by Ana Barrons
“No. I want the bastard who killed her dead.”
“I’d settle for a solid lead the police can’t ignore. We can help each other out. And I would very much like for you to get some closure.”
She stopped and glared at him. “Let’s cut the crap, okay? The truth is that my usefulness to your journalistic career hasn’t ended yet.”
Joe knew he should bite his tongue, but holding back had never been his strong suit. “You think I’m full of shit, is that it? I’m nothing but a fame-seeking, amoral reporter who doesn’t give a rat’s ass who gets hurt as long as he gets the story. Did I leave anything out?”
“No, that about covers it.”
“Well guess what,” he said, his temper sparking. “It’s not all about you, or even about Blair. I’ve worked in this town for twenty years, and I’m damn sick and tired of watching powerful men get away with murder—literally and figuratively. And I don’t care how liberal or enlightened some of these guys claim to be, there’s still an awful lot of them that see women as pieces of meat they can use and throw away.” Her eyes had gone wide. “And yeah, sure, I’d love to win the Pulitzer, okay? What reporter wouldn’t? The last time I checked that wasn’t a crime. But I did not disclose that information and risk losing you for the damn headlines.”
Catherine continued to stare at him.
Joe folded his arms on the table and leaned in. “I tried to call you the next day, but you wouldn’t speak to me. You wouldn’t return my emails. I wanted to explain to you why I brought your marriage into it, but you blocked my messages. You know damn well I wasn’t the person who revealed the business with your father-in-law afterward. Or Agnes’s suicide. I don’t know where they got that, but it wasn’t from me.”
“But the Herald was willing to jump on the bandwagon once the cat was out of the bag,” she said. “You could have told them it was all lies. You could have—”
He banged his fist on the table. “What was I supposed to do? I’m accountable to an editorial staff that expects me to get the scoop before the New York Tribune and ABC News. I had no idea what kind of hornet’s nest that first article would stir up. I refused to write any follow-up articles about the Agnes thing, but I don’t have the clout to stop something like that.”
“So what?” Her voice was raspy with emotion. “Are you going to tell me you wouldn’t have said anything about Alan and Blair’s affair if you’d known what would follow?”
He sagged. “What I say doesn’t mean shit to you. You’ve already tried and convicted me. I explained why I brought their affair into it. There was no way I could have known anyone would dig up that other business.”
Catherine rose, obviously shaken. She walked through the kitchen to the mudroom, rested her elbows on the washer and dropped her head into her hands. Neither of them moved or spoke for a long time. Joe finally broke the silence.
“I’m going up to bed. I haven’t slept for almost twenty-four hours and I don’t do real well on no sleep. You can either wait around for your clothes to dry or bunk on the sofa and deal with them in the morning. Your choice.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and tossed it on the table. “There’s cash in there for a cab. Take as much as you need. The number’s on the refrigerator.”
She raised her head and blinked at him.
He walked to the archway separating the kitchen from the hallway and turned to her. “Thank God,” he said.
“For what?”
“Thank God. That’s what you said when I told you it was me.”
She lowered her head.
“So, deny it all you want, but at some level I think you know I’m on your side.”
As he headed up the steps she muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like, “Who needs enemies?”
Chapter Eleven
Sorting through Blair’s clothes, papers, books, knickknacks and odds and ends day after day was a constant reminder of how long Catherine had been absent from her sister’s life. Five years. And over those five years Blair had continued to work her way through the series of bad relationships she’d begun back in high school. She had moved three times—the last time to Washington. From all accounts, it was here that her promiscuity had really taken off. And most likely killed her.
Catherine picked up another beautiful, obviously expensive necklace from an inlaid wood box on Blair’s dresser. Her lovers had been generous. Or maybe it had been one lover in particular. Had he become insanely jealous? Or had he been a psycho to begin with? Catherine put the necklace back and placed the small box in one of the big cartons she would load into a rental car and drive back to New Hampshire.
“Cathy, I’m scared.”
Maybe over time she could tune out the message Blair had left on her voice mail—the one she had erased. The one she had refused to act on, refused to take seriously. She hadn’t wanted to hear her sister’s voice, to be reminded of what Blair had taken from her. To be reminded that her own husband had found Blair more desirable.
If only I’d called you back, Blair. Maybe you would still be alive.
Blair had made that call two weeks before she went missing. Her voice had sounded so young, almost innocent, like the girl she’d been before she went completely, irretrievably boy crazy. She’d wanted to be a nurse when she grew up, or a librarian. Maybe a fashion designer. But as she got older and more attractive, Blair became addicted to the compliments and presents and dates—mainly with older boys—that fed her ego.
Male devotion became her drug of choice.
Catherine flopped onto the bed and flung her arm over her eyes. It would be so easy to sink into that black, black despair that had nearly overwhelmed her when they’d learned Blair was missing. The despair that had lifted, little by little, when Joe Rossi started calling her.
I did not disclose that information and risk losing you for the damn headlines.
He’d made it sound like she’d been important to him. She shook her head on the pillow. No sense thinking about how he had or hadn’t felt. The fact was she could never trust him again, so there was no point dwelling on any of it.
But, like her, he was frustrated by the police department’s unwillingness to share information on Blair’s case, including whether they were chasing down other leads. He’d offered to help her, and in return she had practically spit in his eye. She would be a fool to pass on his offer because he’d hurt her. What was done was done. She would keep him at arm’s length—there would be nothing between them other than finding Blair’s murderer.
She jumped when the phone rang, then rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath and picked up the receiver.
“Don’t hang up,” Joe said.
She swallowed. The sound of his voice on the phone evoked strong, bittersweet memories.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“No.”
“You want to meet somewhere?”
She hesitated. “I assume this has something to do with Blair.”
“You think I would call you if it didn’t? I’m not a masochist. How about I pick you up in fifteen minutes? There are plenty of places to eat up that way.”
She swallowed. Hadn’t she just decided it made sense to work with him? How hard could it be to have lunch and hear him out? She took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. I’ll be down in the lobby.”
She used the fifteen minutes to clean herself up and throw on a gray denim pencil skirt, a white sleeveless linen top and sandals. Joe stepped out of a cab just as she reached the lobby. They walked down Connecticut Avenue past the huge carved lions guarding the entrance to the zoo, over a small bridge with ornate urns at either end and green-painted iron railings with lovely curlicue designs. She had to admit, the bridges in Washington were varied and striking. The sidewalk was packed with people on their side, so they crossed over and walked past
the library and the Uptown Theatre, which, Joe told her, had the biggest screen in the Washington area and only ran one movie at a time.
“I saw Jurassic Park there and Apollo 13, all the Star Wars and Lord of the Ring movies,” he said, with obvious pride. “It was the only place in town to see them.”
Catherine hid a smile.
At the Cleveland Park Metro station, Joe stopped. “Italian okay?”
“Always.”
Sorriso was a tiny restaurant with exposed interior brickwork and bright yellow walls covered with old movie posters and black-and-white photos of Italy. A pretty, young waitress with a big smile for Joe ushered them to a small corner table overlooking Connecticut Avenue. Catherine took the bench seat by the window and was pleasantly surprised to find delicately embroidered pillows to lean against.
She opted for white wine to soothe her nerves and Joe ordered a beer. They sipped their drinks while they scanned the menu, their conversation minimal and confined to the hot weather and the other movies Joe had seen at the Uptown. Catherine ordered a salad with chicken strips to be polite, and Joe ordered the ravioli and another beer. When the waitress left, he rested his elbows on the table and looked her in the eye.
“I was an asshole the other night and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to be yelled at.”
“Maybe I did,” she said, surprising both of them. He lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t being fair to you. You were offering to help me and I attacked you. Now can we forget about it?”
“Consider it forgotten. At least that part.”
With Joe facing the window, his handsome face lit by the sun, Catherine could see thin shots of gold in his irises. Uh-oh. She fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers instead. Sitting two feet away from him was more stressful than she had imagined when she agreed to have lunch with him.
“I got an interesting phone call this morning,” Joe said. “From Detective Sadler.”
She was instantly alert. “What did he want? Was it about Blair? Did he tell you anything?”
Joe held up a hand. “He was pretty cryptic. Just said he had something he thought would interest me. He said he’d call me when he could slip away for a few minutes.”
“You think it’s about Blair.”
“Yeah.”
“Will he leave a message if you’re not at your desk?”
He patted his pants pocket. “My cell phone’s on this time. But I have a better idea. I’m going down to the Violent Crimes Branch to see him.” He smiled. “And you’re coming with me.”
A surge of excitement shot through her. “You’re going to get me in to see him?” She barely noticed the waitress putting her salad in front of her. “But what if he’s not there?”
“He will be.”
Joe ate the ravioli so fast it was a wonder he didn’t give himself hiccups. Catherine had the feeling that if she hadn’t been with him, he would have ordered one of everything on the menu. She smiled at the thought.
“That’s better,” he said, pressing the last slice of Italian bread into a saucer of olive oil. “I wondered what it would take to get you to smile. Most people wouldn’t smile at the prospect of going to the police station.”
She shook her head, sobered. “That’s not it. It’s just...you inhaled every bite on your plate in about ten seconds. It struck me as funny, that’s all. Maybe you should order something else.”
He grinned, which made him more handsome than ever. Damn him.
“Maybe I’m watching my figure.” He eyed Catherine’s untouched plate. “Are you planning to eat all that chicken?”
She pushed the plate across to him. “Go for it. I’m really not hungry.”
He demolished her salad in two minutes and called for the check. When he refused her offer to split it she said, “Let’s get something straight. The only reason I’m talking to you is because I want answers about Blair’s death. Period. There’s no sense pretending it’s anything more than that.”
“There’s no sense pretending we’re not attracted to each other,” Joe said quietly. “It was there even before we met face-to-face.”
She shifted her gaze away from his. “As far as I’m concerned the attraction is over. You caught me in a weak moment the other night. You may recall that I was sound asleep when you came in. I didn’t know which end was up.”
“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
* * *
They were silent on the cab ride out to Southeast Washington. To keep her mind off Joe’s proximity, Catherine paid close attention to the sights, which she hadn’t the last time she’d come this way. The cab wove through heavy traffic on Rock Creek Parkway, along which joggers and cyclists vied for space on the wooded paths. The Washington Monument popped into view on her left, then disappeared around a curve. When they drove under the balcony of the Kennedy Center and the Jefferson Memorial appeared in the distance, she realized with a shock that the wooded area on the other side of the Potomac River was Roosevelt Island.
“Cathy, I’m scared.”
I’m sorry, Blair. I let you down.
Joe’s hand brushed hers on the seat and asked, “You okay?” As though he could feel her sadness. Her regret. As though they were still connected.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, and hugged the door closer.
Several minutes later, they pulled up to the curb at the Penn Branch Shopping Center. Joe paid the driver and Catherine hopped out of the cab. A light drizzle had begun to fall.
Inside the glass door, Joe picked up a videophone, gave his name and hers and asked to see Officer Guerrara. He winked at Catherine’s questioning look. Next, they were subjected to metal detectors, a purse search, a jacket and pocket search for Joe and a light frisking by uniformed officers. Once they were through security, Catherine scanned the civilians waiting as she had. How many of them were there because someone they loved had been murdered? Most of the faces were black, and she remembered the grandmother’s words.
“What’s one more dead black kid in this city?”
A young Hispanic officer with wide hips and a coy smile approached Joe with her arm outstretched. Officer Guerrara, no doubt. “Hey, handsome,” she said. “Where you been all my life?”
“Been busy, Gloria.” He took her hand with a smile. “Sadler told me to stop by, but I wanted to say hello first.”
Gloria’s hand went to her chest. “You mean you didn’t come all the way down here to see me? And here I was getting myself all worked up.” She gave Catherine a quick once-over. “Damn,” she said with a wry smile. “I know this ain’t some long-lost married sister.”
Joe introduced the women and they shook hands. “Can we go back there?”
“No, I’ll take you back or he’ll have my ass.”
“He in one of his moods?”
Gloria snorted. “When isn’t he?” A commotion in the security area drew her attention. “Hang on,” she said, and walked away.
Joe bent close to Catherine’s ear. “Let’s go.” With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her through a sea of desks, chairs, ringing phones and bodies. They stopped short several feet from Sadler’s office. “Follow my lead,” he said. “He’ll be pissed off that you’re with me.”
“Not nearly as pissed off as I am that he’s blown me off all this time.”
Joe knocked once on Sadler’s door and pushed it open just enough so Catherine couldn’t be seen immediately. Sadler was sitting behind a green metal desk in an office that was slightly larger than a walk-in closet. He frowned and started to rise from his chair.
“I told you I’d call you when I could get away,” he said. “Didn’t you—” His eyes widened when he spotted Catherine walking in beside Joe.
Joe gestured to Catherine to have a seat. “I don’t believe you and Detective Sadler have met.”
<
br /> Catherine fixed the detective with a stony expression. “No, but we’ve spoken on the phone. Not for several weeks, though, and not for lack of trying. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m Catherine Morrissey.”
Sadler ran a hand over his short gray hair and gave her a poor imitation of a smile. “Listen, I’m sorry, Miss Morrissey. It’s been so hectic. I’m sorry about the other day.” He shot Joe a glare that was pure hatred. “I had to go to court at the last minute. Believe me, if there was any new information I could share with you, I would have contacted you right away.”
Joe flipped his chair around and straddled it. “What is going on with the case, Will? What kind of evidence do you have on this guy?”
Sadler flushed and sat back down. He was nondescript—fifties, slightly overweight, glasses. The kind of guy who would blend into a crowd except for the angry scar that ran up the side of his neck to his ear. He ran his fingertips over it, a nervous gesture he probably wasn’t aware of.
“You know I can’t discuss confidential details of an active investigation,” Sadler said to Joe. “Not even with the victim’s family.”
Hot anger swirled in Catherine’s gut. “I have no interest in making headlines or selling my story to the Herald or the National Enquirer or anyone else. Blair was my sister, somebody killed her and I think I have a right to know what the hell’s going on. At least tell me who you have in custody, for God’s sake.”
Sadler leaned forward. “Miss Morrissey, I’m sorry but there isn’t a whole hell of a lot that I can tell you.”
“Can tell me or will tell me?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose information about the suspect, okay? If I could, it would already be in the papers.”
“What, is the guy with al Qaeda or something?” Surely the question wouldn’t compromise Joe’s source. She’d asked him the same thing the other night.
Sadler glanced between them. “Where did you hear that?”
“Don’t look at me,” Joe said. “I don’t believe it for a minute.”
Sadler cleared his throat. “It’s a matter of national security, okay? That’s all I can tell you.”
