bathroom, pal, okay? Come on, I’ll help you.” She levered him up off the sofa, still curled in a ball, and started toward the bathroom. They were nearly there when Mike heaved—all over both of them. He immediately began to cry, then heaved again.
“I’m sorry!” he wailed. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Catherine soothed. Poor kid, he was sick and miserable and embarrassed. “A little puke never killed anyone.”
She set him down in front of the toilet, and he retched one more time into the bowl. “I’m done,” he said.
Catherine’s jeans and T-shirt were covered with it, as were Mike’s fresh pajamas. She leaned into the hall and shouted for Tiffany. After a couple more shouts, Tiffany appeared halfway down the stairs.
“Oh, gross,” she said. “He puked all over you.”
“Yeah. Can you find me something to put on and get Mike some more pajamas? I’ll rinse out our clothes and throw them in the washing machine.”
Tiffany looked her up and down. “I might have a shirt that fits you.”
Catherine glanced at the girl’s slim frame. “That would probably work. And maybe some shorts or sweats?”
Tiffany scampered upstairs and Catherine helped Mike out of his pajamas. He turned his back on her but didn’t complain. She threw the pajamas in the tub. When Tiffany showed up with the clothes, Catherine sent Mike out into the hall and stripped off everything but her panties. Tiffany had brought her a black tank top—obviously one of her own—that was too short and too tight but covered everything important, and a pair of huge gray sweatpants that had to belong to Joe. Fortunately the pants tied at the waist. A couple of rolls at the hem and she could walk without tripping.
She rinsed the clothes in the tub, carried them through the kitchen to the washing machine and found the washer full of wet clothes. “Great,” she murmured. She would have to deal with them later. Right now she needed to get Mike settled before he threw up again.
She found a big pot in the cupboard and carried it up the stairs. Holding Mike’s hand, she went toward his room and stopped when he pulled her back. His expression was sad.
“I threw up in my bed. Before.”
Catherine sighed and bent down, resting her hands on her thighs. “Where do we go now, kiddo?”
“Joe’s room. He lets me sleep in there when I’m sick.”
“With him?”
“Yeah. He won’t care.”
She took a deep breath and reminded herself that Hitler had loved small children and animals too.
They walked into Joe’s room, which smelled distinctly of man, and Mike hopped right up onto the bed. He was obviously happy about being there. She set the pot down beside him, then went in the bathroom and grabbed a large towel off the rack. She tucked it half under Mike so that it covered the side of the bed down to the pot.
“You’ll stay with me, right?” Mike asked. “In case I throw up again?”
Catherine smiled in spite of herself. “How could I pass up an offer like that?” She climbed onto the bed. “Try to sleep now, okay? I’ll listen for Joe and let him know you’re in here so he won’t be surprised.”
Mike yawned. “He won’t care.”
She sat cross-legged beside him on the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. Mike was small for eight, and it was easy to treat him like a younger child, especially since he was sick. How could a mother could leave her little boy behind and traipse off to Europe with her new husband? If she ever had children—a big if—she would never dream of leaving them alone for weeks or months on end. Maybe a weekend here or there as long as her parents agreed to stay with them.
“Sleep well, Mike,” she whispered.
“Okay.”
She yawned and leaned back against the pillows. Tiffany was still listening to music, but it wasn’t loud enough to keep Mike awake. As soon as he fell asleep she would go downstairs and write Joe a note so he’d know what was going on when he got in. And she needed to deal with the clothes.
Meanwhile, she would rest her eyes.
Chapter Eight
The call came just as Joe walked into the newsroom. He’d come back from spending an uncomfortable hour in the photo department going over images for a story about a crooked local official. He listened to the man’s voice on the other end, sighed wearily and hung up the phone without saying a word beyond, “Okay.” Damn. He wasn’t in the mood for Suzannah tonight. It was after nine and he didn’t like leaving the kids alone for too long after dark, despite the fact that Tiffany was technically babysitting age. And he wasn’t sleeping worth a damn, so he was bone tired.
But he hadn’t agreed to one of these late-night meetings in months, and if Suzy had something for him, he really couldn’t afford to pass it up. Not when he was getting exactly nowhere with the Blair Morrissey story.
He patted his pockets until he located his keys, then headed for the steps. In front of the building he exchanged hellos with the maintenance and delivery guys having a smoke and then crossed diagonally and turned the corner, where a black sedan idled by the curb.
“Evening,” he mumbled.
“Evening,” came the impersonal answer. The agents always acted like they didn’t know who he was, but they weren’t assigned to the vice president’s wife because they were stupid. He acted bored, as usual, while one agent patted him down. Then he climbed into the backseat.
They drove over the Memorial Bridge out of the city, down the George Washington Parkway to McLean, Virginia and made a left onto a dirt road that led to an eight-foot wrought iron gate with spikes at the top. A security guard with a sniper’s rifle waved them through. There were few lights on in the small cottage. Joe shook his head. These guys had to be suspicious. Why would they be delivering him to Suzannah after dark, alone and in secret, other than to fuck?
She was seated in an overstuffed chair by a massive stone fireplace when Joe entered the room. “
We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said.
“Funny, Joe. Put the chain in place, okay?”
“Ah, yes, for security purposes.”
“You could act like you’re glad to see me. We haven’t been alone in months.”
Joe sank down on the sofa and clasped his hands between his legs. “Listen, Suzy, I’m tired, okay? I’ve got two kids at home who really shouldn’t be alone this late at night.” He wanted to add Just throw me whatever little bone you dug up to lure me over here and let me go the hell home. But that’s not how this little dance played out. He had to suck it up and wait until she was good and ready.
“Do I have to beg for a hug too?”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Your agents assume we’re fucking in here, you know.”
He felt her weight on the sofa beside him and instantly regretted his words.
“If you weren’t such an ornery bastard, that’s exactly what we’d be doing.” She laid her hand on his chest. “They think you’re helping me write my memoirs.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“Barry and Dennis would never cause trouble for me,” she said. “They’re loyal to Sam, too, but they would never tell him—”
“Oh, please,” he said, exasperated. “Stop fooling yourself, okay? Even if they’re not reporting to him, which they probably are, Sam could be our next president. Do you really want the history books to say you were the first First Lady to cheat on the sitting president? With a reporter?” He ran a hand over his head and moved away from her. “At least do it with some high-level foreign dignitary, for God’s sake.”
