by Ana Barrons
“Bullshit.”
A flush rose up out of Sadler’s shirt collar to his face, making his scar stand out. “You can believe what you want, Miss Morrissey, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“Why did he pick my sister?” she demanded. “Did it have something to do with her job? With Jerry Green? And how did he get her out to Roosevelt Island?”
“I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t know when I say that your sister got around.”
“Not with some poor handyman, she didn’t.”
“Hey, we’re doing the best we can, okay? We’ve had a few other matters to deal with around here, or haven’t you heard that the terror alert is back up to orange?”
Catherine glared at him. “Yes, I have. Does that mean the police have stopped worrying about minor crimes like murder? Are you are at least pursuing any other leads? Talking to people who knew Blair? Or did everything stop when you took this handyman into custody?”
“Of course we’re still investigating,” Sadler snapped. “Do you think we’ve been sitting around with our thumbs up our asses?”
She stared at Sadler until he looked away. “Don’t keep me in the dark, Detective. I’ll be in town until the end of July. I’ll expect regular updates.” When Joe began to rise she said, “Don’t bother. I can see myself out.”
Chapter Twelve
Sadler went to the door and pushed it closed behind her. Then he whirled on Joe. “You son of a bitch! You set me up.”
Joe stood, hands on hips, and faced him. “Look, I owe her big-time. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to fuck off like you’ve been doing? Jesus, Will, since when did you start blowing off victims’ families?”
Sadler started to get in his face but backed off when Joe narrowed his eyes and moved forward instead of taking a step back. “That’s why I called you, asshole.” He kept his voice down. “I can’t talk about it here. And after that little stunt you pulled I’m thinking maybe I should tell you to go fuck yourself and talk to Weinstein at the Trib.”
“Bullshit,” Joe said, doubly pissed off that Sadler had chosen to bring his rival, Sid Weinstein, into this. “You called me because you know I keep my word and protect my sources.”
“I told you. Not here.”
Joe checked his watch. Damn it, he wanted to catch Catherine, not play games with this bozo. Fuck it. Without another word he pushed past Sadler to get to the door.
“Wait.” Sadler lowered his voice. “I’ll call your cell and leave a number where you can reach me. You don’t want to pass this up. It could mean the Pulitzer for you. This could be big. Very big. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“If it’s so big, why are you giving it to me?” Joe asked. “Why don’t you use it yourself? Maybe you’d actually have a case.”
The flash of fear in Sadler’s eyes was unmistakable. Joe’s heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and dread. Whatever it was, it was big. Images of Watergate danced in his head.
“I need the money,” Sadler said, eyes lowered.
“Money?” Joe was incredulous. “You’re trying to sell me information?”
“Will you shut the fuck up?” Sadler said in a loud, desperate whisper.
Joe raised his palms to calm him. “Fine. What, do you have a loan shark after you or something, or a bad case of consumer lust?”
Sadler’s eyes narrowed. “Talk to the shrinks my son and his mother go to about consumer lust. Bastards charge three hundred and fifty bucks an hour. And it never stops. Not a damn thing you can do to get away from the fucking quacks.” He stalked around his desk, giving his trash can a sharp kick before he sat down. Joe could practically see smoke coming out his ears. “Can’t fucking escape the greedy bastards.”
“Don’t have much use for shrinks, huh, Will?” Joe said, hoping to lighten things up. There was a darkness to Sadler’s anger that puzzled him. An image of the detective stalking and shooting some poor Freud look-alike popped into his head.
Sadler picked up a pen and started making quick, hard strokes in a steno notebook. “I’m not saying another goddamn thing to you.”
Joe had been dismissed. “So, whatever this thing is you want to sell me, you don’t want it?”
Sadler’s pen froze for half a second, then resumed, pressing deeper into the green paper. “Just get the fuck out, Rossi.”
* * *
Joe caught up with Catherine as she was stepping off the curb and into a cab. He grabbed the door and slid in beside her. “Glad I didn’t miss you.”
She didn’t look at him. “He was lying.”
“No argument here.”
“What the hell is going on, Joe?”
Joe reached for her but stopped himself. “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”
She turned to him, her face contorted in a mask of bewilderment and pain. “What can we do? If the detective in charge of the case is lying and withholding evidence, what the hell can we do?”
He liked the sound of that we. “What reporters have always done. Go around him. Do our own investigating.”
“Did he tell you what he had for you? What he called you about?”
Joe shook his head. “Not yet. He didn’t want to discuss it in his office.”
“Is it about Blair?”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s got Sadler shitting his pants, pardon the expression.”
She said nothing. After a long moment, Joe laid a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. Shit. “Jesus, Catherine. I know you’re feeling bad. I’m trying to be a friend, okay?”
She snorted. “Right.”
“Haven’t you ever hurt someone without meaning to?”
“Sure,” she said after several seconds. “Just ask my parents. Or better yet, ask Agnes.”
Agnes. Her father-in-law’s wife. The one who had committed suicide.
Christ.
The cab pulled up in front of the apartment building and Catherine went for her wallet. Joe laid a hand on her arm. “I’ll get this.”
She shoved his arm aside and handed the bills to the cabbie. “You paid for lunch. This wasn’t a date.”
Joe slid out of the cab and onto the curb behind her. She rushed toward the steps but he grabbed her arm. “Wait.”
She feigned a bored, impatient expression, but he knew damn well boredom was not what she was feeling. It was time he set the record straight, and if he had to do it standing in the middle of the sidewalk on Connecticut Avenue, so be it.
“I need you to believe that it wasn’t all for the story,” he said. “We both know it started out that way, okay? But I got to know you and you were different than anyone I’d ever— No, don’t look away. I started to care about you. I still care about you.”
“Take your hand off me,” she said.
He grabbed her other arm and held on until she met his eyes. “I thought about you all the time. I stopped seeing other women. I wanted to go up to New Hampshire and meet you, but you were afraid. Remember? It was the last conversation we had.”
“I must have blocked it out.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I remember everything we said.” Like it was yesterday.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” She shrugged his hands off her, then rubbed her arms as thought they were cold. “I’m going upstairs.”
Joe shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Then I’ll come up with you so we can finish this.”
“I’m tired and I want to be alone.”
“You’re upset and stressed out. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone you can vent to, if nothing else?”
“I don’t even know you,” she said.
“Like hell you don’t. You know me better than people I’ve known all my life.”
She tipped her
head back, obviously exasperated. “Look, we had an agreement, okay? We work together to find out what we can about Blair. Period. We don’t need to be best buddies to do that. If you can’t accept that, then we’d better call it quits right now and go our separate ways.”
She brushed past him and started up the cement steps. He lobbed his parting shot. “You had feelings for me, too.” It came out like an accusation, but he wouldn’t take it back. “You know damn well you did. And even if you want to pretend you don’t know me, I know you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ned had shocked Catherine by calling her the next morning and inviting her to an informal supper at the vice president’s getaway house in McLean, Virginia. She should have been thrilled—any another time she would have been giddy at the prospect of spending an evening in such high-powered company. She struggled to remember those feelings. It was as though the part of her psyche that registered joy and excitement had died, leaving only curiosity and a touch of anxiety about what the evening held in store.
The McLean house was more of a cabin, really, smaller than Catherine had imagined it to be. It was simple inside—rustic in a way that didn’t feel designer-made. A beautiful fieldstone fireplace—not wholly unlike the one in her little house in Ossipee—was the centerpiece of the living room, around which two sofas, a love seat and a couple of upholstered chairs were clustered. The room was lit by lamps placed on rough-hewn end tables that matched the large coffee table in the center. Pillows and throws were scattered about, making the room homey and welcoming.
Being here actually made her a little homesick.
The kitchen was subtly high tech with lots of natural wood to balance out the stainless steel. There were plants everywhere. Catherine and Ned perched on stools beside a kitchen work island with a granite surface, sipping a dry red wine that probably cost a hundred dollars a bottle. Suzannah was chopping vegetables, sipping at her gin and tonic and chatting, completely relaxed in her jeans and powder-blue tank top. Both Ned and the vice president were in jeans and golf shirts. Sam Mitchell was leaning on the side of the island taking long pulls from a Corona with lime shoved into the neck of the bottle. If only she could relax, she might have a snowball’s chance of enjoying herself.
“So you teach biology,” the vice president said, and his expression told her he was genuinely interested. “High school?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “I also teach swimming in the summer and outdoor sports in the winter.”
“Skiing?” Suzannah asked.
“Cross-country, yes. And snowshoeing, hiking, that sort of thing.”
“Ah,” Suzannah said. “We had a wonderful time in Austria last winter.” As she chattered on about their ski trips, Catherine sipped her wine and wished she could appreciate this incredible evening for the once-in-a-lifetime event it was. At least she’d bring a smile to her parents’ lips when she told them about it.
When they finally sat down to eat, Catherine was at right angles to Sam and Ned at the small oak table, across from Suzannah. Whenever the conversation veered to the upcoming campaign, Sam brought it back to some topic that would include Catherine. Several times he laid his hand on her arm, and Catherine would flick a glance at Suzannah, who was always either smiling at them or talking to Ned.
An otherwise invisible maid cleared the table and Sam led them to the living room for after-dinner drinks. He was about to take a seat beside Catherine on the couch when Suzannah intercepted him.
“Oh, Sam, I’ve been waiting to get Catherine to myself for a few minutes,” she said, stroking her husband’s cheek. “Would you mind terribly, darlin’?”
At the prospect of being alone with Suzannah, several dozen butterflies took flight in Catherine’s belly. Even though she barely knew Ned, he was a mere mortal like she was, and he didn’t intimidate her. What would she say to the second lady of the United States?
“Of course not,” Sam said, but he was clearly disappointed—why, Catherine couldn’t fathom. “Actually, there are some ideas I want to pick Ned’s brain about.”
Ned glanced between Catherine and Suzannah and seemed to hesitate. Catherine implored the Gods to keep Ned in the room, but they ignored her, and he followed Sam up the stairs to his office. Suzannah slipped out of her sandals and tucked one leg under her, then faced Catherine.
“I’m so glad you agreed to come tonight,” she began.
Surprised, Catherine said, “Well, I’m honored that you invited me.”
Suzannah waved that off. “You’re going through a hard time, and it sounds as though the police aren’t making it any easier for you. Is it true that they’re not telling you anything about their investigation?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t even know whether they’re doing any more investigating now that they have a suspect in custody.”
“But that’s good news, isn’t it? I would think you’d be happy that they might’ve already found your sister’s killer.”
Catherine didn’t have the energy to go through the whole explanation. “I really don’t think Blair would have gone out to that place with a handyman. She was too...ambitious, I guess you’d say.”
“Ah,” Suzannah said with a nod. “What havoc ambition plays in people’s lives. What kinds of ambitions did your sister have?”
“Well, she... It’s kind of hard to answer that precisely. She, um...”
Suzannah patted her hand. “Oh, honey, I’m sure it’s difficult to talk about what she wanted, under the circumstances. But you’re right—there she was, an aide to a congressman. If she went out to that place with a janitor, I can’t imagine it was her idea.”
Catherine swallowed. “No, I can’t either. Which is why I think it had to be someone else. Someone with—”
“Someone with more cache,” Suzannah said.
“I suppose so.” Catherine let out a breath. “That’s a good way to put it.”
“Then again, sometimes a woman likes to go slummin’, if you know what I mean.” Suzannah held up her palms quickly. “I’m just saying, stranger things have happened. Women can be incredibly stupid when it comes to men and sex.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Catherine muttered.
Suzannah patted her hand again. “You let me know if there’s anything I can do for you while you’re here. I can get on the horn with the chief of police if you like, and see if he’ll tell me anything.”
“Really? That would be wonderful.”
“Think nothing of it. I’ll do that tomorrow and get in touch if I learn anything.” This pronouncement was followed by one of her devastating smiles.
No wonder Joe was still in love with her.
As though she’d read Catherine’s mind, she said, “So, is Joe helping you?”
Her bluntness startled Catherine. Was it a roundabout way of soliciting an apology? “I’m so sorry about what happened at the fundraiser. I should have sent you a note.”
Suzannah laughed and leaned closer. “Listen, honey, I know how infuriating that man can be. I’ve been there. Joe and I go way back, you know, to college.”
Catherine took a sip of her brandy to buy herself some time. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined having this conversation with the wife of the vice president. She could feel herself blushing. “Ned did mention that the three of you were at Georgetown together.”
“How long have you and Joe known another?”
“We met for the first time at the fundraiser. I’d never laid eyes on him before that.”
Suzannah’s eyes glittered, making Catherine wonder what she had given away. “Well, I knew you two had some kind of long-distance relationship.”
“He told you that?” Catherine asked, hoping her dismay wasn’t written all over her face. That hope was shattered by Suzannah’s next words.
“Oh, dear, I’m
telling tales out of school, aren’t I?” She patted Catherine’s knee. “Try to understand. Joe and I have always had a special relationship. We can talk to each other about anything because we trust each other completely. He’s the only person I’m allowing to help me write my memoirs.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to about my mother, Catherine.”
Another of your lies, Joe.
“Of course I understand,” Catherine said. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”
Before she could finish, Suzannah had moved closer and taken one of her hands between hers. Her face was the picture of concern. “You fell for him, didn’t you? I wish I could have warned you sooner.”
Catherine was speechless.
“I’ve seen this happen before and I always give him hell about it. Joe makes a woman feel like she’s the most important person in the world to him. Then he moves on and the poor woman never knew what hit her. Believe me, honey,” she said in a caring tone only a politician’s wife could pull off, “you’re not alone.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was after eleven when Catherine closed the apartment door behind her. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would call her parents and tell them about her evening with the Mitchells and Ned. It would give them a much-needed lift out of their grief, at least for a while. In the two weeks she’d been in Washington she had called them regularly to let them know she was okay, but she never had good news for them. She was no closer to getting answers about Blair’s death. What had started out as daily calls had become less frequent—not because she didn’t care about them or miss them, but because she was ashamed. In her selfish desire to find respite from her own grief, she had added to theirs.
“Have you ever hurt anyone without meaning to?”
Her phone conversations with Joe Rossi had resulted in her parents learning, in the most painful possible way, the truth about her divorce and Agnes Williams’s suicide five years ago. They read it in the paper, along with everyone they knew.
