What Lies Behind. J.T. Ellison
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“What? You did. He was there with another woman, anyway. And he tried to kill her. You dodged a bullet, you ask me.”
Emma sighed in disgust, turned to Fletcher with old eyes. “We’re on a break. I still have my key. He’s been really busy lately. School’s been really hard on him.”
“Where does Mr. Cattafi go to school?”
“He’s an M.D./Ph.D. candidate at Georgetown. He’s going to cure cancer. Already has.”
“Mmm-hmm. And you broke up when?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Did you know he was seeing someone new?”
The words were small. “No. No, I didn’t.”
“Where were you tonight?”
“Just...all over the place. Barhopping.”
“And people can confirm this?”
“Oh. My. Gawd. You think I had something to do with this? Are you mental?”
“Careful, Miss Johnson,” Hart said.
“My father will be very interested to hear your accusations. Do you have any idea who I am?”
Fletcher stopped himself from laughing. “No, Miss Johnson. I have no idea who you are, nor do I care. Now you can settle down, or we can have this chat in my office. Do you want that?”
“Calm down, Emma. He’s not kidding,” Cameron said.
Emma huffed a bit, then raised her chin. “No. I don’t care to continue this line of questioning without a lawyer present.”
Hart glanced at Fletcher, who nodded. Hart whipped out his cuffs, turned Emma Johnson around and calmly placed them on her wrists, all the while ignoring her squeaks of shock at his rough treatment. “When my father hears this, he’s going to get you fired!”
Cameron groaned and leaned back against the police cruiser. She met Fletcher’s eyes as if to say, Hey, I can’t do anything with her when she’s fired up like this.
“Miss Saint? Would you like to continue this conversation, or would you, too, like a lawyer present?”
“Yes, sir, I would. I mean, no, sir, I’m all good.” Flustered, she continued. “Emma didn’t do this, sir. She’s been with me all night.”
“Shut up, Cameron. We need to get my dad’s lawyers here.”
Cameron drew herself up and gave her friend a baleful glare. “You shut up, Emma. You’re making a fool out of yourself.” And to Fletcher, “We have fake IDs—we were in Mr. Smith’s most of the night. You can check. They booted us and we walked up here. She wanted a booty call. She’s just drunk. She gets stupid when she drinks. Let her go, please. We stumbled into this, and we don’t know anything.”
Her words rang true, and Fletcher nodded. “Did you see anyone in the neighborhood as you were walking here? Anything that stood out? Cars that seemed suspicious, people who were out of place?”
Cameron looked at the ground, then back to him. “Sir, I apologize, but I had a lot to drink tonight. I wasn’t noticing much of anything besides where to put my foot next to make it up the hill, and then tossing my cookies when I saw all that blood. Besides, it’s Georgetown. There’s always a bunch of people around. I didn’t notice anyone who looked wrong, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, either.”
Emma had had a change of heart. “There was a jogger. That’s the only person I saw. But it was a woman. She was coming down the hill.”
“Young, old? Hair color?”
“She had a baseball cap on, and those reflective sneakers. That’s all I remember.”
Fletcher believed her. “All right. Unhook her, Hart.”
Emma looked like she was about to say something, but Cameron shook her head and she stopped. Hart released the cuffs, and Emma rubbed her wrists and muttered, “Thanks.”
Cameron grabbed her friend’s hand. “Can we go now?”
Fletcher did his best disappointed-dad routine. “You two behaved incredibly irresponsibly tonight. You could have been killed. I hope you realize that. Now, give me the fake IDs.”
“Yes, sir,” they chimed in unison.
They dug in their bags and came up with the bits of plastic. He pocketed them. “Detective Hart will make sure you get home all right. I’ll most likely want to talk to you again, when you’ve had a chance to sober up, and clean up. Give him all your information. And, girls? I hear about you doing anything out of step again, I won’t be Mr. Nice Guy. You hear me?”
They nodded, and Fletcher jerked his head toward the car. “Get them home,” he said to Hart, then walked back to his own car.
What a mess. What a huge mess.
His phone was sitting on the console. There was a text from Sam—sure enough, she had noticed the hubbub. He was tempted to go knock on her door, let her make him a decent cup of coffee. Her boyfriend, Xander, was addicted. They always had some sort of delicious brew on hand. But the text was over an hour old. She may have gone to bed when she didn’t hear back from him.
He sent her a quick note back, then got started with the paperwork.
There’d be no sleep for him tonight.
BIRDS. ALL SHE could hear was birds.
Chirping, singing, flitting against the glass feeder. Sweet little songbirds going mad outside the window.
Sam cracked open her right eye, then the left, pulled herself upright with a little groan. Touched her forehead, saw the remnants of the Scotch in the glass on the coffee table. Papers fell to the floor in a cascade, a gentle susurration off her chest.
She’d fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for something... She couldn’t remember.
Thor saw her stirring. His head shot up, and she could swear the dog smiled.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get your breakfast in a minute.”
He woofed softly, set his muzzle on his paws.
She picked up the papers, stacked them carefully. Remembered to put Sausalito on top. She wanted to revisit that scene. A houseboat in the northern part of the city, abandoned and neglected. It stood out among the brighter, shinier, newly constructed and renovated, not only because of its dilapidation, but because its owner visited only once a year, in the summer, and when a body had been found in the salon, the owner hadn’t come to see to things.
Something there.
The sirens. O Street. She remembered now. Flipped on the television, knowing well enough that if it were as bad as she suspected, the local news would be all over it.
They were talking about the weather. Sunny and chilly all week, some rain here and there, then a series of perfect D.C. fall days ahead.
She grabbed her phone. Fletcher had texted her back, sometime around three in the morning. She hadn’t heard the ding.
Bad one. Double stabbing. One deceased, one in ICU. Sirens wake you up?
Then a second text, ten minutes later.
Apparently not.
She smiled, his sarcasm evident, started to write him back, then jumped as the phone began chirping in her hand. Xander. She answered with a smile. She really did miss him.
“Hi, babe.”
“You were up late.” His voice was deep, still rough with sleep, and she felt like he’d wrapped her in his arms from afar.
“Something