Discretion

by Allison Leotta

  Jack wasn’t on the case anymore. But she’d been around him long enough that she should be able to guess his strategy. What would he do?

  She considered the facts—and the numbers. In four days, two women from Discretion had been killed. She didn’t think Madeleine’s death was a suicide. Whoever had killed Caroline might be covering his tracks. She had to consider the real possibility that more Discretion women might be targeted.

  The killer had known where Madeleine lived, and he might know how to find the other escorts. How could Anna find them? All she knew about the other escorts was their working names from Trick-Adviser.

  The madam’s lawyer might know more. Anna called Jane Thomasson. She offered her condolences, which Thomasson accepted graciously.

  Anna asked, “Did Madeleine say anything about suicide yesterday?”

  “No. She knew this was the end of Discretion, and she was mourning that. But overall, she was optimistic. We talked about the fact that it might be the start of something better. She mentioned the Mayflower Madam, book deals, movie rights, even joked that she wanted a spot on Dancing with the Stars.”

  That sounded more like the reaction Anna had expected from the madam. “Do you know whether she had plans to meet anyone last night?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you happen to have Madeleine’s records or a copy of them?”

  “No. They should be in her home. We were going to go over them this morning before the hearing.”

  “What about the other escorts who worked for her? Do you know their names or have any idea how I can get in touch with them?”

  “No, I’m sorry. She deliberately kept their identities secret.”

  Anna thanked the attorney, and they hung up.

  Where else could she find out information about the other escorts? She needed an unrestricted computer. She considered going to the war room but didn’t want to run into Jack and risk continuing their fight. Instead, she went down to the library and logged on to TrickAdviser. She called up the profile of every escort who worked for Discretion and printed out their screen pages. But there was no way to contact them. Their profiles didn’t include photos. Without Madeleine or her books, Anna had no idea who these escort avatars really were, where they lived, or what their phone numbers were.

  She brought the printouts to her office and studied them, hoping to find some pattern or clue. Nothing popped out immediately, but she was glad, at least, to lose herself in work for a bit.

  An hour later, Samantha was in Anna’s office with a box of items seized from Madeleine’s house. She confirmed what Anna had suspected.

  “The Medical Examiner found no gunshot residue on her hands,” Sam said. “Which means she wasn’t holding the gun when it fired.”

  “Someone else shot her,” Anna murmured. She needed a moment to process the information, but Sam had already digested it. She barreled ahead.

  “She had two cell phones. This one looks to be personal.” Sam pulled up a dual-screen Android phone from the box. “But this one is a burner.” She handed Anna a basic LG cell phone. “Pay as you go, no subscriber information. And it’s the same number that was on the back of the card we took from the concierge.”

  “If I subpoena the records, can you have your analysts schedule out the call records from these phones? Maybe we can figure out who the johns or escorts are that way.”

  “Sure, they can try. It might take a while. I spun through the call logs and contact lists on both cell phones. There’s one number that appears in them both, listed as Morris. And it was the last number she called last night. Might be a boyfriend.”

  Anna dialed the number on speakerphone, so Samantha could hear. It went to voice mail. A man’s deep voice said, “You’ve reached Morris Peal at Dewey and Simon . . .”

  Anna knew the law firm of Dewey & Simon. She’d interviewed there during her last year of law school before landing her dream job with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. The firm had two hundred lawyers in D.C., over a thousand worldwide, and offices across the globe.

  “Should we leave him a message?” Anna said.

  Sam shook her head. “I think I’ll pay Mr. Peal a visit.”

  “You mean we’ll pay him a visit.”

  Sam sighed as she stood up. “Let’s go.”

  36

  Dewey & Simon was located in a glass office building on the same section of K Street where Anna and McGee had questioned prostitutes plying their trade in the dark of night. Now early-afternoon sunlight shone on lunch-bound lawyers and lobbyists as they walked to upscale sandwich spots, pricey restaurants, and food trucks tweeting out their locations through the neighborhood.

  Anna and Samantha walked into a large, airy lobby overlooking a tree-filled inner courtyard. A uniformed security guard ignored them as they breezed confidently to the elevator banks. They rode to the twelfth floor, the highest in the building. In a city without Washington’s height restriction, the downtown would be a canyon of skyscrapers like New York. But D.C.’s height limit, which originally mandated that no building be higher than the Capitol, kept the skyline low.

  The elevators opened onto Dewey & Simon’s sleek white reception area. A pretty young woman sat at a long, curving glass reception desk.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Peal,” Anna said.

  “I’m so sorry.” The receptionist smiled sadly at them. “He’s canceled all his appointments today.”

  “He’ll want to see us,” Samantha said, flashing her FBI credentials.

  The receptionist’s eyes widened. She picked up the phone and spoke softly behind a cupped hand. When she hung up, she led Anna and Samantha down a wide hallway hung with huge panels of cubist paintings. They stopped in front of a closed door. The receptionist seemed to muster up all her courage, then knocked.

  “What is it?” barked a voice inside.

  The receptionist opened the door and peeked inside. She signaled for Anna and Sam to enter, then scurried away.

  Morris Peal sat tall, hands folded together calmly on the desk in front of him. He was a large man with close-cropped gray hair and a square chin battling the forces of jowliness. His pink-rimmed eyes were the only visible sign of anything amiss in his otherwise formidable figure. Anna assumed he’d heard about Madeleine’s death on the news. It was being widely reported. Between police scanners and leaks within MPD, there was no keeping it a secret.

  Anna had read Peal’s online résumé. He was a partner in Dewey & Simon’s government-affairs practice group, which everyone outside the practice called lobbying. He was senior enough that he didn’t have to spend his days writing the research papers or PowerPoint slide shows that were the grunt work of younger lobbyists. Peal had never been a young lobbyist. He’d come to Washington right out of college, forty years ago, to work as a legislative correspondent for his local congressman—the equivalent of working in the office mail room. He stayed on the Hill for almost thirty years, eventually becoming the Chief of Staff for his state’s senior Senator, a powerhouse on the Senate Appropriations Committee. When his Senator became chairman of the committee, Peal left the modest life of a public servant for a seven-figure salary in Dewey & Simon’s lobbying shop. The key value to his clients was the close relationship he had with that powerful Senator. Now his job was to nurture the friendships he’d developed in Congress for the rest of his life. Anna guessed he spent his days at restaurants, golf courses, and on the telephone. As a result, when his clients needed a favor, they got one.

  Peal sat behind a huge black desk with nothing on it but a sleek telephone and an iPad. His floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the trees of Franklin Park. Next to him, the requisite ego wall was practically wallpapered in photos of Peal with gray-haired men, differentiated only by their varying degrees of baldness and paunch. Anna recognized both Emmett Lionel and Dylan Youngblood in the photos.

  A single photo sat on the credenza behind Peal. He and Madeleine, smiling, cheeks pressed together. Madeleine wore a sapphire-b
lue evening gown, Peal a tuxedo.

  “We’re sorry to bother you, but we’re here about Madeleine,” Anna said. “I understand the two of you were close.”

  “You could say that.” Peal gestured for them to sit in the black leather guest chairs. “We were together for eight years.”

  “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Samantha said to Peal. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  “Last night.”

  “Do you mind telling us what she said?”

  He shook his head. “She had been torn—earlier—between going to jail or keeping her promise of discretion. But she made her decision when she spoke to the press. She didn’t need the business anymore. I could support her.” Peal waved his hand at the wall of photographs and gave an ironic grunt. “Frankly, I was more worried about her client list getting out than she was.”

  “So you were familiar with her business?” Samantha asked.

  “She killed herself thanks to you people! And you’re still investigating her escort service? Unbelievable.”

  “No,” Samantha said. “We’re not investigating Madeleine’s business. We’re investigating her possible homicide.”

  His eyebrows went up, and his hostility dialed down. “You think Madeleine might have been murdered?”

  “We’re looking into all the possibilities,” Anna said. She wished Samantha hadn’t been that direct yet; when a woman was killed, the most likely killer was her husband or lover. If Peal realized that he was a potential suspect, he didn’t show it. His demeanor softened, and he leaned in toward the investigators.

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Do you know if she had any enemies?” Anna asked.

  “Sure. If you’re a successful businesswoman, you have enemies. There are bad clients, and bad employees, and rival businesses.” His eyes narrowed. “Belinda.”

  “Who’s Belinda?”

  “She was an escort who left Discretion to start her own service. She was poaching girls from Madeleine. She wanted to be Madeleine.”

  “Have you met Belinda?” Anna asked.

  “A handful of times, I—” Peal stopped, as if considering whether he should speak openly to law enforcement. “Back when she worked for Madeleine, Belinda occasionally, uh, entertained some friends of mine. After she quit to start her own business a couple months ago, Madeleine and I drove past her house a few times to see what she was up to. Madeleine was furious. She wasn’t going to have it. But it’s not like she could make employees sign a non-compete agreement.”

  “So what did Madeleine do?” Samantha asked.

  “Madeleine wanted to destroy Belinda, and Belinda knew it. Dispute resolution can get messy when your whole business is illegal. I don’t know exactly what Madeleine did, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.”

  Anna doubted Peal was as naive about Madeleine’s actions as he claimed. If Anna were a small-business owner contemplating a competition problem, the first person she would turn to was Jack. Or rather, she would have turned to him. She had to get used to the past tense, she realized with a pang.

  Now wasn’t the time to press Peal about Madeleine’s methods. But they’d follow the lead. A dispute between two rival madams was fertile ground to investigate. Anna asked Peal for Belinda’s address, and he gave her a location on O Street in Georgetown. Samantha jotted it in her notebook.

  “Did you know Caroline McBride?” Anna asked. “Also known as Sasha.”

  He shook his head. “I might have seen her around, but all I know is what was on the news.”

  “Do you know the names or contact information for any of Madeleine’s other employees? Or anyone else involved in her business who might shed some light on this?”

  “No, I just know some of the girls by their business names.” He shrugged. “Their real names might be in Madeleine’s record books. She kept them in a safe in her bathroom.”

  “One more question, sir,” Samantha said. “Where were you around ten P.M. last night?”

  His red-rimmed eyes lasered to the agent. “What, am I a suspect?”

  “We’re just doing our job.”

  “I was at home, alone. I don’t think there’s anything else I can add to your investigation.” Peal stood up. “Now please excuse me.”

  He gestured to the door. As Samantha and Anna left his office, Anna decided against serving him with a subpoena. That would guarantee his hostility. If they needed to talk to him again, they knew where to find him.

  Walking back down the hall with Sam, Anna whispered, “To Belinda’s house?”

  “Absolutely,” Sam whispered back. “Let’s find out what madams consider alternative dispute resolution.”

  37

  Belinda’s house was a posh brick rowhouse on one of Georgetown’s prettiest cobblestone streets. A beautiful redhead answered Samantha’s knock at the front door. Anna assumed that she was an escort. The woman was in her early twenties, beautiful, and meticulously groomed. Her long red hair had been blown out then curled into a cascade of waves, the kind of glossy, natural ’do that took ninety minutes to achieve. She wore a green camisole and tight jeans that were so distressed, they had to cost a fortune.

  “Belinda?” Samantha asked.

  “No, I’m Randi.” The redhead looked Samantha and Anna over, then stepped aside. “Come in, everyone’s inside already. You’re from Discretion, too?”

  Samantha stepped into the foyer. “No, dearie,” she said, showing her credentials. “FBI. We’re here to see Belinda.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh my God . . .”

  Sam pulled Anna into the house behind her, then walked confidently toward the sound of feminine voices. She whispered to Anna, “That was consent, right?”

  They entered a living room decorated with lavender walls, a white couch, and zebra-skin chairs. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and the sounds of feminine chatter. Every seat was occupied by a young woman, eleven in all, each as beautiful and highly produced as the one who’d greeted them at the door. Most of them wore similarly distressed jeans and silky blouses. Designer purses sat at their feet like expensive, well-trained puppies. It looked like a photo shoot for Urban Chic.

  Anna guessed these women were all Discretion escorts, here to commiserate with one another over the madam’s death. Or perhaps Belinda was taking the opportunity to recruit them to her own business.

  The redhead trotted in behind Anna and Samantha. “Belinda! It’s the FBI!”

  The chatter stopped abruptly. In the silence, an Asian woman stood up from the couch. She wore a belted silver tank top, black leather boots, and dark jeans that clung to her legs like tights. The other women looked up to her like students to a professor. She was clearly the alpha escort.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “We hope so. I’m Special Agent Samantha Randazzo from the FBI. Are you Belinda?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we speak to you privately? We’re investigating Madeleine Connor’s death.”

  “I thought Madeleine committed suicide.”

  “Can we ask you a few questions about her?” Samantha said.

  “No, I’m sorry. Why don’t you leave me your card. You’ve interrupted me with my friends.”

  “Was Madeleine a friend of yours as well?”

  “As I said, this really isn’t a good time.”

  The rest of the women watched in silence. Samantha turned and faced the crowd.

  “Two women from Discretion have died,” Samantha said. “You all might be in danger, too. We’d appreciate if anyone would be willing to talk to us.”

  “We can offer you protection,” Anna added.

  “What danger?” asked Randi. “You want to put us in the Witness Protection Program?”

  “No,” Anna answered. “There’s no reason to think any of you need to be permanently relocated with a new identity. But we can put you up in a hotel for a while under assumed names.”

  “Hell, I do that every night an
yhow,” a leggy brunette laughed. “At nicer hotels than the government can afford.”

  “Stop!” Belinda’s voice was loud and authoritative. She looked around the room slowly, making stern eye contact with each of the women. “No one says anything else.” The escorts quieted in their seats. Anna could see that none of them would talk as long as they were here in Belinda’s house. Belinda turned to Samantha. “I’m really going to have to insist that you leave my home. Now.”

  Anna and Samantha sighed in unison. They had no authority to stay. Belinda walked them back into the foyer. Anna could hear the chatter start up as soon as they were out of the living room.

  At the front door, Samantha handed Belinda her card and said, “You know, you and all of those women could be in danger.”

  “We always are. That’s part of the business.” Belinda glanced at the card. “But we don’t run to the police.”

  “When was the last time you saw Madeleine?”

  “Madeleine herself or one of her thugs? I assume somebody told you about Madeleine and me or you wouldn’t be here, right?” Neither Sam nor Anna answered her. Belinda shrugged. “No matter. It’s no secret that we didn’t get along. She didn’t treat people very well. She acted like she was all concerned about her clients and ‘her girls.’ That was just for show. The only thing she really cared about was herself.”

  “I see.” Sam nodded. “Can you tell me where you were last night around ten P.M.?”

  “I was with a gentleman friend.”

  “Would he be willing to corroborate your story?”

  “Of course not. You know what I do.” Belinda opened her front door, letting in a wave of hot air. “Good night.”

  She shut the door firmly as soon as they were outside. Sam and Anna walked to the Durango, which seemed enormous parked on the narrow historic street. The SUV had heated up like a greenhouse while they were gone. Sam turned on the ignition and blasted the air-conditioning but kept the truck parked.