Betrayed by Trust

by Ana Barrons

  Joe’s knees gave out, and he sank onto a step. Dazed, he tried to make sense of what the man was saying. “Is she— Do they expect her to live?”

  “That I don’t know,” Rankin said.

  “Where is she?”

  “Georgetown ER.”

  Joe forced back the urge to retch. “I need to go there. Give me a lift, okay? My car—”

  “What about your date?” Rankin asked, pointing upstairs.

  “That woman means nothing to me,” Joe said, hating Suzannah more than he could ever remember hating another soul. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

  Rankin stared at him hard, then sighed. “Go grab a shirt.”

  * * *

  His father picked up the phone on the first ring, but Joe couldn’t speak right away. “Hang on,” he rasped into the phone.

  Detective Rankin had activated the siren and was racing to Georgetown Hospital through the dark streets. It wasn’t far, only a few miles, but time had slowed in Joe’s reality. Catherine beaten. Catherine shot. Catherine in pain...

  “Dad, just listen,” he managed after his father said his name a few times. “It’s Catherine. She went back to Ned’s.” He forced out the words explaining what had happened, stopping frequently to take a breath around the burning lump in his throat and chest. “I want you to call the Morrisseys in New Hampshire and tell them as gently as possible that Catherine’s in the hospital.” His voice broke and it was a few seconds until he could speak again.

  “They’re going to freak out, so please reassure them that the doctors expect everything to—Wait,” he croaked. He turned to Rankin. “Nobody was saying she wasn’t going to make it, right?”

  Rankin glanced over, the hostility in his expression gone. “Tell your father to hang on and I’ll see what I can find out.” He grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket, punched a couple of buttons. Joe held his breath.

  “What’s Catherine Morrissey’s condition?” Rankin asked. He listened, and a minute or so later he hung up.

  “She’s in surgery to remove the bullet,” he said calmly. “She lost some blood, went into shock, but he says the doctors are cautiously optimistic. The other injuries are bad but not immediately life threatening, although they figure there’s some internal bleeding, so...”

  Joe sagged with relief and relayed that to his father. “And could you arrange a flight for them, Dad? Out of Manchester and into National if possible, right away. Oh, wait.” He rubbed his forehead. “It’s the middle of the night. The first flight they can get in the morning. Want my card number?”

  “I’ve got this, Joe,” Robert said.

  “Okay, okay, thanks. Tell them to take a cab to the hospital, okay? And let me speak to Pam a minute, okay?”

  When Pam came on the line she was sobbing. “Pam,” he said, struggling not to break down himself. “Listen, I need you to stay with the kids every second. Don’t let them out of your sight, okay? Don’t leave them with your sister or anything, only with you. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Pam said, sniffling. “I won’t leave their sides. Don’t worry about them at all, just take care of Catherine. And yourself.”

  Joe clicked off, collapsed back against the seat and stared out the window, dazed. He kept rubbing his palms up and down his thighs, barely able to feel the pressure, as though his physical body had disappeared, leaving only a white-hot ball of pain inside of him. If Catherine died, how would he go on?

  “Rossi?”

  It took Joe a second to process the sound of his name. “Yeah?”

  “One more thing I didn’t mention before.”

  A wave of dizziness rolled over him. Oh no, oh no. “What?”

  “There was no sign of rape.”

  Joe stared at him for several seconds, blinking hard against his tears. Finally, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Thank you, God,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Sid Weinstein reached blindly for the phone and held it to his ear. The digital clock across the room said 2:36. Who the hell was calling him this early in the morning?

  “Weinstein, New York—” Oh, hell. He rubbed his eyes. “This better be good.”

  “Oh, it’s good,” the voice said. “It’s better than good.”

  Weinstein raised himself up on one elbow. “Rossi?”

  “No. Just listen to me. I’m handing you a Pulitzer on this one, but you have to agree to my terms.”

  What the hell? Not only did they work for rival newspapers, he and Rossi had been trying to outdo each other for years. “You’re handing me a Pulitzer? I must be dreaming. You haven’t shared anything with me in... How many years now?”

  “At least five. And I was totally uncooperative on the Blair Morrissey case. Are you ready to hear my terms or should I call someone else?”

  Weinstein sat up and pulled a pencil and pad onto his lap. “I’m listening.”

  “Put down your pencil. I don’t want you to write any of this down.”

  Weinstein dropped the pencil. “Okay, shoot.”

  “One. You never, ever, bring my name into it, give me any sort of credit or quote me, other than to say I refused to speak to reporters or that I said, ‘No comment.’ Two. You’re as much of an asshole to the Herald reporters as I always was to you. Three. You will not stir up the dirt on Catherine Morrissey’s marriage and will discourage others at the Trib from doing so. And four. You don’t stop digging on this one until you hit fucking China.”

  Weinstein scratched his ear, puzzled. “Okay,” he said. “Fine.”

  “Not ‘Fine.’ Say, ‘I agree to your terms.’”

  “I agree to your terms. But what the hell’s—”

  “Don’t fuck me over, Sid.”

  “Relax, will you? Why would I give you credit if I don’t have to? So, for what, exactly, am I winning the Pulitzer Prize?”

  “Get your ass down to Georgetown Hospital and ask to speak to Detective Marcus Hall. Tell him you’d like the straight story on what went down at Ned Campbell’s house tonight.”

  Weinstein’s ears perked up. “Ned Campbell? As in the White House counsel?”

  “Tell Hall you want to report Catherine Morrissey’s condition accurately, and—”

  “Morrissey? As in Blair Morrissey?” Weinstein cradled the phone between his chin and his shoulder and started pulling on clothes. The adrenaline was surging like a goddamn tsunami. Where the hell were his keys?

  “Ask him what Catherine was doing in Ned’s house and whether there was any physical evidence relating to her sister’s murder. And tell him if he’ll give you an exclusive you’ll play up the competence of the MPD even in the wake of the Sadler scandal.”

  Weinstein tripped over his feet trying to slip into a pair of old Docksiders. “What scandal? The guy was murdered, yeah, but the police are being real hush-hush about it.”

  “Tell him you’re certain there’s a connection between Sadler’s death and the incident tonight and you’d like his help to state the facts accurately. And Weinstein?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be gentle with Catherine. Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Hey, no problem,” Weinstein said. “And Rossi?”

  But the line had gone dead.

  * * *

  Joe walked back inside the OR waiting room and thanked the young nurse whose cell phone he’d borrowed. Catherine was still in surgery, but the nurse had promised to let him know as soon as she heard anything. There were police stationed in the hallway outside the operating room, and they would be posted outside any room she inhabit
ed during her stay. No one but immediate family and the police were permitted anywhere near her.

  He got it, but it was killing him.

  Most of the reporters would be gathering at Ned’s house, and his editor would no doubt have heard by now that Ned had been killed. What Frank did not know—would never know—was that his lead reporter on the Blair Morrissey investigation had landed right in the middle of the biggest story since Watergate. And had handed it off to the New York Tribune.

  But Weinstein was going to have to work for it. Joe didn’t know what the police would dig up at Ned’s house, but he would never tell a living soul what had happened at his house tonight. He could only hope that Weinstein would pick up the trail leading to the West Wing, to both Suzannah and the vice president—and their henchmen—and stick with it until justice was served.

  If he did it right—and Joe was confident he would—Sid Weinstein would become a household name, like Woodward and Bernstein. His career would go through the roof. And then there would be the book deals, the public appearances. The money.

  With one phone call, Joe had made Sid Weinstein rich and famous. And had most likely ended his own career at the Washington Herald.

  Strange. He felt nothing about it, one way or the other. He’d done what he had to do to protect the people he loved, and there would be no looking back. If Catherine made it through surgery intact, he planned to put a lot of time and energy into making things right between them.

  When Joe had informed Dale French in a low whisper that he was going to the hospital with the detective to see Catherine, his first reaction was shocked anger, which made Joe want to kill him.

  French had known about the shooting—maybe had ordered it.

  But then French had given him a slow, smug smile that signaled he meant everything he’d said and was confident Joe wasn’t going to do anything stupid, like sing to the cops. And he was right.

  Joe sat heavily and rested his head against the back of the chair. His eyes stung, so it was probably a good idea to close them for a while, since he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. He permitted himself to fantasize about his life after this was all over and Catherine was okay. One of the first things he planned to do was call his mother and tell her he wanted Mike to live with him permanently. Maybe if she knew she wouldn’t be saddled with the kid anymore, she’d call him once in a while, maybe even visit.

  Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and found the young nurse standing over him, all blurry. Catherine. He jerked awake.

  “Mr. Rossi?”

  “Yes,” he said, instantly alert. “Is she— How is she?”

  “She’s out of surgery,” the nurse said. “She’s in recovery now, and then they’ll move her to intensive care.”

  “Intensive care?” He stood, registering in some part of his consciousness that the sun had come up. “Why? Isn’t she— Didn’t it—”

  “The surgery went very well,” the nurse said, smiling.

  The relief was so overwhelming he had to hold the back of the chair to keep from collapsing. He bowed his head. “Thank God and all the saints.”

  “They’ll only let her parents see her, but I’m sure they’ll fill you in.”

  Joe rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m so in love with her I can hardly see straight.”

  “I can see that. She’s a lucky girl.”

  “I doubt she’s feeling lucky right now.”

  Someone called for the nurse, and she held up a finger. “I have to go, but you might want to say hello to her parents.” She pointed to a gray-haired couple holding each other in the corner. They were staring at him out of red, puffy eyes.

  Holy shit.

  There was no sense thinking about it. He walked over to them with his hand out. It was immediately apparent that Catherine and Blair had inherited their mother’s good looks, but Catherine had her father’s striking green-gold eyes. Sean Morrissey regarded Joe suspiciously, but took his hand.

  “I’m Joe Rossi,” he said, gripping the man’s hand so he couldn’t pull it away until he’d said what he needed to. “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and I’m deeply in love with your daughter. I would give anything if I could trade places with her right now.”

  Evelyn Morrissey’s blue eyes widened, and she glanced at her husband, who was gripping Joe’s hand as tightly as Joe was gripping his. As though they were both holding on for dear life.

  “You’re the one who used to call her all the time,” her mother said. “And then, after...you stopped.”

  “Broke her heart,” Sean Morrissey said gruffly. “You should have come up to see her. How do you think she felt, losing her sister and then you?”

  The realization hit Joe like a ton of bricks. Catherine’s parents didn’t connect his name with the article that had nearly driven Catherine out of his life. They must not have noticed the byline—why would they? And Catherine had chosen not to tell them. He should be relieved, he knew that, but as he gazed into the haunted eyes of these two people, he knew he had to tell them the truth. He sat down beside them, leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees.

  “There’s something you need to know,” he began.

  * * *

  “How’d you know it was Catherine Morrissey in Campbell’s house tonight?” Hall asked, annoyed. This reporter, Weinstein or Weinberger or whatever had been waiting for him since the minute he’d arrived at the hospital at around three in the morning. He’d asked for Hall specifically. “We haven’t released diddly-squat to the press yet.”

  “Rest assured it wasn’t one of your officers,” Weinstein said. “I have to say I’m very impressed with your decision to withhold information on Detective Sadler’s murder until you have more information. Clearly there’s a connection here.”

  As Weinstein went on, Hall’s antenna went higher and higher. Catherine Morrissey hadn’t regained consciousness yet, and other than his partner—Ah, but Joe Rossi knew. It must have come from him. But why the hell would Rossi give the information to another reporter? And a guy from the New York Tribune to boot?

  “It was Rossi, right?” Hall asked. “Why? You got something on him?”

  Weinstein looked stunned. “Come again? Are you referring to Joe Rossi, from the Herald?”

  Hall studied him. It had to be Rossi or Rankin, and Dan knew damn well he’d get his ass chewed if he went talking to some reporter without his permission. So that left Rossi.

  “Unless you think I’d stoop to tapping his phone or stealing his notes,” Weinstein said, “I can’t imagine how I’d get anything out of Rossi.” His face dropped. “I take it you’ve already talked to him.”

  “No.” But Rossi was the only person who could have passed along this information. So what was his game?

  “I assume you’ll have a police sketch artist talk to Miss Morrissey when she’s ready,” Weinstein said, “to see if she can ID the shooter. The New York Tribune has much wider circulation than the Herald, as you know, Detective, and I—”

  “Don’t waste my time trying to sell me on your newspaper.”

  “The point is, Detective, this is a major news story, and I know you’d like to see it reported accurately and fairly by at least one organization. All I’m asking for is your help in making sure the American people have a source of information that isn’t biased or sensationalized. We don’t need a lot of innuendo and gossip, particularly where a fellow police officer is involved.”

  Hall was half listening while Weinstein made his pitch. Fact was, the guy was smart and he was saying all the right things. And if the White House was involved in this business, then Rossi might know a hell of a lot more than he was saying. If for some reason he was staying out of it—maybe because of his relationship with Suzannah Mitchell—well. As long as he was passing on what he knew to Weinstein, t
he bastards would have less chance of getting away with it. And if Rossi wanted to screw over the Herald in the process, that was fine by him.

  “Detective?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Hall laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Okay, Weinberger.”

  “Weinstein. Sir.”

  “Whatever,” Hall said. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee. No, make that two cups. I like mine with a lot of sugar and cream. As soon as Miss Morrissey is ready to talk I’ll get you in.”

  Weinstein beamed. “You want a doughnut with that, sir?”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The flashlight beam is blinding. No! No more. Please. He’s choking her, and she can’t breathe.

  Catherine? Baby?

  Daddy, I can’t find Blair. She’s in the swamp and I can’t find her.

  We’re here, honey. We’re here. Wake up now.

  Her father’s face was above her, and he was smiling through his tears.

  “Daddy?” Her voice was a raspy whisper.

  “Yes, angel.”

  “I want...” She shook her head. Her father put a straw between her lips and she sucked at it weakly. When she finished she closed her eyes, exhausted.

  “Home,” she said.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” he said, stroking her cheek. “We’re going to take you home.”

  She tried to smile, but not only would her face not cooperate, she knew with absolute certainty that there was nothing to smile about.

  Blair.

  “Can’t find her,” she whispered.

  * * *

  Hall was about to step into the elevator when Joe Rossi appeared out of nowhere and touched his arm. The guy looked like death warmed over—red eyes, a couple days growth of whiskers, rumpled clothing and a pasty complexion.

  “Got a minute?” Rossi asked.

  Hall checked his watch. “Got two.”

  Rossi was already backing away. “Somewhere private. There’s an empty room down here.”