Death of an Intern (21 page)

O
utside of retrieving my tape recorder, I went straight back to the office. I called Max's cell, but he didn't pick up.
I transcribed my electronic notes and made footnotes. Marsha called asking if I was going to the Execs' softball game on the Ellipse. My initial reaction was no, considering my previous failed attempts to corral Kat, but I acquiesced.

I was working on my computer when my cell phone rang. It was Max. “I picked up my tape recorder. It's A-OK,” I blurted.

“I'm happy your life is so serene. How has the rest of your day gone?”

“I could probably write a book before this one gets solved.”

“If it's solved. Remember, our killer may not return,” Max warned.

“That would support my theory that the two killings were a coverup to hide the real target, Janet,” I championed.

“Very much so,” Max bantered. “Well, I had better get back to police work.”

“Oh, there's a softball game tonight. Want to join me?”

“Do they sell hot dogs?” he asked half-heartedly.

“No, but vendors line the adjacent street. There must be at least one fine food establishment in the row.”

“I'll let you know.” He disconnected.

Something must have been bothering him. He seemed distracted, didn't want to kibitz. I decided to transfer to the apartment. The inactivity in the newsroom was wearing me out. I called Jerry. His private line didn't answer, so I called his office line. Sophie answered spelling out the firm's name with her low, mellifluent voice.

“Hi, Sophie, Laura.” I always felt compelled to say my name to Sophie. I actually worried Jerry's secretary wouldn't know my voice, which wouldn't be good for the old ego, would it?

“We're at a client's for the remainder of the afternoon,” Sophie said.

“Okay. Ask him to call my cell phone please.”

“We will see he gets the message.”

I hung up after stilted goodbyes and began assembling what I would take with me, when I suddenly remembered I hadn't called Marsha. I got her voice mail and left a message that I'd be at the game. I packed my stuff and left for the apartment.

Later in my apartment, the phone's ringing woke me. It was almost five. I took a moment to orient myself and then realized I was on the sofa in our apartment. The papers I had been reading had fallen onto the floor. I reached to the coffee table for my cell phone. “Hello,” I said groggily.

“Do I detect a little drowsiness? Are you still going to the game?” Max asked.

“Yes. I was reading and got too comfortable. How's 7:15, 7:30?”

“Where are you?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I'm in the apartment.”

“I love what maternity is doing for you,” he teased.

“I'm tiring of that crap. It's like I never took care of myself.”

“Let's just say there was room for improvement.”

“Thanks a lot. However, with care in mind, I will eat here. I don't trust what those vendors put in their dogs. It might be dog.”

“I'll stop at my favorite deli,” he said airily.

M
ilo Bannini walked along the treeline watching the softball game on the Ellipse. He remembered the back lot games of his youth, rough ground surrounded by tenements. Here, the President's house was on one side, the Washington Monument on the other, green grass all around. He'd had rock-filled fields and trash for bases back in the neighborhood.

He liked watching the game, but he was doing a job for the boss, a surveillance of a nice-looking young lady about the age of his middle daughter. She played second base, had good hands, and swung a good bat. He never remembered any girl athletes from when he was young. He knew why—they had never been asked.

Now there were professional teams of women. That was bullshit. This slow-pitch softball with guys and gals mixed in looked like fun, though. He had always played hardball in the neighborhood. And fights? There were more of them than innings played some days. Aaah, that's the way it was.

Max found a good parking spot as usual. I donned a baseball cap and dark glasses.

“You do come up with interesting looks, Ms. Wolfe,” he quipped. “You look like a celeb, not wanting to be recognized.”

“As long as Frankie doesn't, that's all that matters.”

They walked along E Street, which separated the White House grounds from the Ellipse. Cars could once glide through there at walking speed, allowing the tourists in them to take pictures. No more. It was completely closed off between 15th to 17th streets.

Milo didn't like being in the city. Too many people—all kinds. That wasn't a problem as long as they didn't bother him. However, a thing he hated most he had just seen across the field. A black guy with a white broad. The nigger looked old enough to be her old man. Why was she wearing heavy dark glasses? Maybe she was a movie star, and he was her bodyguard.

Nah, they looked too chummy. Shit, this woulda never happened in the neighborhood. Blacks at work, no problem, long as they went home to their own. And let him do the same. The boss hired blacks, some okay. He just couldn't handle black men with white chicks. That gave him the creeps.

Max and I sat and talked of many things not wrapped around something horrible. It was a relaxing change of pace.

“They ought to be finishing soon,” Max observed.

We ambled toward the playing field.

Marsha joined us. “Kat and I and some of the others are going to the Sports Bar on Pennsylvania Avenue a couple of blocks over. Why don't you join us?”

I liked that. “Sounds good, it'll be more casual. We'll see you there.”

Max parked around the corner from the entrance to the Sports Bar. It was one of those new, noisy, multi-TV, wood-and-glass establishments where anybody over thirty was old. I wondered aloud if the noise would bother my baby.

Max laughed. “You are really into your new life's activity.”

“I rarely went to places like this when I was younger and single.”

Inside, we both had to raise our voices to be heard, even across the tiny table. After a few minutes, though, I adjusted to it. Announcers' voices came from the several TV sets, which were tuned to different channels. Occasional cheers or boos swelled up from those watching the various games. I imagined this place could be a zoo on Monday nights during football season.

I had a glass of tonic with lemon, Max a light beer. I allowed myself a few pretzels. Soon players from both teams arrived. Kat, Marsha, and two others I did not recognize came in. I noticed how Marsha facilitated the little group; her actions showed a naturalness. She comfortably steered the other three to a high-stool table close to ours.

Milo had paid for his beer. He did not like the noise. Lots of TVs. He saw his mark. The ones with her were from the game. Then he saw the black and his white bitch. Damn, he hated that. That don't happen in the neighborhood. She woulda got her head handed to her, he thought. Shit, if she'da come from the neighborhood, she wouldn'ta done it. The nigger would a got his ass thrown out, or worse. He coulda come in, had a drink, but nobody woulda talked to him.

Somebody ought to take that broad…fuck, he needed to calm down; he had a job to do. The boss wouldn'ta cared about his feelings, if he botched the job. He ordered a second beer. A compensation for his loyalty to the job.

The swirl of bodies moving to and fro gave credence to the word mixer. This was a typical collection of Washington people. “Marsha appears quite gregarious,” I said.

“I've noticed. She appears somewhat in charge,” Max replied.

I watched as Marsha slowly maneuvered Kat into a position where we could easily see her. I mentioned it to Max. We became engrossed in conversation.

“That's very clever of Ms. Marsha,” Max said.

A few minutes passed.

“Hi.”

I looked up. It was Kat. That was fast. “Hi.”

Kat smiled. “You come here often?”

“I was on the Mall getting in a long walk, when I ran into an old friend.”

I introduced Max and Kat using only first names.

“Marsha's here too,” Kat said, nodding in Marsha's direction. Marsha waved back. “I'm sorry about the other night. I don't know what got into me.”

“That's nice of you to say. No problem. I tried out some of my new diet on Marsha.”

“Oh?”

“I'm pregnant.”

Recognition showed in Kat's face. “Yes, Marsha said something about that.”

Things went from bad to worse for Milo. Now his mark was sitting with the yo-yo and his yahoo and being all chummy with them. He had been paying too much attention to the tube. He missed her going to their table. His inattention was because he had been trying to get his mind off the oil-and-water twosome sitting together. He needed to be careful. His little bird might fly.

I was surprised at Kat's friendliness. “So how are things?” I asked, feeling foolish at the innocuous question.

“We won again. We play a couple of games a week. Sometimes a makeup game too.”

This was working out well. Unfortunately, as much as I would like to question Kat, this was not the time or place. “Is your team all from the office?” I asked, hoping to sound interested.

“Some are from the general staff. About two-thirds are from our office. It's a good way to get busy people to focus on socializing.”