Fatal Justice (13 page)

“I’m, um, going to check on the canvas,” McBride said, scooting out after him.

Malone studied Sam.

“What?” she snapped.

“Being kind of hard on Cruz, aren’t you?”

“You told me to run my command any way I see fit. That’s what I’m doing.”

“How do you know he lied?”

“I know him.”

“Very well,” Malone said. “I’ll leave you to it. You know where I am if you need me.”

When she was alone, Sam paced the small room. The frustration threatened to boil over. Where was Clarence Reese? Who killed Julian Sinclair? How would she deal with Nick and his devastation in the midst of two homicide investigations? And lastly, who had been chewing on her partner’s neck?

Gonzo sat on the floor outside Duncan Quick’s apartment for more than an hour. A window at one end of the hall looked out over South Beach, eleven stories below. The boredom gave him far too much time to think about the incredible night he had spent with Christina Billings.

She had surprised him with her willingness to sleep with him after just two dates. He’d expected to have to work harder to win over a sharp, successful woman like her. Not that he was complaining. No way. The woman was h-o-t. It was just that not too many people surprised him anymore after ten years as a cop.

Not only did she surprise him, she intrigued him. He wasn’t used to being intrigued by women. Entertained, yes. Intrigued? Not so much. He’d expected her to be like most of the women who passed through his life as transients. They were on their way to something more lasting, something they knew they wouldn’t find with him. So he had a reputation for being a bit of a player. So what?

“I think I might keep this one around for a while,” he muttered to himself. “See what transpires.” Of course the fact that Sam had freaked when she saw them together only added to Christina’s appeal. “A smart man wouldn’t antagonize his boss.” Laughing to himself, Gonzo combed his fingers through jet-black hair. “I guess I’m not that smart.”

He checked his watch again. Where the hell was Quick? The neighbors hadn’t been able to shed any light on his whereabouts. In fact, no one had seen him since the previous morning. Gonzo had already checked all the neighborhood haunts he’d been told Quick frequented to no avail.

His cell phone rang. “Gonzales.”

“What’ve you got?” Sam asked.

“Nothing yet. No sign of Quick anywhere.”

“Interesting.”

“How long do you want me to wait?”

“As long as it takes. He has to come home eventually.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. What’s happening there?”

“We’ve got jack. No one at the hotel remembers seeing Sinclair after the O’Connors dropped him off. We’ve got some grainy film that seems to show him talking to someone, but the image isn’t clear enough to be of any help.”

“Is it possible he was meeting someone?”

“We’re looking at that. His estranged brother lives here in town. McBride and I are on our way to talk to him now.”

“Keep me posted. Any sign of Cruz?”

“He rolled in about an hour ago with a hickey on his neck and a boatload of excuses about his phone dying.”

Gonzo howled with laughter. “Aw, our little boy is finally growing up.”

“He needs to grow up on his own time.”

“It’s the first time he’s ever been late. Lighten up, Lieutenant.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that to me!”

“Would you ride anyone else this hard?” Gonzo asked, bracing himself for her retort.

“What’re you saying? That I favor him?”

“He’s your partner. Of course you favor him. But maybe you expect more of him, too.” Again he braced himself. “Because you trained him.”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“So he had a big night out. It’s high time, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “I should probably partner up with you or someone more experienced so I don’t have to deal with this crap.”

“You’d break his heart, Sam. He’s totally devoted to you.”

“Christ,” she muttered. “All these entanglements. When did I get so
entangled?
”

Gonzo laughed. “It’s such a bitch having people care about you, isn’t it?”

“Seriously! Call me when you find Quick.”

“Will do.” Gonzo stashed the phone in his pocket and got up to wander to the window again. Looking out at the palm trees, sugar white sand and crystal blue water, he wished he were here on vacation.
When was the last time I had a vacation?
he wondered
.
His grandparents had lived here when they first came from Cuba, but the family later moved north. Maybe after they closed this case, he’d bring Christina here for a week on the beach.

“
Whoa
,” he said. “Where’d that come from?” He wasn’t the kind of guy who took a woman on a vacation. Hell, he rarely saw them again after he slept with them. The ding of the elevator arriving at the other end of the hallway jarred him out of his disturbing thoughts. Turning, he found an older man coming down the hallway at a determined clip. Only when he drew closer did Gonzo spot the bruises on the man’s face and the drying blood on his lip. He carried a small duffel bag and was dressed in khakis and an untucked button-down shirt.

“Mr. Quick?”

The other man jolted, clearly startled by Gonzo’s unexpected appearance.

“I’m sorry to scare you. Are you Duncan Quick?”

“Who wants to know?”

Gonzo flashed his badge. “Detective Tommy Gonzales, Metro Washington, D.C. Police.”

Quick ran a trembling hand through thinning gray hair. “I’m Duncan Quick. What can I do for you?”

“What happened to your face?”

“I had an accident.”

Gonzo didn’t believe him but decided not to push it—yet. “Do you mind if we go inside?”

“What’s this about?”

“Let’s go in, and I’ll tell you.”

Warily, Quick opened his apartment door and gestured Gonzo into a stylish, contemporary space.

“Nice place.”

“Thank you. Now what can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Julian Sinclair has been murdered in Washington.” Gonzo had learned to cut to the chase in these instances.

Quick gasped and took a step back, his face ashen with shock. The bruises stood out against the sudden pallor. “That’s not possible,” Quick stammered. “He’s going to be on the Supreme Court. I saw the news.”

“He was murdered last night.”

“How?” he whispered.

“He was shot. His body was found early this morning in a Washington, D.C. park.”

“That just can’t be,” Quick said, sinking to the sofa as if his bones had liquefied. He dissolved into deep gulping sobs.

Gonzo found himself looking out at the water view, anything to avoid watching the raw display of grief. “Can I get you something?” he asked a few minutes later.

Without looking up, Quick shook his head.

Gonzo gave him another couple of minutes. “Mr. Quick, I’m sorry to have to do this, but I need to know where you’ve been for the last twenty-four hours.”

Quick released a harsh laugh. “Where have I been? I was getting the shit beat out of me by a guy I met in a bar.” His voice caught on a sob, and he buried his face in his hands. “Julian, oh God, this is all my fault.”

Gonzo sat down across from Quick. “What do you mean?”

“I forced the issue.” He wiped tears from his face. “I wanted him to retire and move down here with me, but he wasn’t ready. If I had stayed with him, if I had been with him, maybe…”

“I’m going to need the name of the man you were with last night.”

Quick raised his anguished face, his eyes connecting with Gonzo’s. “You suspect
me?
”

“I need to rule you out.” Gonzo nodded toward the duffel Quick had dropped inside the door. “What’s in the bag?”

“Gym clothes.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

With the weary wave of his hand, Quick granted permission.

Gonzo went over to squat down next to the bag. Unzipping it, he pulled out a bloody T-shirt and turned to Quick.

“What I was wearing when this happened,” he said, pointing to his lip.

Studying the older man’s battered face, Gonzo believed him. According to Sam’s report, Sinclair’s body had shown no sign of a struggle the likes of which Quick had obviously endured. “Who were you with, Duncan?”

Quick ran a weary hand though his hair. “You really have to talk to him?”

“I really do.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention all of this,” he said, gesturing to his face.

“Why would you want him to get away with that?”

“I’ve been so lost without Julian, Detective.” The statement and the grief behind it touched Gonzo. “I took a risk and paid the price.” He shrugged. “Not the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

“When did you last speak to Julian?”

“A couple of months ago. He called to tell me the nomination was imminent and to assure me he would do his best to keep my name out of the proceedings.”

“And that was important to you?”

“There are people in my life who aren’t aware.”

“What was at stake for you if they found out?”

“Plain old bigotry.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Julian has a brother who stopped speaking to him after he found out about us. They hadn’t spoken in thirteen years.” Sadness radiated from him. “Can you imagine? Not speaking to your brother simply because of who he loves?”

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“That’s how it is for people of our generation.” He got up, went to a bar set up by the windows overlooking the beach, and poured himself a shot. “We often have to hide who we are from even those closest to us.”

Gonzo shook his head at the offer of a drink.

“We were very discreet. Always. For the first seven years we were together, only a small circle of close friends knew that we were more than the best of friends. We even maintained separate residences, at least on paper. Then his sister-in-law found out about us and went ballistic. We were much more careful after that.” Duncan poured another drink. “But I reached a point where I couldn’t live a lie for one more day. Twenty years is a long time, you know?”

Gonzo nodded.

“Julian’s mother died. His brother was out of the picture. My family hardly would’ve been surprised if I officially came out. I couldn’t understand what was standing in our way.”

“So what was?”

Duncan smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ambition.” He returned to the sofa and sat down hard. “Julian wanted the court more than he wanted me.”

“That must’ve angered you.”

“It hurt me. I’d planned to grow old with him.” His voice hitched on a sob. “I loved him. More than anyone else in this world. I
loved
him. After he was nominated, I kept hoping the press would find out.”

Gonzo waited for him to continue.

“I figured if it got out, it might derail the nomination. As far as we’ve come, I don’t know if America is ready for a gay Supreme Court justice. I’m ashamed to say I even considered leaking it. But I discovered I couldn’t do that to him. That’s how much I loved him. So when I heard he was in Washington for the hearings, I went out, got drunk, met a thug named Ron and went home with him. You know the rest.”

“Ron’s last name and address?”

Grimacing, Duncan rattled off the information.

Thirty minutes later, Gonzo stood at the door to Ron Spaulding’s apartment, accompanied by two South Beach police officers. Obviously, they had gotten Ron out of bed, and Gonzo was gratified to note that his bottom lip was split and swollen. Duncan had gotten off at least one good shot in self-defense.

“Waddya want?” Ron mumbled. He was blond and handsome in a cocky sort of way with a pierced ear and perfect pecs. Gonzo wanted to smack him around for roughing up Duncan, a man thirty years older.

“Ron Spaulding?”

“What’s it to you?” he grumbled, scratching his belly above the waistband of gym shorts.

Gonzo flashed his badge. “Detective Tommy Gonzales, Metro Washington, D.C. Police. Did you spend last night with a man named Duncan?”

“Yeah, so?”

“What time did you two hook up?”

“I don’t know. Nine maybe?”

Sinclair was still alive at eleven-fifteen when the O’Connors dropped him off at the hotel. “Were you with him all night?”

“Uh-huh.”

Whereas Duncan had seemed ashamed of hooking up with a stranger, this guy was so matter-of-fact about it that Gonzo suspected it was a regular occurrence in his life. He turned to the cops he’d brought with him. “He’s all yours.”

“You’re under arrest for the assault of Duncan Quick,” one of them said.

“What the
fuck?
” Spaulding said. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

Gonzo left them to fight it out. He had what he needed.

“What do we know about Preston Sinclair?” Sam asked Jeannie McBride as she drove to Sinclair’s place in Georgetown.

Reading from her notes, Jeannie recited what she’d uncovered when she ran his name. “History professor at Catholic University. Grew up in Massachusetts, one of two sons. Went to Princeton for undergrad, Harvard for graduate school. Has a Ph.D. in American history. He’s lived in the District for twenty-three years. Estranged from his brother Julian for the last thirteen years. Married with two grown sons, one an accountant, the other an attorney. His wife, Diandra, is a conservative commentator on the Capital News Network.”

“Yes, the hatemonger. We talked about her the other night at dinner. Julian was horrified by her.”

“I can see why, but she has a huge following.”

“Good work, McBride.” Pulling on to Sinclair’s street, she found a parking space and turned to Jeannie. “I appreciate your help with this one.”

“No problem. Have you spoken with the senator? Since we saw him earlier?”

“No.”

“I feel sorry for him.”

“I do, too.” Sam was trying her best not to think about how crushed Nick had been earlier. Lately, she had grown so accustomed to leaning on his quiet strength that she had no idea how to help him. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s strong.” But even as she said it, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be okay. “Let’s see what Mr. Sinclair has to say about the murder of his brother.”

Located in one of Washington’s more affluent neighborhoods, Sinclair’s brick-front townhouse was well tended. His wife, a striking blonde, answered the door.

“Mrs. Sinclair?” Sam showed her badge. “Lieutenant Holland, Metro Police. My partner, Detective McBride. May we have a moment of your time?”

“What’s this about?”

Nonplussed by the other woman’s curtness, Sam said, “We need to speak to you and your husband. May we come in?”

Resigned, Diandra Sinclair stepped aside to allow them in. No doubt decorated by a high-price interior designer, the house was furnished with an eclectic mix of antiques and contemporary pieces.

“Is your husband at home?”

“He’s very busy. It’d be better if you came back at another time.”

“We need to see him now.” Sam held the other woman’s furious gaze until Diandra turned away.

“I’ll get him.”

“Chilly,” Jeannie whispered.

“Seriously.”

She returned five minutes later with a man who bore a resemblance to his late brother but was several inches taller and a couple of years older.

Sam introduced herself and Jeannie to him.

“I’ve seen you in the paper,” Preston said.

“Mr. Sinclair, I’m very sorry to have to tell you your brother was murdered early this morning.”

Preston gasped. “What?”

Diandra reached out to her husband.

Sam gave them the few details she knew.

He moved to a sofa. His wife followed, sitting next to him and taking his hand.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam said.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

“I understand you and your brother were estranged.”

“That’s right,” he said, looking pained. “Thirteen years.”

“And why was that?”

“A difference of opinion that got out of hand. You know how these things happen.”

“Actually, I don’t. It wouldn’t occur to me to not speak to my sisters for thirteen years.”

“You have no right to judge him,” Diandra snapped.

“No judgment,” Sam said. “Just stating the facts, ma’am.” Turning back to Preston, she said, “You’ve had no contact with him since he was nominated for the Supreme Court?”

Preston glanced at his wife and then back at Sam. “No.” He cleared his throat. “Well, except for an email I sent to congratulate him.”

Diandra stared at her husband, shocked. “When?”

“The other day.” He seemed chagrinned. “I wanted him to know I was happy for him.”

“Did you get a reply?” Sam asked.

Preston shook his head. “I know he must’ve been so busy. He would’ve written back when he could.”

“Have you communicated with him by email before this?” Diandra asked, stealing Sam’s next question.

“Once or twice.”

Diandra’s eyes flashed with anger. “I can’t believe this!”

“He was my
brother
, Di. My only sibling.”

“He was a liar and a fraud.”

“He was my brother,” Preston whispered, wiping a tear from his face.

“Stop it,” she snapped, seeming appalled that he was crying over Julian’s death.

As Preston obediently mopped up his tears, Sam and Jeannie exchanged glances. This was one twisted relationship.

“Did you expect to see him while he was in town?” Sam asked.

“I’d hoped to. In the email, I offered to meet him, but like I said, I never heard back from him.”

“Unbelievable,” Diandra muttered, glaring at her husband.

Preston looked down at the floor like a chastened child whose mother is angry with him.

“Mrs. Sinclair, can you tell me how your husband and his brother came to be estranged?” Sam said.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I’m asking you.”

“Fine. I saw them—Julian and that fag he referred to as his ‘friend.’ They were kissing! Right out in public! And I’d allowed my children—my
sons
—to sleep at his home. He’d exposed them to his immoral lifestyle, and God knows what else.” She shuddered.

“He adored those boys,” Preston snapped. “You know he did! And they adored him.” To Sam he said, “They’ll be crushed by his death. They’d reestablished contact with him and saw him regularly.”

“They did not!” Diandra said, her face flat with shock.

“Yes, they did,” Preston retorted defiantly. “Once they were out of your house, they made their own decisions.”

Diandra sent him a venomous glare, and once again he wilted.

“Where were the two of you last night?” Sam asked, imagining the chewing out Preston was in for after they left.

Taken aback by the question, Preston said, “We had dinner out and went to bed early. Around ten or so, I guess.”

Her lips tight with fury, Diandra nodded in agreement.

“And neither of you left the house again after you returned from dinner?”

“No,” he said.

“Of course not,” she said.

“Do either of you require medication in order to sleep?”

“What kind of question is that?” Diandra asked.

“It’s a simple yes or no kind of question. Do you require medication to sleep?”

“I take a sleeping pill every now and then,” Preston said.

“Did you take one last night?”

He nodded. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping since Julian was nominated.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

“I’ve had some concerns,” Preston said haltingly, “about his nomination stirring up old hurts. Things that are better left in the past.”

Sam turned to Diandra. “Do you take sleeping medication?”

“I do not.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Sinclair, what does it do to a ‘career’ like yours if your brother-in-law comes out as a gay man to all of America during his confirmation hearings?”

“I have no idea,” she said, spitting the words at Sam. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Sam stared her down for several long seconds. “I’d like to speak to your sons. Are they local?”

“What for?” Diandra asked.

“This is a homicide investigation. I can talk to anyone I want.”

“I’ll write down their information,” Preston said with a pointed look at his wife. “They’re both here in the city.”

Sam and Jeannie left after requesting that the Sinclairs stay local until the investigation was completed.

“Wow,” Jeannie said when they were in the car. “That woman was tightly wound, huh?”

“And a total homophobe. You don’t see that kind of hatred very often these days.”

“No question she’s the reason the brothers were estranged.”

“She didn’t approve of Julian,” Sam said. “I want to know what kind of problems it would’ve caused her ‘career’ if Julian’s orientation became public.”

“Definitely worth looking into.”

“Yeah, she knew damned well that it would be a disaster for her if he came out just as her book was released. I also want to talk to their sons. I’m willing to bet they were his heirs.”

“Probably. Why’d you ask about the sleeping medicine?”

“A hunch,” Sam said. “They’re each other’s alibi, but if one of them was drugged up, the other could’ve snuck out.”

“I never would’ve thought to ask that,” Jeannie said, her voice tinged with admiration.

“Shit,” Sam muttered. “Now you’re starting to sound like Cruz.” A pang of guilt struck her as she thought of him sitting in the cold watching Reese’s place. Then she got over it. One shift spent on surveillance wouldn’t kill him, and it was the least of what he deserved for lying to her.

“Let’s go have a chat with Senator Robert Cook,” Sam said.

At the Capitol, Sam and Jeannie were told that Senator Cook was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.

Sam narrowed her eyes into her most intimidating stare and watched the administrative assistant shrivel before her. Excellent. “Either you can go in there and get him, or I’m going to. Your choice.”

“Please wait right here,” the admin said, scurrying away.

“Can you teach me that look?” Jeannie asked.

“It’s a gift. You have to be born with it.”

Jeannie laughed. “I should’ve known you’d say something like that.”

The admin returned. “Right this way, please.”

“See that?” Sam said to Jeannie, loud enough for the admin to hear her. “I love when the citizenry cooperates with their law enforcement professionals.”

“It’s critical to maintaining law and order,” Jeannie replied, playing along.

The admin probably would’ve scowled at them if she had dared.

Cook’s spacious office, Sam noted, was easily four times the size of Nick’s. Seniority had its perks.

“What can I do for you?” Cook growled. “I’m very busy.”

“Then we won’t take much of your time,” Sam said. “You told Senator Cappuano that Supreme Court nominee Julian Sinclair should watch his back. That someone might take a shot at him. Can you tell me what you meant by that?”

“It was a figure of speech,” Cook said, visibly ruffled by the question. “What does he do—run home and tell the little woman everything that transpires around here?”

“No, just comments that factor into murder investigations.”

“Murder investigation? What’re you talking about?”

“Julian Sinclair was murdered last night.”

Cook’s portly face turned an unbecoming shade of purple. “You aren’t
possibly
insinuating that I had anything to do with it.”

“Do you know of anyone who might’ve had something to do with it?”

“Of course I don’t. I hardly associate with murderers.”

Sam consulted her notebook. “Weren’t you once associated with Robert ‘Junior’ Despositio who’s doing time in federal prison for attempted murder and racketeering?”

Cook’s face twisted with rage. “He was a high school classmate of mine who made poor choices. I haven’t been ‘associated’ with him in thirty years.”

“Had you ever met Mr. Sinclair?”

“I had not. I believe we had a meeting on the schedule for sometime in the next week. Meeting with the senators who’ll be voting for them is part of the routine for Supreme Court nominees.”

“Where were you last night after eleven?”

“Home in bed.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“My wife.”

Sam held out her notebook to the senator. “A number where I can reach her?”

Cook stared at her for a long moment. “I’m a United States senator. My word should be more than good enough.”

“It isn’t,” Sam said. “The number please?”

He snatched the notebook from her hand. “Your superiors will be hearing about this.”

“They enjoy getting complaints about me doing my job. Should I give you the best number to reach them?”

Cook thrust the notebook back at her. “Tell your
boyfriend
he needs to learn to keep his mouth shut if he plans to make any friends around here.”

“You aren’t threatening him, are you, Senator?”

“Of course not,” Cook huffed. “I’m just pointing out that blabbing to cops is no way to make friends.”

“I’m sure that making friends around here is of far less concern to him than finding the person who killed his
real
friend. Detective?”

Jeannie followed Sam from the room. “That was
ill
.”

“Is that good or bad?” Sam asked, baffled.

“Good,” Jeannie said. “Very
good
.”

“Ill. I like that.” Sam filed it away for future use.

Freddie shivered in the icy cold, his eyes fixed on Reese’s house. He’d turned on the car and heater half an hour before, but the warm air had made him too sleepy. Even though he was freezing, he burned with anger directed at Sam, Elin and mostly himself. This was his own fault. If he had remained true to his faith and his beliefs, he’d be working a homicide with his partner right now rather than sitting in a frigid timeout. The day grew dark early as heavy clouds hung over the city, and Freddie fought to stay awake.

He should’ve known Sam would zero in on the lie. “Stupid,” he muttered, his breath coming out in puffy clouds. Shrinking deeper into his coat, he wanted to smack the crap out of Elin. Except, of course, he never would. But it sure was nice to fantasize about spanking that perfect ass. When his body reacted with infuriating predictability to that image, Freddie roared with frustration, aggravation and shame.

Since he hadn’t gotten to take a shower, her essence clung to his skin. Images from their erotic night together tortured him like a movie he couldn’t seem to escape. As much as he wanted to throttle her, he feared that if she appeared beside the car right now, throttling wouldn’t be the first thing he’d do to her.

Freddie checked the clock on the dashboard. “Three more hours. I’ll die before then.” He wanted a shower, a warm bed and eight uninterrupted hours of sleep so bad he was tempted to sell his well-protected soul to the devil to get them. With a mighty yawn, he reached for his cell phone wishing he could call Sam to find out what was going on with the Sinclair case.