Sacred Sins (38 page)

He wondered about his father. The night, this last Thanksgiving night, had been a test. If his father had come, if he'd been sober and had come to take Joey with him for dinner, Joey would have tried one more time. But he hadn't come because it was too late for both of them.

Besides, he was tired of trying, tired of seeing those sharp, uncertain looks on his mother's face, of seeing the anxious concern on Donald's. He couldn't stand being to blame anymore, for any of it. When he was finished, there wouldn't be any reason for Donald and his mother to fight about him. He wouldn't have any reason to worry that Donald would leave his mother and the new baby because he couldn't tolerate Joey any longer.

His father wouldn't have to make child-support payments.

The rail of the Calvert Street Bridge was slick, but he got a good purchase with his gloves.

All he wanted was peace. Dying was peaceful. He'd read all about reincarnation, about the chance of coming back to something better, as someone better. He was looking forward to it.

He could feel the wind tossing snow, cold, almost sharp snow, against his face. He could see his breath puff out slow and steady in the dark. Below him now were the white-tipped trees and the icy flow of Rock Creek.

He'd decided quite calmly against other forms of suicide. If he slashed his wrists, the sight of his own blood might make him too weak to finish. He'd read where people who tried to overdose on pills often vomited them up and just got sick.

Besides, the bridge was right. It was clean. For a moment, for one long moment, it would feel like flying.

He balanced himself a moment and prayed. He wanted God to understand. He knew that God didn't like people to make a choice to die. He wanted them to wait until He was ready.

Well, Joey couldn't wait, and he hoped God and everyone else would understand.

He thought of Dr. Court and was sorry that she was going to be disappointed. Joey knew his mother would
be upset, but she had Donald and the new baby. It wouldn't take her long to see that it was all for the best. And his father. His father would just get drunk again.

Joey kept his eyes open. He wanted to see the trees rush up at him. He took a long breath, held it, and dove.

“M
ISS
Bette has outdone herself again.” Tess sampled the rich dark meat her grandfather had carved. “Every-thing's spectacular, as always.”

“Nothing the woman likes better than to fuss with a meal.” The senator added steaming gravy to a mound of creamy white potatoes. “I've been barred from my own kitchen for two days.”

“Did she catch you sneaking in for samples again?”

“Threatened to make me peel potatoes.” He swallowed a healthy forkful, then grinned. “Miss Bette has never subscribed to the notion that a man's home is his castle. Have some more dressing, Detective. It's not every day a man gets to indulge himself.”

“Thanks.” Because the senator held the bowl over his plate, Ben had little choice but to take it. He'd already had two helpings, but it was difficult to resist the senator's cheerful insistence. After an hour in the company of Senator Writemore, Ben had discovered the old man was vibrant, both in looks and speech. His opinions were hard as granite, his patience slim, and his heart undeniably lay in his granddaughter's hands.

What relieved Ben was that after that hour he wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as he'd been prepared to be.

Initially the house had made him uneasy. From the outside it had merely been quietly elegant, distinguished. Inside it had been like a trip around the world in a first-class cabin. Turkish rugs faded just enough to show their age and durability, were spread over black-and-white
checkerboard tile on the hall floor. An ebony cabinet, high as a man's shoulders and magnificently painted with peacocks, stood under a long curve of stairs.

In the parlor, where a silent Oriental had served before-dinner drinks, two Louis Quinze chairs flanked a long rococo table. A cabinet fronted with etched glass held a treasure trove. Venetian glass almost thin enough to read through was stained with color. A glass bird caught and reflected the light from the fire. Guarding the white marble hearth was a porcelain elephant the size of a terrier.

It was a room that reflected the senator's background and, Ben realized, Tess's. Comfortable wealth, a knowledge of art and style. She'd sat on the dark green brocade of the sofa in a pale lavender dress that had made her skin glow. The pearl choker lay against her throat, its glinting center stone pulsing with light and the heat from her body.

To Ben she'd never looked more beautiful.

There was a fire in the dining room as well. This one had been banked to simmer and pop through the meal. Light came from the prisms of the tiered chandelier above the table. Wedgwood plates, delicately tinted, Georgian silver, heavy and gleaming, Baccarat crystal waiting to be filled with cool white wine and sparkling water, Irish linen soft enough to sleep on. Bowls and platters were heaped. Oysters Rockefeller, roast turkey, buttered asparagus, fresh crescent rolls, and more; their scents mixed into a delightful potpourri with candles and flowers.

As the senator carved the turkey, Ben had thought back on the Thanksgivings he'd experienced as a child.

Because they had always eaten at midday rather than evening, he'd woken to the enticing smells of roasting fowl, sage, cinnamon, and the sausage his mother had browned and crumbled into the stuffing. The television
had stayed on through the Macy's parade and football. It was one of the few days of the year when he or his brother hadn't been drafted to set the table. That was his mother's pleasure.

She'd take out her best dishes, the ones used only when his Aunt Jo visited from Chicago or his father's boss came to dinner. The flatware hadn't been sterling, but a more ornate stainless. She'd always taken pride in arranging the napkins into triangles. Then his father's sister would arrive with her husband and brood of three in tow. The house would be full of noise, arguments, and the scent of his mother's honey bread.

Grace would be said while Ben ignored his cousin Marcie, who became more disagreeable every year, and who, for reasons of her own, his mother would insist on seating next to him.

Bless us O Lord with these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christour-lordamen.

The last of the prayer always ran together as greed became overwhelming. The minute the Sign of the Cross was completed, hands began to reach out for whatever was closest.

There had never been a silent Oriental seeing the glasses were full of Pouilly-Fuissé.

“I'm glad you could join us tonight, Detective.” Writemore helped himself to another serving of asparagus. “I often feel guilty about keeping Tess all to myself over the holidays.”

“I appreciate the invitation. Otherwise I'd probably be eating a taco in front of the television.”

“A profession like yours doesn't leave time for many quiet meals, I'd imagine. I'm told you're a rare breed, Detective, being dedicated.” When Ben only lifted a brow, the senator gave him a bland smile and gestured
with his wineglass. “The mayor's been keeping me informed on the ins and outs of your case, as my grand-daughter's involved.”

“What Grandpa means is that he gossips with the mayor.”

“That too,” Writemore agreed easily. “Apparently you didn't approve of Tess being brought in to consult.”

Blunt, Ben decided, is best met with blunt. “I still don't.”

“Try some of these pear preserves on that roll.” Genially, the senator passed the dish. “Miss Bette puts them up herself. Do you mind if I ask if you disapproved of consulting with a psychiatrist or of consulting with Tess.”

“Grandpa, I don't think Thanksgiving dinner is an appropriate place for a grilling.”

“Nonsense, I'm not grilling the boy, just trying to see where he stands.”

Taking his time, Ben spread the preserves on the bread. “I didn't see the point in a psychiatric profile that involved more time and paperwork. I prefer basic police work, interviews, legwork, logic.” He glanced over at Tess, and saw her studying her wine. “As far as law enforcement is concerned, it doesn't matter to me if he's psychotic or just mean. This dressing's incredible.”

“Yes, Miss Bette has quite a hand.” As if to corroborate, Writemore took another forkful. “I'm inclined to see your opinion, Detective, without wholly agreeing. That's what we in politics call diplomatic bullshit.”

“We call it the same thing in law enforcement.”

“Then we understand each other. You see, I'm of the opinion that it's always wise to understand your opponent's mind.”

“Insofar as it helps you stay a step ahead of him.” Ben turned his attention to Writemore. The senator sat
at the table's head in a black suit and stiff white shirt. The dark tie was held in place by a single unadorned diamond. His hands were big and rough looking against the elegant crystal. It surprised Ben to note that his own grandfather's hands, the old butcher's hands, had been much the same—worked, thick at the knuckle, wide backed. He wore a plain gold band on his left hand, the sign of a commitment to the wife who had died more than thirty years before.

“Then you don't feel Tess's work as a psychiatrist has helped you in this particular case?”

As if she were sublimely unconcerned, Tess continued to eat.

“I'd like to say that,” Ben answered after a moment. “Because if I did it might be easier to convince her, or to convince you to convince her to stay out of it from here on. But the fact is, she's helped us establish a pattern and a motive.”

“Would you pass me the salt?” Tess smiled as Ben lifted the lead crystal dish. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he said, but grudgingly. “That doesn't mean I approve of her being involved.”

“Then I take it you've come to realize that my granddaughter is both a dedicated and stubborn woman.”

“I've gotten the picture.”

“I consider it an inheritance,” Tess said, and covered the senator's big hand with hers. “From my grandfather.”

Ben saw the hands link and hold. “Thank God you didn't get my looks.” Then, in the same genial tone, “I'm told you've moved in with my granddaughter, Detective.”

“That's right.” Preparing for the inquisition he'd been expecting all evening, Ben fell back on the pear preserves.

“I wonder if you're charging the city overtime.”

Tess laughed and sat back in her chair. “Grandpa's
trying to see if he can make you sweat. Here, darling.” She passed the senator more turkey. “Indulge yourself. The next time you gossip with the mayor, tell him that I'm receiving the very best in police protection.”

“What else should I tell him you're receiving?”

“Whatever else I'm receiving is none of the mayor's business.”

Writemore dropped another slab of turkey on his plate before he reached for the gravy. “And I suppose you're going to tell me it's none of mine either.”

“I don't have to.” Tess spooned cranberry sauce onto his plate. “You've just said so yourself.”

At five feet and a hundred forty pounds, Miss Bette shuffled into the room and cast an approving eye on the dent made in the feast she'd prepared. She wiped small, pudgy hands on her apron. “Dr. Court, there's a call for you.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Bette. I'll take it in the library.” After she rose, she leaned down to kiss the senator's cheek. “Don't be a nuisance, Grandpa. And make sure I get a piece of that pie.”

Writemore waited until Tess was out of the room. “A beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“You know, when she was younger, people often underestimated her because of her looks, her size, her sex. After you've lived more than half a century, you don't take much on face value. She was just a bit of a thing when she moved in here with me. We only had each other. People would assume that I got her through the rough times. The truth was, Ben, she got me through. I think I would have crumbled up and died without Tess.

“I'm closing in on three quarters of a century.” Writemore smiled as if the thought pleased him. “When you do that, you start to look at each day in sharp focus. You start to appreciate little things.”

“Like feeling your feet on the ground in the morning,” Ben murmured, then catching the senator's look, shifted uncomfortably. “Something my grandfather said.”

“Obviously an astute man. Yes, like feeling your feet on the ground in the morning.” Holding his wineglass, he leaned back, studying Ben. It relieved him that he liked what he saw. “Human nature forces a man to appreciate those things, even after he's lost his wife and his only child. Tess is all I have left besides those small pleasures, Ben.”

Ben discovered he was no longer uncomfortable, no longer waiting to be backed into a corner. “I'm not going to let anything happen to her. Not just because I'm a cop and it's my duty to shield and protect, but because she matters.”

When he leaned away from the table, the diamond in Writemore's tie glinted from the light. “You follow football?”

“Some.”

“When neither of us have to worry about Tess, you come to a game with me. I've got season tickets. We'll have a few beers and you can tell me about yourself, things I didn't learn from copies of your departmental record.” He grinned, showing a white set of teeth which were almost all his own. “She's all I've got, Detective. I could tell you what your score was last week at target practice.”