“Doesn’t sound like the guy.”
“Joe, we never know what’s really going on inside other people’s lives... do we?”
“No. And Chris had been out of mine for too long. But damnit, he turned to me and I didn’t come.”
“How could you? Don’t beat yourself up over something you couldn’t control.”
They stared at the headstone.
His kinesics expertise had been an issue in their marriage, Melanie constantly accusing him of reading her. Like she expected him to turn it off, somehow. Even now, as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders, he took in the classic defensive postures. Or, hell — maybe she was just cold. It was an inexact science.
The longer they silently stood there, the more he knew she wasn’t done with him yet — this was more than just delivering some bad news about an old friend. She could have phoned him, right? And he and Chris had been friends, but never Gabe Sloan tight.
Or was she worried about how losing another friend, any friend, would hit him?
Finally, she let out a long steamy breath. “Beth asked me to get ahold of you.”
“Oh? To deliver the bad news?”
“To ask you to come talk to her.”
“Do I look like a priest?”
She turned toward him, eyes flashing. “Your dead friend’s wife wants to talk to you. Should I have asked for a reason? To see if it’s important enough to interrupt your busy schedule walking around a graveyard?”
“That came out harsher than I meant it to.”
“Me, too.” She shuddered, some of it the cold. “Really bad morning.”
“Sorry.”
“Joe... how long have we been snipping at each other, anyway?”
“Too long.”
“Cease-fire, then?”
“Cease-fire. Mel... did Beth have any explanation for why Chris would do this?”
She shook her head. “Says they were happy, never better, actually. Doesn’t believe Chris killed himself. That’s why—”
“Why she wants me to look into it.”
“Yes.”
“You do know she should be talking to the police, not your ex-husband.”
Her expression bordered on pleading. “Talk to her, Joe. She thinks someone who knew Chris might get a handle on this where the police wouldn’t. And you could look into it... discreetly. Anyway, she seems to think you can do anything.”
“Right,” he said. “I’m a hero.”
Her head tilted, her smile taking its own sideways tilt. “That’s how some people see you.”
“How about you, honey?”
The automatic expression of affection embarrassed her, and she looked away. “I don’t think I believe in heroes, anymore.”
“We have that in common.”
A gloved hand came from a pocket and rested on his sleeve. “But I believe in you, Joe. Always have, always will.”
He grinned at her. “If you’re going to play my heartstrings, maybe I should unzip the parka.”
She laughed a little. Maybe he didn’t entirely suck at “funny” after all.
He said, “Of course I’ll go see Beth. Of course I’ll talk to her. But how will she feel when she hears that Chris called me, and I failed him?”
Melanie waved that off. “You didn’t fail him. She’ll know that.”
She kissed him on the cheek.
Even in the chill, he felt the old heat.
“Do you have Beth’s number?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Give me your phone and I’ll put it in.”
He did and she did.
Then she was turning and walking away, footsteps crisp in the snow. He caught up and walked her to her car. They didn’t speak until he was holding the door open for her.
“I’ll call you with a report,” he said.
That small white smile again. “I’m not a client, Joe. But I would appreciate that.”
She drove away, giving him a tiny wave, and he watched until she was out of sight. Then he climbed behind the wheel of his Prius and got the motor and heat going. He withdrew his cell from a parka pocket.
First he tried Beth Bryson and got voice mail. He left a fairly lengthy message, hoping she was screening calls, but she never picked up. Since she wanted to talk to him, that meant she was off dealing with matters related to her husband’s demise — cops, funeral home, obit.
So he called Carl Bishop, the veteran DC Homicide detective who had also worked on the Supreme Court task force last year, and who’d been a friend well before that. The beefy bald cop would likely be in the know on the Bryson investigation.
One homicide bureau covered the entire DC area now. Over the years, two facts had emerged: criminals didn’t care about jurisdictional lines, and budgets grew ever tighter.
Bishop was ahead of him. “Callin’ about Chris, aren’t you?” This was in lieu of a greeting.
“You got it,” Reeder said. “What do we know so far?”
“Is that the editorial ‘we,’ or the what-do-I-know-so-I-can-tell-you ‘we.’”
“Dealer’s choice.”
There was a shrug in Bishop’s voice. “Not my case, Peep, but from what I’m hearing? Looks like a pretty straight-up suicide.”
“His wife doesn’t think he would kill himself.”
“No wife wants to think she missed the signs.”
“Bish... she wants me to look into it.”
“You like wasting your time, son? Go for it.”
“Maybe I will. I could start with Chris leaving me a message on my cell the night he died.”
Reeder could almost hear the switch click as Bishop turned total cop.
“Jesus, Peep, what did Chris say?”
“That it was a matter of life and death. And he strongly implied he could use my help, and right now. Which obviously I didn’t provide.”
Reeder told him of his attempt to call back.
Bishop said, “You’re saying he was murdered.”
“How the hell do I know? I haven’t talked to the guy in over a year. I can tell you that he didn’t sound suicidal.”
“How did he sound?”
“Uneasy. The kind of uneasy that coming from a seasoned pro like Chris means scared shitless.”
Silence.
Then: “So, then, Peep... you plan to make this an ABC Security issue?”
“I’m going to talk that over with Beth Bryson, after I hear why she believes Chris was murdered. Whose case is it, Bish?”
“Graveyard-shift detective named Pete Woods. You know him?”
“No.”
“He’s a pup, barely paper-trained,” Bishop said. “But he has the makings of a good detective. If this isn’t a suicide, he’ll listen to you if you find something. I mean, hell, who wouldn’t be impressed when the great Joe Reeder expresses an interest?”
“Screw you, buddy... and thanks for the info. You wouldn’t have any idea where Beth Bryson is about now?”
“Woods went out to pick her up. He was taking her to the morgue for the official ID. Been gone about an hour. My guess, if you hustle, you can catch them there.”
Great, track down the widow at the morgue. Still, it might be better than meeting her at home, surrounded by memories.
The morgue and the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner were located in what had once been a cutting-edge facility, the Consolidated Forensics Building on E Street SW. Now, nearly twenty years after its opening, the glass, concrete, and steel shell of its once-modern self had a worn, dirty look.
Inside, the building had held up better, though its along-the-wall lobby seats were worn, with cushions flattened by countless behinds. Antiseptic scent hung in the air in this hospital whose refrigerated patients were on trays and in drawers downstairs.