Bad mom.
Gabriel’s hand settled on hers. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it. Your mother’s so good with her.”
She nodded, and kept her gaze out the window. How did she tell her own husband that his child had a lousy mother who was thrilled to be out of the house and back in the chase? That she missed her job so much that it hurt just to watch a cop show on TV?
A few rows behind them, a baby started to cry, and Jane’s breasts throbbed, heavy with milk. My body is punishing me, she thought, for leaving Regina behind.
The first thing she did after walking off the plane was to duck into the women’s restroom. There she sat on a toilet, milking herself into wads of tissue paper, wondering if cows felt the same blessed relief when their udders were emptied. Such a waste, but she didn’t know what else to do but squeeze it out and flush it down the toilet.
When she re-emerged, she found Gabriel waiting for her by the airport newsstand. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“Moo.”
Leesburg Detective Eddie Wardlaw did not look particularly thrilled to see them. He was in his forties, with a sour face and eyes that didn’t smile even when his lips tried to. Jane could not decide if he was tired or just irritated about their visit. Before offering any handshake, he asked to see their IDs, and spent an insulting length of time examining each one, as though certain they were fraudulent. Only then did he grudgingly shake their hands and escort them past the front desk.
“I spoke to Detective Moore this morning,” he said as he led them at a deliberate pace down the hallway.
“We told him we were flying down to see you,” said Jane.
“He said that you two were okay.” Wardlaw reached in his pocket for a set of keys, paused, and looked at them. “I needed to have some background on you both, so I’ve been asking around. Just so you understand what’s going on.”
“Actually, we don’t,” said Jane. “We’re trying to figure out this whole business ourselves.”
“Yeah?” Wardlaw gave a grunt. “Welcome to the club.” He unlocked the door and led them into a a small conference room. On the table was a cardboard box, labeled with a case number, and containing a stack of files. Wardlaw pointed to the files. “You can see how much we have. I couldn’t copy it all. I only sent Moore what I felt comfortable sharing at the time. This thing has been screwy from the word go, and I needed to be absolutely sure of anyone who’s seeing these files.”
“Look, you want to check my credentials again?” said Jane. “You’re welcome to talk to anyone in my unit. They all know my record.”
“Not you, Detective. Cops I don’t have a problem with. But guys from the Bureau…” He looked at Gabriel. “I’m forced to be a little more cautious. Especially considering what’s happened so far.”
Gabriel responded with that coolly impervious look that he could call up at an instant’s notice. The same look that had once kept Jane at arm’s length when they had first met. “If you have a concern about me, Detective, let’s discuss it right now, before we go any further.”
“Why are you here, Agent Dean? You people have already combed through everything we have.”
“The FBI’s stepped in on this?” asked Jane.
Wardlaw looked at her. “They demanded copies of everything. Every scrap of paper in that box. Didn’t trust our crime lab, so they had to bring in their own technicians to examine the physical evidence. The feds have seen it all.” He turned back to Gabriel. “So if you have questions about the case, why don’t you just check with your pals at the Bureau?”
“Believe me, I can vouch for Agent Dean,” said Jane. “I’m married to him.”
“Yeah, that’s what Moore told me.” Wardlaw laughed and shook his head. “Fibbie and a cop. Ask me, it’s like cats marrying dogs.” He reached into the box. “Okay, this is what you wanted. Investigation control files. Occurrence reports.” He took out folders one by one and slapped them down on the table. “Lab and autopsy reports. Vic photos. Daily logs. News releases and press clippings…” He paused, as though suddenly remembering something. “I’ve got another item you might find useful,” he said, and turned toward the door. “I’ll get it.”
Moments later, he came back carrying a videocassette. “I keep this locked in my desk,” he said. “With all these feds pawing through this box, I thought I should store this video in a safe place.” He crossed to a closet and wheeled out a TV monitor and VCR player. “Being this close to Washington, we get the occasional case with, well… political complications,” he said as he untangled the cord. “You know, elected officials behaving badly. Few years ago, a senator’s wife got killed when her Mercedes rolled over on one of our back roads. Trouble was, the man driving the car wasn’t her husband. Even worse, the guy worked in the Russian embassy. You should’ve seen how quick the FBI showed up on that one.” He plugged in the TV, then straightened and looked at them. “I’m having a sense of déjà vu on this case.”
“You think there are political implications?” said Gabriel.
“You’re aware of who really owns the house? It took us weeks to find out.”
“A subsidiary of the Ballentree Company.”
“And that’s the political complication. We’re talking about a Goliath in Washington. White House buddy. The country’s biggest defense contractor. I had no idea what I was walking into that day. Finding five women shot to death was bad enough. Add in the politics, the FBI meddling, and I’m ready for goddamn early retirement.” Wardlaw inserted the tape in the VCR, grabbed the remote, and pressed PLAY.
On the TV monitor, a view of snow-dusted trees appeared. It was a bright day, and sunshine sparkled on ice.
“Nine one one got the call around ten A.M.,” said Wardlaw. “Male voice, refused to identify himself. Just wanted to report that something had happened in a house on Deerfield Road, and that the police should check it out. There aren’t many homes on Deerfield Road, so it didn’t take long for the cruiser to find out which residence was involved.”
“Where did that call come from?”
“A pay phone about thirty-five miles out of Ashburn. We were unable to get any usable fingerprints off the phone. We never did identify the caller.”
On the TV screen, half a dozen parked vehicles could now be seen. Against the background noise of men’s voices, the camera’s operator began to narrate: “The date is January fourth, eleven thirty-five A.M. Residence address is number nine, Deerfield Road, town of Ashburn, Virginia. Present are Detective Ed Wardlaw and myself, Detective Byron McMahon…”
“My partner worked the camera,” said Wardlaw. “That’s a view of the driveway in front of the residence. As you can see, it’s surrounded by woods. No neighbors nearby.”
The camera slowly panned past two waiting ambulances. The crews stood in a huddle, their breath steaming in the icy air. The lens continued its slow rotation, coming at last to a stop on the house. It was a two-story brick home of stately proportions, but what had once been a grand residence was showing the signs of neglect. White paint was peeling off shutters and windowsills. A porch railing tilted sideways. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows, an architectural feature more appropriate to an inner-city apartment building, not a house on a quiet rural road. The camera now focused on Detective Wardlaw, who was standing on the front steps, like a grim host waiting to greet his guests. The image swayed toward the ground as Detective McMahon bent to pull on shoe covers. Then the lens was once again aimed at the front door. It followed Wardlaw into the house.