One to Go (17 page)

“
Hail to the Redskins
—” His phone. He retrieved the phone from the bedside table and checked the screen. Jess. The last thing he needed was a clinger going nutso because his view of their relationship didn't match hers. But he couldn't shake the image of her face—the fear appeared genuine.

He answered. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Tom, please. I need to see you. Now. Tonight.” Her voice sounded nearly frantic.

“Let me repeat. Do you know what time—?”

She responded as if she hadn't heard him. “Look, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your date. This has nothing to do with you and me.”

“Then what? And why can't it wait till the morning?”

“I know something I'm not supposed to know. They want it. So I hid—”

“You hid what? What do you know? Is Marcie there?”

“She's spending the night at Zig's. I don't want to, I
can't
be drawn into it. I don't know what to do and you're the only—”

He could tell she was crying. He was awake anyway, and his curiosity had been piqued. “Okay, okay. Put on a pot of coffee.”

“Thanks. And Tom, if for some reason…well, just in case someone's listening, remember doo-wop. Please hurry.”

She hung up.

Doo-wop? What the hell?

Forty-five minutes later, he found a parking space over a block away from Jess' townhouse complex. He parked and took another swallow
from Dr. Daniel's bottle—just a sip this time, as he'd been cognizant as he drove down Connecticut Avenue that he'd had a bit of trouble staying in his lane.

He walked toward Jess' place. The complex consisted of four separate, white-brick buildings, each containing three residences. Jess' place was the center unit in the farthest building from his car.

Approaching, he thought he saw movement near her building, possibly the shadow of a moving figure. He looked harder, but in the darkness it was difficult to tell. By the time he got closer, the shadow had disappeared.

As Tom passed the block of residences next to Jess' building, he vaguely sensed he was having trouble walking in a straight line, but found if he really concentrated—

A light came on in the window of the first townhouse. The door opened and an older, heavyset woman wearing curlers and a housecoat let a tiny white dog out the door to pee on the postage stamp lawn. The dog spotted him, yipped, and charged.

“Lester, you get in here this instant before you wake the whole damn neighborhood!” The dog reluctantly returned to its master. The woman scooped up Lester in one hand and closed the door.

When Tom reached Jess' building, he noticed no lights were on in her unit or the units on either side of hers. Hardly surprising, since it was almost three in the morning. With the help of a railing, he climbed the short flight of stairs to her front door. In consideration for the sleeping neighbors, he elected to ring the doorbell instead of knocking.

He heard the chimes sound inside the unit. He waited, but no one answered. He tried again. Nothing.

Heck with the neighbors. He was tired and pissed at himself for giving in to Jess. He knocked harder. Again, no response. Probably in the bathroom, he thought.

He waited about five minutes, then again rang the bell. No one opened the door. He retrieved his cell phone, scrolled to recent calls, and found her number. He was about to hit the call button when he paused.

Screw her. She'd dragged him out of bed just to play games? He was nuts to listen to the crazy bitch. Never again.

“…
Braves on the war path
…” He woke from a dreamless sleep with a splitting headache. Afraid his anger at Jess would've kept him awake when he returned from Foggy Bottom, just the opposite happened—he'd fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

If it was Jess, he wouldn't answer. No, on second thought, if it was Jess, he'd unload on her, and convey as plainly as he was able that he had no intention of ever seeing her again.

But it was Zig. When he spoke, his voice sounded ragged.

“Jess is dead.”

It took five full seconds for Tom to process what he thought he'd heard. “What are you talking about? I spoke to her, what, four or five hours ago?”

“She's been murdered.”

Suddenly, Tom was wide awake. “Start over.”

“Marcie spent the night with me, and had to go back to their place early this morning to dress for work. She found Jess in their apartment with a bullet in her head. She called 911, then called me. I'm over here now; Marcie's kind of in shock. Hell, we're both in shock.”

Tom struggled to the kitchen and on his third try, was able to insert the K-Cup into his coffee maker. “I can't believe it. We just saw her last night at the party.”

“What time did she call you?” asked Zig.

“Hang on.” Tom found his pants and, after fumbling through the pockets, retrieved his cell phone. “Uh, 2:49 a.m.”

“What did she want at that hour?”

“Good question. She said she needed legal advice and insisted she talk to me in person. Said she needed to show me something.”

“What?”

“Got me.” He was about to tell Zig he'd attempted to visit Jess, but held off. No reason for anybody to know he'd been there, and it would be unfair to put Zig in a compromising position if questions were later asked.

The familiar
fizzzz
signaled his coffee was ready, and he gulped down half the cup. Tom now remembered the shadowy figure disappearing into the darkness. “How'd the murderer get in? Anybody see him?”

“They got the forensic guys over here, but no sign of forceful entry.”

“I can't believe Jess would let a stranger into her house at any time, but particularly at that hour.”

“I overheard a cop telling the homicide detective there may've been a witness who saw a guy who appeared intoxicated approaching Jess' house. Marcie and I are in the living room now. They don't want us moving around and disturbing anything. Looks like the place has been tossed.”

Tom still had a tough time processing the news. “So they're assuming this was a burglary gone bad?”

“Marcie says Jess didn't have anything of real value. Maybe a few pieces of costume jewelry, but they're still here. She said when she found the body, Jess was fully dressed, not in her nightclothes. No outward sign of sexual assault.”

“Jesus.”

“Sick bastard. Hope they fry his ass and send him to hell. If there is a hell.”

Oh, there's a hell
, thought Tom.

Definitely a hell
.

Tom adjusted the desk chair, lowering it to accommodate his height. One of the other PDS attorneys had to go on maternity leave, so he temporarily inherited her tiny desk in her tiny cubicle. He'd already explored the few drawers and found tissues, nail polish, lip gloss, Motrin, eyeliner, and more lip gloss. It wasn't a desk, it was a bathroom cabinet.

After three cups of coffee, dry Cheerios, and three Motrin borrowed from the new mother, Tom's brain was back in the functioning mode. He stared at the stack of arraignment files. He had to be in court in thirty minutes, and needed to go through the records to see if he could locate another Reece Mackey, some scumbag whose life he was willing to sacrifice to save his daughter. But all he could think about was Jess. She'd been killed in the
forty-five minutes or so it had taken him to get dressed and drive to Foggy Bottom. His first thought had been that the murder was connected to whatever she'd wanted to discuss with him. Maybe in sacking her apartment the killer wasn't looking for valuables, but whatever it was she'd hid. Maybe—okay, he had to force Jess from his brain and concentrate.

He'd made it through four files, the most serious an unarmed B&E, when Eva popped her head over the divider.

“Got a second?” she asked.

He followed her into her office, garnering a dirty look as they passed DTA, and closed the door. Eva's good-night kiss seemed like it happened weeks ago instead of the previous night. He'd passed her in the hallway earlier, and they both had greeted each other very professionally. But now, in the privacy of her office, he wasn't sure how she'd react and so he remained standing.

As she walked past him to her desk, she briefly squeezed his hand, then took a seat. He followed suit and sat in the single uncomfortable chair facing her.

“Have a bit of news,” she said.

“Me too. You go first.”

“Reece Mackey's dead, so looks like you're not going to get a trial in before your pro bono term's up. Unless we find one of the other attorneys who'll agree to give you something from their docket, which is always possible.”

Tom did his best to show shock. “Dead? How?”

“Mackey was a known alcoholic and he apparently drank himself to death.”

“Jeez, when?”

“Over the weekend. Saturday night, Sunday morning.”

Tom knew his next speech had to be Oscar-worthy. “Wow, must've been soon after I left him.” He cringed inside, waiting for her to respond.

“You saw Mackey over the weekend?”

“Yeah. Wanted to go over his case and that's the only time he'd see me. Went to his place—pretty rough, by the way. He was
deep into the hooch when I arrived. Gin, I think. Maybe vodka, can't remember. But he was intelligible.”

In less than a second, he debated whether to mention the Wild Turkey. Hide in plain sight.

“I took him a bottle of bourbon as a gift. When I'd met him in a bar earlier, he was very wary of me, so I figured if I brought him a bottle of booze, maybe he'd trust me a little bit more. In retrospect, not very smart.”

“Don't beat yourself up. How were you to know?”

“So sad. Such a waste of human life.” Careful. Don't overdo it.

“What was your news?”

“Even worse, I'm afraid.” In this case, no acting was required. “Jess Hawkins—you remember I introduced her to you at Bat's party?”

Eva's smile never got close to her eyes. “How could I forget? Former girlfriend, right?”

“She was the roommate of my best friend's girlfriend, and we went out a couple of times as a foursome. That's it.”

“Was?”

“She was killed last night.”

“God, I'm sorry. What happened?”

“Apparently, a burglary gone wrong. Foggy Bottom's pretty safe, but it's still in the city.”

“Any leads?”

“Possible witness. Just found out this morning from Zig, so that's all I really know.”

“Again, I'm sorry.”

“Thanks.” He didn't know what else to say.

“So, look, I'll try to get you another trial before your time's up. In the meantime, you want to try your hand at covering px's for a few days?”

Good news. He'd have a better chance finding a potential target doing preliminary hearings where the prosecutor would be more forthcoming about the defendant's background. “You're the boss.”