Reconcilable Differences

by Ana Leigh

  “Dave, my car is in the garage. I’ll duck down in the seat when you drive out and if anyone is watching the building, he’ll think that I’m still here.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. Even though Mike had said to lay low, that gnawing in his craw was causing Dave a sense of urgency.

  He checked his gun, and slipped it into the leg sheath. “Okay, let’s go.”

  The earlier rain had freshened the air but the humidity was a killer.

  Trish huddled on the floor of the front seat as they drove away. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Dave noticed that a car pulled away from the curb, but it was too dark to read the plate or determine the make of the car.

  “Stay down. If we’re being tailed, we didn’t fool anyone.”

  When he had to stop at a light in front of a brightly lit strip mall, Dave got a good read on the car and license plate behind him.

  In a short time he located the address he was seeking. A single streetlight on the corner cast a faint glow on a row of side by side condos in the sparsely populated area. Dave pressed the buzzer of Sharon Iverson’s unit several times, and when there was no answer he pulled a key card out of his pocket and slipped it between the lock and the frame. After several attempts he succeeded in tripping the lock.

  “Was that part of your CIA training, Agent Cassidy?” Trish asked, still trying to shake out the numbness from her cramped muscles.

  “It has just occurred to me that if we’re caught doing this, the Agency will be blamed.”

  “Don’t you guys always get the blame anyway?” she said.

  “Lately the press and the powers that be have taken some of the heat off us. The FBI is the whipping boy these days.”

  “This is an invasion of privacy, Dave.”

  “So is terrorism,” he said, and opened the door.

  He swept the room with the flashlight. “Let’s make this fast because I have no idea where she went. She could come back at any time. And don’t disturb anything,” he warned. “We’ll check out the end tables and drawers in here first. Maybe Manning had one of those fancy safes made for this place, too.”

  She started to cross the room and cried out and fell when she tripped over something on the floor.

  “We could do this faster if we turned on a lamp,” she complained.

  “Are you hurt?” He offered her a helping hand to pull her up.

  “Just my dignity.”

  Dave moved to a table and switched on a lamp. “Trish, you’re bleeding.” He wiped the blood on his hand on his jeans and turned to her.

  Trish was staring horrified at the body of a woman on the floor.

  “Oh, my God!” He knelt down for a closer look. “Is it—?”

  “Sharon Iverson,” she murmured through the lump in her throat that had begun choking her. “Is she…dead?”

  Dave nodded. “Her throat’s been cut.” He stood up and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Hold it, pal, and get those arms up in the air,” a voice declared.

  Dave recognized the voice at once and raised his arms. Trish was still too shocked to obey the command.

  “Arms up, lady,” the speaker demanded.

  Stunned, she turned around and faced the two men who stood with drawn pistols in the doorway.

  Detective Joe Brady walked over to Dave. “Let’s have that weapon you’re holding.”

  Dave handed him the cell phone.

  “It’s a phone,” Brady said.

  “Yeah, be careful. It might go off any time,” Dave said.

  “Save your jokes for someone who appreciates them,” Brady said.

  “I was just about to call the police,” Dave explained.

  “Yeah, right,” Brady scoffed.

  Brady cuffed him while MacPherson put in a call for the coroner and CSU.

  “This is ridiculous,” Dave complained when Brady began to frisk him.

  The detective gave Dave a snide look when he removed the 22-caliber pistol Dave wore in a holster under his pants leg. Then he handcuffed Trish.

  Dave had long recognized that MacPherson was the more reasonable of the two men, so he appealed to him.

  “Look, Detective MacPherson, you know as well as I that we just got here. I knew you were tailing us. I made your car when we stopped at the red light at that strip mall we passed.”

  “You still had time enough to kill her,” Brady accused, after examining the corpse.

  Brady’s stupid belligerence was becoming exasperating. “Right. I cut her throat with my cell phone.”

  “Who is she, Cassidy?” MacPherson asked.

  “Robert Manning’s secretary.”

  MacPherson flipped through the small notebook he carried in his pocket. “Sharon Iverson. Thought she looked familiar.”

  “Yeah, but she wasn’t wearing a red necktie then.”

  Trish gasped aloud at Brady’s insensitive joke. “May I sit down?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Manning,” MacPherson said.

  Dave cast a worried look at Trish. She appeared quite pale. This was the second violent incident she had witnessed that day, along with the threat of almost getting killed herself. How much longer could she shrug off the effects from such crimes?

  “Detective, Mrs. Manning has witnessed a lot of brutality today. Is it necessary to keep her cuffed?”

  The two detectives exchanged glances, then MacPherson tossed the key to Brady. He went over and unlocked her handcuffs.

  “Don’t think I’m doing the same to you, dude,” he said to Dave. “You two ain’t fooling me one bit.”

  “I believe you, Brady. No one gets up early enough to be able to do that.”

  “You’ve got that right, Mr. CIA.”

  The emergency vehicles arrived, and, as he and Trish were being led away, a woman from the crime investigation unit stopped them. “Hold up. I want to get a sample of their DNA.”

  “You’ve already got our DNA on record,” Dave said, “and you’re going to find more of it again on the victim. Mrs. Manning fell over her in the dark, and I checked her for a pulse.”

  “I’d like a fresh sample taken at the crime scene,” she said.

  The CSU officer quickly took a saliva sample from each of them.

  Once at the station, Brady and MacPherson interrogated them and took their statements as well as the ones relating to the earlier mall incident. By that time, Dave’s call to Mike had gotten results, and he and Trish were released.

  The two detectives drove them back to Trish’s car. MacPherson shook hands goodbye. Brady merely scowled.

  “I don’t get it,” Joe Brady said as they watched Cassidy and Patricia Manning drive away. “The two of ’em are doing each other; we find Manning in an alley with his throat cut and she’s married to him; a woman’s shot in the mall, and Cassidy admits he did it in order to save the Manning woman. Now there’s another victim and guess who we find standing over the body? Geez, Wally, when are you going to admit I’m right? Anybody else would be busted and strapped to the hot seat by now, but both of them get a walk.”

  “So?” Wally asked, climbing into their car and sliding behind the wheel.

  “So when are we putting that guy behind bars where he belongs?”

  “Joe, you’ve got Cassidy pegged wrong. He’s a hero. Him and his squad just got back from saving some American’s life in one of those Banana Republics.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “His boss, but it’s classified information, so don’t go shooting your mouth off about it.”

  “Well, just because he’s got a dangerous job, it don’t mean him and his girlfriend are innocent.”

  “And just because he’s her boyfriend and she was Manning’s wife don’t mean they killed anyone. We’ve got to stop concentrating on them and start paying attention to other suspects.”

  “Other suspects! How can we? They get knocked off before we get near ’em, thanks to your two lovebirds.”

  “I think we should pay closer attention to old man Hunt
er. I’ve got a hunch he’s not as clean as he’d like us to think,” Wally said.

  “Yeah, well if that’s so, we better check him out before he ends up dead, too.”

  Wally’s curiosity showed heavily on his beefy face. “Don’t you wonder, partner, why the CIA’s so involved in this case?”

  “’Cause one of their agents is a suspect?”

  MacPherson shook his head. “No, I think it’s more than that. I figure we’ve been barking up the wrong tree. I’ve got a hunch they’re after the same guy that we are—but for a different reason.”

  “What makes you think that?” Joe asked.

  “That business in the mall today. Kind of coincidental those guys happened to be there the same time as Cassidy and the woman.

  “Morning jog, my ass! Those guys were on a stakeout. Along with Cassidy. If the truth was known, I bet we’d discover they’re all CIA. Probably on that same special ops team.”

  “You ever stop to think that maybe Cassidy was the one the CIA was checking out? Maybe the CIA is beginning to believe your fair-haired boy ain’t as squeaky clean as you’d like to believe,” Brody countered.

  “In your dreams, pal. They’re all in it together. There’s something going on here that’s a damn sight more than the local murders of Manning and his secretary. If the CIA’s involved, it’s got something to do with national security.”

  “I still think Cassidy and the Manning broad are guilty as hell. The guy still had canary feathers hanging from his mouth when we released him.

  “He says to me, ‘It’s not every day a person can count on two D.C. detectives as witnesses to his innocence.’ I’m getting damn tired of Uncle Sam bailing this smart-ass out of trouble.”

  Wally snorted in amusement. “But the guy’s right, Joe. You know as well as me, Cassidy didn’t kill the secretary. And the more I see of that guy, the more I like him.”

  “Good. You can send him care packages when we finally lock him up.”

  “That’s not going to happen, partner,” Wally said, and wheeled the Crown Vic into traffic.

  Dave pulled out his cell phone and called Kurt to clue him in on the latest development.

  “What’s all the noise about?” he asked, when Kurt answered.

  “The guys and I are in a pool hall.”

  “Don’t you guys get sick of each other’s company?” Dave asked. “You all need to get a life.”

  “Like you don’t,” Kurt said. “So what’s up?”

  “Trish and I just left the police station. Robert Manning’s secretary was murdered, and we happen to have found her body.”

  “You mean she was murdered at Manning’s apartment building?”

  “No, at her own.”

  “I don’t get it. I thought you and Mrs. Manning were in for the night.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’d like to hear it. Why don’t you join us at the pool hall and clue us in?”

  Dave turned to Trish. “Too late to stop for a drink?”

  “Why not? Anything’s better than being holed up in that apartment,” Trish said.

  “Okay,” Dave said to Kurt. “Where is this pool hall?”

  “Pool hall,” Trish remarked after Dave got off the phone. “I visualized a quiet bar, with soft music.”

  “I remember you used to be pretty lethal with a pool cue.”

  Trish chuckled. “Still am. Dad and I often shot billiards when I went back home to live.”

  “I might have guessed. That would take the expression ‘behind the eight ball’ to new heights.”

  “Not really, darling. I aced him the same way as I always did you.”

  “I’m going to make you eat those words, Patricia. It will give me great pleasure to wipe that smug smile off that face of yours.”

  “Just put your money where your mouth is, cowboy.” Trish settled back with a contented smile.

  A short time later Dave pulled up and parked in front of a corner bar with a neon sign spelling out the word Pool hung in the window. The loud blast of a rock band shattered the night when a couple came out of the door.

  There were a dozen or more people at or around the bar. A couple of men were shooting pool at one of the tables and Kurt, Don and Justin were at the other. As soon as Dave filled the guys in on Sharon Iverson’s murder, they resumed the pool game.

  The stakes were ten dollars a game, and by the time Trish played each of them individually, she was forty dollars richer.

  The crowd had thinned out at the bar, the other pool table was vacant, and fortunately to all concerned, the music had been turned down so that one didn’t have to shout to be heard above it.

  Don and Justin had moved to the bar and Trish was watching Dave and Kurt shoot a final game.

  Dave glanced casually at the man who had just entered and took a seat at the end of the bar nearest the door. Leaning down to take his shot, he asked, “Make him?”

  Kurt nodded. “Yeah.”

  Dave figured it best to get Trish out of there and saw that the hallway leading to the door marked Women was just a short distance away at the rear of the room.

  “Trish, I want you to do exactly what I’m about to tell you,” he said firmly. “Pick up your purse like all the ladies do, kiss me on the cheek and then go into the women’s restroom. Lock the door and don’t come out until I say you can.”

  “Why—?”

  “No arguments, Trish. Do it now.”

  The man’s arrival had not gone unobserved by Don and Justin either. They made eye contact with Dave. Obviously, they had the same suspicions about the guy.

  Trish threw Dave a confused look. “This has something to do with McDermott, doesn’t it?” she whispered as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “We don’t know, but we’re not taking any chances.”

  “Okay, Agent Cassidy.”

  She walked away with a deliberate swing to her hips that drew every guy’s eyes in the place except his and Kurt’s.

  Dave nodded to the two agents at the bar, then he reached down and pulled his .22 from the leg holster under his jeans. Kurt did the same.

  When the suspect got up quickly and headed for the rear hallway, they followed.

  “What’s your hurry, pal?” Dave asked when they caught up with him.

  The man spun around in surprise to find the four men holding weapons pointed at him.

  “Now, real slowly, pal, back up to the wall and assume the position,” Dave said.

  The man did as told, leaned over, and put his hands against the wall.

  “Why are you cops roustin’ me? I ain’t done nothin’,” he whined.

  If he took them for cops, Dave wasn’t about to change his mind. “We’re curious to know what you’re up to.”

  “I gotta pee.”

  Don and Justin sheathed their weapons and began to frisk him. They came up with a wallet and a knife with an eight-inch blade.

  Justin let out a long, low whistle. “What’s this for, hotshot? To peel apples?”

  “It ain’t mine. I found it in a alley.”

  “Yeah, right,” Kurt said. “And when you told the police they let you keep it because you have an honest face.”

  “I didn’t tell the police.”

  Dave snorted. “I’d have never guessed. Let’s see some ID.”

  He shifted through the wallet. There was nothing more than a driver’s license, social security card and twelve dollars in it.

  “Kind of far from home, aren’t you, Mr. Harvey? This driver’s license says you live in New York.”

  “I came here to find a job.”

  Even though the guy had dark hair and about a week’s growth of beard on his cheeks, he bore a resemblance to the picture Dave remembered of Colin McDermott. After all, anyone could dye his hair.

  “Dave, there’s stains on this knife that look like dried blood,” Don said.

  “You cut yourself, Sean?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah, when I found the knife.”


  “Knives can be real dangerous, Sean. How long have you been in D.C.?”

  “Just got in,” Harvey said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Ain’t got a place yet. Figure maybe I’d get a room at that fleabag hotel a block from here.”

  “So you just wandered in here to take a leak.”

  “I came in to get a beer. What’s wrong with that? You seen my ID. I’m old enough to drink.”

  “Like to believe you, Sean, but I think you had a different reason for coming in here,” Dave slipped his gun back into the holster. “Let’s go.”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere until you tell us what’s going on here.”

  The speaker was one of two uniformed police officers with drawn weapons who had suddenly appeared on the scene. The sound of a siren announced the arrival of another squad car.

  “I can explain everything, officer,” Dave said. The last thing they needed was interference from the D.C. police. “We’re working undercover.”

  “You fellows aren’t from our precinct. If you’re making a collar, we’d like to see your shields.”

  “We aren’t carrying them. I told you, we’re working undercover.”

  By this time two more police officers had joined them.

  “What’s going on?” one of the new arrivals asked.

  “These guys claim they’re working undercover, but they aren’t carrying shields. We’ll have to take you all in. While we’re waiting for the wagon, we’d like some ID, fellows,” the officer said.

  “No problem.” Dave and the others handed him their wallets, along with Harvey’s.

  “Well, Mr. Cassidy, you appear to be the only city resident in this group. Your friends seem to come from all over, so I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you all to get your arms up in the air while we frisk you. Lightly and politely, gentlemen,” he added.

  “Careful with that knife,” Dave warned, when one of the officers took it from Don Fraser, along with his gun. “That’s evidence, and you’re compromising it. This man is a suspected terrorist.”

  “Terrorist! I ain’t no terrorist,” Harvey screeched. “I came in here to have a beer, and these guys came at me with guns.”

  “There are bloodstains on that knife that may connect him to a recent murder here.”

  “What murder?”