there.”
As if someone had thrown a switch, Jonathan came completely awake and his head was clear. “What happened to her?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me. They called the office looking for you and I told them that I’d be in touch the instant I hung up with them. I have a number for you to call.”
Jonathan swung his feet to the floor and stood. “You do it,” he said. “Call them and tell them that I’m on my way. Without traffic I can be at Ellen’s house in an hour.” He didn’t wait for her to confirm before he dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.
The Rothman home-Ellen’s home-sat on five acres atop a hill in Vienna, Virginia, a tribute to Tibor Rothman’s ego. Serviced by a 300-foot driveway, the 5,000-square-foot colonial was so perfectly proportioned that from the road it looked a fraction of its actual size. It wasn’t until you approached up that long driveway that you saw the grandeur of the place. Every time he saw it, Jonathan couldn’t help but admire the three acres of front lawn-the very lawn that was now packed with all manner of police vehicles, most of them parked in the grass. Closest to the garage, parked on the pavement, was a large van labeled CRIME SCENE UNIT in the distinctive red, white, and blue lettering of the Fairfax County Police Department.
Of the half dozen or so officers milling about, all of them reacted defensively as Jonathan piloted his BMW M6 up the lawn to park near their vehicles. Watching their hands twitch near their sidearms, Jonathan realized that during his days in IraqI’ll bring the detective out to you.”
“She was my wife, Officer. I have a right.”
The cop pointed emphatically at the ground. “Here,” he said.
For the first time, it occurred to Jonathan that he might need a lawyer, that he was very possibly being considered as a suspect in whatever had happened.
A barrel of a man with a huge head and a fleshy face appeared at the front door. He scowled as he listened to the uniformed officer, and he followed the man’s pointing finger to make eye contact with Jonathan. The detective nodded curtly, and walked down the stairs to the front yard. As he closed to within a few feet, he extended his hand. “I’m Detective Weatherby,” he said. There was a humorless intensity about the man that reminded Jonathan of a thousand other pricks he’d met over the years who confused professional intimidation with the need to be an asshole.
Jonathan shook the cop’s hand and wasn’t the least surprised to find that he was of the bone-crushing school of hospitality. “Jonathan Grave. What’s going on here?”
“Are you the husband?”
“Ex. Is Ellen all right?”
“When did you see her last?”
Jonathan felt his blood pressure rising. “Look, Detective, I swear to God I’ll answer any and all questions you may have, but I want to know if she’s hurt.”
Weatherby stewed, and then nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid she is. It appears that someone broke into the house and hurt her very badly.”
Jonathan’s anger transformed to fear. “ How badly?”
“I’m not a doctor. I don’t know how to answer that.”
“She’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“And expected to remain that way?”
Weatherby averted his eyes.
Jonathan’s world spun. “Jesus, what happened to her?”
The detective answered carefully. “She was beaten up pretty bad. The house has been torn apart.”
“What, like she stumbled in on a burglar and he panicked?”
“Actually, no, sir, it was nothing like that at all. To my eye, it appears as though she was targeted specifically, and that the people who did so were looking for something they thought she had.”
Jonathan let the pieces drop. “You’re saying she was tortured?”
Weatherby studied Jonathan’s face. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Now, I don’t have any more details, okay? That’s all I know. You’ll have to get the rest from the hospital.”
Jonathan turned back toward his car. “Which hospital?”
“Whoa!” Weatherby commanded. “Not yet. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Of course you are. You’re the ex-husband. Next to the current husband, you’re number one on the list. By the way, where is Mr. Rothman?”
At one level, Jonathan admired the cop’s candor. Mostly, though, it annoyed him. “It’s not my turn to watch him.”
“I gather from your tone that you don’t like him much?”
Jonathan snorted. “Understatement of the decade. I can’t stand the son of a bitch. A quick hike to the courthouse will right to own.”
Weatherby scowled. “So there really is bad blood between you all.”
“Run into a lot of friendly divorces, Detective? Of course there’s bad blood. But I assure you there’s no homicidal blood.”
Weatherby regarded his prey with slit eyes, then gestured toward the front door with a toss of his head. “Come on inside.”
On a different day, the first thing a visitor to the Rothman home would have noticed was the splendor of the hardwood floors and the intricacy of the moldings and wainscoting. It was a home designed to dazzle visitors, and it rarely failed in its mission.
Today, though, the intricate architectural details were invisible against the savage dismemberment of the place. Inside the front door to the left, every book had been pulled from the shelves of Tibor’s library, his pride-and- joy collection of first editions of French and English literature. Pages were torn from the bindings and the cushions of the dark leather furniture had been slashed, with feathers and stuffing erupting from massive wounds. The same level of damage pervaded everywhere. It was as if someone had turned the house upside down and shaken it.
Weatherby led the way as if he owned the place, marching Jonathan down the main hall into the kitchen and then a hard right into the dining room, where the police had established a makeshift command post. The detective pointed to an upholstered hardback chair. “Take a load off,” he said.
Jonathan continued to stand, not so much on principle as a need to keep examining the house. “Where did you find Ellen?”
“Upstairs. In the bedroom.”
“I want to see.”
“I don’t think you do.”
The gravity of Weatherby’s tone made a connection. “Jesus, Detective, what did they do to her?”
The cop took a long, loud breath through his nose. “Start with the worst you can imagine, and that would be only the beginning. Twenty-three years on the force, Mr. Grave, and this is the worst I’ve seen. Sorry to put it to you that way, but I’m shocked that she survived.”
Jonathan’s mind whirled out of control. The worst he could imagine was pretty goddamn awful. His brain conjured images of Rwandan women with their breasts sliced off, and of Croatian women raped by bayonets. Surely, Weatherby assessed “the worst” on a different scale than that. “Was she raped?”
Weatherby answered with his eyes the instant he looked away. “Savagely. Repeatedly, I would guess. And there was some torture, though I’d rather not go into the details. She was also stabbed.”
Now it was time to sit. Jonathan helped himself to the offered chair. “Who would do something like that?”
“That’s why we called for you.”
“For Christ’s sake, Detective, you couldn’t possibly think I had something to do with that.”
Weatherby let his guard drop an inch. “As I mentioned outside, I sort of have to, but in my gut, no, I don’t believe you did. Can you account for your whereabouts last night?”
