Carrie was leaning forward and staring into a double shot of bourbon. Benedict was certain that most of the men in the bar had eyed her more than once. He bet that they were wondering what could possibly make someone so perfect look so depressed. Benedict was fairly certain he knew the reason for the prosecutor’s funk.
Almost ten years ago, when Carrie was a young assistant commonwealth attorney, she had tried Horace Blair for driving under the influence. Horace had become smitten with the woman who was prosecuting him and he had pursued her relentlessly. Their marriage was the scandal of the decade in the circles in which Horace traveled. Everyone believed that Carrie had married Blair for his money, and the people in Horace’s set made no secret of their disdain. From what Benedict had heard, living the life of a millionaire’s wife had gotten old quickly. Society snubbed Carrie, and her old friends felt uncomfortable around her. Carrie was rumored to live in her office more than in the plush rooms of Horace’s mansion.
Benedict slid into the booth across from Blair. Carrie was not happy to see him. The prosecutor knew Benedict well enough to see past his GQ model looks. In her office, Benedict was thought of as a high-priced hired gun who had flunked his ethics course in law school. No one doubted his ability. He won more than his share of tough cases. But it was the way he won some of them that raised eyebrows. When the client was in the top tax bracket, or a member of Nikolai Orlansky’s crew, evidence disappeared from property rooms and witnesses went missing or developed faulty memories. No one ever proved hanky-panky was involved, but a rank smell wafted over many of Benedict’s cases.
“Hey, Carrie,” Benedict said. “I thought I saw you at the Rankin, Lusk bash. You must know a lot of that crowd. Don’t they represent Horace?”
“What do you want, Charlie?” asked Carrie, who was too deep in her cups to worry about being polite.
“You look down in the dumps, so I thought I’d try to cheer you up.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather be alone.”
“Okay, I get that, but I did have a business proposition for you.”
Carrie tilted her head to the side and studied Benedict. “What might that be?”
“One of your puppies, Mary Maguire, is prosecuting Kyle Ross, Devon Ross’s son.”
“No deals, Charlie. That little fucker tried to seduce a thirteen-year-old girl by giving her cocaine. Then he offered a bribe to a cop. And his father made a veiled threat to Mary. That will all come out at sentencing, and I’m going to ask for the maximum.”
“Whoa, slow down. This is just another case. There’s no reason to take it personally.”
“Well, you can tell your client I do.”
“You’re forgetting how green Maguire is. I may eat her lunch. Then there won’t be a sentencing.”
“Mary’s young but she’s sharp. And you have no defense.”
Benedict pulled a pack of playing cards out of his pocket and fanned them out. While Carrie’s attention was on the cards, he passed a hand over her glass and slipped a pill into her drink.
“Tell you what,” Benedict said. “Let’s settle this like civilized people. You pick a card but don’t tell me what it is. If I can’t guess it, I’ll plead my guy guilty. But you dismiss if I do.”
Carrie threw her head back and laughed. “You’re too much.”
Benedict smiled. “I did that to snap you out of your funk. You looked so sad when I spotted you I knew I had to do something to cheer you up. And I wouldn’t have made you drop the case, because I’d always guess your card.”
“Oh, yeah? Let me see the deck.”
Benedict performed a few exotic shuffles, then extended the cards. Carrie selected one and looked at it. Benedict instructed her to put it back in the deck. Carrie slid the card back into the pack, then drank from her glass. Benedict shuffled the cards before making a few passes over the top of the deck. Then he stared into Carrie’s eyes. The prosecutor took another drink before setting down her glass.
“Is your card the three of clubs?” Benedict asked.
Carrie smiled maliciously. “No.”
Benedict’s brow furrowed. He closed his eyes and placed his fingertips on his temples. When he opened his eyes, he looked uncertain.
“Was it the jack of diamonds?”
“You’d better practice a little harder, Charlie,” Carrie said.
“Damn. I thought I had this trick down. What was your card?”
“The seven of hearts.”
Benedict sighed. Then he looked confused. “Hey,” he said. “There’s a card under your glass.”
Carrie looked down. Sure enough, a playing card was facedown on the table underneath the glass that held the remnants of her bourbon. She turned it over. Benedict grinned from ear to ear while Carrie stared dumbfounded at the seven of hearts.
“How did you do that?” she asked. Her speech was suddenly slurred.
“A magician never tells how he did a trick. But I’ll show you another one.”
Carrie closed her eyes and leaned back. She looked pale.
“Are you okay?” Benedict asked.
“I . . .” Carrie started. Then she stopped in midsentence.
Benedict walked around the booth and helped Carrie to stand.
“Whoa, you’ve had the proverbial one too many.”
“I’m okay,” she said, but she swayed unsteadily on her feet.
“You’re in no condition to drive.”
Carrie protested feebly. Benedict found her stub for valet parking. He laid a twenty on the table and helped Carrie out of the bar.
Benedict parked Carrie’s silver Porsche in front of his condominium and helped her walk up the steps to his front door. The three-story condo was faux Federalist in style. An attached two-car garage, accessible through an alley in the back of a row of similar condos, housed Benedict’s Mercedes.
In contrast to the nineteenth-century exterior, the interior of Benedict’s home was starkly modern, with hardwood floors, glass-topped tables, and ivory-colored walls decorated with abstract art. Carrie was unsteady on her feet, and Benedict steered her into his spacious living room before easing her onto a sofa.
There were no interior walls on the main floor. The dining area abutted the living room, and an island topped with black slate separated the kitchen from the dining room.
“Why wasn’t Horace with you?” Benedict asked as he put up a pot of coffee in the kitchen.
“Horace and I don’t see all that much of each other,” Carrie said, her speech still slurred.
“So the bloom is off the rose?”
“The fucking rose died years ago,” Carrie answered bitterly, her tongue loosened by the drug Benedict had slipped into her drink.
“That’s too bad. I remember reading about your romance and thinking how fairy-tale it was.”
“Yeah, a Grimm’s fairy tale. Very grim. Never marry for money, Charlie.”
“You don’t have to worry about me marrying. I learned my lesson a long time ago. One bad experience with wedlock and several stiff alimony payments taught me a lesson.”
Suddenly Benedict was sitting beside her on the sofa and Carrie couldn’t remember seeing him leave the kitchen. She shook her head to try to jump-start her brain, but it was definitely on the fritz.
Benedict slipped his arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “What do you do for companionship?” he asked.
“Nothing with Horace, if I can help it. We haven’t fucked in ages.”
Benedict’s fingers stroked Carrie’s neck and brushed her earlobe. It felt nice. Then they were kissing and alarm bells went off. Carrie pushed him away with muscles that barely worked.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Horace will never know,” Benedict whispered as he nuzzled her neck.
“You don’t understand. I really can’t.”
Benedict was genuinely puzzled. “Do you mean that you can’t make love?”
Carrie laughed but there was no humor in it. “I ain’t menopausal yet, Charlie. I just c
an’t fuck you.”
“Why not? Horace may not be able to satisfy you, but that won’t be a problem once we’re in bed.”
Carrie laughed again. “I have no doubt you’re a stud, Charlie. I’ve heard the rumors around the courthouse. But getting laid would cost me millions, and I’m sure you’re not that good.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s the prenup. And don’t ask me anything about it because it’s a secret.”
“Don’t worry. A gentleman knows what ‘no’ means,” Benedict said gallantly. “And I think the coffee you so desperately need is ready.”
Benedict walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup for Carrie. Then, with his back shielding his hands from her, he laced the coffee with Rohypnol, familiarly known as “roofie,” or the date-rape drug. The pharmaceutical was colorless, odorless, and tasteless and it induced drowsiness and impaired motor skills. Best of all, from Benedict’s standpoint, amnesia was a side effect, so his victims never remembered what he’d done to them.
Benedict brought Carrie her cup. Then he smiled when she took her first long taste of the strong brew.
Charles Benedict estimated that Carrie Blair would wake from her drugged sleep around 6:30, so he set his alarm for 5:45. He had brewed a fresh pot of coffee for breakfast and was pouring himself a cup when the door to his bedroom slammed open. Benedict looked up in time to see Carrie stumble on the stairs. Her stocking feet had slipped on the smooth hardwood and she grabbed the banister to keep from falling. As soon as she regained her balance, the prosecutor saw her host looking up at her with a bemused smile.
“What did you do to me?” Carrie demanded, her panic barely under control.
“Relax. Your honor is intact. I was a perfect gentleman.”
Benedict extended the cup he was holding. “Here, have some coffee. I just made it, and I think you can use it.”
Carrie ignored the cup. “What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
“Oh, God. You mean I’ve been here all night?”
“Yes. You passed out and I put you in my bed. All I removed were your shoes and jacket. Then I slept in my guest room. You know, you’re not the first person to lose an evening to booze, but you might want to see someone if it happens again.”
Carrie ignored Benedict and looked around the condo.
“Where are my things? I’ve got to get home,” she said.
“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast or a shower?” Benedict asked as he walked over to a closet and took out Carrie’s shoes and jacket.
“I can’t believe this happened,” Carrie said, ignoring Benedict’s offer. She pulled on her jacket and slipped into her shoes.
Benedict held out her car key. “If you hurry, you can get home, change, and be in your office at your usual time.”
There was a mirror by the front door. Carrie stared at her image and ran her hand through her hair, trying for some semblance of order. Then she walked outside. Benedict followed her. On the street in front of Benedict’s condo a man in a tracksuit was jogging at a steady clip.
“Be careful driving,” Benedict cautioned. Carrie turned toward him and started to say something. Then she stopped and stared down the street. Before Benedict could ask what she was looking at, Carrie started screaming and ran toward a parked car. The driver gunned the engine and made a U-turn that left dust clouds and rubber. Carrie’s screams had attracted the jogger’s attention, and he turned and watched as the car sped off.
Carrie stopped running. Benedict saw her stare at the rear of the car, where the license plate was attached. Then she bent over, rested her hands on her knees, and took deep breaths to regain her composure.
“What was that all about?” Benedict asked when he reached her.
Carrie turned toward him. She looked furious. Then she walked to her car and drove away without answering Benedict’s question.
Chapter Four
On Thursday, Dana Cutler got out of bed at three in the afternoon, ran five miles, then went through a set of calisthenics. When she finished a third set of fifty push-ups, she collapsed on the floor of the rec room in the basement of the house she shared with Jake Teeny. Jake, a photojournalist, was away on an Arctic expedition sponsored by National Geographic. Dana had met Jake six months before she was kidnapped, and he’d stood by her when she was in the hospital, visiting often and fighting hard to keep her spirits up, even when that seemed impossible. When she was released, he took her to lunch, dinner, and an occasional movie, but he had never tried to touch her until she fell in love with him and let him into her life. Dana had always been a loner until she fell in love. When Jake was gone she felt like a part of her was missing. Tonight, after writing a report on the Jorgenson case, she would try to find something on TV to numb her mind. Then she would go to sleep and wake up to another boring, unfulfilling day.
Dana’s last meal had been the beer and burger she’d downed at the sports bar during her surveillance of Lars Jorgenson, and she was starving. After a shower, she walked to the kitchen to scavenge the fixings for a sandwich. She had just opened the refrigerator door when her business phone rang.
“Cutler Investigations,” Dana said.
“Dana Cutler, please,” a woman said. Dana thought she heard a French accent.
“Speaking.”
“I would like to retain you.”
“To do what?” Dana asked.
“I would prefer that we not discuss the matter over the phone.”
Definitely French, Dana concluded.
“Okay, but can you give me some idea of what you want me to do. If it’s not the type of case I handle I can refer you to someone who does.”
“I really cannot say more. Your retainer will be very satisfactory if you accept the assignment. Meet me and I will pay you three thousand dollars for a consultation even if you do not take the case.”
The sum, which was way more than her normal rate, surprised Dana. “Where do you want to meet?” she asked.
“I do not know Washington. Perhaps you can suggest a place to rendezvous?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Non.”
“Well, I am. Why don’t we meet at Michelangelo’s? I know the owner and he’ll guarantee us privacy. The food is pretty good, too, if you change your mind about dinner.”
Michelangelo’s was a family-owned Italian restaurant located in sight of the Capitol dome, in an area that was shifting from decay to gentrification. Abandoned buildings and vacant lots could be found only blocks away from chic boutiques, renovated row houses owned by young professionals, and trendy restaurants. Michelangelo’s, which was anything but trendy, had been a constant in the neighborhood for over sixty years. Sam and Donna Mazzara opened it with their life savings after emigrating from Sicily. Donna had passed away seven years ago, but Sam still came to work every day. Their son, Victor, helped run the restaurant now.
Michelangelo’s was a few blocks from the offices of Exposed, a supermarket tabloid that had surprised establishment newspapers like the Washington Post and New York Times by winning prizes in journalism as a result of Dana’s investigative work. Patrick Gorman, the newspaper’s owner, ran a tab at Michelangelo’s, and Sam and Victor knew Dana. When she called, they set aside a small private dining room in the back for her to meet with her potential client. The room was paneled in dark wood and the lighting was subdued. Black-and-white photographs of Sicily hung on the walls. Dana sat at a table covered in a white tablecloth and ordered a small antipasto and spaghetti aglio e olio. The antipasto had just arrived when Victor opened the door to admit a woman who looked as exotic as her accent. She was carrying an attaché case and wore a trench coat. Dark glasses obscured her eyes, raven-black hair fell to her shoulders, she wore no rings on her fingers, and her lips were ruby red. Dana thought she’d fit in perfectly as the femme fatale in a 1940s film based on a Raymond Chandler or Dashiell Hammett novel.
“Miss Cutler?” the woman asked.
Dana stood
and offered her hand. The woman’s fingers barely touched Dana’s before she pulled her hand away.
“I am Margo Laurent.”
“Have a seat, Ms. Laurent,” Dana said as she motioned toward a chair on the other side of the table. Then she pointed her fork at her antipasto. “Sure you don’t want something to eat? The food here is great.”
“Thank you, but I am not hungry.”
“Suit yourself. I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk. I was up all night on a case and I’m starving.”
“Please.”
Dana waited for the woman to take off her coat. When she didn’t, Dana said, “So, Ms. Laurent, why do you want to hire me?”
“How much do you know about the Ottoman Empire?”
Dana had speared a piece of mortadella and a slice of provolone, but she paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Turks, right?”
Laurent nodded.
Dana smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid that’s the extent of my knowledge. I was never much of a history buff.”
“The Ottoman Empire lasted from 1299 to 1923,” Laurent said. “In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, at the height of its power, it controlled territory in southeastern Europe, southwestern Asia, and North Africa. Constantinople was its capital city and the empire was at the center of interactions between the Eastern and Western worlds for six centuries. At times, the empire’s tentacles reached into Persia, Egypt, Baghdad, Hungary, Transylvania, Moldavia, and the outskirts of Vienna. By the end of the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent in 1566 the empire’s population totaled fifteen million people.”
“Impressive,” Dana said before taking another forkful of Italian delicacies. She had no interest in Laurent’s history lesson, but three thousand bucks was three thousand bucks, so she pretended to find it fascinating.
Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) Page 2