her hands were freezing. The sun was up now, but the light was still murky. She didn’t think she’d ever been so cold. “Tell your captain that he’ll have an updated report by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Fine. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”
“I want to walk.”
“No.” He took her arm before she could turn away.
“You’ve mentioned that I’m a civilian enough times to know you can’t order me.”
“Press charges of harassment if you want, but you’re getting an escort home.”
“It’s two blocks,” she began, and his grip tightened.
“That’s right. Two blocks. Two blocks, and your name and picture have been in the paper.” With his free hand he gathered up her hair. It was nearly the same shade as Anne Reasoner’s. They both knew it. “Use some of those brains you’re so proud of, and think.”
“I’m not going to let you frighten me.”
“Fine, but you’re getting an escort home.” He kept his hand on her arm as he walked her to a cruiser.
Chapter 8
The five detectives assigned to the Priest homicides logged better than two hundred sixty hours in legwork and paperwork in the week following Anne Reasoner’s murder. One of them had a spouse who threatened divorce, another worked through a nasty bout of the flu, and another around a chronic case of insomnia.
The fourth in the series of murders was the top story on both the six and eleven o’clock news, beating out such items as the President’s return from West Germany. For the moment Washington was more interested in murder than politics. NBC planned a four-part special.
Incredibly, manuscripts were being peddled to major publishers. More incredibly, offers were being made. Paramount was thinking miniseries. Anne Reasoner-in fact, none of the victims-had ever earned such attention alive.
Anne had lived alone. She had been a CPA attached to one of the city’s law firms. Her apartment had shown a taste for the avant garde, with neon, free-formed enameled sculptures and DayGlo flamingos. Her wardrobe had reflected her employer, running to softly tailored suits and silk blouses. She’d been able to afford Saks. She’d owned two Jane Fonda workout tapes, an IBM personal computer, and a Cuisinart. There was a man’s picture in a frame beside her bed, a quarter ounce of Colombian in her bureau drawer, and fresh flowers-white zinnias-on top of it.
She’d been a good employee. Only three days out sick since the first of the year. But her coworkers knew nothing about her social life. Her neighbors described her as friendly and described the man in the bedside picture as a frequent guest.
Her address book had been neatly ordered and nearly full. Many of the names were passing acquaintances and distant family, along with insurance brokers, an oral surgeon, and an aerobics instructor.
Then they located Suzanne Hudson, a graphic artist who had been Anne’s friend and confidante since college. Ben and Ed found her at home, in an apartment above a boutique. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe and carrying a cup of coffee. Her eyes were red and swollen, with bruising shadows down to the cheekbones.
The sound on the television was off, but the
After she let them in, she went to the couch and curled up her feet. “There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want it. I’m having a hard time making the effort to be sociable.”
“Thanks, anyway.” Ben took the opposite end of the couch and left the chair for Ed. “You knew Anne Reasoner pretty well.”
“Did you ever have a best friend? I don’t mean someone you just called the best, but someone who was?” Her short red hair hadn’t been tended to. She combed a hand through it and sent it into spikes. “I really loved her, you know? I still can’t quite grip the fact that she’s…” She bit down on the inside of her lip, then soothed the hurt with coffee. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”
“I know. Ms. Hudson, it’s a hell of a time to bother you, but we need to ask you some questions.”
“John Carroll.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“John Carroll.” Suzanne repeated the name, then spelled it meticulously when Ed produced his notebook. “You wanted to know why Anne would have been out walking alone in the middle of the night, didn’t you?”
The grief and anger were there as she leaned forward and picked up an address book. With the coffee still in her hand, she used her thumb to page through it. “Here’s his address.” She passed the book to Ed.
“We have a John Carroll, a lawyer who was on staff at the firm Ms. Reasoner worked for.” Ed flipped back in his notes and coordinated the addresses.
“That’s right. That’s him.”
“He hasn’t come into the office for a couple of days.”
“Hiding,” she snapped. “He wouldn’t have the courage to come out and face what he’s done. If he comes tomorrow, if he dares to show his face tomorrow, I’ll spit in it.” Then she covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head. “No, no, it’s not right.” Fatigue came through now as she lowered her hand again. “She loved him. She really loved him. They’ve been seeing each other for almost two years, ever since he joined the firm. Kept it quiet- his idea.” She took a big gulp of coffee and managed to keep her emotions in check. “He didn’t want office gossip. She went along with it. She went along with everything. You can’t imagine how much she swallowed for that man. Anne was the original Miss Independence- I’ve made it on my own and like it, single is an alternative life-style. She wasn’t militant, if you know what I mean, just content to carve out her own space. Until John.”
“They had a relationship,” Ben prompted.
“If you can call it that. She didn’t even tell her parents about him. No one knew but me.” She rubbed her eyes. Mascara had been clumped
Suzanne struggled against the bitterness and grief for a moment. Her free hand began to clamp and unclamp over the lapel of her robe. “She wanted to get married. She needed to marry him. All she could think of was bringing their relationship out and registering at Bloomingdale’s. He kept putting her off, not saying no, just not yet. Not yet. Anyway, she was sinking pretty low emotionally. She made some demands on him, and he dumped her. Just like that. He didn’t even have the guts to say it to her face. He called her.”
“When did this happen?”
Suzanne didn’t answer Ben for several seconds. She stared blankly at the television screen. A woman spun the wheel and hit Bankrupt. Tough break.
“The night she was killed. She called me that same night, saying she didn’t know what she was going to do, how she was going to handle it. It hit her hard. He wasn’t just another guy, he was it for Anne. I asked her if she wanted me to come over, but she said she wanted to be alone. I should have gone.” She screwed her eyes closed. “I should have gotten in my car and gone over. We could’ve gotten drunk or high or ordered pizza. Instead she went out walking alone.”
Ben said nothing as she wept quietly. Tess would know what to say. The thought came from nowhere and infuriated him. “Ms. Hudson.” Ben gave her a moment, then continued. “Do you know if anyone had been bothering her? Had she noticed anyone around the apartment, around the office? Anyone who made her uneasy?”
“She didn’t notice anyone but John. ‘She’d have told me.” She let out a long breath and rubbed the back of her hand under her eyes. “We’d even talked about this maniac a couple of times, talked about being extra careful until he was caught. She went out because she wasn’t thinking. Or maybe because she had too much to think about. She’d have pulled herself out-Anne was tough. She just never had the chance.”
They left her on the couch staring at the Wheel and went to see John Carroll.
He had a duplex in a part of town that catered to young professionals. There was a gourmet market around the corner, a liquor store that would carry obscure brands, and a shop specializing in athletic wear, all tucked within reasonable walking distance of the residential area. A dark blue Mercedes sedan was parked in his driveway.
