by Linda Howard
Sam parked on Ninth Street, rested her hands on the wheel, and looked over at Freddie. “Listen, in the event that she’s not blowing smoke, there could be some trouble in the form of stray bullets flying at me. I’d understand if you wanted to partner up with someone else until this blows over.”
“Nice try, Sergeant, but you’re stuck with me.”
“I could have you reassigned.”
“You could,” he conceded. “But let me ask you this—if someone was taking pot shots at me, would you bail?”
“No.”
“Then why do you think I would?”
Under his junk food-loving, cover-boy exterior, Freddie Cruz was made of stuff Sam respected. “All right then,” Sam said, attempting to return things to normal. “When you get your pretty head blown off, don’t come crying to me.”
He stuck out his jaw. “You really think my head is pretty? You’ve never told me that before.”
“Shut up,” she groaned, reaching for the door handle. “Jesus.”
“I’ve asked you to refrain from using the Lord’s name in vain.”
“And I’ve asked you to refrain from preaching your Holy Roller crap to me.” There. Back to normal.
The ramp that led to Skip Holland’s front door was a stark reminder of the changes wrought by an assailant’s bullet. Inside, Sam called for him and smiled when she heard the whir of his chair.
“There’s my daughter who blows her curfew and stays out all night.”
“I left a message that I know you got.” She bent down to kiss his forehead. “So don’t give me any grief.”
“Morning, Detective Cruz. Have you eaten?”
“Earlier.” Freddie squeezed Skip’s right hand in greeting. “But you know me, there’s always room for more.”
“Celia made eggs. I think there’s some left.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Freddie flashed Sam a grin as he headed for the kitchen.
She rolled her eyes. “Why do you have to encourage him?” she asked her father.
“He’s a growing boy. Needs his protein.”
“I hope I’m around when his metabolism slows to a crawl the way mine has.” She reached for the mail stacked on a table. “You look tired.”
“I could say the same for you, Sergeant. What kept you out all night?”
“Working the case. You know.” She glanced at him, caught a hint of something in his wise eyes. “What?”
“I can still read.”
“Oh.” She released her hair from the ponytail and combed her fingers through it in an attempt to bring some order to it. “You saw the thing in the paper. She’s looking for someone to blame.”
“What’s being done?”
She knew he meant by the department and wanting to quell his fears she told him of the meeting Farnsworth had called.
“He’ll take you off the streets. Off O’Connor until you’ve testified.”
“He’ll take me off kicking and screaming. I can’t let a useless excuse for a mother like Destiny Johnson get in the way of the job.”
“She has a lot of friends—angry friends with guns. Farnsworth won’t have any choice but to put you under protection after the threats she’s made.”
“If I go under, the case goes with me. I’ll be surprised if they haven’t already picked her up for threatening the life of a police officer.”
“No doubt, but just because she’s locked up doesn’t mean the threat’s been neutralized.”
Sam leaned over to press another kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry.”
A look of fury crossed the expressive side of his face. “You can say that to me? When I’m sitting in this chair incapable of doing a goddamned thing when the life of my daughter, my child, has been threatened by someone who has not only the will but the means to follow through? Worry is all I’ve got. Don’t take that away from me, Sam, and don’t patronize me. I expect better from you.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” She expelled a long deep breath as her stomachache returned with a vengeance. Navigating his new reality was a slippery slope, even almost two years later. “Of course you’re right.”
“You’re to take this seriously and do whatever you’re told by your superior officers. I’m trusting Joe to do his part, so I need your word that you’ll do yours.”
She reached for his hand and squeezed the one finger that could still feel it. “You have it.”
“Go get changed and then come down to have some breakfast.”
Because he was her dad and needed to feel like he still had control over something, she did what she was told without reminding him that she was thirty-four and didn’t have to.
Over eggs and toast, she and Freddie hashed out the case with Skip while Celia helped him with a cup of coffee.
“I agree with you about the female angle, the act of passion,” Skip said.
“We haven’t encountered a woman yet with the emotional baggage toward O’Connor that this would’ve required,” Freddie said.
“We’re talking to some ex-girlfriends when we leave here, so we’re hoping to get lucky,” Sam said.
“You’re looking for a cool customer,” Skip said, slipping into the zone. “Someone who keeps tremendous anger bottled up under a refined exterior. You’ll find she’s been abused or had complicated relationships with the significant men in her life—father, ex-husband, ex-lover. Men have disappointed her in some way and whatever the senator did was the final straw. The breaking point.”
“Damn,” Freddie said reverently. “You two are something else. She sees these things as clearly as you do.”
Celia smiled at him. “It’s in their genes. I wonder sometimes if I should be afraid, spending as much time as I do with people who can slide inside a criminal’s mind as easily as these two can.”
“Enough about our genes.” Sam stood as she downed a last swallow of soda. “Thanks, Celia, for the chow, and you for the consult.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “See you tonight.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” he said with a dry chuckle. To Freddie he added, “She uses me for a place to keep her considerable wardrobe.”
“Seems to me she uses you for a lot more than that. Always a pleasure, Chief.”
“All mine, Detective. The Skins are playing at home Sunday night if you want to stop by to watch the game. Celia tells me there’ll be snacks. Maybe even a beer or two if I’m good.”
“Snacks, beer and football?” Freddie reached out to squeeze Skip’s hand. “Hard to resist an offer like that. I’ll do my best to come by. Thanks for breakfast, Celia. It was fabulous as usual.”
“Anytime, Detective,” Celia said, blushing a little as even the strongest of women tended to do when on the receiving end of Freddie’s formidable charm.
Outside, Sam paused before she got into the car. “I, ah, I just wanted to say thanks for that in there.”
Freddie’s eyebrows knitted with confusion as he studied her over the top of the car. “For what? Eating your food like I just got rescued from a deserted island?”
“No.” She struggled to find the words. “For treating him like he’s still a normal guy, a normal person.”
“He is.” Freddie maintained the puzzled air of innocent befuddlement. “Why would I treat him any other way?”
“You’d be surprised the way people treat him sometimes.” They got into the car. “I’m only going to say this once, and if I hear you repeated it I’ll deny it with everything I’ve got. Understand?”
“Gee, I can’t wait to hear this. You leave me breathless with anticipation.”
“Your sarcasm and significant dietary failings aside, you’re a special guy, Freddie Cruz. A one-in-a-million good guy.” She glanced over to find him staring at her with his mouth hanging open. “Now that we’ve got that bullshit out of the way, what do you say we get back to figuring out who killed the senator?” When Freddie failed to reply, she said, “For Christ’s sake, will you quit looking at me like I just hit you wit
h the Taser?”
“Might as well have,” he muttered. “Might as well have.”
That he didn’t mention her disrespectful use of the Lord’s name told her she’d truly shocked him with the compliment, which made for a satisfying start to what promised to be a shitty day.
*
They found Natalie Jordan at home alone in Belle Haven, an upscale development of stately colonial homes in Alexandria. Red brick, white columns and black wrought iron fronted hers. The home reeked of old money and Virginia aristocracy.
“Nice crib,” Freddie said, gazing around at the well-kept grounds.
“Looks like Natalie landed herself a sugar daddy after all,” Sam said as she rang the doorbell. Chimes pealed inside.
Natalie answered the door dressed in a salmon-colored silk blouse, winter white wool pants and two-inch heels. A gold chain bearing a diamond the size of Sam’s thumb encircled her slender neck, and her blond hair was cut into a sleek bob that perfectly offset her thin, angular face. Sharp blue eyes were rimmed with red and dark circles marred her otherwise flawless complexion. Sam could see what Nick had meant when he’d described Natalie as “quite something.”
No slouch in the fashion department herself, Sam was immediately intimidated. Her stomach twisted. Willing the pain away with a quick deep breath, Sam flashed her badge. “Detective Sergeant Holland and Detective Cruz, Metro Police.”
“Come in,” Natalie said in a honeyed Southern accent. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Is that so?” Sam said as they followed her to a living room ripped from the pages of the Town & Country holiday issue.
“Senator O’Connor and I were involved for a number of years. I assumed you’d want to speak to me at some point. May I offer you something? Coffee or a cold drink?”
Before Freddie could accept, Sam said, “No, thank you. Do you mind if we record this conversation?”
Natalie shook her head, and Sam gestured for Freddie to turn on the recorder.
Sam began by noting the people present and the location of their interview. “Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday between the hours of ten p.m. and seven a.m.?”
While Natalie might have been expecting them, she clearly hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m a suspect?”
“Until we determine otherwise, everyone is. Your whereabouts?”
“I was here,” she stammered. “With my husband.”
“His name?”
“Noel Jordan.”
“And where might we find him to confirm this?”
“He’s the special assistant attorney general at Justice.” She rattled off an address in the city. “He’s at work right now.”
With the wave of her hand to encompass the room, Sam said, “Swanky digs for a guy on a government salary.”
“His family has…they’re wealthy.”
“Can you tell me the nature of your relationship with Senator O’Connor?”
Hands twisting in her lap, Natalie said, “We were involved, romantically, for just over three years.”
“And it ended when?”
“About four years ago,” she sighed. “A year or so after he was elected.”
“Were you in love with him?”
“Very much so,” she said with a wistful expression that had Sam speculating that Natalie’s feelings for the senator remained intact.
“Why did the relationship end?”
“I wanted to get married. He didn’t.” She shrugged. “We argued about it. Several times. After one particularly nasty disagreement, he said our relationship had run its course and we should think about seeing other people.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
“Devastated and shocked. I loved him. I wanted to spend my life with him. I had no idea he was that unhappy.”
“Did he love you?”
“He said he did, but there was always something…off, I guess you could say. I was never entirely convinced he loved me the same way I loved him.”
“Must’ve pissed you off to get dumped by the guy you’d planned to marry.”
Raw blue eyes flashed with emotion. “I was too crushed to be pissed, Sergeant. And if you’re wondering if I killed him, I can assure you I didn’t. In fact, I was quite certain I was over him until I heard he was dead.” Tears suddenly spilled down her porcelain cheeks. She wiped at them with a practiced gesture that indicated she’d done a lot of crying in the last few days. “Since then, I can’t seem to turn off the waterworks.” Pausing for a moment, she added, “I have a nice life now with a man I adore, a man who’s good to me. I’d have nothing to gain by harming John.”
“Do you still have a key to the senator’s apartment at the Watergate?”
“I, um, I don’t know.” She appeared genuinely perplexed. “I might.”
“So you had one when you were dating?”
“I lived with him there for the last year or so of our relationship.” Red blotches formed on her cheeks. “I don’t recall giving the key back to him when I moved out.”
“I need to ask you something of a personal nature, and I apologize in advance if it offends you.”
“Everything about this offends me, Sergeant. A good man, a man I loved, has been murdered. It offends me on a very deep level.”
“I understand. However, my job is to find out who killed him, and to do that I have to ask you about his sexual preferences.”
Taken aback, Natalie said, “What do you mean?”
“Was he into anything kinky?”
Her cheeks went from blotchy to flaming. “We enjoyed a satisfying sex life if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Did he tie you up?” Sam asked, playing a hunch based on the type of porn they’d found on his computer. “Did he get rough? Want more than the usual deal?”
“I don’t have to answer that,” Natalie stuttered. “It’s my personal business, his personal business.”
“Yes, it is, but aspects of his murder were intensely personal, so if you’d answer the questions, I’d appreciate it.”
Natalie took a long deep breath and exhaled it as she spun a huge diamond engagement ring around on her finger. “He was a creative lover.”
Sam used her trademark steely stare to let Natalie know she’d have to do better than that.
“Yes,” she cried. “He tied me up, he could be rough, he asked for more than the usual deal.” Descending into sobs, she added, “Are you satisfied?”
“Were you? Did you go along with it because you wanted to or because you felt you had to?”
“I loved him,” she said in a defeated whisper that set Sam’s already frazzled nerves further on edge. “I loved him.”
“Did he ever bring other people into the relationship? Male or female?”
“Of course not,” Natalie sputtered. “No!”
“Mrs. Jordan, I’m going to need you to stay available until we close this case.”
“My husband and I are due to leave for Arizona in a few days to visit his parents for Christmas.”
“You’re going to have to change those plans.”
Wiping her face, she said, “Do I need an attorney, Sergeant?”
“Not at this time. We’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER 17
“Go ahead and say it,” she muttered to Freddie when they were back in the car.
“Say what?”
“I was too hard on her. I’m a mean, insensitive bitch. Whatever’s on your mind.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
She hadn’t expected that. “Other than the obvious, why?”
“Did you notice the one thing she didn’t say?”
“How about we skip the Q&A, and you tell me what you observed, Detective.”
“She said she ‘adored’ her husband. She never said she loved him. How many times did she say she loved O’Connor? Four? Five?”
Startled, Sam could only stare at him.
“What?” he asked, squirming.
“We might just be
making a detective out of you yet.”
Freddie flashed that GQ smile, and damn it if her heart didn’t skip a beat. He was so goddamned cute.
She started the car. “You know, you can feel free to jump in when we’re interviewing people.”
“And interrupt your groove? I wouldn’t dream of it. Quite a pleasure to watch you work, Sergeant Holland. Shame on me if I spend a day with you and don’t learn something.”
“Are you sucking up?” She shot him a suspicious glance as she drove through Belle Haven. “What do you want?”
“Other than lunch, I couldn’t ask for anything more than I already have. Where are we heading now?”
“We’ve got two more ex-girlfriends to knock off the list, and then I’d like to have a word with Noel Jordan.”
“Are we going to ask the exes about their sex lives?”
“Damn straight.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
*
Tara Davenport, age twenty-four, worked the lunch shift at a high-end restaurant that catered to the Capitol Hill crowd. Sam presented her badge to the maître d’. “We need a few minutes with Tara Davenport.”
“She’s working. Can you come back at end of shift? Around five?”
“This isn’t a social call. I can speak with her in a private space you’ll provide or I can haul her out of here in cuffs and take you with us for interfering with a police investigation. What’s it going to be?”
Looking down his snooty nose at her, the stiff said, “Wait here and keep your voice down, will you?”
“Mean and scary,” Freddie murmured, drawing a laugh from Sam.
“Thank you.”
“You would see that as a compliment.”
“How else should I see it?”
They watched the stiff tap a slender but well-endowed young blonde on the shoulder and point to Sam and Freddie. He signaled to them, and they followed Tara to the back of the busy restaurant. On the way, more than a few patrons took notice of them. For some reason, that pleased Sam, so much so she hitched her hands into her pockets and put her weapon and badge on full display.
“Class act, Sergeant,” the maître d’ seethed.
“The next time myself or any of my colleagues appear at your door, perhaps you’ll consider cooperating.”
