Chapter 15
After a heated discussion about whether they could really just leave Warner’s body in a dumpster, Sasha and Connelly ducked out of the alley and walked a block south on Sixteenth Street to catch a cab.
Connelly had been adamant that they couldn’t wait for the authorities, which struck Sasha as bizarre—wasn’t he the authorities? And Sasha had been equally insistent that they couldn’t fail to report a murder.
So, they’d compromised. Connelly had called a friend in the District of Columbia’s U.S. Marshal’s Office and told him to forward the location of the body to the District of Columbia police as an anonymous tip picked up in the course of the NTSB’s crash investigation. Sasha figured that was more or less true and that she probably wouldn’t get disbarred if the unvarnished truth ever came to light. Probably.
Sasha scanned the street for a cab, trying to keep her mind blank to crowd out Warner’s sightless eyes and bloodied face.
“Do you have a hotel room?” Connelly asked.
“Sure, at the Madison. “
“Cancel it. You’re staying at the Hotel Monaco. I’ll have my office get another room.”
“No thanks. I’ll be fine at the Madison.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here’s what I know about you, Ms. McCandless. You’re interested in the fatal crash of a commercial airliner, you showed up at the apartment of a dead man, who you claim is a stranger, and you committed assault and battery against a federal agent. Your choices are the Hotel Monaco or a cell.”
Sasha stared at him.
A white and green taxi cab came to a stop beside them. Connelly slid into the back seat and waited for her to make a decision. She climbed in after him and slammed the door. They rode in awkward silence for several blocks.
Sasha spoke first. “So, Connelly? Irish?”
It seemed disrespectful to Warner to make small talk, but they could hardly discuss a murder in the backseat of a cab.
“Vietnamese-American. But, yeah, my mother’s ancestors came from Ireland. My mom was a military nurse in Vietnam. My father was a Vietnamese farm boy. Just like the GIs who fathered and left behind kids during the war. Only, I obviously came to America. When she started showing, she was discharged. She didn’t know my father’s last name and never told him she was pregnant.” Connelly recited his background in a deliberate, bored tone that did not invite questions.
“Oh. My dad’s Irish and my mom’s Russian. All my brothers got good Irish names—Sean, Ryan, Patrick—but mom had visions of a little Russian ballerina and overruled Mary Patricia.”
“You’re no ballerina,” Connelly said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
From the bruising and swelling, it looked like he’d been right. She probably had broken it. Sasha couldn’t feel too sorry about it, though. He had been pointing a gun at her.
The driver cruised into a spot at the entrance to the hotel. The building itself was a grand, white-columned presence. It fit right in with the federal buildings in the surrounding blocks.
Inside, the lobby had been remodeled and updated to show travelers just how hip and whimsical they were to be staying here. A fireplace, a water feature, and a beaded room divider competed for attention.
Connelly drew several sidelong glances from the two women behind the front desk but neither mentioned his blackening eyes or blood-stained shirt. The older of the two was telling him about the complimentary happy hour held in the library each evening.
“Would you like a pet goldfish during your stay?” The younger woman smiled at Sasha.
“No, thanks. I would like an in-room coffee maker, though.”
She’d stayed at enough chic hotels to realize that amenities like goldfish and happy hours didn’t always go hand-in-hand with necessities like a coffee pot or horizontal work space in the room.
“Certainly, we can arrange that for you.”
Sasha took her key and waited by the elevators for Connelly, who joined her carrying a fish bowl. A small orange goldfish swam around in rapid circles.
“Seriously?”
He ignored her. “Trinka at the front desk says the bar next door will be pretty quiet on a Tuesday night, if there’s nothing going on at the MCI Center. Why don’t we change and get a drink? We need to talk about some things.”
“Are my options a drink with you or a cell?”
“Pretty much.”
Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller) Page 20
