Chapter 10
It was Paulette’s first visit to her sister’s apartment.
The phone call had come Sunday at 3:12 A.M. As a White House correspondent, Paulette was accustomed to breaking news and ringing telephones at all hours of the night. The detective’s tone of voice, however, made it immediately clear that this call had nothing to do with world peace, a terrorist bombing, or the latest Washington scandal. She drove straight from her Georgetown town house to the medical examiner’s office, and in a split second, she knew: “That’s Chloe,” she’d told the assistant ME.
Seven hours later, Paulette still felt numb.
The sun had yet to poke through the gray morning sky, and last night’s nip had yet to burn off. The apartment door was open, but Paulette watched from the outside, behind a taut line of yellow police tape. Inside, a photographer captured the efficiency apartment exactly the way Chloe had left it, from the notebook computer on the loveseat to the can of diet soda on the table. Investigators searched for drops of blood, evidence of a struggle, indicators of a violent boyfriend, or any other details that might tell Chloe’s story.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Detective Edwards, “but I can’t let you come inside just yet.”
“I promise not to touch anything.”
He was sympathetic, but firm. “Ms. Sparks, how many years do you think I’ve been working homicides in this city?”
She could have guessed “too many.” A long career was written all over his face-the jaded look in his eyes, the worry lines that seemed chiseled in stone. It spoke of too many crimes unsolved, too little satisfaction in the occasional service of justice.
“Twenty?” she said.
“More. So I totally understand when loved ones want to help. But it’s best to let the professionals do their job. Even though this isn’t where the crime took place, I’ve seen crucial evidence turn up at a victim’s home. Sadly, I’ve also seen crucial evidence contaminated by the victim’s family.”
“Okay, I’ll wait,” she said, but it was hardly her nature to stand aside. She remained in the doorway, watching.
Chloe’s efficiency apartment was tiny even by LaDroit Park neighborhood standards. A Murphy bed and loveseat on one wall. A table, two chairs, and a small television on the other. There was a small stove right next to her closet, and a small alcove in the back apparently doubled as the dressing and cooking area. In the very back was the bathroom. The only window was in the corner, and it looked directly at the alley. Paint was peeling from the ceiling. Several brown stains and a distinct musty odor told of leaky pipes from the apartment above. An investigator was on hands and knees, searching the old sculptured green carpet with a flashlight. It struck Paulette that he could easily have found something buried in those fibers from two or even three decades removed.
Paulette said, “What are you hoping to find?”
“Luck,” said Detective Edwards.
He was drifting across the room like an art lover in the Louvre, slowly and methodically observing and absorbing everything. He stopped at the back wall in front of a framed photograph. There were no other paintings or photographs on any of the walls, but Paulette was too far away to see who was in it.
Detective Edwards said, “Your sister knew the vice president?”
“Is that who’s in the photo?”
“Yup,” said Edwards. “Looks to be in his office. Signed, too: For Chloe, warm regards, Phillip Grayson.”
“Chloe was a White House intern. They assigned her to the vice president.”
He glanced around the shabby apartment. “What happened?”
“Chloe did something very stupid. Went out one night and partied till dawn, showed up at work the next morning still stinking of vodka and with a joint in her purse. Fired on the spot.”
“Drugs,” he said, as he jotted down his thought on a notepad. “Might explain what she was doing on the street alone last night. Might also explain why she got shot.”
Paulette didn’t argue. “May I see the photo?”
Edwards took it off the wall and brought it to her. Seeing Chloe in the proudest moment of her life brought on an unexpected wave of emotions-sadness, anger, a terrible sense of waste. There was guilt, as well. Not that she felt responsible for Chloe’s death. Her feelings stemmed from the simple fact that she and Chloe had been born seven years apart to different mothers and had never lived in the same house together. It was classic half-sister guilt-the knowledge that their father had always wanted “the girls” to be closer, the awkward feeling that she should have felt sadder than she did about the death of her father’s other daughter.
“Were you two close?” said Edwards.
The question only added to Paulette’s pain-and confusion. “I tried reaching out to her so many times. Chloe wanted help from no one. Her decision to work for the Inquiring Star made it clear that she especially didn’t want help from me.”
“When was the last time you two saw each other?”
“We hadn’t spoken in months. Until she called last night.”
“What was that about?”
“Hard to say, exactly. It was totally unexpected. And she was very scattered. I feared she was on drugs again.”
“The toxicology report will answer that for us. What did the two of you talk about?”
“It was very bizarre. As best I can tell, Chloe was calling to tell me that she was working on a big story. To brag, I guess.”
“Brag?”
Paulette breathed a heavy sigh. “Chloe and I had a complicated relationship. I’m sure she knew that I was at the White House press party last night. It’s sad, but with everything that happened to her since the internship, the thought of me at the White House probably made her a little crazy. My guess is that she had something to drink-or worse-and then picked up the phone to tell me that while I was wasting my time drinking eggnog at some big-shot party, she was out getting the biggest story of the year.”
“Did she say what the story was about?”
“No. Honestly, I doubt there was even a story.”
He drifted in the direction of Chloe’s computer. It was on the loveseat next to an open bag of popcorn. The LCD screen was black, but when he moved the mouse, Paulette could see it brighten. For Paulette, it was an odd feeling-to think that the detective was now viewing the very same thing-possibly the last thing-that Chloe had looked at before going out and getting shot.
The photographer announced that he was finished, and Paulette stepped aside to let him out the door.
“Can I come in now?” she asked Edwards.
The detective was fixated on Chloe’s computer.
“Detective?” said Paulette.
He looked up. The crime scene investigators had finished with the carpet and had moved to the kitchen area.
“Come on over here,” said Edwards. “Take a look at this.”
Paulette ducked beneath the tape and crossed the room. Displayed on Chloe’s computer screen was the inbox to her e-mail, the typical collection of information: sender, date received, subject.
Edwards said, “Do you recognize any of these senders?”
Paulette took a closer look. There was the usual smattering of obvious spam-collectively, important messages for men with erectile dysfunction who needed to lose weight and borrow money fast. Paulette was only halfway down the list when another visitor knocked on the door frame.
“FBI,” the woman said with authority. “Step away from the computer.”
“What?” said Detective Edwards.
“Supervisory Special Agent Lloyd,” she said, as she stepped beneath the police tape and flashed a badge. Then he showed Edwards her papers. “We’re here to exercise a search warrant.”
“Since when does the FBI investigate homicides?” said Edwards.
“Could you step aside, please? I need the computer.”
Paulette watched the two law enforcement officers square their shoulders and stiffen their jaws, a sure sign of an ensuing state/federal jurisdictional squabble. The computer was obviously a significant piece of a larger puzzle that she hadn’t even begun to understand. Paulette studied the screen, but she couldn’t possibly commit Chloe’s inbox to memory. She snatched her iPhone from her purse and quickly snapped a photograph of the screen.