by Ana Barrons
Hall’s gaze roamed between them, as though he were following their thoughts. Catherine squirmed. Finally he scooped up the photos, reached inside his jacket and handed her and Pam each a card. “If you think of anything else, please call me right away.”
Catherine dropped the card on the table. “Joe didn’t do it. He couldn’t have. Someone’s setting him up.” She paused and made a decision. If there was ever a time to put forward her theory, this was it. The worse that could happen was that Hall would figure she was crazy or making things up to help Joe.
“I think Ned Campbell is setting him up,” she said. “Maybe you ought to pull him in for questioning.”
To her surprise, Hall’s eyes flashed with interest. “Ned Campbell? The White House counsel? What makes you think he has anything to do with this?
“What if you had something that connected Ned to Sadler?” she asked. “Not necessarily anything you could take to court, but something that convinced you Ned was involved.”
“Like what?”
“Like...I don’t know. Evidence that Ned was blackmailing Sadler. Would you bring him in for questioning?”
“You’re suggesting Ned Campbell was blackmailing Sadler so that he’d blow the investigation?”
Catherine nodded. “And then Sadler got scared and tried to sell the Herald some evidence so he could disappear. Joe said he wanted to buy a place in the islands.”
Hall sat very still, unblinking. “Go on.”
Catherine lowered her head, gathering her thoughts. She didn’t want to give too much away, not until she had the tapes in hand and had thought through the legal ramifications of taking them from Ned’s house.
“Miss Morrissey,” Hall said. “If you know something that connects Mr. Campbell to Detective Sadler’s murder—or your sister’s—you really should tell me right now.”
“I can’t do that. Not yet. But I’ll get back to you with what I, um, come up with.”
Hall’s frown deepened. “Bring me some evidence and I’ll take a look, but I urge you not to do anything illegal to get it. I don’t want to have to put you behind bars instead of him.”
“I’m not stupid, Detective.”
“No,” he said. “What you are is much more dangerous.”
“And what might that be?”
“In love.” He stood. “Mind if I check out the basement?”
* * *
Catherine stood at Joe’s bedroom window watching Robert back his Explorer out of the driveway. Joe had asked him to get the kids out of the house and away from Washington before the media descended on them. Hopefully, he would be released before the kids knew he’d been arrested. Rather than go all the way home to St. Michaels on the eastern shore of Maryland, Robert and Pam had decided to take the kids to Pam’s sister’s house near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, a little over an hour away. They didn’t want to risk being stuck on the other side of the Bay Bridge if they needed to get Tiffany to her mother’s hospital room in a hurry. Pam had begged Catherine to go with them, but it simply wasn’t an option.
She’d told Pam she intended to go back inside Ned’s house to get the tape Dr. Campbell had made of his therapy session with Andrew Sadler, which, in her opinion, proved that Ned at least had the means to blackmail Sadler. Once Detective Hall heard it he would, hopefully, bring Ned in for questioning as he’d agreed.
“Why don’t you admit to Detective Hall that you went in there?” Pam had asked. “Maybe he could get a search warrant for the tapes.”
“Because the police have been undermining this investigation from the start. I don’t trust any of them. Besides, the tapes alone don’t prove anything.”
Pam had been adamant that the risk was unacceptable, ticking off on her fingers all the possible legal and nonlegal consequences if Ned caught Catherine in his house, including the possibility that he could shoot her, thinking she was a burglar—which, of course, she would be.
They had argued about it until Catherine asked Pam what she would do if it were Robert sitting in that jail cell and she had a chance to save him? Pam had stared at her, at first, then asked the obvious question.
“You love Joe that much?”
“Yes.”
Pam had smiled sadly, then, and pulled Catherine to her. They held each other for a long time as the reality of what they all faced sank in. If Joe went to prison, Catherine wouldn’t be the only person to suffer. Robert and Pam would be devastated, and the kids... Joe was the closest thing to a father Mike and Tiffany had. Joe would suffer the most, of course, and not only from the loss of his freedom. The pain and hardship his loved ones would endure would torture him.
The Explorer backed out to the left, giving Catherine a view of the passenger side of the car as it started down the alley to the right. Tiffany was like a scarecrow in the backseat—too thin, the expression on her face blank, her hair straw-like. Pam stared up at the bedroom window, her lovely face lined with worry. Catherine hated to worry her, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t.
All that mattered was proving Joe’s innocence.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Suzannah was curled up on an overstuffed loveseat smoking a cigarette when Sam opened the door to her private study. His brows lifted but he said nothing. He pushed the door closed behind him and leaned back against it. She lifted the crystal snifter to her lips and took a long sip of very expensive brandy.
“Well,” she drawled, “whoever the lucky lady was you were with tonight, she certainly didn’t improve your mood any.”
Sam stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
Suzannah blew smoke and waved the cigarette lazily in front of her face. “Darlin’, please don’t waste your breath denying it. A wife knows these things.” She tilted back the snifter and took another long sip. “As long as you don’t get careless about it you won’t get an argument from me.”
Sam walked to the wet bar and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He carried it over to the chair beside Suzannah’s and sat down heavily. One finger squeaked around the rim as he stared down at the golden liquid.
“I take it you heard Rossi was arrested for breaking into Sadler’s house,” he said. She flinched at the mention of Joe, and his heart sank.
“Yes.”
“There’s a chance he could go down for Sadler’s murder.” He didn’t mention the other one.
“That would make your day, wouldn’t it, love?”
Sam stared at his hands for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was somber. “Remember that first year, while you were still in school? We spent most of our nights together when I was in town. You were so passionate then. I couldn’t believe someone as beautiful and sexy and intelligent as you could fall in love with me. But you wanted me as much as I wanted you. Or so I thought.”
“I chose to marry you, Sam.” She sat up and crushed out her cigarette, then lit another. “I knew we’d be good together. I helped you get elected to the Senate, didn’t I? And I put up with that silly cow of a first lady for months on the campaign trail. What more could you want from a wife?”
“I was so in love with you, I convinced myself you felt the same way,” Sam said. “I thought you were over Joe. It took me years to figure out that you still loved him. All those parties we got him invited to, the stories you leaked to him. The way you began turning your back on me in bed, night after night.” He took a sip of brandy and swirled it around his mouth before swallowing. “It simply never occurred to me that you would go on loving him for so long. That you would you stand beside me while I was being sworn in as vice president of the United States and still be in love with him.”
Suzannah’s contemptuous smile was gone. She looked shaken, pale. “Is that why you set him up for those murders, Sam? Did you figure I’d stop loving him if I thought he was a murderer?”
S
am lifted his head and held her gaze. He wasn’t surprised, not after what Dale French had told him about Rossi’s ring. “I doubt there’s much Joe could do that would make you stop loving him.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she mumbled.
“What did you say?”
She tipped back the rest of her brandy and stood. “Not a thing, sugar.” She walked unsteadily to the wet bar and poured herself another.
Sam was behind her when she turned around. “He stopped sleeping with you when I became vice president, didn’t he? Up to that point, you probably went to him from time to time. Do I have that right?”
“Why ask me? You’ve already drawn your own conclusions.”
“It must have been unbearable for you,” he went on. “Watching him at parties, meeting with him late at night and not being able to get in his pants.”
Suzannah pushed past him to the love seat and lit another cigarette. “Where exactly are you going with this, Sam?”
“A wise man once said that hate was the closest thing to love.”
Her eyes flashed. “Well, that about sums up our relationship, then, doesn’t it?”
It took Sam a few seconds to understand, and it shocked him. “Oh, no. I don’t hate you, Suzannah. I love you every bit as much as I did in the beginning. More. You’re like an addiction to me. I could never let you go.”
She flipped her hair back impatiently. “This conversation is beginning to bore me. I’d like to drink this in peace, if you don’t mind. I don’t remember inviting you—”
“My God,” Sam said. It all clicked into place. “You hate him, don’t you? He’s rejected you. Fallen in love with another woman. Catherine Morrissey.”
Suzannah wouldn’t meet his eye. “She’s nothing but a piece of ass to Joe—which is all her whore of a sister should have been to you.” She raised glittering eyes to him. “But she let you live out every twisted fantasy you ever had. And all the while she made you believe she was me, right? Even had my hairstyle down to a T.”
Fury built inside him. “That’s enough, Suzannah.”
“Did you call her ‘pussy willow’ in bed, too, Sam? Did you buy her lingerie like mine?”
“I told you—”
“Did she pinch your nipples when she went down on you, like I did?
“Stop it!” Sam heaved the snifter across the room, where it shattered against an antique mahogany desk. “I don’t want to talk about her. Goddamn you! Why do you—”
They both whirled around when the pounding began.
“Everything okay in there?” the Secret Service agent called from outside the door. He rattled the knob.
Sam took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Sit up and act respectable,” he barked. Suzannah actually did what he asked without an argument. He walked to the door and opened it a crack. “We’re fine, Dan,” he said. “I got careless with my drink is all. One of those days, you know?”
“Yes, sir,” the agent said. “I need to see the second lady, sir.”
Sam stepped aside so the agent could see that Suzannah was fine, as well. She smiled at the agent from beside her husband.
“Thank you for your concern,” she said, then gave Sam a peck on the cheek. “I think I’ll go on to bed now, darlin’. There’s that pesky press conference at eight.” She slipped past him and headed down the hall.
Sam’s heart was heavy as he watched her go, as though she were leaving for the very last time. But no, he would never let that happen. Suzannah was his, no matter what the cost. He would give up his pride, his career—his life—to keep her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“My car’s still at Sadler’s,” Joe told the officer at the desk. “Any chance I could get a ride over there to pick it up?”
The officer grimaced. “Sure, if you don’t mind waiting until the next shift change at 0200 hours.”
“Nah, I’ll call a cab and go pick it up.” Then he remembered. “Uh, can I use a phone?”
Five minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the station, and Joe climbed into the backseat, yawning. He was bone tired, starved and needed a shower badly. A glance at his watch told him it was going on midnight.
Ah, hell, his car would still be on Sadler’s street tomorrow.
“MacArthur Boulevard,” he told the driver, and rattled off the number.
Joe leaned back and closed his eyes. Thank God, Hall had decided he didn’t have criminal intent when he climbed through the open window to see whether Sadler was dead or alive. Nor had the forensics team that had been on the scene all day found anything linking him with Sadler’s murder. That didn’t mean he was off the hook, of course, but for now he was free to go. Detective Hall had warned him not to take any sudden trips. His partner, Detective Rankin, had seemed disappointed that he couldn’t nail Joe to the wall.
Screw him.
When they pulled up in front of his house, Joe handed the driver a twenty and told him to keep the change. All the lights were off inside, which presumably meant no one was home. Well, that’s what he’d asked for. There was also no sign of any reporters, which meant his name hadn’t been mentioned in connection with Sadler’s murder. Something else to be thankful for. Of course, there were probably a dozen angry messages on his voice mail from Frank, asking where the hell he’d been while the lead detective on the Morrissey story was carted out of his house in a body bag.
“I’ll call him first thing in the morning,” he mumbled as he walked up his front walk. Jeez, he was beat.
He used his key to get in the front door and peered around in the darkness at the empty living room. “Honey, I’m home!” he called. Not a sound.
Of course not. You sent them away.
Had Catherine agreed to go with them?
As it had the entire time he’d been in police custody, his chest tightened at the thought of her. How could she believe he loved Suzannah? He would happily have given up his firstborn to find her waiting there for him tonight.
Firstborn. What if she really were pregnant?
He grabbed a beer from the kitchen and sipped at it on his way up the steps to his bedroom. He’d take a quick shower and call his father, let them know he was out of jail and ready to collect his two hundred dollars. He peeked inside the kids’ rooms, but of course they were empty. Which was exactly the way he felt. Empty. Lonelier than he’d ever felt in his life. Those kids were his family now, and he wanted them home with a desperation that surprised him.
He flipped on the bedside lamp rather than the overhead light in his room, hoping against hope he’d find Catherine asleep in his bed, stunned by the disappointment he felt when she wasn’t there. Okay, so he’d shower, eat and call her cell phone—and hope she’d answer it. He yanked his shirt over his head and kicked off his pants, then headed straight for the shower. As he stood under the jets he thought about who had called in the anonymous tip directing the police to Sadler’s house.
Granted, it could have been a neighbor. But the way the houses were situated, someone would have had to be sitting at the window with binoculars trained on the back of Sadler’s house to spot him. There were trees in the way, big trees. And curtains in all the windows. He’d checked. And anyway, why had Sadler left a low, first-floor window open—not a skinny little bathroom window, a big window with no screen—when the guy was obviously terrified?
It had to have been a setup. Someone knew Sadler had called him—probably because the guy was inside Sadler’s house—and tipped off the cops that Joe would be there. The killer would have left the window open hoping Joe would climb in, idiot that he was. But if Joe hadn’t actually gone inside, he still would have been at the scene within minutes of Sadler’s death, and the cops would still have arrested him.
Obviously, someone killed Sadler to shut him up and to keep him from selling the Herald
whatever elusive bit of evidence he claimed to have.
But who would set me up for a murder rap?
Someone who hated him with a passion. Ned Campbell sprang instantly to mind. Even if Ned was feigning interest in Catherine to keep her from suspecting his involvement in her sister’s murder, it would gall him no end to know she was spending time with his archrival for Suzannah’s affections—which Ned was welcome to. What better way to get revenge than to set Joe up to go to prison for the rest of his life?
“Like fucking Edmond Dantes,” he mumbled. He massaged shampoo into his scalp and rinsed it off. “Damn Suzannah to hell.”
“I do believe I’m offended,” Suzannah said from the doorway.
Joe was so shocked he couldn’t speak for a moment. What the hell was she doing here?
He was used to seeing Suzannah’s reckless side, the one she hid from the rest of the world. The public saw only the articulate, charming, mature second lady. With him she was still that girl he’d known and been crazy about in college. But they weren’t in college anymore, and she had no business ditching her Secret Service agents to come to his house, for God’s sake. This was too much, even for her.
He rinsed the soap off his head, shut off the water and reached outside the curtain for a towel—and came up empty.
“Shit,” he said.
“Oh, here.” Suzannah threw a towel over the top, and he wrapped it around his middle quickly, before she had a chance to pull back the curtain. Predictably, that’s exactly what she did.
“Damn,” she said, running her eyes over his body. “You were too quick for me.”
There was a crazy light in Suzannah’s eyes, a flush in her cheeks, like she had a fever. “You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here?”
“Handing you a towel. Good thing I was here, huh?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my bathroom, Suzy.” No way was he stepping out with her standing two feet away.
Her hands went to her hips and she gave a dramatic sigh. “So this is the thanks I get for coming over to take care of you after that horrible ordeal at the police station.”