Discretion (2 page)

Eva didn’t look so fierce in person, though. She was smaller than Anna had expected, maybe five-two. She was toned and tanned but seemed tiny before the crowd of silent women. Nothing about her appearance suggested Eva was a local luminary rather than just a thirty-seven-year-old aerobics instructor.

Anna looked around at the class, hoping someone would volunteer. Her fellow prosecutors were some of the toughest women she’d ever met. They faced the city’s most violent men on a daily basis. Yet despite their enthusiasm for the class and their willingness to sign a packet of waivers and consent forms, no one was stepping up. The instructor’s smile faded.

Anna’s sympathy kicked into high gear. Even for a woman like Eva, it must be hard to stand up in front of a group like this. And this was Anna’s home turf. She felt a sort of good-citizen responsibility for things to go smoothly. She couldn’t sit here while the woman floundered.

Anna stepped forward. “I’ll be the guinea pig.”

Eva’s smile returned as she gestured for Anna to join her on the mat at the front of the class. As Anna stood next to the instructor,
she felt Amazonian. She could look right over Eva’s head and see herself reflected in the mirror. They were an odd couple. Eva was tiny, muscular, and dark-haired, wearing bright new Lululemon gym clothes. Anna was tall, lanky, and blond, in a faded blue tank top and black yoga pants so well loved they were fraying at the hem. Eva’s face had the expertly made-up look of the “after” picture of a makeover. Anna, whose pre-class primping involved pulling her hair into a ponytail and applying ChapStick, was closer to the “before.”

“What’s your name?” Eva asked.

“Anna Curtis.”

“Thanks for helping with our first lesson in self-defense.”

The instructor smiled and held out her hand. When Anna took it, Eva’s fingers closed tightly around Anna’s palm. The instructor yanked Anna toward her, pivoted, and flipped Anna onto the ground. Anna’s back hit the mat with a thwack.

The class buzzed with exclamations and laughter.

“Wow!”

“How’d she do that? Anna’s like six inches taller!”

“Anna, are you okay?” That was her best friend, Grace.

Anna blinked up at the fluorescent panels. Her flash of anger was eclipsed by a desire to learn that move.

Eva’s voice cut through the racket, loud enough to reach the Nautilus machines at the back of the gym. “That’s your first and most important lesson, ladies.” She strode in front of Anna on the mat. “Never let your guard down!”

Anna didn’t mind being the butt of a joke, but she could give as good as she got. And the opening was too perfect. She swept her foot out at Eva’s ankle, knocking the instructor’s feet out from under her. Eva tumbled to the mat with a yelp.

Throughout the gym, weights froze midlift; elliptical machines halted midstride.

The two women’s heads were level, a few inches above the floor. Anna grinned at the instructor. “Nice to meet you?”

Eva seemed to consider her options, then returned the smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”

They got to their feet, and Eva stuck out her hand again. Anna made a show of exaggerated suspicion, then braced herself and took Eva’s hand. It was just a handshake this time.

“So there you go!” Eva said, turning back to the class. “Another demonstration of why you should never let your guard down!”

The students applauded. StairMasters whirred again; weights continued their up-and-down trajectories. Anna trotted back to her place with the other women in the class. Her friend Grace, an elegant black woman in pink capris, said, “You’re a natural on your back, kiddo.” Anna smiled and rolled her neck in an attempt to get the kinks out.

Eva launched into an impassioned speech. “Too many women’s lives are ruled by fear. By taking this class, you’ll get confidence, independence, and the ability to stand up for yourself when you need to.”

Anna was skeptical that throwing students to the floor would inspire a feeling of confidence, but she hoped the instructor was right. As a prosecutor of sex crimes, Anna felt particularly vulnerable. Last year, a man she was prosecuting forced his way into her home, where they’d struggled until the police arrived. Since then, Anna had been looking over her shoulder every time she walked down the street. She hated feeling that way. She’d become a prosecutor in order to escape the sense of powerlessness she’d had as a child. She needed to feel in control again. She needed to be able to kick some ass.

Eva had them all sit in a circle and then asked each woman to say why she’d signed up for the class. Anna was surprised to hear her colleagues talk about abuse they’d suffered as children or as girlfriends. They all worked together, helping victims of similar incidents, but rarely talked about what they’d experienced themselves.

Anna knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. She rarely talked about the darkness in her own childhood. She hadn’t planned to tonight, either. But after everyone else had shared their most private experiences, it felt cowardly to hedge when it was her turn. “My father used to beat up my mom,” Anna said. “It’s probably the reason I became a prosecutor.”

Grace patted her back, and the other women murmured support. Anna looked at the circle of sympathetic faces. The exercise had been cathartic for everyone.

Eva herself didn’t share anything. Anna wondered whether the instructor had some trauma of her own that had led her to become a women’s self-defense guru.

Eva stood up and started the first lesson. Anna expected to punch some foam pillows, but they spent the next hour learning about verbal deescalation—the art of defusing tense interactions with words. They practiced talking their way out of difficult situations with dates, coworkers, and strangers. It was less of a workout than Anna had expected, but a good idea. Many attacks started with verbal parrying.

“Okay, ladies!” Eva called. “I’m going to teach you one series of moves tonight. You know the most common injury from a bar fight? Broken fingers, from punching with a closed fist. Hit with the heel of your palm, and you won’t hurt yourself—and you won’t hold back because you’re scared of hurting yourself.”

She showed them how to strike an attacker’s nose with the heel of a hand. The key was twisting from the torso, creating torque power from the core. Then she showed them how to grab an attacker by his shoulder, pull him close, and deliver a debilitating groin kick.

“It seems counterintuitive,” Eva said, “but you have to go
through
your attacker. Don’t run away until he’s disabled. Pull him tight to your chest, so he can’t get away when you kick his groin. He’ll bend over in pain, and you follow up with a knee to his head.”

Eva had them practice on each other. Anna buddied up with Grace. To practice the groin kick, Grace pressed Anna against her, so they were chest to chest and hip to hip.

“You should’ve at least bought me a drink first,” Anna whispered.

They cracked up.

“I’ll buy you a drink tonight.” Grace loosened her grip on Anna’s shoulders. “A bunch of us are going to Rosa Mexicano after this.”

Anna shook her head with regret. The women from their section always had a great time swapping war stories over pomegranate margaritas. Sex-offense work was tough, and raucous happy hours were cheaper than therapy.

“I can’t,” Anna said. “I promised to pick up dinner on the way home tonight.”

“He’s got you on a tight leash, huh?” Grace was the only person who knew Anna had a boyfriend.

“No.” Anna bristled. “We just have plans.”

But there was a kernel of truth in Grace’s statement. The last time Anna came home at midnight with margaritas on her breath, her boyfriend had not been happy. He didn’t like her to go out drinking when he had to be home with his daughter. Anna didn’t want to mess up this relationship, so she hadn’t gone out in a while.

Anna softened her tone. “Have a margarita for me.”

“That’s what you said last time everyone went out,” Grace chided gently. “And the time before that.”

Anna was surprised that her absence had been noted. She didn’t want to be one of those women who disappeared when she got a new boyfriend.

Eva came over and eyed them disapprovingly. Anna and Grace were holding each other like two sixth-graders at a dance, hands on each other’s shoulders, standing an arm’s length apart.

“What are you waiting for?” Eva asked Grace. “If this were an attack, your assailant would’ve dragged you to an alley by now.”

“Right.” Grace pulled Anna against her again and performed a mock groin kick.

Anna bent over in pretend agony just as a musical ringtone went off. The theme song from
COPS
: “Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” The entire class looked to the wall, where a dozen identical BlackBerries were lined up.

“It’s mine,” Anna said, slipping out of Grace’s grasp and trotting over.

“Coward!” Grace called.

Anna picked up her phone. She used that ringtone only for calls from her boss, the chief of the Sex Crimes and Domestic Violence unit. But Carla Martinez was in South Carolina, teaching a course at the National Advocacy Center. Why would she be calling at almost nine o’clock at night?

“Hi, Carla?”

“Anna, hello.” Carla’s voice was harried but relieved. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I left you a message.”

“I’m sorry, I’m at the gym.” The locker room was right next to the National Security section, where the lead-lined walls interfered with cell signals.

“How quickly can you get to the Capitol Building?” Carla asked.

Anna walked over to the tall window. She could see the top of the Capitol dome, eight blocks away.

“I can be there in ten minutes.” So much for dinner plans.

“Great. I’ll explain while you’re on your way. Get there as quickly as possible.” Carla cleared her throat. “Preferably before Jack Bailey shows up.”

3

A
nna thought the Capitol illuminated at night was the single most impressive sight in a city full of impressive sights. Tonight, however, the landmark was trussed up like any other crime scene. Yellow police tape cordoned off the white marble steps, and a haphazard layer of TV vans and police cruisers jammed the street.

The night air retained the scent of baked asphalt and the sultry heat of the August afternoon. Anna was flushed from speed-walking over, but she tried to appear calm and official as she squeezed through the bystanders. She was glad she’d changed out of her yoga clothes and into a spare black pantsuit she kept in her office. She held up her U.S. Attorney’s Office credentials, and an officer lifted the yellow tape. As she ducked under, a few reporters shouted questions at her back. She was not at liberty to answer them, even if she had the answers. She kept walking.

The Capitol sat atop one of the biggest hills in the city, and the landscaping around it was like a wedding cake, all white, scalloped, and multitiered. A fountain separated two sets of marble steps. She jogged up the closest one.

She reached the top just in time to see Jack Bailey crest the other set of stairs. Jack was a tall African-American man with a clean-shaven head and light green eyes. His work ethic and courtroom skills had propelled him up the ranks in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Now, at only thirty-seven, he was the chief of the Homicide section, one of the most coveted positions in the largest U.S. Attorney’s Office in the country. He usually favored dark suits, but tonight he wore jeans and a navy T-shirt with the Department of Justice seal on the pocket. He’d been called here from home.

So much for Carla’s hope that Anna get here first. Anna felt a rush of happiness to see Jack, though she was careful to project only the
polite smile of a colleague. She greeted him in her most formal voice. “Hello, Jack.”

Jack laughed and shook his head when he saw her. “Hello, Anna. Did Carla send you to stake a claim to this case?”

“I was supposed to get here before you.”

An MPD officer passed them and chuckled. “No fighting, you two. Flip a coin or something.” The ongoing turf war between Homicide and Sex Crimes was a joke to everyone outside the two sections.

Anna and Jack walked to the Capitol’s long rectangular south wing, where dozens of officers clustered on the brightly lit marble terrace. She saw uniforms from the Metropolitan Police Department, Capitol Police, Park Police, Secret Service, and a few agencies she didn’t recognize. D.C. had more separate police forces than any other American city.

She and Jack navigated through the outer layer of police personnel. The closer they got to the center, the quieter the people were. There was an open space in the middle of the crowd, like the eye of a hurricane. Anna wended her way into it.

A woman lay on her side on the white marble terrace, her arms splayed one way, legs bent the other. A pool of dark blood spread under her blond hair. Her ivory skirt was hiked above her waist, revealing ivory garters. Ivory lace panties were bunched around her right knee. The panties had been ripped off her left leg and hung in tatters. The way her knees were angled, her bottom was bared to the onlookers. Anna wished she could cover the woman with a blanket.

“They have to wait for the medicolegal investigator,” Jack said quietly. “They can’t move the body until she’s been pronounced dead.”

Anna nodded. On the woman’s neck hung a delicate white-gold necklace with the name Sasha scrolled in cursive. Odd, Anna thought. One of the few facts Carla had been able to tell her was that the victim had checked in to the Capitol with a Georgetown student ID under the name of Caroline McBride.

The young woman’s face was turned to the side. She had alabaster skin and the finely carved profile of a Greek statue. She was about the same age, hair color, and build as Anna’s little sister, Jody. Or Anna herself.

Anna looked up at the balcony from which the woman had fallen. A Metropolitan Police Department officer was standing on it, looking down at the woman’s body. A few feet from Anna, an MPD crime-scene technician was taking photos of something glimmering near the woman’s head. A grayish-red dollop. Anna gagged and turned away, realizing it was a piece of the woman’s brain.