by Cynthia Eden
“Yes...okay.”
“You have to pull yourself together for the staff, but don’t tell them yet. Not until his parents are notified.”
“Oh, God, his poor parents. You should go, Nick. It’d be better coming from you than cops they don’t know.”
“I don’t know if I can. How do I tell people I love that their son’s been murdered?”
“He’d want it to come from you.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’ll see if the cops will let me.”
“What’re we going to do without him, Nick?” She posed a question he’d been grappling with himself. “I just can’t imagine this world, this life, without him.”
“I can’t either,” Nick said, knowing it would be a much different life without John O’Connor at the center of it.
“He’s really dead?” she asked as if to convince herself it wasn’t a cruel joke. “Someone killed him?”
“Yes.”
* * *
OUTSIDE THE CHIEF’S office suite, Detective Sergeant Sam Holland smoothed her hands over the toffee-colored hair she corralled into a clip for work, pinched some color into cheeks that hadn’t seen the light of day in weeks, and adjusted her gray suit jacket over a red scoop-neck top.
Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves and settle her chronically upset stomach, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Chief Farnsworth’s receptionist greeted her with a smile. “Go right in, Sergeant Holland. He’s waiting for you.”
Great, Sam thought as she left the receptionist with a weak smile. Before she could give in to the urge to turn tail and run, she erased the grimace from her face and went in.
“Sergeant.” The chief, a man she’d once called Uncle Joe, stood up and came around the big desk to greet her with a firm handshake. His gray eyes skirted over her with concern and sympathy, both of which were new since “the incident.” She despised being the reason for either. “You look well.”
“I feel well.”
“Glad to hear it.” He gestured for her to have a seat. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Pouring himself a cup, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve been worried about you, Sam.”
“I’m sorry for causing you worry and for disgracing the department.” This was the first chance she’d had to speak directly to him since she returned from a month of administrative leave, during which she’d practiced the sentence over and over. She thought she’d delivered it with convincing sincerity.
“Sam,” he sighed as he sat across from her, cradling his mug between big hands. “You’ve done nothing to disgrace yourself or the department. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Not everyone makes mistakes that result in a dead child, Chief.”
He studied her for a long, intense moment as if he was making some sort of decision. “Senator John O’Connor was found murdered in his apartment this morning.”
“Jesus,” she gasped. “How?”
“I don’t have all the details, but from what I’ve been told so far, it appears he was dismembered and stabbed through the neck. Apparently, his chief of staff found him.”
“Nick,” she said softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Nick Cappuano is O’Connor’s chief of staff.”
“You know him?”
“Knew him. Years ago,” she added, surprised and unsettled to discover the memory of him still had power over her, that just the sound of his name rolling off her lips could make her heart race.
“I’m assigning the case to you.”
Surprised at being thrust so forcefully back into the real work she had craved since her return to duty, she couldn’t help but ask, “Why me?”
“Because you need this, and so do I. We both need a win.”
The press had been relentless in its criticism of him, of her, of the department, but to hear him acknowledge it made her ache. Her father had come up through the ranks with Farnsworth, which was probably the number one reason why she still had a job. “Is this a test? Find out who killed the senator and my previous sins are forgiven?”
He put down his coffee cup and leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. “The only person who needs to forgive you, Sam, is you.”
Infuriated by the surge of emotion brought on by his softly spoken words, Sam cleared her throat and stood up. “Where does O’Connor live?”
“The Watergate. Two uniforms are already there. Crime scene is on its way.” He handed her a slip of paper with the address. “I don’t have to tell you that this needs to be handled with the utmost discretion.”
He also didn’t have to tell her that this was the only chance she’d get at redemption.
“Won’t the Feds want in on this?”
“They might, but they don’t have jurisdiction, and they know it. They’ll be breathing down my neck, though, so report directly to me. I want to know everything ten minutes after you do. I’ll smooth it with Stahl,” he added, referring to the lieutenant she usually answered to.
Heading for the door, she said, “I won’t let you down.”
“You never have before.”
With her hand resting on the door handle, she turned back to him. “Are you saying that as the chief of police or as my Uncle Joe?”
His face lifted into a small but sincere smile. “Both.”
TWO
SITTING ON JOHN’S sofa under the watchful eyes of the two policemen, Nick’s mind raced with the staggering number of things that needed to be done, details to be seen to, people to call. His cell phone rang relentlessly, but he ignored it after deciding he would talk to no one until he had seen John’s parents. Almost twenty years ago they took an instant shine to the hard-luck scholarship student their son brought home from Harvard for a weekend visit and made him part of their family. Nick owed them so much, not the least of which was hearing the news of their son’s death from him if possible.
He ran his hand through his hair. “How much longer?”
“Detectives are on their way.”
Ten minutes later, Nick heard her before he saw her. A flurry of activity and a burst of energy preceded the detectives’ entrance into the apartment. He suppressed a groan. Wasn’t it enough that his friend and boss had been murdered? He had to face her, too? Weren’t there thousands of District cops? Was she really the only one available?
Sam came into the apartment, oozing authority and competence. In light of her recent troubles, Nick couldn’t believe she had any of either left. “Get some tape across that door,” she ordered one of the officers. “Start a log with a timeline of who got here when. No one comes in or goes out without my okay, got it?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Patrol sergeant is on his way along with Deputy Chief Conklin and Detective Captain Malone.”
“Let me know when they get here.” Without so much as a glance in his direction, Nick watched her stalk through the apartment and disappear into the bedroom. Following her, a handsome young detective with bed head nodded to Nick.
He heard the murmur of voices from the bedroom and saw a camera flash. They emerged fifteen minutes later, both noticeably paler. For some reason, Nick was gratified to know the detectives working the case weren’t so jaded as to be unaffected by what they’d just seen.
“Start a canvass of the building,” Sam ordered her partner. “Where the hell is Crime Scene?”
“Hung up at another homicide,” one of the other officers replied.
She finally turned to Nick, nothing in her pale blue eyes indicating that she recognized or remembered him. But the fact that she didn’t introduce herself or ask for his name told him she knew exactly who he was. “We’ll need your prints.”
“They’re on file,” he mumbled. “Congressional background check.”
She wrote somethi
ng in the small notebook she tugged from the back pocket of gray, form-fitting pants. There were years on her gorgeous face that hadn’t been there the last time he’d had the opportunity to look closely, and he couldn’t tell if her hair was as long as it used to be since it was twisted into a clip. The curvy body and endless legs hadn’t changed at all.
“No forced entry,” she noted. “Who has a key?”
“Who doesn’t have a key?”
“I’ll need a list. You have a key, I assume.”
Nick nodded. “That’s how I got in.”
“Was he seeing anyone?”
“No one serious, but he had no trouble attracting female companionship.” Nick didn’t add that John’s casual approach to women and sex had been a source of tension between the two men, with Nick fearful that John’s social life would one day lead to political trouble. He hadn’t imagined it might also lead to murder.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“When he left the office for a dinner meeting with the Virginia Democrats last night. Around six-thirty or so.”
“Spoke to him?”
“Around ten when he said he was on his way home.”
“Alone?”
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“Take me through what happened this morning.”
He told her about Christina trying to reach John, beginning at seven, and of coming to the apartment expecting to find the senator once again sleeping through his alarm.
“So this has happened before?”
“No, he’s never been murdered before.”
Her expression was anything but amused. “Do you think this is funny, Mr. Cappuano?”
“Hardly. My best friend is dead, Sergeant. A United States senator has been murdered. There’s nothing funny about that.”
“Which is why you need to answer the questions and save the droll humor for a more appropriate time.”
Chastened, Nick said, “He slept through his alarm and ringing telephones at least once, if not twice, a month.”
“Did he drink?”
“Socially, but I rarely saw him drunk.”
“Prescription drugs? Sleeping pills?”
Nick shook his head. “He was just a very heavy sleeper.”
“And it fell to his chief of staff to wake him up? There wasn’t anyone else you could send?”
“The senator valued his privacy. There’ve been occasions when he wasn’t alone, and neither of us felt his love life should be the business of his staff.”
“But he didn’t care if you knew who he was sleeping with?”
“He knew he could count on my discretion.” He looked up, unprepared for the punch to the gut that occurred when his eyes met hers. Her unsettled expression made him wonder if she felt it, too. “His parents need to be notified. I’d like to be the one to tell them.”
Sam studied him for a long moment. “I’ll arrange it. Where are they?”
“At their farm in Leesburg. It needs to be soon. We’re postponing a vote we worked for months to get to. It’ll be all over the news that something’s up.”
“What’s the vote for?”
He told her about the landmark immigration bill and John’s role as the co-sponsor.
With a curt nod, she walked away.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Nick was a passenger in an unmarked Metropolitan Police SUV, headed west to Leesburg with Sam at the wheel. She’d left her partner with a staggering list of instructions and insisted on accompanying Nick to tell John’s parents.
“Do you need something to eat?”
He shook his head. No way could he even think about eating—not with the horrific task he had ahead of him. Besides, his stomach hadn’t recovered from the earlier bout of vomiting.
“You know, we could still call the Loudoun County Police or the Virginia State Police to handle this,” she said for the second time.
“No.”
After an awkward silence, she said, “I’m sorry this happened to your friend and that you had to see him that way.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you going to answer that?” she asked of his relentless cell phone.
“No.”
“How about you turn it off then? I can’t stand listening to a ringing phone.”
Reaching for his belt, he grabbed his cell phone, his emotions still raw after watching John be taken from his apartment in a body bag. Before he shut the cell phone off, he called Christina.
“Hey,” she said, her voice heavy with relief and emotion. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Sorry.” Pulling his tie loose and releasing his top button, he cast a sideways glance at Sam, whose warm, feminine fragrance had overtaken the small space inside the car. “I was dealing with cops.”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to Leesburg.”
“God,” Christina sighed. “I don’t envy you that. Are you okay?”
“Never better.”
“I’m sorry. Dumb question.”
“It’s okay. Who knows what we’re supposed to say or do in this situation. Did you postpone the vote?”
“Yes, but Martin and McDougal are having an apoplexy,” she said, meaning John’s co-sponsor on the bill and the Democratic majority leader. “They’re demanding to know what’s going on.”
“Hold them off. Another hour. Maybe two. Same thing with the staff. I’ll give you the green light as soon as I’ve told his parents.”
“I will. Everyone knows something’s up because the Capitol Police posted an officer outside John’s office and won’t let anyone in there.”
“It’s because the cops are waiting for a search warrant,” Nick told her.
“Why do they need a warrant to search the victim’s office?”
“Something about chain of custody with evidence and pacifying the Capitol Police.”
“Oh, I see. I was thinking we should have Trevor draft a statement so we’re ready.”
“That’s why I called.”
“We’ll get on it.” She sounded relieved to have something to do.
“Are you okay with telling Trevor? Want me to do it?”
“I think I can do it, but thanks for asking.”
“How’re you holding up?” he asked.
“I’m in total shock...all that promise and potential just gone...” She began to weep again. “It’s going to hurt like hell when the shock wears off.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “No doubt.”
“I’m here if you need anything.”
“Me, too, but I’m going to shut the phone off for a while. It’s been ringing nonstop.”
“I’ll email the statement to you when we have it done.”
“Thanks, Christina. I’ll call you later.” Nick ended the call and took a look at his recent email messages, hardly surprised by the outpouring of dismay and concern over the postponement of the vote. One was from Senator Martin himself—What the fuck is going on, Cappuano?
Sighing, he turned off the cell phone and dropped it into his coat pocket.
“Was that your girlfriend?” Sam asked, startling him.
“No, my deputy.”
“Oh.”
Wondering what she was getting at, he added, “We work closely together. We’re good friends.”
“Why are you being so defensive?”
“What’s your problem?” he asked.
“I don’t have a problem. You’re the one with problems.”
“So all that great press you’ve been getting lately hasn’t been a problem for you?”
“Why, Nick, I didn’t realize you cared.”
“I don’t.”
&n
bsp; “Yes, you made that very clear.”
He spun halfway around in the seat to stare at her. “Are you for real? You’re the one who didn’t return any of my calls.”
She glanced over at him, her face flat with surprise. “What calls?”
After staring at her in disbelief for a long moment, he settled back in his seat and fixed his eyes on the cars sharing the Interstate with them.
A few minutes passed in uneasy silence.
“What calls, Nick?”
“I called you,” he said softly. “For days after that night, I tried to reach you.”
“I didn’t know,” she stammered. “No one told me.”
“It doesn’t matter now. It was a long time ago.” But if his reaction to seeing her again after six years of thinking about her was any indication, it did matter. It mattered a lot.
Continue reading Sam and Nick’s story in
FATAL AFFAIR, available in
print and ebook from Carina Press.
Copyright ©2010 by Marie Sullivan Force
ISBN-13: 9781460388211
Reckonings
Copyright © 2015 by Cindy Roussos
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