Discretion

by Allison Leotta

  What she wanted was to go back to Jack’s house, curl up next to him, and go to sleep. She wanted to tell him what had happened and hear his reaction. She even wanted to have him scold her for taking another dangerous field trip.

  No. She tried to restoke the righteous anger she’d felt earlier today, when Jack was being so stubborn and blind at Main Justice. But all she felt was a bone-deep exhaustion and the creeping fear that, maybe, she had also been in the wrong.

  Brett Vale peered around his Smart car. It was parked on F Street, across from the Building Museum and spitting distance from the FBI’s Washington Field Office. Through the lens of his Canon EOS 40D, the camera he preferred for shooting at night, he watched the officers drive away on 4th Street. He briefly wondered where the group was heading so early in the morning. But that wasn’t what interested him. What really interested him was that Anna Curtis now stood on the empty street corner, alone. He turned the lens back to her slim, solitary figure. She looked so lonely and vulnerable, standing in the yellowish glow of the streetlight. He had to suppress a giggle. It was perfect.

  Thursday

  43

  The sky was the medium shade of gray that meant the sun would peek over the horizon any minute. It was 5:59 A.M., and except for a lone jogger, this residential street on Capitol Hill was quiet. The sidewalks were lined with well-maintained redbrick rowhouses, many of which were divided into two- or three-unit condos. Residents here were highly educated and house proud but, as congressional staffers, not affluent.

  The SWAT team trotted toward Vale’s rowhouse, through the front door, and up the steps to the third floor. Sam followed them. Four additional officers guarded the perimeter of the building. The SWAT team would enter and clear the place; then a separate team led by Samantha would do the search. Usually SWAT wouldn’t let the case agent enter with them. But Sam had insisted.

  They stood in front of Vale’s door and waited for their watches to read six o’clock. Then they knocked. Announced, “FBI! We have a warrant! Open up!” Counted to thirty. No answer. Took the battering ram to the door. Flooded into the apartment, guns drawn, high-beam flashlights shining around, shouting for anyone inside to come out. Samantha strode in behind them.

  As soon as she entered, she flinched at the sight of a blond woman sitting on the couch. The SWAT members saw it, too. Beams from half a dozen flashlights flicked over and settled on the back of the blonde’s head.

  “Stand up! Hands up!” a SWAT guy shouted at the blonde. The woman didn’t move. “Dammit, hands up!”

  The woman was perfectly still. The SWAT officer swung around and pointed his submachine gun at her face.

  “Holy fuck,” he said.

  Sam strode over and followed the beam of his flashlight. The blonde on the couch was not a person but a full-sized mannequin wearing a blond wig. She was dressed in an ivory skirt suit similar to the one Caroline wore when she was killed. Her blue eyes stared blankly ahead. The mannequin’s vacant gaze made Samantha shiver.

  From the other rooms, guys were shouting, “Clear.” A couple minutes later, the SWAT leader pronounced, “All clear.” No one was home. Samantha snapped on the panel of lights at the front door.

  The SWAT leader pointed her to the bedroom. Another blond mannequin, this one in a lacy black teddy, lay in the bed. In the dining room, a third dummy in jeans and a white sweater sat at the table. The doll’s hands had been carefully positioned around a mug and her head slightly tilted to one side, as if she were listening intently to someone on the other side of the table. Sam guessed that was where Vale sat.

  But where was he?

  Not SWAT’s problem. Their job was to clear the apartment. The mannequins did not constitute a threat. The SWAT team bade their goodbyes and took off. Sam’s own team would do the search. She radioed them in. Then she walked around the apartment, soaking it all up.

  The bachelor pad was stark and neat. The walls were white; the couch beneath the first mannequin was black leather. A sleek black Polk entertainment system dominated one side of the room. Abstract black-and-white photos hung on the walls. The living room had a cathedral ceiling that must have been a bump up from the original rowhouse’s. Sam’s heels clacked on the polished wood floors as she looked around. The overall impression was an exhibit in a modern-art museum.

  Sam cursed when she saw that there weren’t pictures of Caroline pasted all over the place. When Nicole had mentioned that, Samantha recalled the homes of a few stalkers she’d investigated before: photos haphazardly tacked up over a desk in a chaotic shrine. That wasn’t the case here. And if Nicole was wrong about that, what else had she gotten wrong? There would be major problems if the witness who was the basis for their warrant proved unreliable.

  Sam chewed her lip and gazed at the arty picture hanging over the fireplace. It was an enormous black-and-white photograph of a smooth white hillside in front of a black sky—artistic, sensual, and abstract. On closer inspection, she saw it wasn’t a hillside. It was the curve of a woman’s hip contrasted against dark sheets.

  Sam looked more closely at the other matted, framed photos. One was a woman’s mouth, full and sensual, gleaming with shimmery lipstick. Samantha recognized the mouth. It was Caroline McBride’s. She glanced back at the other pictures and realized they were all Caroline. Here was an artful section of her calf; here was the back of her neck; here were her hands. Farther down the hallway, the images were less abstract, more recognizable. In a series of three framed prints in the hallway, Caroline window-shopped through Georgetown, apparently unaware that she was being followed.

  As an evidentiary matter, it was a bonanza. Vale had not only been stalking her, he’d been photographing it. Samantha directed a tech to photograph all the pictures as they were hung on the walls, then seize them as evidence. Nicole had been right. Samantha exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  Where was the guy’s camera? Samantha directed all of the officers to look out for one. As her team searched room by room, she simply browsed, getting a feel for the obsessively neat man who lived here. His closet was hung with neatly pressed and starched clothes. Even his underwear was folded into perfect tighty-whitey squares.

  A small leather tray on his dresser held change but no wallet. Wherever he was, he had his wallet with him. In his medicine cabinet were bottles of Xanax and some herbal energy mega-supplements from a sketchy-sounding website.

  If the apartment were a treasure map, the kitchen was where the X would go. Samantha opened the oven and found what would be the center of her homicide case against Brett Vale: A Fendi purse sat on the top oven rack.

  Sam signaled the tech to take a photograph. Then, with gloved hands, she took out the purse and opened it up. There was a matching wallet. Inside was Caroline McBride’s Georgetown ID. Vale must have picked up the purse as he ran away. And then he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw it out.

  Sam looked at the picture of the pretty student whose life had ended at the Capitol. Before she was a homicide victim—before she was Washington’s most expensive escort—Caroline McBride had been a smiling, hopeful girl on her first day of college.

  A voice interrupted her thoughts. “We got it.”

  Sam looked up from the wallet. Steve Quisenberry was holding up a fancy black camera with a big telephoto lens.

  “Where was it?” she asked, setting down the wallet and taking the camera.

  “Front hall closet. There are a few more and a bunch of memory cards. Guy likes cameras.”

  Sam didn’t know much about photography, but this Nikon looked expensive. It was large and black, with a lens big enough to wrap your hand around and a screen on the back for viewing pictures. Samantha flicked it on. She scrolled through the pictures on the screen going backward, through the date stamps, seeing the older ones first.

  The first photographs were of a stone mansion surrounded by a garden of flowers. The sky was dark, but the lights blazed in the first-floor windows. Samantha recogniz
ed the house.

  “That’s Madeleine Connor’s place,” Quisenberry said.

  “Yeah.” Samantha nodded. “And look at the time stamp.”

  The orange text on the corner read 8/7/12. The night the madam had been killed.

  “He killed Madeleine Connor so we wouldn’t learn about his relationship with Caroline.” Samantha said the words slowly, trying out the theory. “But what did he do with her record books? Are they here?”

  “Haven’t found ’em.”

  Sam kept flipping through the pictures on the Nikon. Now there were photographs of a young blond woman on the street. At first Samantha thought they were more pictures of Caroline. They had the same far-off voyeuristic feel as the ones Vale had mounted on his walls. But the woman’s hair was slightly different, the features distinct. By the third photo, Samantha realized that these were not pictures of the dead escort—the subject of these photos was Anna Curtis.

  One after the other, Samantha paged through shots of the pretty prosecutor: getting into the Dodge Durango with Samantha, walking alone on Pennsylvania Avenue, standing outside the main Justice Building with Jack. Yesterday. Vale must have staked out the U.S. Attorney’s Office, photographing and following Anna as she came and went.

  “Oh, shit,” Samantha said.

  She unclipped her phone and called Anna. There was no answer.

  44

  Jack walked down the hall in his pajama bottoms and poked his head into Olivia’s room. “Morning, kiddo. Time to get dressed.”

  Olivia was playing with Kara and Darren, her favorite African-American Barbie dolls, by her Dream House in the corner. The dolls were having an argument about whether or not to get married. Olivia looked up at him and nodded somberly. “Can Anna help me get dressed today, Daddy?”

  “I’m sorry, baby. She’s not here this morning.”

  Olivia was quiet, and Jack could see the fear rounding her big green eyes. She was wearing the Princess and the Frog barrettes Anna had gotten her. He cursed to himself. Why did Olivia suddenly have to warm up to Anna just when things fell apart between them? Perhaps the two events were not unrelated. What were the lyrics to that old song? “Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” He wasn’t ready to tell his daughter that Anna wasn’t coming back.

  Instead, he tried a straight bribe. “You can wear your new sundress.”

  “Okay,” Olivia said quietly. She usually loved to break out a new outfit.

  Jack sighed and headed to the kitchen. He’d make blueberry pancakes for breakfast, try to cheer her up. Now that he’d been kicked off the Lionel case, it wasn’t like he had to rush into work.

  His BlackBerry rang as he pulled the Hungry Jack mix from the cupboard. A call from Samantha.

  “I can’t talk about the investigation,” Jack answered. “In case you hadn’t heard.”

  “I heard, and I’m sorry, but that’s not why I’m calling. Do you know where Anna is?”

  Jack glanced at the clock on his microwave. “I’m sure she’s at her home, asleep. It’s six-fifteen A.M. How would I know where she is?”

  “Oh, come off it, Bailey. I’m a federal agent. I can tell you two are together.”

  “I’ll plead the Fifth on that one. Have you tried her office?”

  “I called, but she isn’t there. She’s supposed to be at home resting by her phone, but I can’t reach her. And she has a stalker.”

  A tight ball of fear condensed inside his rib cage. “Talk.”

  “You’re recused from the case.”

  “Talk, Sam.”

  Sam told him what they’d found. Jack thanked her, hung up, and tried each of Anna’s numbers. No answer anywhere. He called Olivia’s nanny and tried not to let her hear the panic in his voice. But she must have; Luisa said she could be at his house in fifteen minutes. He strode back to his bedroom and threw on jeans and a T-shirt.

  Twenty minutes later, Jack pulled his Volvo station wagon onto Wyoming Avenue and parallel-parked at the curb in front of Anna’s place. She rented a basement apartment in one of the elegant town homes lining this shady street. Jack had been here only a few times; Anna spent most of her time at his place. In retrospect, that was similar to the rest of their relationship. He had absorbed Anna into his life and made little effort to try to work himself into hers.

  Not that she’d ever asked him to join her at happy hours with her friends. She was the one who’d wanted to keep things hidden. But if she’d asked him, would he have gone? Probably not. It would be awkward to be the homicide chief hanging out with the young prosecutors. He was happy for her to leave her youth behind and sit at his elbow, his partner in a decidedly grown-up life. That was probably part of what scared her about marrying him.

  Jack set aside thoughts that had stopped being relevant as of yesterday. He just needed to make sure she was safe. Then they could proceed with their regularly scheduled breakup.

  He strode up the walk and down the three concrete steps to her front door. The small, high window next to the door was dark. He pounded on the door and rang the doorbell. “Anna!” No one answered. She had offered him a key, but he hadn’t taken it. He never slept at her apartment.

  He turned back the way he’d come. On the side of each step leading down to her apartment was a small potted plant. Or, rather, pots holding the dried husks of former plants. Anna hadn’t been home enough this summer to care for them. He knew she kept a house key in one of these pots. He lifted each one out of its saucer and finally found the key in the third pot.

  As he straightened up, he saw a gray-haired lady peering down from the next townhouse. He raised a hand in greeting, but that just made her scowl deepen. He shrugged and let himself into Anna’s apartment.

  It was dark and quiet inside. “Anna!” he called. No reply. He walked through the living room. It had all the signs of a place that wasn’t in use. The plant in her high basement window was wilted and on the brink of extinction. The bookshelves on either side of her red couch were covered in dust. He walked past the galley kitchen and the little bathroom, both dark and empty. He hoped he’d find her in bed, sound asleep. Perhaps she’d slept right through her phones ringing. He pushed the door into her bedroom. Her bed was made, and everything was neat and untouched. He ran a finger over the striped comforter. It, too, was covered in dust. She hadn’t slept here.

  The ball of fear bounced painfully around his chest.

  A single picture frame sat on the nightstand next to her bed. He picked it up. A rare photo of Anna and him taken earlier this summer. Olivia had grabbed the camera and surprised them by taking a good shot. Jack and Anna sat on a park bench at the zoo, his arm around her shoulders. He was pointing to the camera and smiling, and Anna was beaming up at his face with pure adoration.

  He wondered if he’d ever see that look on Anna’s face again. He wondered how he’d make it through the months and years ahead if he didn’t.

  He had been too harsh with her at Main Justice. She had been wrong, but his reaction hadn’t been fair. However much it upset him to be contradicted in front of the DOJ officials, Jack knew that there was something that was bothering him more.

  He’d been upset about Anna’s reaction when he mentioned marriage. He had known for the better part of a year that he wanted to marry her. But could he blame her for not wanting to become a wife and stepmother after six months of dating? It was a huge step. If she needed time, he should’ve given it to her.

  He went into the kitchen, scribbled a note on a Post-it, and stuck it on her dusty coffee machine. Pictures of Anna and her friends adorned the face of the refrigerator. Jack’s eye fell on a picture of Anna, her friend Grace, and some other young AUSAs goofing off at Poste, drinks in hand. The last time Anna had gone to one of those happy hours, Jack had given her a hard time for coming home late and had lectured her against drinking with work colleagues. He knew firsthand the direction that could go.

  Thinking back on it now, he felt somewhat ashamed of his reaction. Of course young
AUSAs were going to go to happy hours after work. He’d done the same thing when he was younger. What had really bothered Jack—although he’d never mentioned it—was the fear that Anna would end up flirting with some other guy. Jack was too old to go out like that anymore; he had Olivia and too many other responsibilities. But that didn’t mean Anna should miss this part of the bonding between young prosecutors.

  As Jack stepped into the living room, he was greeted by an unfamiliar voice.

  “Sir, raise your hands where I can see them!”

  A uniformed MPD officer stood in the doorway. He looked to be about twenty years old, blond hair in a buzz cut, nervous sweat on his forehead. He had one hand on the front doorknob as the other unsnapped the holster on his Glock.

  “It’s okay, Officer,” Jack said, walking toward the policeman. “My girlfriend—that is, my ex-girlfriend—lives here.”

  “Stop where you are!” the officer shouted, fumbling to draw his weapon.

  The cop looked terrified. Hands trembling, he pointed the gun at Jack’s heart.

  45

  Lost in thought, Anna barely noticed the man coming up behind her on the sidewalk. She was preoccupied with the search warrant and her breakup with Jack. And so she committed Eva Youngblood’s cardinal sin: She let her guard down.

  The morning was hot already, but Anna’s hair was pulled back into a wet ponytail, which helped stave off the heat. She hadn’t gone home to sleep in the two hours since Samantha and the team had driven off. Instead, she’d gone back to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and showered in the gym. She was wearing the same suit, but at least she was clean underneath. After another night without sleeping, she needed caffeine.

  She was headed to the Building Museum, which sat kitty-corner to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. The giant redbrick structure was one of the most beautiful and underappreciated museums in the District. Although its exterior was modeled after a sixteenth-century Roman palazzo, American Civil War soldiers marched across a stone frieze. Inside, the atrium courtyard was the size of a football field, five stories high, with open arcaded galleries all around. The tall ceiling sat atop colossal yellow Corinthian columns delineating a huge carpet patterned with red and gold designs. A fountain sprayed in the middle. There were exhibits hidden in rooms lining the outside of the atrium.