Expose

by Saranne Dawson

  Kate finished her spinach salad, which now tasted like cardboard.

  Chapter Two

  “But I need the information now!” Kate gritted her teeth, wondering how many times she’d spoken that sentence while attempting to get simple information from a government bureaucrat.

  “You could probably get it faster from the congressman’s office,” said the bureaucrat in question.

  The time-honored bureaucratic runaround, Kate thought, then thanked the woman and hung up. The woman was undoubtedly right, but she wasn’t about to call Newbury’s office to ask the name of the dead intern. She’d hoped to obtain it from the more neutral ground of the office that coordinated summer internships.

  In the window of a shop across the mall, she saw a pair of softly pleated and flowing palazzo pants. She walked over to examine them more closely. The dusty rose in the print just might match her favorite silk shirt. She went inside, tried them on and bought them. Then, as she was leaving, it occurred to her that her sudden interest in clothes could well have something to do with Sam’s reappearance in her life. She came very close to taking them back.

  As she was leaving the giant shopping complex, Kate decided to pay a visit to the Falls Church police. Even without the name of the intern and the exact date of his death, she could probably get some information.

  “THIS IS PROBABLY the one you’re looking for,” the police clerk said, consulting his computer. “James Crawford, age twenty-one. He was killed on June 30. Let me pull the file.” A few minutes later, the gray-haired officer informed her, “The record isn’t here. Do you know if there was an arrest?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kate admitted. “Does that make a difference?”

  “Yeah. If there wasn’t an arrest, it’s probably still being carried as an open case. Let me check and see who has it.”

  Not long after, she was on her way to the homicide division, looking for a Detective Coldron. The case of James Crawford, former intern to Congressman Newbury, was assigned to him.

  Unfortunately, the detective was out. Hoping to gain some assistance from the division’s clerk, Kate explained who she was and what she wanted.

  “Crawford? That’s a coincidence—or is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone was in to see Detective Coldron concerning that case about an hour ago—just before he left.” The woman paused and grinned at her. “Not just anybody, either. It was that hunk from CNN. You know, the guy who does their war reporting. And he looks even better in the flesh, too.”

  “Sam Winters,” Kate said unhappily. Somehow, she wasn’t even shocked, although anyone not familiar with Sam’s skills might have wondered how he’d managed it.

  “Right, that’s him. Are you two in competition or something?”

  “‘Or something’ is more like it,” Kate replied with a grimace.

  “The file is probably still on Coldron’s desk. I’ll get it for you.”

  Kate was seething inwardly. Not only had Sam managed to find out about the intern’s murder, but he’d beaten her here. How did he do it? He’d been out of the country for three years! And yet he waltzed back into town and managed to ferret out information like this. There were times when she came close to hating him—very close.

  And she wasn’t even ready to deal with the fact that he was nosing into her story!

  Fighting down her anger and frustration, she read through the police reports. They didn’t tell her much. Like most cops, Coldron stuck to the facts. Whatever he might think personally about the case wasn’t there.

  Crawford’s wallet, which was missing, had probably contained no more than twenty or thirty dollars, based on the discovery of an ATM slip in his pocket for a withdrawal made only a half hour before his death. Both the ATM card and the credit cards that had been in his wallet had never been used, which, at the very least, suggested a carelessness on the part of the perpetrator. One of her colleagues had had his wallet stolen not long ago, and the thief had run up every card he had to the max within an hour.

  She flipped through the crime scene photos. She was relieved that they were in black and white, which somehow lessened the impact of the stain that covered most of his University of Virginia T-shirt.

  Then she closed the file, thinking. Any robber with half a brain could surely have found a more likely target than a college kid—especially in that affluent neighborhood. Furthermore, Crawford appeared to have been rather big and quite fit.

  She returned the file to the clerk and learned that the detective wasn’t expected in until the next morning. After dictating a reminder to herself to call him then, Kate left police headquarters and immediately started to fume again about Sam’s interference.

  It really scalded her that he was sticking his nose into this—and it burned her even more that he was already ahead of her. She picked up her car phone—a luxury she’d given herself last Christmas—and called Geri. She was pretty sure that Sam couldn’t have gotten his information from her, though. Surely Geri would have mentioned it.

  The twins were screaming in the background again. Geri had said that they were cutting teeth. Kate decided that she didn’t mind one bit that her own biological clock was ticking away.

  Geri assured her that she hadn’t spoken to Sam, so he’d apparently gotten his information about Crawford elsewhere. For all she knew, he might have simply pulled it out of thin air. More than once, she’d accused him of being psychic, and for his birthday one year, she’d gotten him a crystal ball.

  Very begrudgingly, she gave him credit for being able to slip right back into the Capitol scene. But she wished fervently that he was still dodging bullets somewhere instead of nosing into her business.

  “So what else is new?” she muttered. Sam had always nosed into her stories one way or another. Helpful suggestions, names of contacts, critiques of her writing. And worst of all, he was always right. She’d asked him once if he didn’t sometimes find omniscience a bit tiring. He’d had to look up the word, which gave her some small satisfaction.

  IT WAS JUST AFTER DARK when Kate got home. Sam’s rental car wasn’t out front, so she assumed he must be out. But when she unlocked the front door and then immediately opened the closet door to disarm the alarm system, she saw that it was already off. Since she’d left before him this morning, she smiled wickedly at the prospect of having something to justify venting her anger at him. But that pleasant thought lasted no more than a second or two, as she picked up the welcome aroma of food—barbecued ribs, a favorite of both of theirs.

  She followed her nose back to the kitchen and heard Sam’s voice floating in through the open window.

  “Look, Frank, I don’t want to hear about how risky it is, dammit! This is important! You owe me and I’m collecting. You can think of a way to get the information without bringing me into it. Go hustle that redhead in Tanner’s office. I’ll even spring for dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Kate had no idea who Frank was, but she certainly knew who Tanner was: the chairman of the House Ethics Committee. The same committee that James Crawford had supposedly gone to after finding something incriminating in Newbury’s office. She clenched her teeth in frustration, thinking about the hour she’d spent trying without success to find someone with a good line into that office.

  She saw Sam set down the cordless phone and start to get up from the chaise lounge, so she backpedaled quickly to the front door, where she picked up the day’s mail.

  “Hi,” he said, coming toward her. “I thought I heard you pulling in. I’ve got ribs cooking.”

  However did you find the time? she asked silently as she sorted through the mail.

  “No more threats,” he said, plucking a ‘Victoria’s Secret catalog from the bottom of the pile of mail. “What’s with this? I thought you were strictly the white-cotton-underwear type. Do you think they really make these things for women, or are they disguised soft-core porn for men?”

  She grabbed it back from him as he began t
o leaf through it. “My mail—and my underwear—are my business.”

  “Right. By the way, you had a message on your machine from some veddy proper Brit named Brian.”

  Kate planted her fists against her hips and glared at him. “Just because I’m letting you stay here doesn’t give you the right to go through my mail or my phone messages.”

  As usual, her anger made absolutely no impression on him. “I called to get a phone installed downstairs, but it’ll take a couple of days. I had to give out your number to some people so they could reach me.”

  Wonderful, she thought. Now half of Washington will think we’re back together—and the other half will be thinking it within a matter of days.

  “I couldn’t get anyone to come and clean the apartment before next week, so I’m going to clean it myself tonight. You could always offer to help.”

  “I can’t do it tonight. I’ve already made plans to get together with some guys tonight. I don’t mind waiting until next week.”

  “But I do,” she replied, heading toward the kitchen again. “Why don’t you just go and find yourself a place to live? You know you’re going to stay in Washington.”

  “No, I don’t know that,” he protested, following her. “I’ve lived here all my life. Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  “How about the West Coast, then?” she asked as she opened the refrigerator to find that he’d restocked it and had made a salad, as well. He’d always been more domesticated than she was.

  “I don’t like the Coast. You know that. Rob and Geri have invited us over to dinner Saturday night.”

  She turned to him, struggling to keep her tone semirea-sonable. “Sam, there is no ‘us’ anymore. And I have plans for Saturday.”

  “I know, but that’s in the afternoon, and you know George never has any food at those open houses.”

  She wanted to scream. He’d moved in, all right. Into her house and into her work—and now into her social life, such as it was.

  George was one of the editors at the Post, and for years, he’d been holding monthly open houses for Post staffers and a changing assortment of other Washington journalists. Brian, who’d called her, was a correspondent with the British newsmagazine, The Economist, and she knew he’d be there, as well. She’d dated him a few times and she guessed that he’d probably called to invite her to dinner afterward. He was nice enough, but his divorce was too recent and he was too eager to plunge into the singles scene.

  “When did you talk to Rob and Geri?” she asked suspiciously. If Brian’s message had included a dinner invitation, it wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Sam had set this up as soon as he heard the message.

  “I called Geri this morning,” he replied.

  Liar! she thought, but didn’t say. Instead, she left him to get dinner ready and went to check her machine. But Brian’s message was gone—erased. She stormed back downstairs.

  “Why did you erase Brian’s message?”

  His innocent look was almost good enough to fool her. “I didn’t mean to erase it. I just didn’t hit the button fast enough. Why don’t you just relax and let me get dinner ready? I bought some wine—your favorite.”

  “Sam, whatever you’re trying, it isn’t going to work!”

  “All I’m doing is repaying your kindness in letting me stay here.”

  “Like you gave me a choice!” she huffed as she snatched the bottle of wine from him, then had to give it back again so he could open it. She’d never mastered the use of the complicated corkscrew that he’d bought—a minor detail, since she generally bought jug wine for herself.

  AN HOUR LATER, armed with cleaning supplies, Kate went downstairs to the apartment. Sam had been picked up by one of the biggest mouths in Washington, so she’d already revised her schedule of when word would get around that they were back together.

  She was rather surprised that Sam hadn’t once mentioned the threat against her. Obviously, he was taking it seriously, since he’d been doing some sleuthing. Perhaps he hadn’t brought it up because he didn’t want to admit to his activities. And she had said nothing about the E-mail message, either.

  The only indication she’d seen of his concern for her safety was his reminder that she should be sure to arm the alarm system after he left.

  She opened the basement windows and set about ridding the apartment of the accumulated dust of more than a year. She was vaguely—and irrationally—annoyed at his failure to take the threat more seriously. In the past, he’d always been very protective of her. In fact, their final blowup had occurred over his concern about a story she was working on at the time about corruption in the D.C. government. He’d expressed the fear that she could be risking her life, and she’d accused him of meddling in her first big story.

  Since the small apartment had been sealed up all this time, the dust wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. But just seeing her old things again brought back unwelcome memories of the deliriously happy woman who’d moved into this house as a new bride.

  Soon after they’d become lovers, Sam had suggested that she move into the apartment. He’d offered it to her rent free, knowing that she was struggling to pay off her grad school loans. But she’d refused his offer.

  The truth, however, was that she just hadn’t wanted to get herself into a situation of dependency. It had taken her a long time to find an affordable apartment in a relatively safe neighborhood, and she’d feared that if she accepted his offer and things didn’t work out between them, she’d have been forced to start looking all over again.

  She smiled grimly, recalling that she’d held out for nearly a month before agreeing to marry him. Buried somewhere in all that fuzzy-headed romanticism, there had apparently been at least a nub of caution. Unfortunately, it was too quickly overwhelmed by a very overwhelming man.

  The phone rang just as she was plugging in the vacuum cleaner. Since she’d forgotten to bring down the cordless phone, she dashed up the stairs to the kitchen. But by the time she picked up the phone there, her machine had clicked on upstairs. Speaking over her voice recording, she asked the caller to wait, then said hello after the beep.

  There was silence on the line and she repeated her greeting, adding this time that it was she and not the machine. But there was no response, and then she heard only the buzz of the dial tone.

  Kate stood there for a moment, frowning. Was it possible that the caller had been one of her family back in Pennsylvania? Answering machines were still something of a novelty to some members of her family. But she experienced a moment’s uneasiness as she recalled the threats she’d received. Then she shrugged it off and returned to the basement, taking the cordless with her this time.

  She finished her cleaning chores and went back upstairs. The entrance to the apartment was off a small enclosed back porch. During the time that she’d had a tenant staying there, she’d kept the inner door to the kitchen locked. Now she wondered what she’d done with the key.

  A half-hour’s search failed to turn it up. But what difference did it make anyway? Locking him out of her part of the house certainly wouldn’t keep him out of her life.

  She had just returned to the kitchen when a noise at the back door froze her in the act of opening the refrigerator. A moment later, Reject strolled through the kitchen door she’d left ajar, and she relaxed. The sound she’d heard was the flap of the pet door, and that reminded her that she couldn’t close that door in any event without trapping him on the porch.

  But it also reminded her that she hadn’t been able to dismiss those threats as easily as she’d been pretending, and she told herself sternly that she had no reason to be afraid of anything—except, perhaps, her overly active imagination.

  Still, she felt a twinge of fear when the phone rang again a few minutes later. But this time, it was Brian.

  “Did you get my message about dinner after George’s affair?” he asked, confirming her earlier suspicion.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid that I already have plans, Brian. P
erhaps another time.” And even as she declined the invitation, she was wondering why. Brian might want more than she was willing to give, but he was still pleasant company.

  “I heard an interesting rumor that your ex-husband is back in town,” he said after they’d chatted for a few minutes.

  “He is. He’s staying here until he gets settled—in the basement apartment.” She decided that she’d better start a rumor of her own—a sort of counterrumor. “This was his house, so I couldn’t really refuse him.”

  “Very charitable of you,” Brian observed with a chuckle. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be so generous if it were my ex.”

  They hung up after gossiping a while longer, and Kate wondered if she wouldn’t really have preferred Brian’s company to a date with Sam. But then, it wasn’t really a date—or so she told herself.

  She bad just gotten into bed when the phone rang again. But when she said hello, there was no response. She was sure that someone was there, however, because she could hear faint sounds in the background—traffic noises, perhaps.

  She said hello again, then slammed down the phone. Maybe it was just someone calling for Sam and they’d expected to hear his voice.

  Or maybe it was someone checking to see if she was home—the same someone who’d sent the letter and the E-mail message. Her number was unlisted, but if he’d managed to find her address, he certainly could have gotten her phone number.

  It’s a classic intimidation technique, she thought angrily. But still, she hastened downstairs to check the alarm system and all the windows and doors, even though she’d checked them before she went to bed. She even stood for a while at the long windows that faced the street, peering through a crack in the drapes. A man walked by with a golden retriever, but she recognized him as someone who lived in the neighborhood.

  Her mind dredged up a story she’d once read, where one of the characters who was planning to break into someone’s house had borrowed a golden retriever to make himself appear harmless, on the theory that this breed’s widely known friendliness would dispel any suspicions about him and his intentions.