I
stood up, and then Mandy did. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I’m Nick Heller and this is Mandy Seeger.”
“So you’re the one who torched my website,” she said to me, wagging a finger, mock-stern. “I know who you are. You’re a real troublemaker. And of course I know who your father is.” She turned toward Mandy. “And you—aren’t you the reporter?”
“Until yesterday,” Mandy said, “I used to be an employee of yours. I wrote the piece on Jeremiah Claflin.”
“I thought so. Ash Norcross warned me someone might be coming. But he didn’t say they’d be crashing my party. Ballsy of you two to show up like this. I
love
it.” She flashed a bright smile. “All right, somehow you two figured out who owns Slander Sheet. Now you know my deep dark secret. So what the hell do you want?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said. “What the hell do
you
want?”
“
Excuse
me?”
“Either you or your people are covering up the death of a twenty-two-
year-old girl. Whether you ordered it or not, it’s going to come back to bite you.”
Mandy stared at me. I could almost see the cartoon thought bubble above her head:
So much for going in at a slant
.
“I don’t know what on earth you’re referring to.” She seemed genuinely baffled.
“There was a call girl named Kayla Pitts, who was—”
“That poor girl killed herself!”
“I’m afraid not. Your people killed her because they were afraid she’d start telling the truth about the Claflin story.”
“My . . .
people
? What in God’s name—?”
“We know you hired the Centurions to eliminate a threat.”
“Oh, do you? I know who the Centurions are, and no, I certainly didn’t hire them.”
“Then someone did.”
She put out her hands, palms up, arms wide. “Well, then, you crashed the wrong party, because I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You wanted to bring down Jeremiah Claflin by any means necessary.”
She pointed an index finger at me. “Oh, now, please. That’s an exaggeration. Did I want to bring Claflin down? Hell, yes! Guilty as charged!” She gave a long sigh. “Do you mind if we sit down? I’ve been on my feet for three hours. No, not on
those
chairs. I don’t have enough padding on my butt.” She waved toward a grouping of overstuffed lounge chairs in front of a tall fireplace.
We walked over there, waited for her to sit, and then I sat closest to her, because my instinct told me she was one of those women who just prefers men. My instinct on this was rarely wrong.
She shifted in her chair until she was facing me, and only me.
Now she spoke more quietly. “That girl—the little trollop Heidi or whatever her name was—how do you know it wasn’t a suicide?”
“I have sources inside the police.” That was about as close to the truth as I wanted to give her.
“But why in the world—who?—I don’t understand.”
I answered her question with a question. “How did you first get the Claflin story?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I wanted to see if she knew, too.
“I own the website; I don’t run it.
I
didn’t get it. Julian Gunn told me about it. The prostitute contacted”—she turned to look at Mandy, seeming surprised she was still there—“
you
! Right?”
“That’s right,” Mandy said.
“We didn’t search it out. It came to us.
You
didn’t make it up, right?”
Mandy said, “Right.”
“You didn’t know it was fake when you wrote the story, right?”
“Right.”
Satisfied, Ellen Wiley turned back to me. “You think I wanted Slander Sheet to run a story that would only end up making us look ridiculous? I mostly keep my hands off. I’m not an editor. I let Julian do his thing. Oh, sure, Julian knows certain stories make my heart beat faster. He caters to my sweet tooth. He knows I like making mischief.”
“Mischief,” I repeated. “Is that what Slander Sheet is?”
“When I was a little girl and my mother put me in these perfect little dresses and pinafores, the first thing I’d do was run outside and roll in the dirt, or play in the barn. I always loved getting messy and dirty and it drove my mother right up the wall. That’s why I had to buy Slander Sheet. Make a little mess. But you think if I knew the story was cooked up I’d
let
Julian run it?”
“If it forced Claflin off the court.”
She laughed, a deep laugh that came from her chest. “Oh ho, is that what you think? Honey, let me tell you something. I won’t deny I despise that man, Claflin. Ever since that ridiculous lawsuit in the nineties, with all those attorneys general going after the tobacco companies. When he was on the sixth circuit US Court of Appeals. Claflin’s one of those prim-and-proper types who like to tell people what vices they’re allowed to have. The nanny state and all.”
“Then again, the lung cancer thing is kind of a bummer.”
She laughed, and this time it was the coquettish laugh of a sixteen-year-old debutante. “The fact is, people do die from lung cancer, and you know what? It gets you pretty quick. Eight months or so. After you’ve lived a useful life, too—in your sixties or seventies. Smokers die ten years earlier than nonsmokers. That’s ten years we all save on social security and Medicare and pensions. You want to know why our social security system is in such dire straits? It’s that people are giving up smoking.”
“Oh yeah?” I said.
“It’s all this
fanaticism
. I say, make your choices, live your life. Now, I don’t smoke. That’s a decision I made. Maybe you do smoke. That’s a decision you make.”
“So that’s why you own Slander Sheet—to advance the cause of smoking?”
“Oh, please. I was telling you why I hate Claflin and his ilk. You know, Nick, there was a time, not so long ago, when this country was in the hands of great men—men who believed in public service. They got us through the Depression and two world wars and the Cold War. Now look who’s running the show. The likes of . . . Gideon Parnell! A man who used to be a protester!
Sit-ins
and such!”
Also a black man
, I thought, but I just listened.
“So much for the WASP establishment, right?” she went on. “All gone. Our country is being run by people who don’t really believe in
America, do you know what I mean? Christ on a raft, they want to spell it with a
k
. They want to bring it
low
so we can all wallow in our sins. I’m about
saving
this republic of ours. Through tough love, if necessary. But when I see people who fundamentally
deplore
America’s historical role in the world? When I see people who doubt the decency of the American soul? And now they’re wandering around the corridors of power? Well, that’s the
wrong
kind of mischief, I say. My attitude is, Get out of the goddamn cockpit, you people—you are
not
flying this plane.”
I just smiled.
“Can we speak frankly, Nick?” She put a hand on my knee and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “People assume if you’re rich you automatically have power.” She gazed directly into my eyes and I could see what a minx she must have been in her prime. She was a very sexual woman. “Well, it sure doesn’t feel that way. Getting your voice out there is harder and harder. I’m sure you remember this from what happened to your father, Nick. The way the press just
pilloried
Victor Heller.”
“I didn’t have a problem with the press coverage,” I said. “The only one responsible for what happened to Victor is Victor.”
She sighed. “You know, there used to be a saying, ‘Never pick a fight with a man who buys ink by the barrel.’ Now pixels are the thing, not ink. You want real power? You gotta control the flow of information. That’s why I bought Slander Sheet. Stick it to all those hypocrites. And I won’t deny I enjoy making a little mischief. But you ask me if I ‘ordered’ the death of this floozy, like I’m some . . . some mob boss? Why in heaven’s name would I want to do that? To what end—to cast suspicion on myself?”
“Then who did?”
She was silent for a while. “Damned if I know. Someone who detests
Jeremiah Claflin as much as I do—but didn’t mind bringing down Slander Sheet in the process. Nick, how did you find out I’m the owner?”
“Norcross didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head.
Norcross must not have wanted to admit that his law firm’s vaunted security had been breached. He’d just warned her I was coming without telling her how I’d found out who she was.
I said, “I do my homework.”
She laughed.
“Why do you keep it a secret?” I asked.
“Oh, it would be socially a bit
awkward
for me if people knew I owned Slander Sheet. Anyway, secret pleasures are always the best, don’t you think? And I
don’t
like having my name in the paper. I don’t do interviews, and I don’t want to have my name dredged up every time Slander Sheet runs a scoop. And now what are you telling me—that I’m under suspicion for this call girl’s death? Nick, you strike me as a direct, honest, no-bullshit fellow. Plus, you’re cute. I like the cut of your jib. If you’re really trying to get to the bottom of all this, I’m willing to help you. Okay? In return, I ask that you keep the ownership of Slander Sheet a secret. Do we have a deal?”
I realized we really had the upper hand. She didn’t want her friends to know she owned such a disreputable rag. I looked at Mandy, and she just looked back.
When we didn’t reply, she went on, “I don’t like being in the dark. I don’t like not knowing. And I don’t like having Slander Sheet turned into a joke.” She turned to look at Mandy. “Now, I know Julian fired you because of this debacle. But I’m going to get Julian on the phone right now and tell him to hire you back.”
“Don’t bother,” Mandy said. “Not interested.”
“You don’t want to clear your name?”
A look of irritation crossed Mandy’s face. “Sure I do. But not for Slander Sheet.”
“Then
I’ll
pay you. Directly. You find out who did this to you, how this happened, I’ll double your severance package.”
Mandy barely hesitated. “Deal.”
Turning back to me, she put her hand on my knee again. She smiled, a seductive smile. “You, too. What do you charge, anyway?”
S
he likes the cut of your jib,” Mandy said later.
I smiled and said nothing. I cut the wheel hard to the right and turned onto Route 15 South.
“I don’t even know what a jib is, do you?”
“It’s a sailing term.”
“She was actually flirting with you! She thought you were cute!”
“Why is that so outlandish?”
“She’s like a hundred and twenty years old!”
“I have to say, she looks awfully good for a woman of seventy-four.”
“So now you’re into her.”
I said nothing.
“I could have been a potted plant in that room. A statue.”
“You could have been the Venus de Milo, it wouldn’t have mattered. She prefers men.”
“Clearly. She’s a cougar. She’s also as crazy as a box of weasels.”
“She’s a complicated woman.”
“I’ll say. She’s a racist. She doesn’t like Gideon Parnell because he’s black.”
“Maybe. Or maybe because he marched. She doesn’t like troublemakers unless it’s her brand of troublemaker.”
“I’ll still take her money.”
I smiled. “You did say yes awfully fast.”
“Busted.” She shrugged. “What can I say, I have a mortgage.”
“Why did Slander Sheet never go after Gideon, anyway? Was it because they couldn’t find any dirt on him?”
“Because there was nothing interesting to report . . . I was working on a story on him before the Claflin thing came in. There was nothing there.”
“Did Julian tell you to do it?”
“He suggested it.”
“Because his boss, the owner, wanted Gideon Parnell taken down.”
She shrugged. “That was above my pay grade. But Claflin’s a much bigger target.”
My phone rang.
“Gideon,” she predicted.
I took it out of my jacket and answered without looking at it first, because I was driving. “Nick Heller.”
“Mr. Heller, this is Detective Balakian from MPD homicide.”
“Yes, detective.”
“I’d like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
“What about?” Mandy was watching my face.
“Kayla Pitts.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I just have some questions for you.”
“I’m out of town and won’t be back in Washington until late. How’s tomorrow morning?”
A beat. “Nine o’clock at homicide branch, 101 M Street.” It was an order, not a suggestion.
“I’ll be there.”
He disconnected the call.
“What does he want?” Mandy said.
“He wants this case to go away, but it’s not happening anytime soon. He wants to talk to me.”
“For what?”
“Just says he has questions.”
“I wonder if he’s getting pressure from above. All this conspiracy talk out there.”
I thought for a minute. “Maybe. Maybe that’s all it is.”
W
e didn’t get back to DC until late, almost eleven. I drove Mandy to her apartment, which was on Kalorama near Columbia, in Adams Morgan.
“As long as you’re here, why don’t you come up?” she said, touching my knee lightly. “You can pick up my Claflin files.”
To my surprise, I felt my cheeks warm, and I was glad she couldn’t see me in the dark. It was like that Shirley MacLaine line in
Terms of Endearment
, when she invites potential suitors to come up and look at her Renoir—a welcome invitation that confirmed the vibe that I’d wondered about between us. Apparently I hadn’t just been imagining it.
“Sure,” I said. “That’d be great.”
“Thanks.”
Her condo was on the third floor of a brownstone whose lobby smelled of curry from the Indian restaurant next door. She had three locks on the door.
“Apologies for the mess.”
The place was small but smartly furnished, in IKEA simplicity. An
open-plan kitchen with an island. It looked more spacious than it should have. Nothing was out of place. There was no mess. “Slovenly,” I said.
She laughed. “Well, you know. Something to drink?”
“That would be nice.”
“Coke or diet? Or seltzer? Or I can make coffee. Actually, mind getting yourself something from the fridge while I change out of these clothes?”
I located a couple of glasses and clanked in a few ice cubes from the freezer and poured us both some Diet Coke. I felt like having a real drink, but that wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t want to be the only one drinking anyway.
She emerged ten minutes later wearing skinny jeans and a black silk camisole with spaghetti straps. She was barefoot. She looked great. I had a fairly good idea she had the same thing in mind as I did. She retrieved her phone from the kitchen table and a minute later I could hear Art Pepper’s silky smooth alto saxophone doing “My Funny Valentine.”
“Nice,” I said, handing her the glass of Diet Coke.
“You sound surprised.”
“I love Art Pepper.”
“You’re not a big jazz snob, are you? You know, like, it’s no good if it’s not Django Reinhardt, or Thelonious Monk at the Blackhawk, nineteen sixty?”
“Not a jazz snob. That’s not me. I mean, I don’t know what mouthpiece Art is using, if that’s what you mean.”
I set down my glass on the kitchen island and excused myself to use her bathroom. When I came back, she was sitting in an armchair covered in a slouchy slipcover placed at a right angle to the couch. She’d moved my Diet Coke to the end table between the chair and the couch.
I sat on the couch next to the end table, where she’d put a brown accordion file. She waved at it. “My Slander Sheet files.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s the paper ‘What If’ file. The stuff I never got anywhere with. Rumors about everyone in Washington who counts.” She’d put on perfume, something light and floral, maybe jasmine.
“Like who?”
“Your old boss, Jay Stoddard, for one.”
“Whatever you have on him, no matter how kinky or disgusting, it’s true.”
“A lot of those leads never checked out. Never amounted to anything. Like ninety percent of them are just urban legends. But I never throw anything away. You never know when an old rumor turns out to be true.”
“Thanks for trusting me with it.”
“Before the Kayla debacle I was working on a story about a DC homicide that was allegedly covered up. A cold case involving some Washington bigwig.”
“Who?”
“I never got that far. A retired police detective in Southeast, an old guy who’s on his deathbed or close to it, supposedly covered it up and now he wants to talk.”
“You have a working theory who the killer was?”
“Theory? Your friend Senator Brennan.”
“Come on.”
“A drunk-driving incident, maybe.”
“You think?”
She shook her head. “I never got anywhere with it.”
“Well, I’m not going to bring it up with him.”
She stretched her legs. “You sure you don’t miss living in DC? All the intrigue?”
“Not at all. You like living in Adams Morgan?”
“Where I am now, yeah. I used to live on Columbia and had to sleep with earplugs.”
“The bar traffic.”
“The drunken arguments, the smashed bottles, the sirens. The woo girls and the frat bros. But that was mostly Friday and Saturday nights.”
“Any crime here?”
“I had a break-in a couple of weeks back, in fact.”
“Were you home?”
“Nope.”
“Get ripped off?”
“I don’t know. The place was ransacked, but I haven’t figured out what they took. They climbed in through the fire escape. I’ve changed the locks on the windows.”
“When was this, exactly?”
She shook her head. “About a month ago.”
“When you started working on the Kayla story?”
“Before that. Oh, hey.” She got up suddenly and went over to the kitchen. I turned to watch. She wasn’t skinny; she was curvy. Maybe voluptuous was the right word. Her legs were long and toned, like she cycled. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jameson. “I forgot, I keep some around for guests. If you want something harder than Coke.”
“Not for me, thanks.” As much as I wanted a drink, I also didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. “You can keep that stuff in the house?”
“It took a while. Now I’m okay with it. I really don’t mind if you have some.”
I hesitated, but not for long. “Then okay, I’ll have a little. On the rocks.”
She fixed the drink and brought it to me. I clinked with her Diet Coke and took a swig, felt the whiskey burn the back of my throat.
There was a moment of silence. She said, “So can I ask you something? When you were in Iraq . . .”
I waited for the inevitable question.
Did you ever kill anyone?
And
What was it like? What does it feel like to kill another human being?
“Yeah?”
“Well, how did a rich kid like you end up in the army?”
“I wasn’t a rich kid.”
“You didn’t grow up rich? Your father—”
“Yeah, till I was a teenager. Then my dad went on the lam.”
“He got arrested?”
“Yes, but that was after a few years. He was a fugitive.”
“I remember reading about him. What’d they end up getting him for?”
“Insider trading. Fraud. A bunch of things.”
“Was he guilty?”
“Of that and more.”
“Not a nice guy?”
I chuckled. “I wouldn’t say so, no.”
“But you still visit him in prison.”
“He’s extremely smart. He still knows people. Sometimes he helps, but it costs me.”
“Costs you?”
“It’s hard to explain. I don’t visit him out of love or filial duty.”
“How about your mom?”
“She lives outside of Boston. She’s some kind of saint.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
I shook my head. Too complicated to explain about my brother Roger. “How about you?”
“Three older brothers.”
“You were the baby.”
She smiled. “I was.”
“Little princess.”
“Actually, I was a tomboy, until I discovered boys.” She cleared her throat. “But you never answered my question. Why’d you enlist?”
“I didn’t want to work for McKinsey.”
“The consulting firm?”
“Yeah. I worked for them a couple of summers.”
“Sort of an extreme way to avoid working for McKinsey, don’t you think?”
“I
really
didn’t want to work for McKinsey.”
She laughed a little.
“I enlisted because I believed in it. Maybe I needed something like that, at that time in my life. I wanted to not be Victor Heller’s son. I wanted to be my own man.”
“I think I get it.”
It was late and I was tired of talking. I stood up.
“Can I get you another Jameson?” she said, standing up as well.
“I’m good.” I went to give her a hug, and her face turned toward mine, and somehow our lips met. Her hands came around to my back and pulled me in toward her. I could taste her lipstick and the Diet Coke. My tongue found hers. Our mouths melted into each other’s. I slid my hands under her camisole and came around slowly to the front, felt the silky-smooth skin, her breasts.
She pulled back to take a breath and said, “God.”
“Mm,” I said.
“Heller, is this going to be a problem?”
“Hmm?” I’d gone from Nick to Heller. Interesting. Using just my last name connoted greater intimacy.
“You and me . . . ?”
“No problem,” I said, and I kissed her again, my hands on her butt. Then I removed her cami and gazed at her full breasts, her nipples erect and pointed, and I sucked in a breath between my teeth.
Voluptuous. Yes.
I liked voluptuous.