I ran my memories of Joe in fast forward, picturing him when I’d first met him. How he looked. How impressed I was with the way he worked our case. How smart and funny and solid he was. I tried to skip over the first time we made love, but the pictures took up a whole room in my mind.
My apartment. Our second date. Even now, as scared and as angry as I was, I could still feel the chemistry.
After that, Joe flew across the country to see me, time upon time. And then he left DC and his job and moved to San Francisco so that we could get off the roller coaster of bicoastal relating. That was meaningful. Job vs. Lindsay. He chose me. And I couldn’t have loved my big handsome lover more.
When my apartment on Potrero Hill burned to the ground, Joe said, “Move in with me.”
I did it.
I thought about the fights we’d had, and how he’d walk us back down. I liked that he was older than me, and I saw a good husband and father in his values and his manner and his actions.
When he proposed marriage, I had no hesitation, and since then, no regrets.
Until now.
Now it seemed that he had lied to me. Not “No, you don’t look fat.” This was enormous, a huge honking omission the size of a city. He’d not only left out a telling chunk of his life story, but he’d also skipped right over a relationship with a woman who’d been very important to him, a woman who might be a killer.
I couldn’t fool myself any longer.
Joe’s disappearance alone was a betrayal. And if he had been “involved” with Alison Muller once, he could damned well be involved with her now. It could not be a coincidence that Joe and Alison Muller had been in the same place and had disappeared at the same time.
A closetful of lacy lingerie flashed into my mind.
I couldn’t stand my thoughts.
I could not bear to be alone in this hotel with no moves at all. It was too late to call Claire or my sister. And I could not call June.
I thought of the last time Joe and I had made love. How warm and silly and wonderful that romp had been. I’d held him and kissed him and loved him up and then we’d had breakfast with our baby girl in a shaft of morning sunshine.
And now?
Was he in bed with another woman?
Or was he lying dead somewhere with a bullet through the back of his skull? Had Alison Muller killed him?
Had that bitch killed my husband?
CHAPTER 54
I DRESSED FOR my appointment to meet John Carroll at seven-thirty that morning. I put on yesterday’s trousers, a clean blouse, and my best blazer.
The National Mall, a long tree-lined park with iconic views of the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol, was only three blocks from the hotel. I crossed Constitution and walked along the center path, and I have to say, the grandeur of the place was just wasted on me.
All I wanted to do was meet Mr. Carroll and listen to him say my fears were ridiculous. That he knew for a fact that Joe was working on a job that was vital to national security. And that Joe was safe and had nothing to do with Alison Muller.
I saw a man sitting by himself on a bench, staring across a wide grass median to the Reflecting Pool. He was white, rangy, about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair. He wore blue pants, a black Windbreaker, and running shoes. As I got closer, I saw that he was gripping an aluminum cane in his right hand.
I said, “Mr. Carroll?”
He looked up and nodded, and I told him my name.
He indicated that I should sit down, which I did. And he said, “June said you wanted to know about Ali Muller, but she didn’t say why.”
“I’m with the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide. We think Alison may have witnessed a violent crime.”
“Oh. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time. So you’re looking for her as a material witness?”
“Exactly. Can you help me?”
“The short answer is no. I haven’t seen Alison in years. Thank God.”
He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his cane and dug the tip into the ground, preparing to stand.
I said, “Wait. Mr. Carroll, I’m also trying to locate my husband, Joe Molinari. June thinks they may be working together.” I heard myself saying these awful words out loud. “So if you can give me any kind of lead to their whereabouts…”
“Joe Molinari? Hah. That’s a blast from the past.” John Carroll settled back on the bench. He actually smiled.
“I don’t doubt that Muller knows where Molinari is. Do you have any idea what you’re poking into?”
“I think I do,” I said stiffly. He didn’t notice.
“I worked with Joe in the early nineties,” Carroll was saying. “Bright man. With a future. I was surprised when he switched agencies. But who knows why anyone does anything?
“She was another one. Sonja Dietrich. Alison Muller. Bright as a star. Men fell in love with her, to their long-term detriment. They would do anything for her. Tell her everything. I was in love with her myself.”
I didn’t speak or even clear my throat. I had to hear this story. And Number Six was ready and willing to tell it.
“I was married when I knew Muller. Had a lovely wife. Sadie. Two terrific kids. She made me forget all about them. When I was in so deep with her that I couldn’t see over the edge of my own grave, she went to Central Command and said I couldn’t be trusted.
“Well. In a sense that was true. I’d told her things, and she had recorded our conversations. I couldn’t believe she did that to me. To me.”
The retired CIA operative gazed at the still waters of the Reflecting Pool, lost, no doubt, in memories of Alison Muller. He’d already told me he was a dead end, but I gave it another shot.
“Mr. Carroll. If you were me, where would you look for Muller? Any kind of a lead would help me and the SFPD.”
“The last time I heard from Alison Muller was the night before she ruined my career and my marriage and my belief in myself. All I’ve got for you is the benefit of my experience.
“I believe she actually loved Joe when I knew them. I thought he must be the luckiest man in our galaxy. But here’s the thing. If she’s got her hooks into Joe again, I advise you to call your lawyer and get ready to dissolve your marriage.
“Or hope for the best. See how that works out for you.”
“Thanks. For your time,” I said. If I’d had my gun with me, I might have shot him through the heart.
Just like he’d done to me.
CHAPTER 55
I HAD MY carry-on bag slung over my shoulder and was outside the hotel with a loosely connected group of people who, like me, were waiting for the shuttle bus to the airport.
I was thinking, There’s the evil you know, and then there’s this place.
I couldn’t wait to get home.
A limo pulled up to the bus stop and the window buzzed down. A voice called out to me. A beautifully manicured hand waved through the open window.
“June?”
I walked over to the limo.
“Lindsay, I called and the desk said you’d just checked out. I’m glad I caught you.”
June Freundorfer opened the door, said, “Get in,” and slid along the backseat, making room for me.
“I have to catch the bus,” I said. “My flight…”
“We’ll give you a lift. Virgin America?”
How’d she know?
I got into the car and closed the heavy door behind me. June pressed the com button and gave the driver instructions. Then she leaned back.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.