Detective McGee greeted Jack and Anna’s arrival with a gap-toothed grin. He excused himself from the congressman, pocketed his little notebook, and walked over to them, putting his huge hands on both prosecutors’ shoulders. McGee pointed his thumb at Congressman Lionel and shook his head in disbelief. “You know whose office this is? The Lion’s! He spoke at my police academy graduation twenty-two years ago.”
Jack nodded. “What’s he saying?”
“He was at some kinda reception downstairs, doesn’t know how a girl came to fall from his balcony. But a Capitol Police officer found Lionel coming down the stairway by his hideaway as the cop was running up to check it out.”
A booming voice interrupted. “Congressman Lionel!”
All heads turned to see a tall, dark-suited man striding up the hallway. Anna recognized Daniel Davenport, although she’d never met him. Every lawyer in D.C. had seen his silver hair and imperious gray eyes on the cover of bar journals and the front page of newspapers. At $1,000 an hour, Davenport had represented CEOs and elected officials in the country’s most notorious white-collar criminal cases. It was said that in thirty years, none of his clients had ever gone to jail—and that his cases more often ended with the prosecutors facing charges for misconduct. If they got anything wrong tonight, Anna knew, Davenport would hammer them.
Davenport walked between Lionel and the female agent and whispered something in Lionel’s ear. Lionel took a step away from the agent and pointed to two men in suits being interviewed by MPD officers.
“Stanley. Brett. Come here,” Davenport commanded. The two men looked nervously from him to the police officers questioning them. “Right now!” The men complied, like puppies being called to their owner.
Jack walked toward Davenport, with Anna and McGee following close behind.
“Hello, Daniel,” Jack said. “Nice to see you. What’s going on here?”
“Good evening, Jack. I represent the congressman. He and his staff would love to answer these officers’ questions, but I simply can’t allow that until I know more about what’s happened.”
The congressman himself didn’t say anything. His lawyer must have told him to keep his mouth shut. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking distinguished and contemplative. But Anna could see the sweat beading his salt-and-pepper hairline, despite the arctic air-conditioning. She was disappointed in him. It was his right not to talk to the police, but she expected better from a public official.
“You have their contact information, and here’s mine.” Davenport handed Jack his business card. “I’d ask that you let these men go home.”
“Go home! They’re suspects in a criminal case,” said the female agent. She’d come over to stand next to Jack.
The chief of staff puffed up his chest even further. The legislative director regarded her with icy disdain. The congressman looked sick. Davenport took a step forward, so he was standing between them and the agent.
“That’s precisely the reason they won’t consent to be interviewed,” Davenport said. “Unless you’re arresting them for something, you’ve got no grounds to keep them here. And I’m sorry, but you are who?”
“Samantha Randazzo. FBI, Violent Crime squad.” She put her hands on her hips, drawing back her jacket and exposing the Glock holstered behind her badge. The agent was in her early thirties, slim and athletic. Her heels were a little higher—and her black pantsuit a little tighter—than the average cop’s. Curly black hair spiraled past her shoulders. She turned to Jack. “Any grounds to arrest them as material witnesses?”
Anna shook her head, and saw Jack doing the same. It would be convenient to haul everybody in to the police station and force them to answer questions, but that wasn’t how the system worked. Without probable cause to believe that one of these men had committed a crime, or proof that the men had material evidence and would flee to avoid testifying, there was no legal basis to detain them. The police could take the names of everyone in the building, but they couldn’t keep them locked in there.
Jack turned to the congressman and his staffers. “You’re not under arrest. But Detective McGee will give you subpoenas to appear in the grand jury tomorrow.”
“Too soon,” Davenport said. “They’ll need time to meet with counsel, to decide whether to waive any Fifth Amendment privileges.”
He knew exactly what to say to delay things, Anna noted with equal parts admiration and annoyance.
“Tuesday, then,” Jack said. He looked at the men in suits. “Two days is enough. If you skip out of town while you’re under subpoena, I’ll send the U.S. Marshals after you.”
The congressman and his two staffers nodded. But Davenport wasn’t finished. He pointed to the police officers in the hideaway. “Now we need to prevent these overeager officers from violating the Constitution and compromising their own investigation. Please tell these well-meaning men and women that the Speech or Debate Clause requires them to leave my client’s office.”
“Those are just Capitol Police,” McGee said. “We still need to process this as a homicide scene.”
“No,” Davenport said. “You’ve read the Jefferson case? I can see you haven’t. Suffice it to say that any items you seize from my client’s legislative office will be suppressed, and if those officers don’t leave right now, you all risk being sanctioned.”
Everyone in the U.S. Attorney’s Office had heard the basics of the Jefferson case—the FBI found $90,000 in a congressman’s freezer at home, but because of the Speech or Debate Clause, they weren’t allowed to search his office.
Anna’s youth was actually an advantage here. She’d studied the Jefferson decision as a student at Harvard Law School. She knew Davenport was right.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked Jack.
Davenport looked surprised that the young pup was interrupting the big dogs. But Jack nodded to Anna, and motioned for McGee and Samantha to join them. The four of them went around the corner and stood in a huddle.
“He has a point,” Anna said softly. “There’s only ever been one search of a congressman’s office in all of American history—and the appeals court held it to be illegal. The Speech or Debate Clause protects legislators from interference by the executive branch, even when looking for evidence of crime.”
McGee looked incredulous. “You mean a congressman can kill somebody just as long as he does it in his office?”
“No, he doesn’t get a pass. He can be prosecuted, but not with evidence arising from his legislative activity. It’s about separation of powers between the branches of government. In Jefferson, the FBI walled off the prosecution team from the search team, but the Court of Appeals still held the search to be illegal. If we search his office and disturb his legislative papers, anything we find could be suppressed.”
“What if there’s blood or fingerprints on his papers?” Samantha demanded.
Anna turned to McGee. “Will blood or fingerprints degrade overnight?”
“No.”
“Let’s call the judge in chambers,” Anna said. “We can apply for a warrant tonight. Even if the judge wants to hold a hearing, we could probably be in court before seven tomorrow morning.”
Samantha looked furious. “There’s no reason to wait on this. Throwing someone from a balcony is not a legislative act. Any judge will let us go in there and process the crime scene.”
The strength of the agent’s reaction made Anna pause. Was she being too cautious now, because of the scandal she’d gone through last year? She hoped not. “I think you’re right,” Anna said. “But it’s worth waiting a few hours to make sure we can keep the evidence we find.”
“The killer could be gone in eight hours,” Samantha snapped.
Anna narrowed her eyes. This agent was getting on her nerves.
“All right.” Jack stepped between the two women and held up his hands. “We’ll do this with a warrant and a judge’s signature. I’ll call the judge in chambers. She’ll probably let Daven
port file something, and hold a hearing in the morning. Meanwhile, we’ll post MPD officers outside the office.”
Anna nodded. “I can brief the Speech or Debate Clause for the warrant application.”
“Don’t work all night,” Jack said. “You need some sleep if you’re gonna argue this tomorrow.”
“You’re letting her argue the motion?” Samantha asked Jack.
“I don’t know the Speech or Debate Clause,” Jack said, “and Anna does. She’ll get the warrant, and the police will be back in there to do a search by mid-morning.”
“If not,” Samantha said, glaring at Anna, “we’ll know who to blame.”
Turn the page for a peek at the next novel from
ALLISON LEOTTA
SPEAK OF THE DEVIL
Coming soon from Touchstone
1
Anna fiddled with the napkin on her lap and willed her stomach to calm. Get it together, Curtis. In court, she was tough. She was fearless. As a sex-crimes prosecutor in D.C., she looked in the eyes of the city’s most dangerous men, pointed at them, and described the worst things they’d ever done. But this was different.
This was her life. And tonight she had to execute the most important personal decision she’d ever made.
The Tabard Inn consistently ranked as one of the most romantic restaurants in D.C., which was why she’d chosen it. The evening was warm and clear, and she’d scored a table in the outdoor courtyard. Waves of ivy covered the brick walls; patches of dark sky peeked through a canopy of potted trees. Attractive diners sat around candlelit tables, swirling expensive glasses of wine. The setting was perfect.
Now if the guy would only show up.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced down hopefully, but the message was work-related.
Det. Hector Ramos: Parking near brothel. Heading in soon.
She texted back.
Good. Be safe.
She set the phone down and watched the door, wondering when Jack would walk through—and how it would feel to meet his eyes now that she’d made her decision. He was ten minutes late, which wasn’t like him. Maybe he wasn’t coming. That wouldn’t be surprising, given their recent history. She would either have the most romantic moment of her life or crushing humiliation. She felt like the Bachelorette, only with slightly less cleavage showing.
• • •
Two miles away, Tierra Guerrero counted the lines radiating from the circle of rotten ceiling. Seven. Not a perfect spider, then, but nobody’s perfect. She was just glad to have something to look at. The ceilings she worked under became intimately familiar, and the spidery crack provided a welcome distraction.
It was distracting her, even now, from Ricardo’s wet grunts in her ear. His red face bobbed a few inches above hers; his humid breath filled her lungs. The bed rocked with his relentless pumping. Most johns were limited to fifteen minutes, but the brothel owner could go as long as he wanted.
Her hips ached from being pummeled against the mattress all day. She wanted a hot shower, dinner, and a long night’s sleep. “Ooh.” She ran her fingers down Ricardo’s back and tried to sound like a woman overcome with lust. “Sí, sí, sí.” To her ears, the moans sounded lame, but most dates responded to even the feeblest signs of passion. Ricardo was no different. He squeezed her arms and pumped faster.
The room was small and shabby, lit by a cheap bedside lamp. A sheet hung from the ceiling, separating two sagging mattresses. The privacy curtain was unnecessary at the moment, though—the other mattress was empty. Tierra was the only girl working today, which meant lots of money, but also lots of wear and tear. She glanced longingly at the stack of poker chips on the nightstand. She hoped Ricardo would be fair when she exchanged the chips for cash. She was supposed to get half the money from her tricks, but Ricardo seemed like the slippery type. She sighed and went back to watching the spidery crack. How much longer could he keep this up?
The sound of male voices drifted in from the living room. They were louder and angrier than the usual murmur of men waiting their turn. She glanced at Ricardo, but his eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched in ecstasy. His body might be on top of hers, but his mind was far away.
The bedroom door burst open and crashed into the wall. Three young men strode in, all wearing trenchcoats, all carrying machetes. Tierra tried to sit up, but she was pinned by the brothel owner’s body.
“Ricardo!” she screamed.
Too late.
One of the men hitched an arm around Ricardo’s neck and yanked him off her. He slammed the owner against the wall, held the machete to his throat, and spoke in a low growl.
“This is for the Mara Salvatrucha.”
• • •
The unmarked Jeep Cherokee pulled to the curb two blocks from the brothel. Three of the four officers wore bulletproof vests with the word POLICE stamped in white letters. Only Hector Ramos wore jeans and a black T-shirt. The only Hispanic detective on D.C.’s Human Trafficking Task Force, Hector played the undercover “customer” in many of the brothel busts in the city.
“She’s not a lesbian,” Hector said, tucking the transmitter into his front pocket.
“Of course she is,” said Ralph. “I have proof.”
“She said ‘no’ when you asked her out?”
“Exactly.”
“That’d make half the women in D.C. lesbians.”
The guys in the back laughed.
“Your mother didn’t say no.”
“That’s the best you got?” Hector said. “Mama jokes? No wonder she turned you down.”
“Your mother loved my jokes.” Ralph took a swig of coffee. “Seriously, though. Why won’t she date police?”
“Lady like that wants a hero.” Hector put his real wallet into the glove compartment and stuffed the decoy wallet into his back pocket. “Not a bunch of children.”
He knew the guys would talk about Anna Curtis the whole time he was gone. The prosecutor was beautiful, friendly, and single. She was both a diversion and an enigma to the police who worked with her. Hector was considering asking her out himself—he might stand a better chance than most. If this bust went well, maybe he’d ask her to go to the firing range or grab drinks after work one night.
He reached around and patted his lower back. His fingers rested momentarily on the Glock, solid and reassuring, tucked into his jeans. He opened the door.
“You boys gonna be okay in this big car all by yourselves?”
“Get the fuck outta here,” Ralph laughed.
“Good luck,” called a voice from the backseat. The UC work was the riskiest part of the operation.
“I don’t need luck.” Hector stepped out of the Jeep. “I got you guys watching my back.” He shut the door and walked toward the brothel.
2
Anna watched the restaurant’s inner door swing open, and Jack finally strode into the Tabard Inn’s courtyard. Broad-shouldered, a couple inches north of six feet tall, Jack always made an impression when he walked into a room. He had smooth brown skin and light green eyes, and wore his head cleanly shaved. Tonight, he’d traded his usual suit for dark jeans and a white linen button-down shirt, allowing her a glimpse of the dark copper skin of his chest.
He walked with easy grace across the brick patio to her. She noticed some other diners—mostly women, but a few men—watching him. Anna stood nervously, causing her napkin to fall off her lap. She leaned to pick it up; when she stood again, Jack was next to her. She tipped her head up to meet his eyes, wondering what kind of reception she would find there. He smiled at her, warily, but with real warmth, and her heart did a happy little dance.
“Hello, Anna.” His voice was a deep baritone, incredibly sexy when it was this soft.
“Hi.” Being this close to him made her feel a little shaky, in the best way.
They paused, unsure how to greet each other after all this time. She closed the space between them, put her hand on his bicep, and leaned up to kiss his cheek. It was freshly shaved
smooth, but his scent was what really got to her. Soap, clean linen, and the fresh peppermint that his daughter put in his pocket every morning. He was the one who pulled her the final few inches into a hug. She rested her forehead against his jawbone, closed her eyes, and let her nose almost graze the side of his neck as she breathed him in.
“It’s good to see you,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
When she opened her eyes, much of the conversation on the patio had stopped. People were looking at them. She cleared her throat and stepped back, feigning nonchalance. She was used to the stares. Jack was African-American, born and bred in D.C., street-smart with a professorial edge. She was blond and blue-eyed, slowly learning to tamp down her earnest Midwestern smile. Even in the diverse District, they drew the occasional double-take.
“You look beautiful,” Jack said. “Tall.”
“You too,” she laughed. The four-inch heels she wore with her little black dress were a departure. Even with the extra height, she was two inches shorter than Jack. She felt both glamorous and unsteady.
They sat at the round iron table, the candle throwing soft light onto Jack’s angular cheekbones. A waiter came and gestured to the wine list. She didn’t know wine, so she just chose a bottle of champagne in the middle. It cost more than she’d normally spend on groceries for a week, but what the hell, it might be the biggest night of her life. Jack raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment.
“Thanks for coming,” she said.
“Of course. Your call was unexpected—but welcome.”
Welcome was good. Welcome meant she had a chance.
During their big fight, Anna had been furious at him. But with the passage of time and the perspective that came with it, she realized that she’d been at least partially wrong. Okay, mostly wrong. But that fight was just a symptom of a much larger problem: that Jack had wanted a long-term commitment, while she remained uncertain.
Law of Attraction Page 33
