Whitewash (34 page)

Washington, D.C.

Lindy called before Jason left his office. She wanted to meet. Said they needed to talk. He suggested Wally’s, thinking everyone went to Wally’s. If someone noticed them together it’d be difficult to know whether it was planned or a coincidence. But as he walked through the door and saw her wave with an enthusiastic smile, he wanted to kick himself. Hell, what if she thought he was being romantic, suggesting the place where they’d first met?

That wasn’t the worst of it. Lindy had chosen the exact booth where Jason and Senator Malone had exchanged what Jason classified as a hot game of mental foreplay. He was almost embarrassed that the memory triggered more of an immediate physical reaction than the memory of sex with Lindy.

She had a huge margarita in front of her, half of it already gone. He slid into the booth opposite, not even settling into the corner when she said, “What? Not even a peck on the cheek?”

He stared at her. He hadn’t even considered it. He’d always thought signs of affection like that were signs of possession. He wanted to say,
It was only one night.
Before he defended himself she let loose with another smile.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Really. You can unclench your jaw.”

He attempted a smile, but he didn’t think it was funny. He felt that he’d been summoned and he didn’t like it. He wondered if women realized how much power they had over guys like him, guys who felt obligated every time they were given something of great value like sex…or trust. There were three things his uncle Louie used to say that a man can’t live without: having someone trust him, taking pride in himself and getting laid.

“It’s been a long day.” He sighed and offered it as an explanation.

“That lunch wasn’t much fun, was it?”

He nodded, but said nothing more. Jason was always careful what he said about work, even in jest. There were too many vultures waiting to report anything they could use—even out of context—and make it the next D.C. scandal. He worried that Lindy wasn’t as careful.

She leaned forward. “I’m having a tough time with this Zach thing.”

Okay, Jason thought. Her version of careful was substituting “thing” for murder.

“There’s nothing we can do.”

“You keep saying that.” She said it like a slap.

Jason hadn’t remembered ever saying it, maybe once. If this was what she thought they needed to talk about, he had no idea what to say. He almost wished it had been some relationship crap.

“I have to go to the police with what I know,” she whispered this time, looking up at him through long eyelashes, reminding him of a little girl.

“Why do you think you need my permission?”

“We were both there.”

He started to ask what being at the same hotel had to do with what she knew about Zach, but a waiter interrupted. “What can I get you?”

Jason saw Lindy slide back against the booth, her full lips pouting, only emphasizing his image of a girl.

“Jack and Coke,” Jason told him, then watched him leave.

Jason looked around the tavern, searching for excuses not to give Lindy his eyes or his attention just yet. He noticed another celebration like the other night’s, this one several tables away. There were balloons and flashes from a camera. It left him feeling hollow and ill prepared for a girlfriend who didn’t really seem to want to be his girlfriend. A girl…a woman he barely knew but now would forever be connected to.

Finally he turned his attention back to Lindy. As he pulled out his wallet and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, he said, “You do what you think is right.”

Then he got up and left, acting more casually and less stressed than the first time she had fucked him.

Tallahassee, Florida

Sabrina had never been inside Miss Sadie’s condo. The floor plan was exactly like Sabrina’s, but Miss Sadie’s home was decorated with colorful afghans and elegant, dark-wood antiques, framed oil paintings—original seascapes on canvas, some with fishing boats, others just the ocean—and a scattering of small charcoal drawings of ballerinas. Everything had a place, neat and clean and orderly even though the shelves and surfaces were full of exotic things, from tiny blown-glass animals to brass elephant bells and ceramic ginger jars, to leather-bound books and handcrafted African masks.

Sabrina found herself fascinated and charmed and momentarily distracted, but most of all she felt safe. It was a false sense of security. She knew that, but for the first time in hours she could breathe.

Miss Sadie had led her to the kitchen without stopping or slowing her pace, her fingers still gently wrapped around Sabrina’s wrist. The old woman guided her to take a place at the small kitchen table where Sabrina could see dinner had been interrupted. Lizzie looked up at her from her corner by the back door, then continued her own dinner as if Sabrina’s presence had become a routine distraction, nothing more.

“We have supper every evening while we watch the six o’clock news,” Miss Sadie said, pointing to the small TV tucked under the cabinet. She poured a glass of water from a jug on the counter and set the glass in front of Sabrina.

Sabrina half listened and sipped the water only because Miss Sadie made a motion for her to do so. The pain in her chest had eased a bit. So had the banging in her head. But now exhaustion swept over her, making it an effort just to lift the glass to her lips.

Suddenly Miss Sadie scurried across the kitchen, grabbing and putting on a pair of reading glasses while she pushed at buttons on the TV, stopping when she filled the room with the local news anchor’s singsong voice.

“Here’s more,” Miss Sadie said, waving her hand, the palm open, reminding Sabrina of a TV game-show hostess telling her what she’d won.

Sabrina jolted, sitting up straight. She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself as she stared at a photo of herself on the TV screen. The photo was three years old, taken from a science journal that had published one of her articles. She was so startled she missed the news anchor’s words, tuning in to hear only the last part…“for now calling her a person of interest in connection to the murder.”

Sabrina’s eyes found Miss Sadie’s. “They think I did it?” She couldn’t believe it. She had to have misunderstood.

Instead of asking for an explanation, the old woman turned down the TV’s volume and sat in the chair across from her. She took both of Sabrina’s hands in hers.

“We need to get you away from here, dear. And we don’t have much time.”

Tallahassee, Florida

Sabrina had never been inside Miss Sadie’s condo. The floor plan was exactly like Sabrina’s, but Miss Sadie’s home was decorated with colorful afghans and elegant, dark-wood antiques, framed oil paintings—original seascapes on canvas, some with fishing boats, others just the ocean—and a scattering of small charcoal drawings of ballerinas. Everything had a place, neat and clean and orderly even though the shelves and surfaces were full of exotic things, from tiny blown-glass animals to brass elephant bells and ceramic ginger jars, to leather-bound books and handcrafted African masks.

Sabrina found herself fascinated and charmed and momentarily distracted, but most of all she felt safe. It was a false sense of security. She knew that, but for the first time in hours she could breathe.

Miss Sadie had led her to the kitchen without stopping or slowing her pace, her fingers still gently wrapped around Sabrina’s wrist. The old woman guided her to take a place at the small kitchen table where Sabrina could see dinner had been interrupted. Lizzie looked up at her from her corner by the back door, then continued her own dinner as if Sabrina’s presence had become a routine distraction, nothing more.

“We have supper every evening while we watch the six o’clock news,” Miss Sadie said, pointing to the small TV tucked under the cabinet. She poured a glass of water from a jug on the counter and set the glass in front of Sabrina.

Sabrina half listened and sipped the water only because Miss Sadie made a motion for her to do so. The pain in her chest had eased a bit. So had the banging in her head. But now exhaustion swept over her, making it an effort just to lift the glass to her lips.

Suddenly Miss Sadie scurried across the kitchen, grabbing and putting on a pair of reading glasses while she pushed at buttons on the TV, stopping when she filled the room with the local news anchor’s singsong voice.

“Here’s more,” Miss Sadie said, waving her hand, the palm open, reminding Sabrina of a TV game-show hostess telling her what she’d won.

Sabrina jolted, sitting up straight. She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself as she stared at a photo of herself on the TV screen. The photo was three years old, taken from a science journal that had published one of her articles. She was so startled she missed the news anchor’s words, tuning in to hear only the last part…“for now calling her a person of interest in connection to the murder.”

Sabrina’s eyes found Miss Sadie’s. “They think I did it?” She couldn’t believe it. She had to have misunderstood.

Instead of asking for an explanation, the old woman turned down the TV’s volume and sat in the chair across from her. She took both of Sabrina’s hands in hers.

“We need to get you away from here, dear. And we don’t have much time.”

Tallahassee Regional Airport

Leon had chosen a table in the corner of the airport café where he could watch the local TV news. His flight didn’t leave for three hours but he considered himself lucky that there was even another one. He ordered a cheeseburger with extra onions and home fries. Then told the waitress to bring him a slice of key lime pie when she brought the burger. No way he was leaving Florida without a piece, especially since his last meal was so rudely interrupted.

Leon sipped his Samuel Adams from the long-neck bottle, having shoved aside the frosty mug the waitress served him. She’d offered it up like it was something special. Wasn’t her fault. Young girls these days didn’t know what was sissy. Hell, they put up with guys drinking stuff called “hard lemonade.”

She brought him dinner and Leon was pleased. The home fries looked like they might actually be homemade. He covered them with salt and ketchup until they were almost swimming. Before he took a bite of the burger or one fry, he scooped up a mouthful of key lime pie. Not the best he’d tasted, but by this time damn near close. Leon had spent half his life disconnecting himself from his southern roots except when it came to food. Oh, he loved it all—Chicago dogs and New York delis—who didn’t love that stuff? But he couldn’t be in the South for long without craving hot-boiled peanuts and cheese grits, sweet tea and fresh, hot, pan-baked corn bread. He should have his fill ’cause this would be his last trip south for a while.

He filled his mouth and could barely hear the TV’s volume over his chewing. It had NEWS ALERT in the corner. They flashed pictures of the processing plant and Leon stopped with a wad in his cheek, trying to listen to the report. They were calling it an accident. No shit, Leon thought, allowing himself to chew and swallow. That fucking alarm almost gave him a heart attack. They easily coulda had two “accidents” on their hands. It still pissed him off that he wasn’t told about the alarm.

Leon took another bite, wiping off strings of onion and ketchup with the back of his hand. Just as he took a swig of beer to wash it down they showed a picture of the victim, Dr. Sabrina Galloway. Only they weren’t calling her a victim. He stopped again in midswallow, trying hard not to choke.

“…wanted for questioning in the death of her coworker. That coworker’s name is being withheld pending notification of the family. A reliable source has told News Watch 7 that when the victim was found she was wearing Dr. Sabrina Galloway’s lab coat and name badge. No information is being released, however, as to what may have happened to cause such an accident. Again, police are calling Dr. Galloway a person of interest for the time being. Anyone who sees her should contact police at the number on the screen.”

By the time the newscaster got to explaining what and where EchoEnergy was, Leon had shoved back from his half-eaten dinner and was popping antacids.

Tallahassee Regional Airport

Leon had chosen a table in the corner of the airport café where he could watch the local TV news. His flight didn’t leave for three hours but he considered himself lucky that there was even another one. He ordered a cheeseburger with extra onions and home fries. Then told the waitress to bring him a slice of key lime pie when she brought the burger. No way he was leaving Florida without a piece, especially since his last meal was so rudely interrupted.

Leon sipped his Samuel Adams from the long-neck bottle, having shoved aside the frosty mug the waitress served him. She’d offered it up like it was something special. Wasn’t her fault. Young girls these days didn’t know what was sissy. Hell, they put up with guys drinking stuff called “hard lemonade.”

She brought him dinner and Leon was pleased. The home fries looked like they might actually be homemade. He covered them with salt and ketchup until they were almost swimming. Before he took a bite of the burger or one fry, he scooped up a mouthful of key lime pie. Not the best he’d tasted, but by this time damn near close. Leon had spent half his life disconnecting himself from his southern roots except when it came to food. Oh, he loved it all—Chicago dogs and New York delis—who didn’t love that stuff? But he couldn’t be in the South for long without craving hot-boiled peanuts and cheese grits, sweet tea and fresh, hot, pan-baked corn bread. He should have his fill ’cause this would be his last trip south for a while.

He filled his mouth and could barely hear the TV’s volume over his chewing. It had NEWS ALERT in the corner. They flashed pictures of the processing plant and Leon stopped with a wad in his cheek, trying to listen to the report. They were calling it an accident. No shit, Leon thought, allowing himself to chew and swallow. That fucking alarm almost gave him a heart attack. They easily coulda had two “accidents” on their hands. It still pissed him off that he wasn’t told about the alarm.

Leon took another bite, wiping off strings of onion and ketchup with the back of his hand. Just as he took a swig of beer to wash it down they showed a picture of the victim, Dr. Sabrina Galloway. Only they weren’t calling her a victim. He stopped again in midswallow, trying hard not to choke.

“…wanted for questioning in the death of her coworker. That coworker’s name is being withheld pending notification of the family. A reliable source has told News Watch 7 that when the victim was found she was wearing Dr. Sabrina Galloway’s lab coat and name badge. No information is being released, however, as to what may have happened to cause such an accident. Again, police are calling Dr. Galloway a person of interest for the time being. Anyone who sees her should contact police at the number on the screen.”

By the time the newscaster got to explaining what and where EchoEnergy was, Leon had shoved back from his half-eaten dinner and was popping antacids.