“Did Jen actually get money from the admiral?” I asked. “Do you know?”
“No.” A look of absolute misery stole across her face. “Hart found out about us, you see.”
“I see.” Jennifer and the admiral had reached a stalemate.
Chris twirled her empty coffee cup around on the tabletop. “Jen enjoyed playing with fire, but this was the first time she got burned.”
As I watched the cup go round and round, for the first time in weeks I thought I could see light at the end of the tunnel. “Chris, will you tell my lawyer what you just told me?”
To my surprise, she smiled mischievously. “I’ve not been quite honest with you, either, Hannah. Your lawyer came to see me late last week. Everything you know, he knows.”
Even though I wanted to snatch him bald-headed for not sharing this bit of critical information with me, my rating of Murray went up several notches. “But how did he find you?”
Chris shrugged. “Maybe he learned that I’d already been contacted by NCIS and the Navy I.G.?”
“Oh.” What a blockhead I was! Here I thought I’d been on the bleeding edge, but the foot soldiers for both the prosecution and the defense had gone charging ahead, leaving me to wander in the darkened woods, picking up bread crumbs.
Chris stood and lifted her coat off the back of the chair. “I’ve got to go, but if it means anything, I want you to know that I don’t hold you responsible for Jennifer’s death.”
“Thank you. It means a lot.”
“Call me again, any time.” She slipped a business card out of her wallet and handed the card to me. “Good luck, Mrs. Ives. I’ll be praying for you.”
CHAPTER 20
I watched through the window as the back of Chris’s dark blue coat disappeared west down Ninth Street. I fumed a bit, too, wondering why Murray hadn’t mentioned Chris Donovan yesterday, why he pretended that all the information Jack Turley told us about Chris was news to him. And if he’d interviewed the woman, he had to know that he was a she. Murray, I decided, was sometimes a class-A jerk.
As I mined for foam at the bottom of my cup with a plastic spoon, I amused myself by dreaming up punishments for an attorney who withheld critical information from a client, information that could have prevented her from making a proper fool of herself by pretending to be her own daughter. A New Yorker cartoon came to mind, a dominatrix, with a lawyer groveling at her feet:
– So, worm, shall I tie you up in litigation?
– Yes, please, and make it lengthy and expensive.
I smiled. Maybe I should listen to Paul and let the professionals handle this.
I decided a brisk walk might clear my head, so before heading back to the Metro, I called Paul on my cell phone, leaving a message that I’d be home around six and that if he didn’t want to wait for supper, there was leftover Chinese food in the fridge.
Just the mention of the Chinese food made my stomach rumble. Except for the coffee and crumbs of chocolate chip cookie I’d shared with Chris, I hadn’t had anything to eat since dinner the night before. I needed a snack to fortify me for the long ride home, but one that wasn’t fifty percent sugar. I was already so wired, another cookie might send me into orbit. I tossed my paper cup into the trash and went out the door to forage.
Perched on a doughnut-shaped planter in front of the coffee shop, the concrete chilling my buns, I looked around me and decided that the Virginia Square/GMU Metro stop was a misnomer. As far as I could tell, no square existed, and the GMU of the title turned out to be only a small branch of George Mason University in Fairfax, farther to the west. I hadn’t remembered seeing any restaurants in the vicinity, so I bopped back into Starbucks to quiz the barista who was cleaning off the milk foamer with a damp rag.
“Are there any places to eat around here?”
“There’s Pica Deli, just across from the Giant.” She checked her watch. “But you better hurry, because they close at three on Sundays.”
I followed the directions she gave me-north on Monroe and right on Washington Boulevard-looking for the “building with the cool murals.” It would have been impossible to miss. Pica Deli was a box-shaped, two-story building with a wide-eyed marmalade cat, a slice of Italian bread, and a fruit bowl painted hundreds of times larger than life on one side of the building, covering the siding all the way from roof to foundation. But the muralist hadn’t contented himself with that. I entered the restaurant through double glass doors to the left of a giant strawberry pie.
Pica Deli was the perfect spot for grazing. I strolled past gleaming glass and chrome cases containing salads and pasta, meats and cheeses. Pegs of chips, wooden bins of wine, and shelf after shelf of gourmet items filled the shop almost to overflowing. A seven-seat wine bar provided a place for those who preferred their snacks in liquid form.
At the deli case, I ordered a Velveteen Rabbit-cucumber, tomato, red onion, dill havarti, and sprouts on thick farm bread-grabbed a lemonade from the cold case and sat down at a table.
So, Chris and Jennifer had been an item. I chewed thoughtfully, wondering if Admiral Hart had figured that out, how many other people had, too. But so what? Would somebody have murdered Jennifer simply for being gay?
Yes, I decided. Such things had happened before. PFC Barry Winchell had been beaten to death with a baseball bat at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Allen Schindler was stomped to death on shipboard near Japan. Jennifer had died violently, too. A hate crime could not be entirely discounted.
When the sandwich was gone and I’d cleaned every last crumb from the plate, I decided I’d better get on home. I was eager to log onto the Internet to see if I could find any evidence that Hart had been diddling with the government contracts under his jurisdiction.
I left Pica Deli, looked both ways to orient myself, then headed off in the direction of the Ballston Metro, which, according to the little advertising map I’d picked up in the store, seemed to be the closest station to the restaurant. As I walked, the sun began to set in a lavender sky and darkness was just beginning to steal over Washington Street, a tree-lined avenue that ran through a residential neighborhood of family homes punctuated by small businesses like bakeries, thrift shops, and dry cleaners.
At Nelson, I crossed Washington to stroll along the boundary of Quincy Park, with its playgrounds, playing fields, and picnic tables. As I skirted the park, I counted off the names of people who probably weren’t crying into their pillows now that Jennifer Goodall was gone.
Me because of Paul.
Paul because Jennifer had tried to ruin him.
Dorothy because she thought Ted was screwing Jennifer.
Ted because Jennifer was going to spill the beans.
Emma, to keep from being outed.
Chris, for being jilted.
Maybe even Kevin, but I couldn’t think why. With every step I took, the list grew longer and longer.
To my left, leaves rustled. I glanced over my shoulder, but nobody was there. The park, in fact, was practically deserted. It was late on Sunday; Arlington residents were all in their homes, and the city workers wouldn’t arrive until morning. And yet, as I continued to walk, more quickly now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. I began to regret taking so much time for my meal. It would have been much wiser to start home before dark.
As I turned south on Quincy Street, I heard footsteps again, echoing hollowly off the concrete walls of the Montessori House. I spun around to took. Nothing. Maybe I was losing my mind. Nevertheless, I hustled in the direction of a lighted parking lot, hoping to reach it before the bogeyman got me.