They arrived at his departure gate and found they had time for a cup of coffee—his flight was delayed forty-five minutes. And they used the time, at Carole Ann’s suggestion, to discuss Warren’s intention to apply for admission to the Bar of the Supreme Court. He wanted her to write a sponsorship letter for him, and when she hesitated, he became visibly upset.
“Oh, for crying out loud, Warren! If you actually can sit here and think I have a single qualm about supporting you, you’re a flaming idiot! I’m only wondering whether my trouble with the L.A. Bar Association will look bad for you.”
He calmed down immediately and confessed that he’d forgotten about that episode.
“I wish I could,” she said with still-painful feelings.
“But you’re reinstated, aren’t you?”
She shook her head, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll have to check with Addie. I guess I’ve been avoiding the issue. Maybe you should ask Addie to write a letter of sponsorship for you.”
“I don’t want Addie to do it, I want you to do it!”
“And I will, Warren. I’d be honored to do it, and I’m honored that you asked me.”
They sat quietly, drinking their coffee and watching the Sunday-night throngs entering and leaving the nation’s capital, those returning from getaways to the Caribbean as easily recognizable as those returning from Vail or Aspen; the political types returning to jobs on Capitol Hill from weekends to the home district as definable by their wardrobes as the returnees from a weekend in New York were by theirs. The place was packed, and not only because it was Sunday night. Because of its proximity to residential areas—Washington’s airport, located in Virginia—was really right in the middle of things. No matter which way they arrived or departed, even following the path of the Potomac, planes flew over somebody’s home. So, flights were halted at ten o’clock every night. Or as close to ten as possible.
Warren looked at his watch. “Guess I’d better mosey on down to the gate and see if they’re ready to board me,” and they both stood up. They were close enough to the gate that they could see passengers in the boarding line.
“Warren, thank you again. And not just for this business with the gun. Thank you for coming and for knowing what I was feeling and for helping me not fall off the edge.”
He put an arm across her shoulders and drew her close. She put an arm around his waist, and they walked down the crowded hall to the departure gate. “I left something for you on your dresser,” he said.
“What?”
He laughed. “You’ll see when you get home.” And then he leaned down and kissed her, and she not only allowed it, she responded, fully, releasing as much of the pent-up emotion as she dared.
Then she broke away and backed up. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I don’t think I am.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and turned toward the gate. “Except back to New Orleans. And that’s not far.”
On the dresser in her bedroom was a box that was heavier than she expected when she picked it up; and even before she opened it, she knew what it contained. Still, she experienced a strong and confusing mixture of gratitude and sorrow and pleasure when she looked at the gun. She didn’t touch it, choosing instead to read the note, which brought tears to her eyes. He really did know what went on inside her. Sometimes with greater clarity than she herself did. She brushed away the tears and checked the clock. She needed to make two phone calls before it got too late, to clarify two points that had been nudging and niggling at her. Carrying the box with the gun nestled inside, she padded down the hallway to her office, wondering which fact surprised her more thoroughly: that she owned a gun, or that she was glad that Warren had given it to her.
When she arrived at work at seven the next morning, she was the last to arrive. The coffee was made and Jake, Paolo, Patty, Bob, Jocelyn, and Marshall were in her office, waiting.
“Did somebody forget to send me the memo?” she asked, eliciting the laughter she’d hoped for; its absence would have filled her with dread, though their solemn presence could not portend good news. She dropped all of her belongings on top of her desk and pulled the chair from behind it over to the coffee table. When she turned around, Paolo delivered a cup of steaming coffee and she nodded her thanks. His action stirred up the memory of Warren’s observation that Paolo “had a thing” for her. She scowled at the thought and he misread it.
“Not strong enough?” he asked, looking worried.
“It’s fine, Paolo, and thanks for going to the trouble. And speaking of trouble . . .” She shot Jake a “your ass is grass” look, which made him squirm. She didn’t like not having the upper hand and he knew it. His look let her know it couldn’t be helped.
Patty, with bags the depth of trenches under her eyes, spoke first and at length. When she was finished, Carole Ann could, for the moment, only sit and wonder, but still not understand. And that is what she said: “But I don’t understand how that is possible.” And she looked from one to the other of them, feeling as helpless and violated as she knew they all did.
“All telephone lines are vulnerable to those who know how to violate them, C.A. Fortunately, only about a third of our capacity is linked to phone lines, which is why they believed us right away when we said we’d deleted all the OnShore and Seaboard files. But because they believed us, just like you said, I knew we had a problem, even though I did not want to believe that anybody who worked for me was a traitor. So I knew a line had to have been compromised.”
“But how? It’s not like somebody could call information and ask for the phone numbers to our computers.”
“For somebody who knows what they’re doing, C.A., it is almost exactly like that.”
Carole Ann listened to some more of the technology involved and began to get the kind of headache not even a good cup of coffee could ward off, but she got up to pour more anyway, and brought the pot back with her. Jocelyn and Paolo accepted refills. “Bottom line, Patty, how bad have they hurt us? What do they know about our clients’ business?”
“Because I don’t know how long they’ve had access, I don’t know. I do know that whoever it is knows everything we know about Ruthie Eva Simmons, including her address, the address of her business, her phone numbers, everything.”
Carole Ann felt frozen inside. She barely heard Jake when he said he’d had people calling her home and the Garden of Eden every fifteen minutes for the last two hours, to no avail. First Annabelle and now her mother. It was too much. And she was too much of a part of whatever it was that was happening. And being frozen was not being productive. She looked at her watch. It was too early for there to be staff at the Garden of Eden; and it was much too early for Ruthie Eva Simmons not to be home. “Beth!” she said suddenly. “What about Beth Childress?”
“She’s fine,” Bob replied with as much of a grin as he could muster. “Her daddy cussed me out good when I called for her. Wanted to know who the hell I was calling his daughter when her husband wasn’t cold in the ground yet!”
“I’m going to try to see Islington this morning. I think he’ll—”
“Islington!” Both Jake and Paolo exploded the word, and Jake jumped to his feet, ready to do battle.
“I don’t think he’s involved in this. Not directly, anyway.”
“MacDonald is involved up to his eyeteeth,” Jake exclaimed, “and Islington’s not?”
“I don’t think so,” she insisted. “Islington is a jerk and a bully, but I don’t think he’s a thief and I don’t think he’s a murderer. And he’s not the kind of man who needs a flunky hanging around all the time. MacDonald’s an associate, just like Islington said, and when his job is done, he leaves. He has his own life.”
“That’s right,” Jocelyn said calmly. “MacDonald’s apartment is the home of somebody who really lived there.”
“But I thought you said it was a mess,” chimed in Bob in an accusatory tone. “And anyway, I thought that was Sanderson’s place.”
“Sanderson didn’t have a place,” Jake said. “Everything Sanderson said to anybody was a lie. He used MacDonald’s address because he didn’t have one of his own.”
“Yes, he did,” Carole Ann said quietly, and they all gave her their full attention. “He lived with Annabelle Islington first in Falls Church, and later, for about a week before she threw him out, in DuPont Circle. Her mother told me this last night. I called her to ask if she knew MacDonald or Sanderson. She knew them both, but even she didn’t know until recently that they were brothers. MacDonald has worked for Islington for more than fifteen years. Annabelle brought Sanderson with her the one time she visited her mother, after she received her windfall inheritance. Introduced him as her fiancé.”
The silence in the room was deafening and Carole Ann allowed a few seconds for it to settle and lighten before she dropped the other shoe. “I also talked to Beth Childress last night. I wanted to ask her if the partnership agreement between Harry and John David MacDonald still stood, or if they altered it when Sanderson revealed his true identity.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Jake whispered through a low whistle. “That makes it sound like the John Doe really is Sanderson and Jane Doe really is Annabelle and we really got ourselves a motive.”
“MacDonald killed them all?” asked Patty.
“Then we’d better go find his ass,” Marshall said grimly, surprising them all.
“Where do we look?” asked Jocelyn. “Unless you think he’ll return to the Georgetown Park place.”
“He hasn’t been back there, but we’ll keep watching it,” Jake said. “And the Islington girl’s place in Falls Church, too, although nobody’s been in or out of there since we’ve been looking at it. Or the DuPont Circle place.”
“Have we been inside there?” Carole Ann asked quickly, rising and striding across the room to her desk.
Jake shook his head. “Hell, no. One B-and-E per week is about my limit. Why? What do you think we might find in there?”
“Probably nothing of interest to us,” she said, dialing the phone, “but Islington doesn’t know that.” She listened and they watched her. “Mr. Islington, this is Carole Ann Gibson. I’d like to see you today. I have information regarding John David MacDonald and your daughter.” And she put down the phone.
“If he’s not involved, he’ll sure as hell call,” Jake said with grim satisfaction.
“He’ll call, anyway,” Carole Ann said with equal gravity and little satisfaction. She asked Marshall to find out what time Islington had left his home that morning and nodded when he asked to use her phone. Then, returning to Jake, she added, “The man is ego driven and events of major proportions that involve him are taking place around him, and without his permission or sanction or knowledge. If Ruthie Eva is any judge . . .” And she stopped herself. Ruthie Eva. She had, that quickly, forgotten about her; they all had. “I’m going to look for her.”
Everyone, it seemed, reacted at once and as one, with such overwhelming negativity to the notion that it startled her. But it didn’t anger her because, almost as if he were sitting there repeating the words to her, she heard Warren explaining them to her, and she understood. She was thinking of a response when Jocelyn Anderson said, “I’d like to go with you, if that’s all right.”
“Fine,” Carole Ann responded quickly, before anyone could object.
“We need to get somebody over to Islington’s!” Marshall said with urgency, hanging up the phone, though keeping his hand on it as if he expected it to ring. “He drives a white Range Rover and that vehicle left the property eighteen hours ago and hasn’t returned. Exterior lights that operate on timers didn’t function last night—”
Jake pointed at Paolo. “You and Bob—”
“—and . . .” Marshall continued, and all movement ceased. “That gray hatchback, the one that ambushed you, C.A., has made three passes at the Falls Church location since dawn this morning. The driver is a light-skinned Black or Hispanic male in his twenties, no passengers visible.”
“ ‘Somebody done fired up the brimstone, gettin’ ready to blow.’ ” Jake sang the lyrics from the Stevie Wonder hit of another generation, rubbing his hands together the way he did when he was ready for battle, and he executed some kind of little jig or hop that might have been dancing. “Get started,” he barked, nodding toward Paolo and Bob. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute,” he said to Marshall, who was already on his way out the door. He turned toward Jocelyn.
“I’m going to get changed,” she quickly said to him; and to Carole Ann, “I’ll meet you in the parking lot in twenty?” And when she received a confirming nod, she quickly exited.
“I hope you all are finished with me for a while,” Patty said wearily. “I need to go manage a damage control operation. And I don’t just mean on the system. All my people are in a state of shock and they don’t understand why I’m not. And I’ll never tell them that even though I didn’t believe it, I had to imagine that one of them was a skunk.” She started out the door, then turned around, brandishing her coffee mug. “I’ll take a refill first. This is a damn sight better than what we serve downstairs in the lounge,” she said archly.
“As well it should be,” Carole Ann replied as dryly as she could manage, winning a true Patty hoot of laughter through the fatigue as she dragged herself out the door and into the hallway.
Jake crossed to her and, knowing what he would say, she preempted him by hoisting Warren’s present and tossing it to him. “What do you think of this?” she asked lightly.
He opened the box carefully, almost warily, and she could tell that he knew what it held. “Where’d this come from?”
“A gift from Warren,” she replied casually. “A reward, actually, for being such a quick study.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Of course not,” she snapped at him.
“Then load it,” he snapped back, tossing the box to her and hurrying out and down the hallway.
She did, and then changed her clothes, aware that if she didn’t hurry, she’d be keeping Jocelyn waiting. Too late she realized, as she was standing between her desk and the closet door in her bra and panties, that she hadn’t locked the door behind Jake. “Tough noogies,” she muttered, thinking that everybody employed by GGI at this moment on this day had too much to think about to react to her standing around in her underwear. Still, she quickly slid into a pair of tights and a long-sleeved silk T-shirt, over which she donned a turtleneck and winter running tights, and over that, her black ski garb. It no longer was bitterly cold, but neither had spring arrived, and it was certain to be colder where they were heading, out toward the mountains and into West Virginia. If she got too warm, she always could begin peeling off layers.
She stuck her tiny cell phone into the inside pocket of her jacket on the left side, and her wallet on the other side. “And where am I supposed to put a damn gun?” She gave the weapon a baleful, distasteful look before sticking it in the side pocket, grabbed her keys, and ran out of the office and down the hall. She rode down on the elevator with several people she recognized but whose names she didn’t know, and she wondered whether that meant GGI was growing too fast. How could she not know the names of people who worked for her? Then again, they didn’t work for her, exactly . . .
She exited the elevator and jogged the short distance to the security door. She inserted her card and was allowed out of the building. Jocelyn was standing beside the idling truck.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Carole Ann said.
“I just got here,” Jocelyn replied. “Would you like to drive, or do you want me to?”
“Are you a good driver?” C.A. asked with real seriousness and expected a serious answer. She abhorred riding with timid or careless or reckless drivers.
“I’m a very good driver,” Jocelyn replied with total ease and a complete absence of bravado. And they both climbed into the truck and Jocelyn set about proving the accuracy of her claim. Not only was she good, she knew
the city. She had them downtown, across the Potomac, and on Route 66 by eight-thirty. Carole Ann was impressed and said so.
“Is there anything you’re not good at?”
“Acting!” the young woman said with real feeling. “I’m a lousy actor.” And there was such sadness in the tone that Carole Ann had to will herself not to laugh; because it was such an improbability that an ex-D.C. cop wanted to be an actor with such obvious passion that laughter was her first reaction.
“OK, Jocelyn, I’ll bite. You want to be an actor?”
“Past tense. I don’t have what it takes, since desire obviously isn’t enough. I was a theater major at Catholic U. Excelled at ‘getting into’ a role. Nobody ever knew it was me on stage, including my parents. But nobody ever remembered me in a role, either. I went to New York and I went to L.A. and I never got a single job. Not one. So, I came back home and was preparing to enter grad school, thinking I’d get a master’s and teach theater, when I saw a recruiting ad in the paper. Why not be a cop? And as it happened, I did very well at the academy.”
Jocelyn’s recitation was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Carole Ann answered, to hear Jake asking her what county they’d be in. She told him, adding the reminder that Ruthie Eva herself lived just across the Virginia line into West Virginia. Jake was still cussing when he disconnected her. She knew he was preparing to notify the authorities in the various jurisdictions should any GGI employees encounter or uncover evidence of a crime. And though the authorities in Virginia and Maryland would not be pleased to hear from a privately licensed investigator from D.C., it wouldn’t be an unusual occurrence, and Jake’s status as an ex-D.C. cop would carry some weight. Not so in West Virginia.
“So why did you leave the department?”
Jocelyn stole a sideways glance at her. “Have you been reading about the D.C. Police Department in the newspaper?”
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