Discretion

by Allison Leotta

  Tonight there were about twenty women in various stages of undress, loitering in two- or three-person clumps on the street corners. They spanned the full range of age, race, and attractiveness. Some looked sick and weak, others hale and hearty. The one thing they had in common was sky-high heels: stilettos, gladiator sandals, platform boots. They walked with a bumptious sway that lawyers, in their sensible pumps, never achieved.

  McGee cruised the street, his eyes skimming the women. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for. He pointed his chin at a woman wearing a yellow bikini under a dress made of white wide-weave netting. “That lady was a witness in a homicide last year,” he said. “I couldn’t keep track of her till I arrested her for indecent exposure. She was wearing that same dress, but without the bikini. She got six months’ probation, but she had to check in regularly with her probation officer.”

  McGee parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant, and they got out. The muggy night air smelled of auto exhaust and cheap perfume. The detective walked toward the woman in the net dress, who was posing for the passing traffic in front of a darkened Cosi restaurant.

  “Hey, Capri,” McGee said.

  The woman glanced over at them. She had a thick scar across her neck and kind brown eyes that narrowed when she saw the detective. “Come on, McGee, I ain’t done nothing yet.”

  “I know. We need your help.”

  Capri put her hands on her hips, cocked a knee, and regarded him skeptically.

  “We need to find a girl,” McGee said.

  “She in trouble?”

  “Not with us,” Anna said. “But she might be in danger.”

  “Ain’t we all.”

  McGee showed Capri a DMV photo of Nicole. “Have you seen her?”

  “Naw, baby. She don’t look familiar.”

  McGee handed the prostitute his business card. “If you do see her, tell her we’d like to talk to her.”

  “We can help her,” Anna said, scribbling on the back of her own business card and handing it to Capri.

  “Okay,” Capri said. She tucked both cards into her cleavage and turned to go.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Anna said quickly. She knew it was a futile exercise, but she couldn’t leave without offering assistance. “We can arrange job training, emergency shelter, whatever.”

  Capri looked over her shoulder and gave Anna a broad grin. “Don’t have to do what, darlin’? I’m just waiting on the bus.” She sashayed away.

  “C’mon, Mother Teresa.” McGee laughed, patting Anna on the shoulder. “We got a lot more women to talk to.”

  Sam turned her Durango onto Kalorama Circle and gawked at the stately old mansions dotting impeccably landscaped lawns. Although it was dark outside, most of the houses had spotlights hidden in the flower beds, illuminating the fabulous facades. The private homes looked like embassies. Just north of this cul-de-sac was Rock Creek Park; the houses on that side of the street had views of the parkland. Samantha murmured with appreciation. She’d grown up in her parents’ apartment over Sergio’s and now lived in a one-bedroom condo on H Street, two blocks from the restaurant. She spent a lot of time on HomesDatabase.com, fantasizing about big houses.

  Sam glanced at Steve Quisenberry, the agent riding shotgun. “Madeleine Connor’s doing pretty well, huh?” she said.

  “Yeah.” Quisenberry paged through some printouts. “According to ChoicePoint, she bought the place in 1996 for five hundred and nineteen grand. With the rates she’s charging, maybe she could still afford to buy it today.”

  “God, I wish I’d invested in real estate in the nineties. My parents would never have to make another tray of ziti again.”

  The District’s real estate spike began with the Internet boom and correspondingly high law-firm salaries and continued when business-friendly mayors replaced Marion Barry. Once yuppies realized they could live in D.C. and actually have their trash picked up, they swarmed in. Unlike the rest of America, home prices in D.C. hadn’t gone down after the bust. Sam guessed that the homes here on Kalorama Circle were worth around three million dollars apiece.

  Sam pulled up to the address they’d found for Madeleine Connor. It was a stone mansion with a peaked slate roof and arched doorway. With a stone walk meandering through gold, pink, and purple perennials, it looked like the mansion Hansel and Gretel would have bought if they’d grown up and become lobbyists.

  Sam was proud of how quickly she’d found the house. It would’ve taken her days back when she was a rookie, but advances in technology had practically made her a magician. With a name and state of residence, Samantha could get a photo, date of birth, address, credit history, and property records, among other things. There were two Madeleine Connors in D.C., but Sam hadn’t wasted her time on the twelve-year-old in Cleveland Park.

  Sam parked a block away. She and Quisenberry walked through the warm night, redolent with the scent of fresh-cut grass. FBI agents didn’t interview important subjects alone—there’d be no one to provide corroboration later if the subject denied what was said. The FBI rarely allowed agents to tape-record their interviews. Instead, they took handwritten notes, later typing them into a form FD-302: The nation’s most prestigious law-enforcement agency still used last century’s detective methods. But a notepad wouldn’t malfunction if you dropped it or got it wet, and it couldn’t crash or run out of batteries. And it wouldn’t record the questions Sam asked or the technique she used to convince a witness to talk.

  As they walked toward Madeleine’s house, Quisenberry noted the makes, models, and license numbers of the cars parked along the curb. Later, he’d run them through a DMV database to find out who they were registered to. Although the interiors of most houses were dark, the windows of Madeleine’s home blazed brightly. This was the middle of the day for an escort agency.

  Their research suggested that Madeleine lived alone. A police database confirmed what Brian Stringer had told them—that Madeleine had been an escort herself. She had two misdemeanor arrests for solicitation of prostitution from the early nineties. For one, she got probation before judgment—essentially a get-out-of-jail-free card. For the other, she got two days in jail and a year of probation.

  The agents walked up the stone walk to the front door. Through the diamond-shaped glass panes, Samantha could see an opulent living room.

  “You got the subpoena?” she asked.

  Quisenberry nodded, patting the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  “Don’t serve her until I say so,” Sam said.

  She rang the bell. A moment later, the arched wooden door swung open. The smell of expensive perfume wafted out, and Madeleine Conner stood in the doorway. The light from the house illuminated her long honey-brown hair. She was pretty, though her beauty was now caught in a tug-of-war between age and plastic surgery. Samantha knew that Madeleine was forty-six, but she looked like a thirty-six-year-old whose face was being pulled back by significant g-force. She wore beige linen pants, a sleeveless brown linen shirt, and Tory Burch ballet flats. When she saw the agents, she sighed with an air of resignation.

  “You’re the police, I assume?”

  “FBI,” said Samantha as she showed her credentials. “You were expecting us?”

  “Of course not,” Madeleine said with mock surprise. “What would the FBI want with me?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Come inside. I’d rather the neighbors didn’t see you here.”

  Madeleine gestured the agents into the foyer and showed them into the formal living room. The walls were a deep raspberry with dark wood trim; the furniture was antique; the upholstery was flowered damask. A stone fireplace held logs that were too pristine to be real wood. A framed picture of Madeleine, from about twenty-five years ago, sat on a side table. The photograph was artistic and high-quality—perhaps she’d tried modeling before settling on her current business. The home was lightly scented with Madeleine’s perfume.

  Sam and Quisenberry sat on flowered chairs across from Madeleine, who lounge
d on the couch. Between them, an antique coffee table held a stack of Washingtonian magazines and a copy of the Washington Post opened to the headline “Woman Killed in Fall from Congressman Lionel’s Balcony.”

  “Ms. Connor, we’re here about Caroline McBride,” Samantha said. “We’re investigating her death and hoping you can help us.”

  “I doubt I can,” said Madeleine. “Although I would like to.” Though there was emotion in her voice, her expression was blank—she either had a perfect poker face or too much Botox.

  “Were you close to Caroline?” Samantha asked.

  “I loved her. But you’ll have to address questions to my attorney.”

  Madeleine handed the agents an ivory business card with her lawyer’s name and number.

  “Do you know who Caroline met with last night?” Quisenberry tried.

  Madeleine stood up and smiled coldly. “I shouldn’t have asked you in. Now I must ask that you leave.”

  She stood, and the agents followed suit. Samantha nodded toward Quisenberry, who handed Madeleine the subpoena.

  “This is a court order,” Samantha said, “requiring you to appear before the grand jury tomorrow at nine A.M. If you have any questions, you can call the prosecutor, Anna Curtis, whose number is at the bottom.”

  “My lawyer advised me not to answer any questions,” Madeleine said. “I won’t come to the grand jury.”

  “If you’re not there at nine o’clock sharp, you’ll be arrested. And bring something to do, because there’ll probably be a lot of waiting.” Samantha held up the lawyer’s business card. “If I were you, I’d tell your attorney to call Ms. Curtis right away.”

  As they walked back through the door, Samantha turned to face Madeleine one last time. “We know the business you’re in, but frankly, we don’t care about that. What we care about is finding out who killed Caroline. I expect you care about the same thing. We have to move quickly. Please help us.”

  Madeleine paused. Finally, she nodded. “I want to help you. But call my lawyer. I need immunity. And then I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  She shut the door in Sam’s face.

  21

  It was close to midnight when Anna opened Jack’s front door and tiptoed into the house. Raffles dashed over and rubbed his cheek against Anna’s calf. She picked up the orange tabby and stroked under his chin; she was rewarded with a motorboat of loud purrs. Slipping off her shoes, Anna padded to the kitchen. Jack sat on a stool at the counter, reading through some papers. Waiting up for her. She was touched by the gesture.

  Perhaps her frustration with Jack earlier in the afternoon hadn’t been entirely fair. Regardless of their romantic relationship, he was the chief. Maybe he’d considered her opinion but simply disagreed with it. She didn’t have to take that personally. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  She set Raffles down, put her arms around Jack’s waist, and rested her head on his shoulder. He felt solid and warm under her cheek.

  “Hello, love,” he said, putting down his papers and reaching back to put his hand on her leg.

  “Hi.” She kissed his neck. “I told you not to wait up.”

  “I know.”

  She held him, savoring the feel of his body pressed against hers. He turned to face her. She shifted so she stood between his knees, then pulled his face to hers and kissed him. Putting her mouth on his was the best part of her day. She inhaled the scent of mint.

  The house creaked, and they pulled back at the same time. They didn’t want Olivia to see them locking lips. All was quiet; it was just the old house shifting. Jack smiled at her.

  “I saved some dinner for you.” He slid a foil-wrapped plate to her. She pulled off the aluminum foil and found baked chicken, rice and beans, and a tomato salad.

  “Nice!” she said. “Don’t tell me you made this.” Jack was a good cook, but not when he was in the middle of a big case.

  “Luisa did.” Olivia’s nanny sometimes cooked for the family when Jack was busy. Anna had occasionally tried to whip up dinner in the Bailey kitchen, with uniformly disappointing results.

  “Thank Luisa for me.” Anna sat at the counter and tucked into the rice and beans. “Mm. This is great. I was starving.”

  He went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of sparkling water, and poured some into a glass. “What kept you at the office so late?” he asked, setting the glass in front of Anna.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip.

  “I was at Eva Youngblood’s self-defense class. Learned a few moves, if you want me to demonstrate on you.”

  “That would be fun.” He sat next to her.

  “I spoke to Eva. Turns out Caroline took the self-defense class because she had a stalker.”

  “Hm. Any prior stalking convictions for Lionel or his staffers?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean much. Stalkers typically start later in life—late thirties or early forties. They might have a long trail of failed personal relationships but no criminal record. They can be very high-functioning: doctors, lawyers, whatever. They get more violent over time.”

  Jack shook his head. “Lionel’s sixty-four. He’s been married for decades. I don’t think he’s the stalker type. Did you have an officer with you when you spoke to Eva?”

  “No, it was after a class.”

  “Okay.” Jack sighed. “Write it up—that’s Brady evidence, suggesting another possible killer. We’ll have to turn it over to Davenport when we bring charges. You were talking to Eva until midnight?”

  “No. Then I went to the track to try to find Nicole Palowski.”

  “Anna! Didn’t we just talk about dangerous field trips?”

  “I was with McGee and we were just talking to some of the women. It’s not like I was working the track as an undercover.”

  Jack’s flinch was small but noticeable. She paused with a forkful of chicken midway to her mouth. “What?” she asked.

  He slid off the stool and placed his mug in the sink. With his back turned to her, he said, “Nina worked undercover.”

  Jack hardly ever mentioned Olivia’s mother. “Do you want to talk about her?” Anna asked softly. She set the fork down. He turned to her, and she let the silence stretch out. He opened his mouth, and she thought they were about to have a breakthrough.

  “No,” he said. Despite his entreaties for openness, he kept the secrets he wanted to keep.

  As much as she wanted Jack to open up about Nina, she knew it wasn’t something she could force. He would tell her when he was ready. She nodded and finished eating her dinner. Jack rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher.

  “Let’s go to bed, sweetheart,” he said.

  She nodded, and they went upstairs, creeping quietly past Olivia’s open bedroom door. The little girl was sound asleep.

  “I’m gonna take a bath,” Anna whispered as they went into Jack’s bedroom.

  “Now?”

  “I need to wash the track off of me.” She smiled at him. “Join me?”

  She was rewarded with a crinkling of his eyes.

  The bathtub in the master bathroom was a huge claw-foot affair that looked like it had been there since the house was built in the 1890s. Anna poured Neutrogena body oil into the warm water spilling from the tap. The room filled with sweet almond-scented steam.

  She unclipped her BlackBerry and set it on the wooden table next to the tub. Jack brought a match to a votive candle in a stained-glass globe; the flame danced, then caught the wick. He turned off the light, and they undressed in the colorful flickering candlelight.

  She lowered herself into the warm water and slid forward so he could sit behind her. When he was settled in, he wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned her head back against his chest. She closed her eyes and wished things could always be as easy as this, the simple pleasure of skin against skin.

  “I love you,” Jack whispered. “I just want to keep you safe.”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  Jack drew her h
air to one side and brushed his lips against the side of her neck, sending happy shivers down her spine. Her BlackBerry buzzed with an incoming call.

  “You want to get that?” he asked.

  “Shut up.” Anna laughed. She reached out and pressed the button declining the call. The silence and the feel of Jack’s body curving around her were all she wanted right now. She tipped her head back and kissed him. Her breath came quicker, her heart sped up, and she forgot how tired she was.

  Making love in a bathtub was overrated, Anna thought, logistically tricky and apt to slosh water all over the floor. But as his hands skimmed up her sides, her objections evaporated into the steam. Somehow, they managed.

  Afterward, they sat facing each other in the bath, smiling sleepily. Lulled by the warm water and dim light, her eyelids slowly drifted downward. She crossed her ankles across his abs. He picked up one of her feet and massaged it in the oiled water. As his thumb slid slowly over the arch of her foot, she made a sound close to Raffles’s motorboat purr. She could stay like this for hours. Days.

  Except that the flicker of candlelight was punctuated every few seconds by the flash of her BlackBerry’s LED, calling her like a master to a servant. A message was waiting. Eventually, her conscience overpowered her sense of hedonism. She pulled her foot back and sat up regretfully.

  “I better get that,” she said.

  22

  If the track had been located in a dangerous part of town, it would’ve been harder for Nicole to come down here. But surrounded by the expensive office buildings and fancy storefronts of K Street, she didn’t feel like she was leaving her world. She was just hanging out during off hours.

  Nicole arrived a little after two A.M., when the nightclubs let out and things got busy on weeknights. Although the day had been hot, the night air felt soft and pleasant. She staked out a spot on the corner of 14th and K, the track’s western edge. That was the best place for a girl who was here on her own, without the protection of a pimp. The first time she’d come here, she’d stood right in the middle of the action and gotten chased away by some nasty hookers with incredibly foul mouths.