Discretion (15 page)

“She was killed last night,” Anna said.

He seemed to sink into his seat. “Oh no.”

“Let me tell you something.” Anna leaned in toward him. “I don’t prosecute prostitution. I’ve got no interest in whether you hired escorts. I’m investigating the sexual assault and murder of your friend Sasha. And I need your help.”

“She was—assaulted, too?” His face was white.

Anna nodded. “We just want to find out who did this to her.”

“What do you need from me?”

“She had an appointment last night. We need to find out who that appointment was with. Do you know?”

“No. I didn’t set up any appointments for last night.”

“Then we need to find Discretion’s madam. This will be useful”—Anna held up the business card—“but what’s her name?”

Anna was asking the questions now, and Samantha was jotting the answers in her notebook.

“Madeleine Connor.” He seemed shell-shocked.

“How long have you known Ms. Connor?”

“I hired her when she was an escort herself, back in the nineties. We became friends. I supported her when she went out on her own.”

“And now you hire her escorts?”

“She gives me a discount. I give them good reviews.”

“You’re BigBoy89?”

He nodded. “My reviews are always honest. I only give a good review if a girl deserves it. If someone’s no good, I just don’t review her, and Madeleine won’t hire her.” He seemed proud to have a code of ethics for operating in this illegal world.

“Do you bring escorts here to the Hunt Club? Or do the members?”

“Goodness, no,” he squeaked. “That’s not what this club is about.”

“So what is the relationship between Discretion and the Hunt Club?”

“I just refer members to Madeleine if they ask. It’s not that different from suggesting a new restaurant or a good show at the Kennedy Center. My job is to know what they’d like and find it for them.”

Women were just another form of entertainment to him, like a concert or a sushi bar.

“Did you refer Emmett Lionel to Discretion?” Anna asked.

Brian’s eyes widened to the point where she could see the whites above his irises. She’d been trained to look for this sign—it meant the witness was experiencing a rush of adrenaline, often from fear. “Is Sasha the girl who fell from Congressman Lionel’s office?” he asked.

“I can’t answer that question,” Anna said. “You referred him?”

Brian nodded, his eyes still wide. “About two years ago.”

“What other members did you refer to Discretion?”

The door flew open and hit the wall with a bang. Hamilton, the club president, stood there. “The other members and I were wondering if you’re okay, Brian.”

The concierge nodded.

“We think you might want to get a lawyer before talking to these ladies any further.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“We
really
think so, Brian.”

“Um, all right.” He looked apologetically at Anna. “I guess I shouldn’t talk to you anymore.”

Anna took a subpoena out of her briefcase and handed it to Brian. “Come to the grand jury next week. Bring a lawyer if you want one. In the meantime, it would help if you didn’t tell anyone that you’ve spoken with us or what information you shared.”

“Okay,” he said.

He seemed sincere, but Anna knew that Hamilton would be calling the shots as soon as they left. And he had different incentives than his concierge. This club didn’t even reveal their members’ names. What else would they do to protect them?

17

A
n hour later, Anna walked through the ninth floor of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, home of the Homicide and Major Crimes sections. It was just one floor below the Sex Crimes section but had a totally different vibe. Sex Crimes had so many female prosecutors that it was nicknamed the Pink-Collar Unit. Homicide was macho—most of the prosecutors were men, as were almost all the homicide detectives. Sex Crimes offices were decorated with plants, pictures, children’s drawings, and desk lamps that threw more flattering light than the fluorescents overhead. Homicide offices were decorated with gym bags and crime-scene photos clumped in corners. Sex Crimes prosecutors kept candy bowls on their desks. Homicide prosecutors kept bottles of Scotch in their drawers. The two floors even had different odors. The Sex Crimes section smelled of potpourri, Glade FreshScents, and fruity Body Shop lotions. If the Body Shop tried to bottle the scent of the Homicide section, Anna thought, they might call it Testosterone.

When she got to Jack’s office, he looked up from his desk and smiled at her. She sank into a chair. His office had no personal decorations except for a single picture of Olivia, facing him, so witnesses couldn’t see it. One of his bookshelves was crammed with awards and plaques he hadn’t bothered to hang, gathering dust and barely visible behind pamphlets on DNA testing.

“When are you gonna get some women here in Homicide?” Anna asked. “Your floor would smell better. Look better, too.”

“You disapprove of my interior decorating?”

“Seriously, how many of your twenty prosecutors are women? Five?”

He shrugged. “A lot of young women, like you, want to work on crimes targeting women, so they apply to Sex Crimes. And lawyers who are mothers usually try to work in sections where they can control their hours, like Appellate or Special Proceedings.”

“You could make Homicide more family-friendly. Offer part-time positions, flexible hours.” She smiled at him. “Join the twenty-first century.”

“Homicide prosecution isn’t a part-time job. A murder happens, we have to respond.”

“Carla does it in Sex Crimes. It works. And her employees love her for it.”

“Good for Carla. If people want to come to this section, they have to be committed to it.”

Anna realized she wasn’t the only one from whom Jack demanded total commitment. Jack’s Homicide section was so elite that he had a surplus of young lawyers eager to work long hours for him. They wouldn’t complain.

He pointed to his computer screen. “Take a look at this—Lionel is about to have a press conference.”

“You’re kidding!” She leaned forward and peered over his desk. “Think he’s gonna confess?”

“Yeah, right. But whatever he says might be interesting. The tech guys are taping it. Tell me what you learned at the Hunt Club.”

Anna described the interview with Discretion’s tester. “Sam’s tracking down the madam. As soon as we find her, we’ll get her into the grand jury.”

“Good.” Jack tapped his desk, a bit of nervous energy she didn’t usually see from him. “I don’t like you going with the agents on search warrants. If you see anything useful, you could make yourself a necessary witness, and you won’t be able to help me prosecute the case. If you don’t see anything useful, you’re just wasting your time.”

“C’mon,” she said. “
You
go on plenty of search warrants. So do a lot of the older lawyers in your section. There’s always an agent who can testify about whatever I see. Why shouldn’t I go?”

“I only go under special circumstances. And you shouldn’t do it just because the ungovernables do. The FBI doesn’t need another lawyer there. You’re not armed or trained.” He paused and looked away. “I worry about you.”

“Don’t.” She lowered her voice. “Treat me exactly like any other prosecutor in your section. Pretend I’m Harold Schwarzendruber.”

“You’re much better-looking than Harold,” Jack whispered back.

“Not in the office, I’m not. Take me seriously.”

“I do.” He grinned. “It’s Harold Schwarzendruber I don’t take seriously.”

Their argument was interrupted by Vanetta yelling from her desk. “Jack, the press conference is on!”

Jack turned to the computer and maximized the streaming video. “I bet he says he can’t comment because he doesn’t want to ‘interfere in our investigation.’”

Anna was happy to turn to something besides their relationship. She sat in a guest chair and watched the live-streaming news. Lionel’s press conference was arranged in the usual tableau: The Congressman gripped a podium as if trying to choke it. Betty stood one step behind and to the left, gazing at him serenely, her hands clasped lightly in front of her blue suit. American and D.C. flags formed the backdrop. The Congressman read from a written statement, forcing the words out through a tight grimace.

“I’ve been honored and humbled to serve the people of the District of Columbia for the last thirty-one years. Together, we’ve accomplished many great things. Throughout my tenure, I’ve always prided myself on being straight with the people I represent. And I’m gonna be straight with you now.” Lionel cleared his throat, then continued reading. “What happened last night was a tragedy. My wife and I are praying for that young woman’s family. My office will cooperate fully with the authorities to get to the bottom of this incident. I’m willing and available to be interviewed, as are my staff. So far”—he said with a shake of his head—“no one has asked me.”

“What a load of crap,” Anna said. “We asked his lawyer. We can’t ask
him;
he’s a represented party.”

Jack shrugged it off. He was used to the political posturing.

“The Lord knows, I’m not a perfect man,” Lionel continued. “I’ve made some mistakes in my life. I haven’t always been the husband that Betty deserved. For this, I am truly sorry.”

Over his shoulder, Betty nodded beatifically.

“Poor Betty,” Anna said. “If it were me, I’d kill him. I’d stab him right there at the podium. No jury would convict me.”

“Ouch.” Jack winced. “C’mon, no one’s perfect. Men make mistakes.”

Anna glanced at him, wondering what mistakes Jack had made that gave him such sympathy. But Lionel was working up steam in his speech.

“Let me be perfectly clear: I had
nothing
to do with what happened to that young woman last night! I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as the police do. I call for a complete and honest investigation.” Lionel looked up from his notes for the first time, speaking directly into the camera. His voice, which so far had been subdued, returned to its trademark growl. “And I demand an independent prosecutor. It can be no coincidence that mere weeks before the Democratic primary, this investigation is being pushed by prosecutor Jack Bailey, who is a friend and supporter of my challenger. I will not stand for a political witch hunt!”

Anna glanced at Jack; Lionel was trying to make the case about him. The muscles in Jack’s jaw were clenching and unclenching. He was furious.

“I had nothing to do with this woman’s death, and I expect to be fully exonerated. In the meantime, I will continue my fight for the people of D.C. Together, we will continue to work to make this the best city in America. God bless you all.”

Lionel took Betty’s hand, and they walked out a side door together. Whatever mistakes he had made, his wife appeared to have forgiven him. Anna wondered what would happen behind that door. Would she slap him, like
The Good Wife,
or was she really as supportive as she appeared?

Jack picked up the phone.

“Who are you calling?” she asked.

“Daniel Davenport. Apparently, Lionel can’t wait for us to interview him.”

“Should you really be the one making the call?”

“What, because of that ‘independent-prosecutor’ bullshit? The defendant always wants to make the case about what the government does instead of the crime he committed. You can’t let it distract you.”

“But maybe he’s got a point. You’re a friend of his opponent.”

“You think I’m investigating this case to help out my buddy?” Jack put down the phone. “I’m the Homicide chief, and a homicide took place on Lionel’s balcony. I investigate it.”

“I’m not criticizing you, but it does look . . . funny. Somebody who doesn’t know you might
perceive
a conflict of interest. Young-blood is telling people that if he’s elected, he’ll make you the U.S. Attorney. That could be used against you.”

“No, Anna. This is trick number one in the sleazy-defense-attorney playbook—attack the prosecutor. You can’t back down. You stand your ground and do your job.”

“Davenport isn’t sleazy. But he knows what he’s doing. He’s got a real issue, and he’s gonna make the most of it. I’m not saying he’s right, but if you’re not careful, it could come back and bite you on the—”

“Okay, Anna.” Jack held up a hand. “I get your point. But I’ve made my decision. And it’s final.” He picked up the phone and smiled at her as he dialed. “You can come to the interview, too. Make sure I don’t turn it into a political witch hunt.”

She didn’t smile back. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

He ignored her and spoke into the phone. A coal of frustration heated Anna’s chest as Jack talked with Davenport. She didn’t like being dismissed with a wave of the hand, as if she were a fly buzzing around his ear.

Daniel Davenport made a living turning the tables on prosecutors. The defense attorney would use Jack’s friendship with Lionel’s competitor as an element of Lionel’s defense. No matter how careful Anna and Jack might be, their case would rely on evidence collection and processing by teams of officers, technicians, and clerical workers, all with different degrees of skill and motivation. Mistakes were inevitable, but Davenport would frame any mistake through the lens of Jack’s motive to help Youngblood. Such accusations had the potential not only to sink a case but to do serious damage to Jack’s career.

Jack was too stubborn to back down or even talk about it. This could go very badly, Anna thought.

18

N
icole bolted upright in Belinda’s guest bed. She’d been dreaming that she was falling through darkness. The most terrifying part was not the fear of crashing but the certainty that the abyss had no end.

She’d sweated through her little black dress. The room was dark except for a crack of light coming from under the door. How long had she slept? She checked the time on her cell phone: 8:47
P.M.
Shit.

She scrolled through the call log. While she was sleeping, she’d missed three calls from unknown numbers—three potential clients calling in response to her Backpage ad to set up dates for tonight. Falling asleep during the crucial late-afternoon booking time was incredibly bad business. But she’d been so tired and upset, her body had crashed.