Whitewash (24 page)

Tallahassee, Florida

Sabrina left the homemade icepack on her knee though her whole body felt bruised and battered. Miss Sadie insisted she was still in shock. Evidently that was what the Gadsden County sheriff had thought, too. He brought her home himself, all the way back to Tallahassee. Sabrina had watched his eyes the entire time he took the report. She could tell he didn’t believe her, interrupting her twice to offer her an out by mentioning how bad that two-lane blacktop had become.

“I could certainly understand someone losing control, especially right at twilight. Someone who wasn’t familiar with the roads.” He said it like a father coaxing the truth out of his teenage child.

Sabrina stuck by her story even as she wiped mud from her elbows with the towel he had given her. She described the black sedan as best she could, but when the sheriff asked her for a description of the driver, her explanation that the car’s windows were tinted too dark sounded a bit fantastic even to Sabrina. He looked up at her and said, “Uh-huh,” and he could just as well have said,
What movie did y’all pull this from?

Once he deposited Sabrina at her condo, she no longer cared what the good sheriff of Gadsden County thought. She just wanted to forget the whole night, scrub it off and rinse it off in a nice warm bath.

Sabrina had to go around to the back of the condo where she kept a spare key hidden underneath one of the terra-cotta planters—hopefully one of the few Lizzie Borden hadn’t destroyed. That’s when Miss Sadie caught Sabrina.

“Girl, I thought someone was breakin’ in,” she scolded Sabrina, her voice coming out of the darkness, surprising Sabrina.

She never thought of Miss Sadie as a small woman, but coming around the corner in her long, hot-pink chenille robe that made her coffee-brown skin look smooth as silk, wielding a baseball bat that appeared oversized in her small, arthritic hands, Miss Sadie suddenly looked like a vulnerable, eighty-one-year-old woman. That is, until Sabrina saw that she was choked up on the bat like an expert.

Miss Sadie snapped on the patio light, took one look at Sabrina and turned the light off. Sabrina just stood there with the key in her hand, exhausted but waiting for the string of questions. She was in no mood to tell the story all over again. But the old woman surprised her. Instead of a barrage of questions, she pointed at Sabrina’s blood-and dirt-caked kneecap exposed by the rip in her jeans and the old woman gently said, “You’ll need some ice for that. Come sit down.”

Before Sabrina could protest, Miss Sadie had disappeared back into her condo. Sabrina didn’t argue. She didn’t want to. She eased herself into one of Miss Sadie’s wicker chairs and she took comfort in the familiar scent of lavender and the screech of night birds. She had forgotten how good it felt to have someone care. It was impossible to understand what an absolute luxury it was to have someone care about you until you no longer had it.

Minutes later Miss Sadie emerged with an economy-sized bag of frozen peas wrapped in a bright yellow Home-Sweet-Home kitchen towel. She also had a tray with a steaming mug and a plate of food.

“Hot toddy,” she said, placing the mug in front of Sabrina. “My special recipe. It’ll calm your nerves.” Then she put the plate before Sabrina, laying out her good silver and a cloth napkin. “And a little something to calm your soul.”

Miss Sadie took her place beside Sabrina and sat quietly while Sabrina ate and sipped and told the story again.

Tallahassee, Florida

Sabrina left the homemade icepack on her knee though her whole body felt bruised and battered. Miss Sadie insisted she was still in shock. Evidently that was what the Gadsden County sheriff had thought, too. He brought her home himself, all the way back to Tallahassee. Sabrina had watched his eyes the entire time he took the report. She could tell he didn’t believe her, interrupting her twice to offer her an out by mentioning how bad that two-lane blacktop had become.

“I could certainly understand someone losing control, especially right at twilight. Someone who wasn’t familiar with the roads.” He said it like a father coaxing the truth out of his teenage child.

Sabrina stuck by her story even as she wiped mud from her elbows with the towel he had given her. She described the black sedan as best she could, but when the sheriff asked her for a description of the driver, her explanation that the car’s windows were tinted too dark sounded a bit fantastic even to Sabrina. He looked up at her and said, “Uh-huh,” and he could just as well have said,
What movie did y’all pull this from?

Once he deposited Sabrina at her condo, she no longer cared what the good sheriff of Gadsden County thought. She just wanted to forget the whole night, scrub it off and rinse it off in a nice warm bath.

Sabrina had to go around to the back of the condo where she kept a spare key hidden underneath one of the terra-cotta planters—hopefully one of the few Lizzie Borden hadn’t destroyed. That’s when Miss Sadie caught Sabrina.

“Girl, I thought someone was breakin’ in,” she scolded Sabrina, her voice coming out of the darkness, surprising Sabrina.

She never thought of Miss Sadie as a small woman, but coming around the corner in her long, hot-pink chenille robe that made her coffee-brown skin look smooth as silk, wielding a baseball bat that appeared oversized in her small, arthritic hands, Miss Sadie suddenly looked like a vulnerable, eighty-one-year-old woman. That is, until Sabrina saw that she was choked up on the bat like an expert.

Miss Sadie snapped on the patio light, took one look at Sabrina and turned the light off. Sabrina just stood there with the key in her hand, exhausted but waiting for the string of questions. She was in no mood to tell the story all over again. But the old woman surprised her. Instead of a barrage of questions, she pointed at Sabrina’s blood-and dirt-caked kneecap exposed by the rip in her jeans and the old woman gently said, “You’ll need some ice for that. Come sit down.”

Before Sabrina could protest, Miss Sadie had disappeared back into her condo. Sabrina didn’t argue. She didn’t want to. She eased herself into one of Miss Sadie’s wicker chairs and she took comfort in the familiar scent of lavender and the screech of night birds. She had forgotten how good it felt to have someone care. It was impossible to understand what an absolute luxury it was to have someone care about you until you no longer had it.

Minutes later Miss Sadie emerged with an economy-sized bag of frozen peas wrapped in a bright yellow Home-Sweet-Home kitchen towel. She also had a tray with a steaming mug and a plate of food.

“Hot toddy,” she said, placing the mug in front of Sabrina. “My special recipe. It’ll calm your nerves.” Then she put the plate before Sabrina, laying out her good silver and a cloth napkin. “And a little something to calm your soul.”

Miss Sadie took her place beside Sabrina and sat quietly while Sabrina ate and sipped and told the story again.

Monday, June 12
Washington, D.C.

Jason Brill had already rifled through the
Post
and the
Times.
All he had found about Zach’s murder were a couple of paragraphs at the bottom of page three and Zach was an unidentified male at the Washington Grand Hotel.

Now Jason flipped between cable-news channels on the small portable TV he kept in his office. He’d gotten here earlier and practically locked himself away, looking and listening for anything about Zach. He’d gone through three Red Bulls to keep him charged for the rest of the day. But so far he couldn’t find anything more in the newspapers and not even a phrase on the crawl of any morning-news station. He expected more in a city where reporters gobbled up this sort of stuff. He thought it was odd, but at the same time found himself almost relieved and hoping Lindy hadn’t called the police.

While he didn’t find anything much about Zach, he did find an op-ed piece about Senator Allen and the upcoming energy summit. He’d already made several copies and highlighted key phrases that called his boss “a progressive thinker,” “a liberator from foreign oil” and one of the few on Capitol Hill who “genuinely gave a damn about the environment.”

It was the kind of piece that Jason considered a personal success after months of sending out press releases and repeating those key phrases anywhere and everywhere. It was good news and the boost they needed to get the EchoEnergy contract approval by the Appropriations Committee. Most of all, it was a relief that Friday’s vomit fiasco hadn’t found legs to last through the weekend.

There was an unexpected, gentle tap at Jason’s office door. It startled him so much he almost jumped out of his chair.

“Come in.”

A pause, then the door opened just enough for Senator Allen to peer in around it. Immediately Jason thought it a bit odd, or maybe his boss was trying to do something he didn’t want to do—like fire Jason. Could the senator have already heard about Jason’s extracurricular activity with the enemy camp?

“You’re here early,” Senator Allen said. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to get a jump start on the week,” Jason told him, glancing at this watch, pretending he didn’t know exactly what time it was. He was always here early. The senator would know that if he was here early.

“I could ask you the same question,” Jason said, using one of the senator’s favorite phrases. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, sure.” He opened the door wide enough to wave a hand at him. “I decided to do some old-fashioned arm-twisting instead of sitting back and letting the chips fall where they may.”

Jason was relieved, but also pleased. Without asking, he knew the senator had seen the op-ed piece. Positive media coverage motivated him beyond anything Jason could say or do.

“That sounds like a great idea. What do you need me to do?”

“Lunch. I’ll need you as backup. Make reservations at Old Ebbitt’s. Get my regular table.”

Jason wondered if he should tell Senator Allen to exclude Senator Holden for a day or two. But then how could Jason tell his boss without explaining how he already knew that one of Senator Holden’s top staffers had been murdered?

“You got it,” he said and left it at that.

Monday, June 12
Washington, D.C.

Jason Brill had already rifled through the
Post
and the
Times.
All he had found about Zach’s murder were a couple of paragraphs at the bottom of page three and Zach was an unidentified male at the Washington Grand Hotel.

Now Jason flipped between cable-news channels on the small portable TV he kept in his office. He’d gotten here earlier and practically locked himself away, looking and listening for anything about Zach. He’d gone through three Red Bulls to keep him charged for the rest of the day. But so far he couldn’t find anything more in the newspapers and not even a phrase on the crawl of any morning-news station. He expected more in a city where reporters gobbled up this sort of stuff. He thought it was odd, but at the same time found himself almost relieved and hoping Lindy hadn’t called the police.

While he didn’t find anything much about Zach, he did find an op-ed piece about Senator Allen and the upcoming energy summit. He’d already made several copies and highlighted key phrases that called his boss “a progressive thinker,” “a liberator from foreign oil” and one of the few on Capitol Hill who “genuinely gave a damn about the environment.”

It was the kind of piece that Jason considered a personal success after months of sending out press releases and repeating those key phrases anywhere and everywhere. It was good news and the boost they needed to get the EchoEnergy contract approval by the Appropriations Committee. Most of all, it was a relief that Friday’s vomit fiasco hadn’t found legs to last through the weekend.

There was an unexpected, gentle tap at Jason’s office door. It startled him so much he almost jumped out of his chair.

“Come in.”

A pause, then the door opened just enough for Senator Allen to peer in around it. Immediately Jason thought it a bit odd, or maybe his boss was trying to do something he didn’t want to do—like fire Jason. Could the senator have already heard about Jason’s extracurricular activity with the enemy camp?

“You’re here early,” Senator Allen said. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to get a jump start on the week,” Jason told him, glancing at this watch, pretending he didn’t know exactly what time it was. He was always here early. The senator would know that if he was here early.

“I could ask you the same question,” Jason said, using one of the senator’s favorite phrases. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, sure.” He opened the door wide enough to wave a hand at him. “I decided to do some old-fashioned arm-twisting instead of sitting back and letting the chips fall where they may.”

Jason was relieved, but also pleased. Without asking, he knew the senator had seen the op-ed piece. Positive media coverage motivated him beyond anything Jason could say or do.

“That sounds like a great idea. What do you need me to do?”

“Lunch. I’ll need you as backup. Make reservations at Old Ebbitt’s. Get my regular table.”

Jason wondered if he should tell Senator Allen to exclude Senator Holden for a day or two. But then how could Jason tell his boss without explaining how he already knew that one of Senator Holden’s top staffers had been murdered?

“You got it,” he said and left it at that.