Death Never Lies

by David Grace

  “I don’t know,” she said with a sly smile. “Do you live in town or are you just visiting?”

  Which answer does she want? Kane wondered but found no hint in her eyes.

  “I live in D.C.”

  “And what is it that you do here, Mr. . . ?”

  “Kane. Greg Kane. I’m an investigator with Homeland Security.”

  “Really? Are you carrying a gun?” she asked with a lilt in her voice.

  Two guns, Kane almost said. Instead he pulled his coat aside to reveal the Beretta 92 with which the Office armed its agents.

  “I feel safer already. I’m Allison Varner.” She waved at the chair across from her. “Please have a seat.”

  Kane found himself cataloging little things about her – that the blue diamonds inside the gold-hooped earrings looked real as did the gems in the gold bracelet encircling her left wrist, both of which meant she, or her husband, or perhaps her ex-husband, had money. He also noticed some things that were absent. There were no rings on her left hand, but married people sometimes took them off. She wore no pins or badges that might signify an occupation or political affiliation, though that was more a male affectation. Half the guys in the Office wore little American flag pins on their lapels. Kane refused to do it. If being a sworn agent of the Department of Homeland Security wasn’t a good enough testament to his patriotism then some stupid lapel pin wasn’t going to make any difference.

  Kane’s eyes were drawn to the soft folds in her pale blue and gold silk dress and he imagined what her body might look like if the cloth were suddenly to become transparent.

  “Am I under investigation?” Allison asked.

  “What?”

  “The way you’re staring at me I wondered if you think I might have committed a crime.”

  “Sorry. It’s a habit from my job. They train us to be observant.”

  “And what have you observed about me, Agent Kane?” A vision of her breasts and the soft curves that flowed down to her hips filled his head.

  “That you’re a beautiful, educated, self-assured woman,” Kane said in a clumsy attempt at gallantry.

  Allison laughed. “You can tell I’m educated just by looking at me?”

  “Your pattern of speech, your body language.” Her stare forced him to go on. “You’re at ease with the sudden attention of a member of law enforcement. Poor people fear the police. Middle-class people are usually deferential, eager to please. You’re amused. That puts you in the upper-middle class or higher. An upper-middle class woman who speaks well and has money, or access to money, is almost certainly well educated.”

  “Do go on,” Allison ordered, intrigued or vaguely irritated, Kane couldn’t tell which.

  Good sense would have told him to shut up at that point but Allison’s smiling attention and the second rum punch dissolved his restraint.

  “You were married but you’re not married anymore.” Allison’s face clouded over but Kane pressed on. “Someone as attractive as you who’s never been married either has no interest in attracting a man or very much wants to attract a man. You’re neither which tells me that you were in a relationship that ended between one and two years ago.” Kane’s self-satisfied smile fled when he caught the pain in Allison’s eyes.

  “Brain cancer,” she said, looking down at the now ring-less fourth finger of her left hand. “A little less than two years ago. When you’ve been with someone through all that being alone is . . . complicated.”

  “I’m . . .” Sorry? An idiot? “I’m divorced,” Kane said. “Almost a year ago. She lives in Baltimore. I was a homicide detective,” he babbled, feeling as if he had lost the ability to connect his mouth to his brain. “I took the job with Homeland Security to make a new start.”

  Allison looked up from her naked left hand but she could find no deceit or guile in Kane’s face. Perhaps he’s safe, she thought. Cops are supposed to be hopeless womanizers. It had been weeks since. . . . She waved at the barman and held up two fingers.

  “We’re a pair aren’t we?” she said with a half-sad smile.

  “What do you do?” Kane asked, anxious to veer the conversation in another direction.

  “I work on the Hill,” she said with a flicker in her eyes that told Kane that she hoped he wouldn’t ask for any details. Just then their drinks arrived and they clinked glasses, both happy for the interruption. Kane noticed the barman make a note on his iPad. She’s probably billing the drinks to her room, he thought. Kane wanted to ask what she was doing at this hotel, alone, when she lived here in D.C. Was she meeting a man? Had he stood her up? Was she on a secret mission for the unnamed congressman or senator or agency that signed her paycheck?

  Allison put down her glass and forced a smile and through some sixth sense Kane knew that any of those questions would ruin things as surely as tipping a cup of spiders into a Waldorf salad, and the snake uncoiling in his pants was screaming at him not to do anything like that.

  “Do you have a room here?” he asked instead.

  “Yes,” she said after half a second’s pause.

  “I’ve never stayed at this hotel. I’m kind of curious about what the rooms are like. Could I take a look at yours?”

  Allison held his gaze for a long heartbeat. “Sure,” she said then took as big a swallow from her glass as decorum would allow. Kane followed her, saying nothing, afraid that a single word might frighten her off, as if she were a rare bird suddenly landed on a branch just within his reach.

  She slipped the key-card into the lock and he followed her inside. The instant he clicked the door closed behind them she turned to face him and no words were needed. After a quick, crushing embrace he stepped back and pulled her skirt up over her hips. When he yanked her panties down she bent her knees inward and then lifted one foot so that he could set them free. When he stood she twisted around offering him the zipper at the back of her dress. Then it was her turn to undress him and a few seconds later they tumbled onto the bed. After that it was all heat and sweat and noises without thought. When it was over she nestled against his shoulder, not sleeping, not fully awake. He caressed her nipples while she idly ran her fingers across his chest. He didn’t speak, afraid that any words would break the spell.

  His encounters since his divorce had ranged from unsatisfying to uncomfortable but tonight he felt like a man standing at the edge of a desert and scenting the distant rush of water on the wind. Once was not enough. Twenty minutes later ability caught up with desire and he slid his hands down her body and teased her thighs wide apart. This time he took her more slowly but more powerfully and it was after midnight before the fire in Kane’s blood burned down leaving pleasantly warm embers behind. Spent, he collapsed against the headboard and encircled her shoulder, drawing her close.

  “I’ve got a meeting in the morning,” she said a minute later, apropos of nothing.

  Kane turned toward her but in the darkness her face was a mask. He could barely make out the shadowed dips and planes of her features in the glow from the digital clock. He paused for a second and, finally understanding her meaning, he felt the warmth in his blood begin to go cold.

  “I guess you need to get some sleep,” he replied in a flat tone that made it clear that he knew her morning meeting was a lie.

  “It’s going to be a long day,” Allison said as she pulled free from his arm and wiggled toward the edge of the bed.

  “Yeah, me too.” Kane rolled off the other side and went hunting for his pants. “Can I call you sometime?” he asked as he buttoned his shirt.

  “Of course,” Allison answered in a voice that didn’t promise that she would answer. “Do you have a pen?”

  Kane flipped the switch on the bathroom wall and in the spill of light through the half-open door he scratched out her number on the hotel pad. The question: What the hell just happened? screamed through his head.

  “So, I’ll call you,” Greg said after he slipped on his coat.

  “Or I’ll call you.”

  “That
would be good.” Kane handed her his card embossed with the Homeland Security seal and his office phone number printed on the bottom. She dropped it on the night table next to the clock and he wondered if tomorrow morning it would end up in her purse or in pieces in the wastebasket.

  Kane was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned back toward the bed. Allison was lying flat on her back, the sheet pulled up to her chin, her eyes gazing blindly at the shadowed ceiling.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “What?” She said, not trying to pretend that she didn’t understand.

  “You’re treating me like a distant relative who’s overstayed his welcome. What did I do?”

  “My husband was the love of my life,” Allison said. Kane had no idea what that meant so he just stood there and waited. “I’m not ready for a serious relationship.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s true and I can’t go through something like that again.”

  “I’m not asking you to go through anything.”

  Two seconds passed and she slowly twisted to face him.

  “This could never be more than fun and games,” she said as if cautioning a child against approaching a strange dog.

  “I spend most of my life chasing criminals. I wouldn’t have the time for anything serious even if I wanted it.”

  “If we saw each other again it wouldn’t be exclusive.”

  “There would be other women in my life too. Jesus we just had sex. I didn’t ask you to marry me.”

  “Just so long as you understand that there will be other men. Are you sure you’re good with that?”

  “Better than good.”

  “And no questions. No ‘Where were you?’ ‘What’s his name?’ Nothing. The first time you start wanting something more than . . . this, that’s it.”

  “Fine.”

  “Because there is no more. They’ll never be any more.”

  “Just fun and games, got it,” Kane snapped.

  “All right, you call me and we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Just so I’m clear, that means we’re going to fuck again, right?”

  “Yes, we’re going to fuck again, and that’s all we’re ever going to do.”

  “Sounds perfect to me,” Kane snapped then double-checked that he had his ID and his gun and then resisted the urge to slam the door behind him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Grant Eustace knew that “smart” came in many flavors. There was “book smart” and “street smart”, “Apple genius” and “common sense.” Eustace had no illusions about his own place in that hierarchy. He knew that he was never going to be on Kane’s level, not in a million years and that the word “clever” would never appear on his evaluation forms, but he did have one talent that was as valuable to a cop as diamonds and gold – cunning. As if he possessed some kind of crook-radar, Eustace could spot a wrong guy, a predator trying to blend in amidst the sheep, from thirty feet away. Half an hour ago his alarm had started going PING-PING-PING.

  There was nothing overtly wrong about the target. His clothes were right – jeans, black sneakers, a worn, blue-wool jacket buttoned up to the top – but there was something about his body language, too focused, too determined, that sent a tingle up Eustace’s spine.

  It had started out as a simple reconnaissance mission intended only to familiarize himself with Mr. Justice Hopper’s daughter, to get a feel for her in case Kane’s theory about getting to the judge through his family might be right. According to a friend at the IRS Kathryn Hopper had had a varied career – cocktail waitress, Amway salesperson, telemarketer, receptionist, bartender and now she was the owner-operator of something called “Personal Essentials DC.”

  Eustace made a Google search and found that “Personal Essentials” was a franchise operation that hosted the equivalent of a migratory Tupperware party for cosmetics in bars and taverns instead of ranch-style living rooms. The parent company furnished Kathryn with a catalog of wholesale lipstick, nail polish, perfume, makeup, breath mints and whatever else a woman who spent four hours in a bar might have a craving for. She sold the stuff out of a suitcase, bar-to-bar, after paying a cut to the manager for allowing her to hang around his establishment. Eustace suspected that now and then her inventory probably also included a few joints, some special nose powder and a hit or two of meth. He figured that she was keeping the existence of her special merchandise secret from her father who was probably thrilled that she was at last earning enough money to be able to pay her own rent.

  I bet he wonders if she’s really his kid, Grant mused. Maybe he thinks the wife might have slipped out the back door one afternoon while he was sending some punk to the slam but now that he’s one of the Supremes he’s too afraid of the answer to grab a sample of her DNA. Not that Eustace was disappointed in Hopper. Human weakness was, after all, his bread and butter.

  He found the girl by marking her car as “Identify But Do Not Stop” and waiting to see if some patrol unit with a plate reader passed her in traffic. It took a while but around 4:30 the system sent an email to his phone that her Civic had been spotted at a GPS location that corresponded with the address of a bar on Florida Avenue. It was not the sort of place you would expect to find the daughter of a Supreme Court Justice.

  Eustace parked across the street and then, more out of habit than anything else, walked the neighborhood just to see if anything or anyone rang any bells. He spotted a junkie floating around, looking for something to steal, and a kid who made him for a cop from twenty feet away and quickly ran inside. Probably a lookout for a drug dealer in one of the apartments Eustace decided. And then there was the guy who set off his alarm – Caucasian, mid to late thirties, five-eleven, one-eighty, brown hair and heartless blue eyes. Eustace had seen eyes like that many times before, on punks and cons, bent correctional officers, on two-bit killers and pimps who would sell their own mothers for twenty dollars and a stolen watch.

  The guy wasn’t doing anything special, just wandering down the street and checking out the shop windows along the way. Eustace committed his face to memory and retreated to something called “Bean Town” where he took a seat by the window and ordered a coffee, black. Twenty minutes later he spotted Kathryn Hopper coming out of the Wilmington Tavern. She matched the stats from her DMV file, about five feet nine, thin, with long brown hair framing a long white face. She dumped a small suitcase onto her Civic’s passenger seat and then got in on the other side. Eustace slurped the last of his coffee and jogged back to the department Malibu that he had parked three cars down. He followed Kathryn a few blocks southwest toward the Amtrak Station where she parked and then lugged her suitcase into The Caledonia Grill. “Best Crab Cakes In Town” a faded sign next to the door promised. Eustace had his doubts about that but he was getting hungry and he figured she might be in there for a while, plus it wasn’t getting any warmer now that the sun had gone down.

  Two hours later Hopper began to pack up her case and Eustace preceded her into the night air that now had fallen to under forty degrees. A flicker of motion caught his eye when she trudged back to her Civic. The guy was wearing a knit cap now and a pair of black gloves but it was the same man all right. Hopper started her engine and a cloud of white vapor spewed from the pipe. Eustace pulled out ahead of her and drove past the doorway where Mr. Blue Wool Coat had been huddled. Eustace wasn’t surprised to see that the watcher was gone. If he was following the Hopper woman the guy would need to be back in his car, ready to pick her up at the end of the block. Eustace made a right at the corner, doused his lights and pulled into a bus stop. A moment later Hopper’s Civic passed through the intersection still trailing a cloud of vapor that signaled a pin-hole leak in her head gasket.

  Hopper had barely cleared the far corner when a pair of headlight popped up and a black Ford Fusion turned left on 3rd Street fifty feet behind her. Eustace made a U-turn, flicked off his lights, turned right on 3rd and pulled briefly to the curb before turning them bac
k on. He marked the shape and height of the Fusion’s taillights and stayed as far back as he could, occasionally pulling into a gas station or parking lot, then starting out again a few seconds later so as to appear to be a different vehicle entering the street.

  Ten minutes later Hopper dragged her case into another bar but this time Eustace concentrated on the Ford, passing it when it pulled into an abandoned burger joint then circling the block and coasting without headlights into a loading zone fifty feet behind and across the street from where the Fusion sat beneath a weathered sign that read: “Blizzard Shakes!”

  It was too dark to read the Ford’s plate so after giving the driver ten minutes to relax Eustace disconnected the Malibu’s dome light and slipped into the shadows. He headed away from the Ford until it was out of sight then he crossed the street and crept up the sidewalk on the other side. When he neared the edge of the abandoned burger joint he got down in a crouch and slipped from shadow to shadow until he got close enough to read the plate. Lucky for me there’s a full moon, he thought and smiled as he memorized the digits. He watched the car for another half minute but he couldn’t tell if anyone was inside. Slowly, he retraced his route up the deserted street back to the Malibu. He had parked it facing against the flow of traffic with the driver’s door closest to the curb so that the body of the car masked his exit and re-entry.

  Bent over he hurried past an alley next to a closed auto-parts store and duck-walked into the shelter of the car. Just as he was reaching for the door Eustace heard a faint squeak and then a puff of air brushed his cheek. As he turned toward the sound his life collapsed like a popped balloon when an ice pick slammed through his ear and into his brain.

  The man who now called himself “Donald” muscled Eustace’s limp body into the Chevy’s back seat and quickly rifled through his pockets. “Homeland Security” – Fuck! he hissed when he saw Eustace’s creds. Now what?

  If he left the body here they might connect it to Hopper’s daughter. If he drove it across town then he’d need some way to get back to his car without leaving any witnesses like cabbies or bus drivers and their associated surveillance cameras. As a compromise he dumped the Malibu as close as he could to the Capital Metro South station then walked the mile or so back to his Fusion.