An intuition brought words that had never before fallen from my lips: “Turn off the camera, Nelson.”
“What?” Nelson shot up from behind the camera.
Ben studied me for a moment, and then, to Nelson, “You heard her.”
“But, Ben,” Nelson pleaded.
“She’s the producer. Do it.”
When Nelson made a big show of turning the camera off and stepping back from it, Lil’ Bit whispered, “I feel bad. She was nice to me, that girl that got killed.”
“What are you afraid of?” I said.
She flicked her eyes up at me and quickly looked back down again, picking at her fingernail.
I waited. When she said nothing more, I told her: “I’m not going to lie. We can’t protect you, but we’ll never give up your name.”
She hesitated, and then: “That’s what he wanted.”
“Detective Miller?” I said, and when she nodded, “What did he want?”
“He was hounding me for a name. Look at some pictures, he says, but like I already told him again and again, I never did see a face. Everything happened too fast. That motorcycle blew right by me.”
“On the bridge?” I said, barely able to control my excitement. “A motorcycle?”
“Triumph,” she said. “One of them monster bikes, I know some guy had one. So anyhow, this bike came tear ass down M Street and idled at the light, growling like they do. Then it takes off again, on the bridge and stops beside that Evelyn girl. She backed up against the rail, holding her arms out like Titanic.”
“Were they fighting? This rider and Evelyn?”
“Not that I could tell.”
“What were they doing?”
“Couldn’t say. I rolled out pretty fast.”
“But you described the motorcycle to Detective Miller, right?” I said. “That’s what he told you to keep quiet?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he say why?”
She shook her head. “Just keep my big yap shut, that’s all.”
“Okay, so let me make sure I understand you,” I said. “You didn’t see anything beyond the rider backing Evelyn against the rail? You didn’t see Evelyn go over the rail?”
“Nope.”
“What about sounds? You hear fighting or Evelyn screaming for help or gunshots—anything like that?”
“Nope, nothing but wind,” she said, and shivered. “Then that bike took off, roaring loud as the devil himself. I looked back, and she was gone. I told you. It was like the night swallowed her up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
BEN CAUGHT UP with me on the curb outside the carriage house. “Whoa, slow down, Speedy,” he said. “What’s our plan?”
His use of our was a great kindness, especially given the arm twisting it took to get him here. I told him about the motorcycle seen fleeing the professor’s murder, how an official had also asked me not to report it.
“So Ledger knows a motorcycle was at both scenes,” Ben said dryly. “He doesn’t want to tip the fine folks of Northwest they’ve got a killer in their midst with a body tally of two.”
If we were talking about any official other than Michael, I might buy it, but Michael didn’t mind the hot glare of attention. The hotter, the better, and he never worried that he’d close his case, since he usually did.
“Last night, the gunman parked beneath a streetlight just off Connecticut Avenue,” I said, working it out aloud. “Bold as you please. Then he strolls past two witnesses, not even trying to hide his gun, like he didn’t care if he was seen. Almost as if he wanted a witness to see him.”
“Taunting investigators?”
“Maybe.” I pulled at my lip and considered it a moment. “It’s as if the shooter was confident that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—be arrested. Don’t you think?”
“You’re thinking police corruption?” he said in a low, careful voice. “That’s what got you so rattled in the interview?”
I didn’t like the way Detective Miller had talked to Sarah Harden. Then again, the Metropolitan Police Department as a whole was not known for its cordiality toward certain groups of people. But threatening the witness if she talked? Or had Lil’ Bit misunderstood the detective’s intentions? Maybe he’d warned her not to talk because talk was dangerous. Maybe it was for her protection. After all, two people had been killed.
“She has to be protected,” I said. “If that means we don’t use the information she gave us, so be it.”
“More than one way to skin a cat,” he said, winking. “I’ll find somebody else to go on record, and no one will ever know we talked to her.”
“Be careful with your law-enforcement sources.”
“Nah, I think I’ll hit the street.” He wanted to talk to residents along the route on which Lil’ Bit had seen Evelyn. See if any shop owners noticed Evelyn or a motorcycle or anything that might corroborate Sarah’s story. “Most of the shops were probably closed by that time on a Sunday night,” he said. “But what about security video? It’s lucky the vehicle we’re looking for is a Triumph. They’re pretty rare around these parts, and when you see one, you notice it. Maybe someone will remember one prowling the area?”
By now, Nelson had joined us on the street by his Tahoe and was opening the lift gate. He ducked into the back and rifled through a crate until he pulled out a media card he’d been meaning to give me, he said. It stored the unedited video of Evelyn Carney and Ian Chase at the meeting in Rock Creek Park. The editor, Doug, had told Nelson I’d been looking for it.
“This has the footage of Evelyn watching Ian Chase at the podium?”
“From what I remember,” Nelson said before sliding it into the camera.
A series of shots flickered across the camera’s LCD screen: neighbors chatting with police officials inside a meeting room, the mayor glad-handing and the police chief working the crowd and finally, everyone taking their places. Then, Ian at the podium, giving his remarks and behind him, a wall of white shirts: the MPD chief and a commander from the Second District, officials from US Park Police, some suits I assumed to be FBI. Ian was still at the podium, when the video turned suddenly, and there was Evelyn Carney—
“Pause it,” I said with relief. So Evelyn had been gazing at Ian Chase with a nearly palpable heat. “That’s it, good,” I said, and noticed again how she pulled attention from those around her, the gray-haired man sweating in his elegant suit, the bored woman in her gold brocade jacket. My eye kept being drawn back to Evelyn.
“Play to the end,” I told him. “See if anything else is usable.”
From the moment Nelson hit the red button, he would never stop recording, not even when he changed camera positions. This was his method. And so there was video of the meeting as it was breaking up and people were moving about, some making their way to the doors, and the camera swung wildly again, reestablishing for another shot and settling on a corner of the auditorium, where a dark-haired man in a stylish navy jacket leaned back on his heels. His hands were in his pockets, and the butt of a handgun peeked out from his jacket. His face was averted, as he spoke to a companion hidden from the camera’s view.
But I knew that profile anywhere, the line of the jaw, the sleek runner’s body. It was Michael Ledger. His torso twisted as he reached out, his palm sliding across his companion’s waist. In doing so, he created a brief line of sight.
“Back,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Go back. There, pause it.”
The video froze on Michael’s companion. She had Disney princess eyes that tilted upward. Her lips were thinned, tight against teeth, what appeared to be the barest hint of a frown.
It was Evelyn Carney.
————
Michael Ledger had never met Evelyn Carney. That’s what he’d told me, anyway. Of course, Michael Ledger was a liar. Now it was true, he had lied to me more often than I could count, but that was in a relationship. Those lies were hurtful but unsurprising. This time he had lied to me as a source. That was unforgivable, and he wou
ld answer for it sooner rather than later, and in person, not over the phone, where he’d fob me off with some bullshit excuse, if not avoid my call altogether.
Nope, I was going to corner the rat in his nest.
So there I was in the lobby at headquarters, temper roiling, foot tapping impatiently as I waited in line at the magnetometers. There was no real plan. You couldn’t just walk up to the commander of CID. Once you got past the magnetometers, there were armed officers at every entrance and locked doors opened only by swiping an identification card. These made CID, especially the Homicide Branch, completely inaccessible to the casual passerby. Probably the most effective security measures were the watchful eyes and suspicious natures of men and women who expected to be attacked in their workplace at any moment, with Michael Ledger the most suspicious of all.
Years ago, before the magnetometers had been installed, a gunman had sauntered through this lobby with a Tec-9 concealed in his coat. He’d taken the elevator to the third floor and strolled into the anteroom that housed an elite team of investigators, including a young Detective Michael Ledger, although Michael had been testifying at court at the time. A handful of Michael’s coworkers, federal agents and city detectives, were busy working behind their desks when the gunman came into the office and opened fire. A detective was killed immediately, two federal agents critically wounded. Michael’s partner, Abby Sanders, took cover behind Michael’s desk and returned fire, disabling the Tec-9 in what must have been a magnificent shot, or a damn lucky one.
Her back was to the wall when the gunman lunged for her. They wrestled for her gun. She was already wounded but had much to live for. She was young and in love and had a dinner date with her husband not three hours away, and so she struggled with the gunman who killed her coworkers to get to the man she loved. But she was alone and losing blood, and the gunman was bigger and stronger and he wrenched her gun away.
In the time I knew Michael, he’d spoken of Abby only once. Killed with her own gun, he’d said. I should’ve been there. I would’ve done something.
It had been a bad idea to let Michael investigate: working that crime scene, attending his partner’s autopsy, tracking the illegal gun. During a nighttime raid on the gang that sold the Tec-9, one suspect had reached for something that resembled a weapon but turned out to be a phone, and the most celebrated detective in the city emptied his service weapon, killing two men and wounding the others. Prosecutors said it was self-defense, a justified use of force. I’d asked if he’d been afraid.
“Terrified,” he said in a tone that suggested anything but.
“Don’t be such a hard-ass. It’s okay to admit it was difficult. Killing another human being—”
“Is easy with a Glock 9,” he’d said, tapping twice at the spot over my heart. “Two to the chest, love. Always aim for the biggest part of the target, where you know you won’t miss.”
————
A couple of detectives were waiting by the elevator. The older had a thin, intelligent face with pursed lips. He bounced rhythmically on his toes. His companion, younger and hairier, appeared more thug than cop. He wore jeans frayed at the hem and his flannel shirttail out. His badge hung from a ball chain around his neck.
The elevator opened, and they got in ahead of me. The younger detective was at the control panel: “What floor, sugar?”
“Three, please,” I said, stepping in.
“No kidding?” A grin emerged from his unkempt beard. He was giving me the full body scan. I ignored him.
At the third floor, I got out. It was a long, empty corridor of closed doors. At the end of the hallway, a plaque: Criminal Investigations Division. I pulled the door handle. Of course, it didn’t open.
There was a light shuffling behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at the thug detective.
“Need some help there, sugar?”
“I’m supposed to meet Commander Ledger.” I showed him my press passes. He leaned forward with his hands behind his back, making a big performance out of reading the passes.
“Well, Virginia Knightly,” he said. “Didn’t Commander explain the rules? You go up to the fifth floor, look for the Public Information Office. State your purpose, they give you an escort. You know PIO?”
What I knew was that the Public Information Office was a lose-lose proposition. They wouldn’t escort me, and they might even leak my visit with Michael to other television stations, if only to sound like they were in the know.
“Commander Ledger said come to him directly.”
“Did he now?” He smiled with his eyes stuck someplace south of my neck. “Maybe if you’re friendly, I’ll walk you back.”
“What do you mean?” I said, even though I knew what was coming, what came with such frequency it was really very disturbing. But if he was going to be a dumbass and give me the words, I could surely use them now.
“Meaning you give me your digits,” he said, “so we can hang out later.”
“Hang out?”
He took a step forward, too close. “Hook up. Whatever you’re good for.”
I studied the detective badge hanging from his chain. Number 442. “What’s your name, Detective?” And when he told me, I tested it out: “Detective Roark, here’s an idea. Instead of giving you my phone number, why don’t I wait here while you run on back to your commander and tell him I’m staking out his front door?”
He seemed to consider this for a moment, and then: “Why would I do that?”
“Because if Ledger doesn’t come out, I’m taking the elevator to the chief’s office, not PIO, and I’ll pose my questions to her instead. While I’m there, I’ll mention your charming offer to sell out headquarters security for a strange woman’s phone number and a hookup.”
He glared at me.
“Fifteen minutes, Detective.” I pulled out my phone and set its stopwatch.
His white teeth flashed in his dark beard. Not a smile, something ugly. “That phone tells you what day it is, too?” When I didn’t say anything, he went on: “Meaning if it’s Thursday after shift, Commander’s at the Dubliner enjoying a Guinness or two with his pals, like every Thursday afternoon. What you might know if you really had an appointment with Commander.”
“Thank you, Detective,” I said with a genuine smile now. The Dubliner was only a short walk away. “That’s very helpful.”
When I hurried off, his voice carried across the empty corridor: “Bitch.”
Like I’d never been called that before.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE DUBLINER WAS my kind of bar, all dark wood and forest-green walls and subdued lighting, mirrors advertising whiskey and Gaelic blessings etched in stained glass. Today it was crowded and loud with the raucous cheering of folks watching the basketball tournament on the television above the bar. Michael was alone at a four-top, his attention on the basketball game, or so I thought.
“Nice surprise,” he said without looking away from the television. “I was going to call you.”
Another lie. “Save it, you great braying jackass.”
Behind me, a deep guffaw, as a man’s voice said, “Truth to power.” He was carrying a couple of drafts and handed one to Michael.
Michael introduced his drinking partner as Ray Callum, the mayor’s chief of staff. Ray was a slender man of medium height wearing a bow tie and a generous smile. He looked me in the eye, as if searching for something in particular, and having found it, smiled wider. “Very good to put a face to a name,” he said, shaking my hand. “I watch your news exclusively.”
This was emphatically untrue. Someone like Ray Callum would be an idiot to watch only one source of news.
Michael’s cool gray eyes rested on me, challenging. “Should we share the tidings of great joy?” he said with sarcasm.
“Why not?” Ray set his beer on the table. “The administration has informed the mayor’s office that there’s a new US attorney for the District of Columbia.” He grinned and said, “Derek Mantis.”
Of
course I knew who Derek was, but listened to the chief of staff’s spiel: Derek Mantis was the son of a single mom from a poor neighborhood east of the Anacostia. He’d been brought up in DC, a product of the city’s public schools, and was a Harvard Law grad. He’d done a dozen years of exemplary work in the prosecutor’s office. All in all, he was a brilliant and capable man who’d do the District proud, and I liked Derek, but the timing made me suspicious.
Michael’s gaze wandered before it settled on a mirror advertising Harp beer. In it, he studied my reflection, as if I were a problem that vexed him greatly.
Ray slapped Michael’s shoulder. “We got our guy, Mike.” Ray was giddy.
“Mayor got his guy,” Michael corrected. “The rest remains to be seen.”
Ray pulled a vibrating phone from an inside jacket pocket. “I have to take this. Catch you later, Mike. A pleasure, Virginia.” The phone was to his ear. On the way to the door, he pulled the phone back suddenly, his palm over the mouthpiece. “A feel-good story, right?” Ray said to me. “Not a neighborhood Mantis doesn’t know. One of DC’s own, born and bred. Break it tonight, if you want. White House announcement tomorrow at four.” He raised his phone in farewell and ducked out of the doorway.
“Nice of you to clear Ian Chase out of the way for Mantis,” I said bitterly.
He got up and held out a chair for me. “Sit, please,” he said. “I prefer relative comfort when a woman yells at me. If you’re very entertaining about it, I’ll buy you a drink. You still a Jameson girl?”
The Cutaway Page 20
