Keeping Secrets

by Penny Mickelbury

  Holy shit! Another image took over: the tiny group of demonstrators outside Freddy’s club, fronted by the loud, rude blond guy but seemingly powered by— the mousy little woman at the back of the class! The one whom Cobbs said had attended three or four times, the one who was also in the other class. Her mind was in overdrive as she tried to sort out her options. She remembered that Cobbs said no names were used in class, so it would be next week before she’d see the woman again, before she could ask her if she remembered Joe Murray and Phil Tancil and if she knew Tony delValle and Liz Grayson. As she started the car, Mimi felt the buzz inside her that she always got when she knew she’d stumbled onto some important piece of a story. Often she didn’t know exactly what the piece was, where it fit, or what it meant. She just knew it existed and that it was important. Whoever that mousy little woman was, she was part of the story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gianna, depressed and bone-weary, was stretched out on the couch in her office praying for the relief of sleep that just would not come. Even though she was restless upon it, she was glad she’d requisitioned this particular couch: it was expensive, well-made and a cut above standard government issue furniture. But she put in a lot of late nights and thought comfort not too high a price to pay. It was just past six o’clock, and given the pattern to date, the body wouldn’t be discovered until after midnight, so she had time for a six-hour nap. Six hours was more sleep than she’d had in days. If only she could go to sleep. Images of murderous assault crowded her consciousness no matter how hard she tried to blank the space: the bodies of the dead, their faces, their eyes, the bloody mess that had once been their source of life. And along with those images, the knowledge that not one single shred of evidence existed that could lead her to the killer. These were not crimes that would be solved by evaluating forensic evidence because there was virtually no forensic evidence to be evaluated. Four bullets from the same gun, nothing more— no finger prints; no hair or fibers; no witnesses; no nothing. Of course, one did consider as evidence the fact that the murderer obviously harbored a deep hatred of homosexuals. Hatred as a clue: A new concept in police investigative techniques, she mused totally without humor. Just be on the lookout for people who hate other people. She fought back the bitter bile that rose inside her. “The only thing that can help me is a mistake. If you make a mistake...” She had spoken out loud and stopped as a knock sounded and the door opened.

  The chief stood framed in the doorway, worry creasing his brow. “I’m sorry, Anna, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Come on in, Chief. I wasn’t asleep.” She stood up and yawned as he bounced in on the balls of his feet, glad to see him despite her mood.

  “Judging from that matched set of Samsonite under your eyes, I’d say you haven’t slept in days,” he said his rapid-fire delivery, softened, she knew, by his concern for her.

  “At least,” she said, smiling, thankful for a reason to smile.

  “By the way, good job on the quarterly crime stats. I like the way you write. Your numbers always help me see the people.”

  She grimaced and rolled her eyes. He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you do that! Like it or not that kind of stuff comes with the territory, Anna. You’re a big gun now, and you’re gonna get bigger. If you don’t screw it up, that is. I know it’s hard to feel like you’re on the outside looking in, but it’s time you learned to delegate. That’s what makes a good leader, and you’ve got yourself a good follower in Ashby. Use him, and give yourself a rest.”

  She looked at him in utter amazement, unable to remember the last time she heard so many sentences come from his mouth at the same time, and as quickly as he’d come, he was gone and she was staring at a closed door.

  For not the first time she wondered at the advisability of having the chief as her mentor. Not that he’d been the chief when he took her under his wing. Still... She stopped the thought in its tracks. “I may as well get some work done,” she said to herself, moving to her desk and switching on the computer, “because I certainly won’t get any sleep.” But before she could call up her files, there was another knock and this time her boss peered around the corner of the door, gold-rimmed half-glasses perched on his nose.

  “Don’t get up.” He waved her back down and sauntered into the office, parking his butt on the corner of her desk. She couldn’t help thinking, as she did almost every time she saw him, that he was one of the most gorgeous men walking. “You know, you wouldn’t have to stay here doing this crap at night if you did it during the day when you’re supposed to,” he said, looking over the glasses at her.

  “Yes, sir, Captain Davis. I know,” she said calmly.

  “Are you being a smartass?” He looked at her closely.

  “No, sir, I’m not,” she answered truthfully.

  “Look here. That was a good quarterly report, Anna. Damn good. And I hear from the B’nai B’rith people that your speech was right on the money. You’re really good at this Lieutenant stuff, you know, and getting better all the time.”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” she said again.

  “But you’d still rather be out there looking for killers.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed, and they were silent for a moment.

  “So, what’s the deal?” he asked.

  “I wish you hadn’t asked me that,” she said wearily, and when he smiled wryly, she said, “I’m just waiting for the call about the location of the body. I know there will be another one. I know it will be tonight. And I know there’s not one damn thing I can do to stop it.”

  She sank back into her chair, meeting his direct gaze. “And you know what’s tearing me up? I’ve got this feeling there’s something available to me that I’m not seeing, or not understanding. And someone will die tonight because I can’t figure it out fast enough.” Anger and fear and sorrow rose up in her in equal parts.

  “One thing you should always remember about being a cop.”

  “What’s that, oh learned one?” Gianna said, letting the bad feelings ebb away for a moment and actually conjuring a smile.

  “You’re just a cop. That’s all. Not a god or a savior or a miracle worker.” He left and she continued to wonder what time the body would be found.

  *****

  “What the hell do you want?” growled Henry Smith, the night city editor. “I thought I was rid of you when you wrapped that city hall mess.” Henry Smith looked like a nineteen forties movie version of a city editor: he was fat, bald, smoked vile cigars in violation of company policy, cursed incessantly, and had forgotten more about good reporting that any ten of the best reporters could ever hope to know.

  “You should be so lucky, Henry. I’m waiting for a body.”

  “Harbor police just fished one outta the channel. Fucker’s prob’ly been dead a week.”

  “This one would be in a parking lot and newly dead,” Mimi said, covering a grin.

  “I’ll call ya,” Henry said, waving her away to spend the empty time wandering around the sparsely inhabited newsroom. She wanted to call Gianna. They’d spent an uncomfortable night together last night, unable to talk, or make love, or sleep, the specter of tonight lurking like a monster in every shadow, Gianna powerless to alter the path of history and in agony because of it, and Mimi equally powerless to soothe her misery. Still she wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea to call. She wanted to call, to hear the familiar voice, to assure her that no matter what happened in the world...

  She called and there was no answer.

  Mimi stared for a moment at the phone in her hand, knowing there could be but one reason for a call to go unanswered in the Hate Crimes office tonight. She looked up at the wall of clocks. In Washington, D.C., it was now 12:20 a.m.

  Gianna screeched to a halt beside the gold Mercedes Benz with the prayer that maybe the call was a mistake, that maybe some other cop from some other unit should be here, that maybe this wasn’t her case after all. She and Eric opened their doors simultaneously, he still looking a little pe
eved that she’d insisted upon driving as she always did when she was this tense. He strode quickly toward the vehicle as Gianna took note of the remote corner of the underground garage of the high-rent office building and knew her prayer had been in vain. She took in the young security guard who’d probably found the body and then she saw the look on Eric’s face. As she walked around the car toward the drivers’ side, Eric walked toward her, a hand up as if to stop her from going to the car, but he lowered it when they reached each other. “Anna...this one’s...I don’t know...”

  She brushed past him to the car and looked in and pain tore across her heart, an agony so sharp and sudden that it closed her eyes and she almost made the unforgivable error of reaching out to the car to support herself. She opened her eyes and looked into the dead ones of a woman who could have been Mimi; a young, lovely, rosewood-colored woman with a head full of untamed curly ringlets. She could have been Mimi had her face not been contorted with the agony of death, had her eyes not been drained of love and hope and joy. Gianna wanted to break down and cry but instead she surveyed the interior of the fifty thousand dollar death chamber: the honey-colored leather seats now stained dark by the woman’s blood; the computerized console seeming to belong in an aircraft instead of an automobile; the telephone that had not helped save her life. This woman had been murdered like the others, genitalia obliterated by a powerful weapon at close range. The difference here, Gianna saw, was that this victim had fought, had struggled against death. She had not gone gently into that place, but with anger and defiance. This victim, in her agony, had ripped the leather seats, tearing out several fingernails in the process; had tried in vain to reach the telephone, which was on the floor; had tried to open the door she hadn’t realized was locked. Gianna studied the trails of blood left by the maimed fingers.

  She forced herself away from the horror and turned to Eric, who had followed her, his red hair in flaming contrast to his white, bloodless face.

  “It took her a long, awful time to die.” Eric choked on the words and Gianna put a hand on his arm to steady him, to steady herself, for the long night ahead. She closed her eyes briefly and saw the dead woman’s face again—a face at least ten years younger than those of the other four victims.

  “She’s younger than the others. Can that mean anything?”

  “My guess would be no,” Eric said.

  Gianna agreed. She’d been grasping at straws again—looking for something, anything, to hold on to.

  The image coursed through her like an electric charge and she whirled around and sprinted the few steps back to the Mercedes and leaned inside. This time the smells assaulted her: the rich, new-leather odor mingled with the dead woman’s perfume, both of them overpowered by the harsh, metallic smell of blood and the indescribable smell of death. Gianna caught her breath as she found what she sought: There were no keys in the ignition. In all the other cases the keys had been in the ignition No keys here in the big Benz, and the doors had been locked. A break. The first real break in this case. Gianna wanted to shout.

  “Seal this building, Eric. Nobody in, nobody out. Station somebody at every elevator, at every stairway, on the roof, in the boiler room, in the lobby. And when we find out who she was, where she worked, seal that floor and the ones above and below.” Eric moved swiftly to obey and she turned to find the uniformed security guard who looked about ready to expire from fear. Gianna didn’t blame him. He was in for a tough time.

  It took her fifteen minutes to get him to admit that he’d not made the first security sweep at eleven o’clock as required because he’d been playing one of those new computerized sports games with the guard in the lobby. But after she assured him that being fired was the least of his worries, his information proved helpful: the woman in the car was Carolyn somebody, a lawyer with a big firm that occupied the entire eighth, ninth and tenth floors, and she very often worked late. She did not, however, usually park her car on this level which was why the guard came over to take a look.

  “You wouldn’t have looked anyway?” Gianna asked.

  “No,” he said, with a shrug, a gesture that brought all Gianna’s rage to the surface.

  “Why the hell not?” she yelled at him.

  “Patterson!” Sardonic Henry Smith bristled with urgency and when Mimi trotted over to him, he was glowering in self-righteous indignation at the police scanner. “Some kind of bloody double talk all over the goddamn radio! Can’t understand a fuckin’ thing they’re saying! Is this the CIA or what? Listen to this shit, will ya? Not a word of it makes a damn bit of sense!”

  Mimi could only take Henry’s word for it, since she was never adept at deciphering police radio jargon. “What are they saying, Henry?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me, Patterson? I don’t know what the fuck they’re saying! It’s all coded and scrambled. The only thing I’ve been able to pick up is that it’s downtown somewhere and maybe in an underground car park. Patterson, what in the ever-lovin’ hell are you up to now?”

  Mimi felt cold inside, and more than just a little scared. “Henry, I’m gonna need some help on this one.”

  “Do I get a story out of it?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “The hell you are. Take Phillips. He’s not doing anything.” The cub reporter, a pale, scraggly boy in his early twenties followed Mimi out of the building and into the parking lot, breathing hard with the effort to keep up.

  Mimi told him to cruise the downtown businesses district between 16th and 22nd Streets and between K and P Streets, and said a silent prayer of thanks that this was tiny little Washington, D.C. and not New York or L.A. or Chicago where downtown meant a universe. “Unless of course you see an emergency response vehicle.”

  “Ah, what’s that?” Phillips asked.

  “An ambulance, police car, or fire truck,” Mimi snapped, thinking that this boy was as dumb as he looked.

  “Oh, yeah, right. And whaddya want me to do if we see one?” he asked with a nonchalance that made Mimi physically ill. If she’d been this inept as a cub reporter, she’d have been fired.

  “I want you to follow it,” Mimi said between clenched teeth, literally biting back the response she wished she could give Phillips.

  They were cruising in the service lane on K Street just east of 20th Street when an unmarked detectives’ sedan whizzed by them, lights flashing but no siren, and turned right on 20th.

  “Follow!” yelled Mimi.

  “What?” the hapless Phillips queried.

  “That black car, goddammit, are you crazy or what?”

  Mimi slammed her hand into the dash, scaring Phillips into action. He crashed his foot into the gas pedal and the rattletrap news car jumped forward like its rabbit namesake. When they turned the corner Mimi saw the flashing lights and the knot of official cars in front of a brand new twelve-story office building on the north side of the street. She whipped her press credentials out of her purse and put them around her neck, in plain and easy view for the cops, and suggested that Phillips follow suit. When he mumbled that he’d forgotten to bring his, Mimi opened the door and got out of the car even though it was still moving.

  She trotted up to the entrance of the building’s underground parking garage, nodded at the cops positioned there, and followed the activity down to the third level where her eyes immediately focused on Gianna standing adjacent to a gold-colored car, whose make and model she couldn’t discern through the swarm of police personnel surrounding it. When Mimi looked again at Gianna, what she saw startled her: a cold rage that she would have denied Gianna capable of possessing, and it was directed at a cowering security guard who was desperately trying to explain something.

  “Why the hell not?” she heard Gianna yell and the guard shook his head in abject misery.

  Mimi tried to work her way toward the rear of the car to get a glimpse of the license plate. Gianna saw her. Their eyes met and held for an instant before Gianna turned and said something to a plainclothes detective who bore d
own on Mimi with such speed and purpose that she didn’t have time to back up and out of the way before he was upon her.

  “You’ll have to clear this area immediately, Miss.”

  “I’m Montgomery Patterson from the—”

  “I don’t care if you’re the Baby Jesus, you gotta clear this area right now. Come with me please.”

  Since it was not a request Mimi preceded him up the ramp and out of the garage but she balked at being hustled across the street to stand behind the yellow tape. “You can’t make me stand over here!” she protested.

  “Wanna bet,” he drawled, totally non-threateningly, and he left her there behind the tape and returned to the garage.

  Mimi waited until he was out of sight and circled the gathering crowd toward the front door of the building. Three uniforms in the lobby. Cursing, she darted along the side of the building into the alley and toward the rear entrance, knowing it was a waste of time but having to do it anyway. Gianna had been thorough. Three uniforms there, one of whom demanded to see her credentials and shone his light in her eyes when he compared the ID photos with her face. She was stopped and credentialed twice more in the alley behind the building before she decided to give up.

  The night was cold, she was hungry, and she certainly wasn’t worried about any details leaking to other news agencies. Gianna had completely closed off access to the building— and to the story. Gianna had also closed access to herself, but that was a thought Mimi didn’t want to have at that moment.

  Back on 20th Street, she looked for Phillips, hoping he’d been snooping around, had seen or heard something useful. She found the car, Phillips inside, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring. She kicked the side of the car, scaring him green, and stalked off in the direction of M Street and Georgetown, and her best hope for a taxi in the somnolent capital of the Free World at 1:30 a.m.

  Mimi awoke suddenly to a sound, familiar but unexpected. She sat up in bed to attune herself to whatever had awakened her. The red-eyed digital clock glowed 5:15 a.m. The garage door? Yes, now it was descending with its customary thud. She jumped up, threw on her robe and stumbled into the kitchen just as Gianna opened the door. Mimi, appalled at the sight of her, led her to the bedroom and helped her undress.