by Ana Barrons
Detective Marcus Hall had a reputation as a ball breaker. He was tall, powerfully built and wore a perpetual scowl that made him look mean. Hall and his partner, Dan Rankin—a younger, well-groomed black man who let Hall do most of the talking—had been at Joe for an hour already.
“So how is it, Joe, that you forgot your cell phone but remembered to grab your checkbook?” Hall asked.
Joe sighed. “How many times are you going to ask me that, Detective?”
“As many as it takes.”
“For what? To tell you I killed Sadler? You know I didn’t do it, and if you would pick up the goddamn phone and call my editor, he’ll tell you I didn’t do it. And he’ll tell you why I went to see Sadler with my checkbook in my freakin’ hand.”
Hall leaned forward on his elbows. “So you keep saying. But I got a theory about that.”
Joe sat back in the too small, too hard plastic chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He waited.
Hall gave him a nasty smirk. “My theory says you wanted that evidence, which you say Sadler never identified, for an entirely different reason than you’re claiming. You want to know what I’m thinking that reason is, Joe?”
Joe stared at him.
“I think you wanted that evidence because it incriminates you in the death of Blair Morrissey.”
Joe blinked. It took a moment for Hall’s words to penetrate his consciousness. Then he exploded out of his chair. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I never touched the woman. I never even had a conversation with her. Now you think I killed her?”
“Sit down,” Hall said. “Like I said, it’s a theory.”
“Well it’s a stupid fucking theory. I’m a goddamn reporter. I’m not a murderer.”
“You think reporters never commit murder?”
Joe dropped heavily into his chair and thrust his hands into his hair. “This is nuts. What possible reason could you have to think I killed Blair Morrissey? Other than the fact that I was pretending to want to buy some kind of evidence off some crooked goddamn cop?”
“Whose home you were seen breaking into, then fleeing within minutes of his death.”
“First of all,” Joe said, “I did not break into his house. Haven’t we been over this? I saw him either asleep or dead in his chair and I climbed in an open window because the doors were locked and I didn’t have my phone with me, and if he’d had a heart attack, there was no time to waste waking up neighbors. Second, if I was going to kill him, why did I bring my goddamn checkbook? I could have at least hit him over the head with my cell phone, but what the hell could I do with a goddamn flimsy checkbook?” He threw up his hands. “Slap him to death?”
“How exactly did you get the bloody knuckles, Joe?”
Shit. Joe instinctively covered his torn up fist with his other hand. “I punched some holes in my basement wall. You can see them for yourself if you want to. The blood’s still fresh.”
Hall stared at him. “Sounds like you were pretty angry at someone tonight. Want to tell me about it?”
Joe closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. “I was pissed off about something that had nothing to do with Sadler, okay? I was letting off steam.”
“Or maybe you had a fight with your girlfriend,” Hall pushed. “Catherine Morrissey, right? Word has it you and your old friend Ned Campbell are both, uh, how shall I say this? Doin’ her?”
Joe’s arm shot out toward Hall’s neck. The detective shoved him hard in the chest. His partner grabbed him from behind. Joe shook him off and sat down, his heart pounding.
“If you ever talk about her that way again,” he said between his teeth, “I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Hall straightened his tie. “Interesting choice of words, considering Sadler’s neck was broken.”
Hall had provoked him and Joe had taken the bait. “Not by me.”
Hall smiled his nasty smile. “Got a real hard-on for those Morrissey girls, don’t you, Joe?”
* * *
Hall rolled the gold ring around in his hand. Georgetown University shield, class of ’98. Same year Joe Rossi graduated. “How about that,” he murmured.
He didn’t like Rossi, never did like his type. Sensationalist reporters. Didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them. Why Catherine Morrissey gave the dude the time of day made no fucking sense to him at all.
The desk sergeant had handed him the envelope when he left the interrogation room. Along with the ring was a typed note from Sadler—supposedly. It read:
Rossi—Looks like today’s your lucky day. Found this in the swamp. Good surprise, huh? It was one of those lucky breaks most detectives dreamed about. He had people tracing the ring, of course. It was only a matter of time until they established the whereabouts of every purchaser of ’98 Georgetown class rings in that size. But he had no doubt it belonged to Rossi. How convenient. How bloody fucking convenient.
Dan Rankin—Hall’s partner before they’d both earned their detective shields, and one of the few people who tolerated Hall’s temper—was leaning against the door frame when Hall finally put down the ring.
“How long have you been standing there?” Hall asked gruffly.
Rankin walked in and sat. “Looks like you’ve nailed your perp,” he said, nodding to the ring on the desk. “Even left a calling card.”
“Yeah. Nice and neat.”
Dan stretched out his long legs. “So what’s your problem?”
Hall laughed harshly. “Other than the fact that I have absolutely nothing to make the charges stick? It’s all circumstantial evidence. Like this ring.” He picked it up and held it between his thumb and middle finger. “I don’t know who dropped it off here or where it was really found. For all I know, someone stole it to set him up.”
“True.”
Hall reached into the padded mailer envelope and pulled out a stack of small black-and-white photos. He shoved them across the desk to his partner.
Rankin stared at them. “Are these what I think they are?”
“Yep. Photos of a guy who looks a lot like Rossi doin’ a chick that looks a lot like Blair Morrissey. The lab guys already went over them to see if they were doctored.”
“And?”
“A quick examination says they’re the real thing. I’ll be sending them off to the FBI lab for another go.”
Rankin frowned. “So why the long face? There’s bound to be more evidence out there that Sadler ignored, or stole. The crooked bastard. I never figured that Syrian—”
“It stinks,” Hall said.
“Come again?”
“The whole thing. The ring. The note. The photos, which any idiot could have made up with Photoshop. Or could’ve paid a couple of doubles to pose. Their faces aren’t exactly the focus of the shots. And of course the phone call telling us to pick up Rossi outside Sadler’s house.” Hall stood and stalked to the window. “It’s too good to be true, Dan. It stinks to high heaven of a setup. And a lousy one at that.”
“Have you questioned the woman yet? The sister, Catherine?”
Hall shook his head. “She’s at the top of my list.” He rested his hand on the top of the window frame and leaned on his arm. “So, why would a reporter murder a woman, then pretend to be helping the dead woman’s sister find the killer and then murder the lead detective, who already had another suspect in custody?”
Rankin shook his head. “Stranger things have happened.”
“You saw the way he reacted
when I mentioned Catherine Morrissey. I don’t think he was faking it.”
“He’s a jealous lover, so what?” Rankin said. “He also wasn’t faking the bloody knuckles. I hope you’re planning to check out the holes in his basement.”
“What I want to know,” Hall said, “is who hates Joe Rossi enough to set him up for a murder rap?”
“Some woman he was fucking? Or maybe her husband?”
Hall turned slowly and stared at his partner while wisps of Secret Service gossip he had long ago dismissed drifted through his consciousness and settled in his gut.
No way, he thought. That’s just crazy.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Catherine stopped cold when she walked down the stairs into the living room.
“Ah, Miss Morrissey.” A large, strikingly handsome man with mocha skin sat across from Pam, a mug of coffee in his hand. He moved his mouth into what might have passed for a smile and quickly let it fall, allowing his features to set into hard lines. She swallowed.
He stood up when Catherine entered the room. She glanced at Pam, who was perched on the edge of the sofa, both hands wrapped around a mug, deep worry lines marring her delicate face. The man laid his mug on the coffee table and flashed his badge.
“Detective Marcus Hall, Metropolitan Police,” he said. “I have some questions to ask you regarding Joseph Rossi.”
Pam had shaken her awake from a deep sleep five minutes ago, after a night of tossing and turning, and filled her in briefly on what was going on. She still couldn’t believe it. Joe had been arrested for supposedly breaking into Sadler’s house and was considered a suspect in the man’s murder. Her brain felt like it was wrapped in gauze, only able to process small bits of information, and those very slowly. Everything in her world felt wrong, off-kilter—like when Blair first disappeared. She glanced around the room, searching for the people she had come to care about. Looking for safety, a sense that she belonged somewhere.
But Joe was gone. In spite of all that had gone before, she finally understood that his feelings for her were real, and strong. She’d behaved like a jealous teenager last night, doubting him when everything he’d said and done since she’d come to Washington had been sincere. Joe was right—Ned really had done a number on her, and she’d been foolish enough to believe him. After Joe stormed out of the bedroom she’d lain awake, desperately trying to find the words to tell him the truth about why she’d been such an idiot—that she loved him and she was scared to death he loved someone else.
But by the time she had stumbled downstairs, in the wee hours of the morning, having given up on words and wanting only to take him into her arms, he was gone.
She had to get him back.
“Where are Mike and Tiffany?” she asked Pam. “Are they okay?”
“They’re upstairs,” Pam said. “Tiffany’s still sleeping and Mike’s playing in his room.” Her scratchy voice and drawn features said loud and clear that she was worried. “Would you like some tea?” Catherine nodded dumbly and Pam walked past her, touching her arm gently as she went into the kitchen.
“Have a seat, Miss Morrissey.” Hall gestured to the couch as though he owned the place. She stood there, staring at him.
“Please,” he said. “I’m counting on you to clear up a few things.”
“Oh, I see,” Catherine said. “The police have shut me out for the past nine months and now, suddenly, you expect me to help you. Why would I want to do that, Detective?”
Hall spread his hands. “I assumed you cared for Joe Rossi. I thought you might be willing to help him.”
Catherine snorted. “Oh, right, you came here to help him. You came here to set him up is more like it.”
Hall’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not trying to set him up, but it’s possible someone else is.”
That got her attention.
Pam returned and handed her a mug, then tugged lightly on her arm. “Come on, Catherine. Sit down and hear him out.” Catherine sat beside Pam on the couch.
“Thank you,” Hall said. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together between his knees. “What exactly is your relationship to Mr. Rossi?”
Catherine opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. “We’re friends. I met him a few weeks ago, when I came to D.C.” She gazed at the detective pointedly. “To try to find out who killed my sister since the police refuse to tell me who they have in custody and I have no reason to believe you’re following other leads. And of course, then I learn that Detective Sadler was not only concealing information, he was selling it to the highest bidder.”
“Isn’t it more accurate to say that you and Joe Rossi are lovers?”
“It’s more accurate to say that’s none of your business.”
Pam laid a hand on her arm. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Answer his questions, okay?”
Catherine turned to Pam in surprise. “Shouldn’t we have a lawyer present? I mean, what if he’s trying to trick us into—”
“We have nothing to hide, honey. Robert’s with our attorney now, and he’ll bring him into this if we need to.”
Catherine turned back to Hall. “Do you honestly believe Joe would murder Sadler? Why would he do that? What could he possibly have to gain by that?”
“As you say, it doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Hall said. “On the other hand, people do stranger things. They abuse their own children, for example.”
Tiffany’s words came to mind. My mom says Joe’s the most decent person she knows.
“There’s a fourteen-year-old girl upstairs whose mother left her with Joe because she trusted him more than she trusted her own family. Joe’s own mother left her youngest child with him because he can provide more stability than she and her husband can. Does that sound like a person who would go out and commit murder, Detective?”
“How well did Joe know your sister, Miss Morrissey?”
Catherine was speechless for a moment. “What are you talking about? Joe didn’t know Blair at all.” She turned to Pam, hoping for some confirmation, but Pam appeared as surprised as she was.
“Did he actually tell you that?”
“Well, no. I don’t think so. But he would have told me if he’d known her.”
Hall seemed pleased with himself. “I have a couple of witnesses who can place Joe at the same parties as your sister, which implies, if true, that they at least met.”
“Where are you going with this, Detective?” Pam asked, her tone harsher than before. “Do you have some kind of evidence that Joe was involved with Blair? Is that what this is all about?” She picked up Catherine’s hand and held it between both of hers.
“As a matter of fact I do.” He produced a letter-sized envelope and laid it before the women on the coffee table. “These photos were delivered to me this afternoon. You may want to take a peek at them.”
Pam and Catherine stared at the envelope before Pam picked it up. She leaned back against the cushions and pulled out a small stack of three-by-five, black-and-white photos. Catherine watched her, heart pounding. Her spit had dried up, making it impossible to speak. She waited for Pam to say something, anything, but Pam wouldn’t meet her eye. Finally Catherine pulled the photos out of Pam’s hand.
She stared at the first picture. It was a naked man with dark hair and a build very like Joe’s on top of a blonde woman whose face Catherine could barely make out. He was propped up on his arms, his torso obviously midthrust. She took a deep breath.
“Catherine,” Pam said. Her voice shook. The blood was pounding so hard in Catherine’s ears that she could barely make out Pam’s words. “It might not be—”
She stared at the photos one by one until she got to the last, in which both “Joe” and the woman were facing the camera slightly, barely enough to make out their identities. When
she was able to make out the woman’s face, she opened her mouth to speak and tasted hot, salty tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, but they kept coming. Hall was talking, but the pounding in her ears blocked out most of it.
“—shock to you, Miss Morrissey.”
Catherine snapped her head up. “You think I’m upset because these photos are real?” Her voice was thick with tears. She tossed the photos onto the coffee table, scattering them, dismissing them. “Well you’re wrong. I’m upset because someone is going to a lot of trouble to set Joe up. And I don’t know how to help him.” Her voice cracked on the last words.
Pam jumped in. “Do you honestly expect us to believe Joe is a cold-blooded killer? What else do you have on him besides those pictures? Do you have anything solid? Anything at all that connects him to these murders?”
“Does Joe wear jewelry of any kind?”
Pam glanced at Catherine. “Not that I know of. I’ve known Joe for twelve years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear any. Why?”
“How about a ring? Maybe a class ring?”
“Not that I can recall. I’ll have to ask Robert when he gets back.”
“Did he purchase a Georgetown class ring?” Hall asked. “Maybe he left it lying around somewhere. Maybe it’s sitting upstairs in his bedroom.” Pam was silent. “Let me put it this way. If the class ring he might have purchased is sitting up in his room, it would eliminate a key piece of evidence.”
Pam frowned, her expression deeply troubled. “I’ve honestly never seen him wear one,” she said slowly. “Robert might know. We’ll certainly look around for it.”
“Maybe he gave it to a girlfriend,” Hall said. “In college.”
Pam blanched. “I suppose he could have.”
An image of Joe and Suzannah appeared in Catherine’s head. If Joe had given his college ring to anyone, surely it would have been Suzannah. It wasn’t common knowledge that Joe and Suzannah had dated in college—if she told Hall now, would that hurt Joe or help him? She couldn’t be sure, so she held her tongue, as did Pam, who was no doubt thinking the same thing.
