A big African-American man in an off-white suit blocked her path on the sidewalk. She smiled and tried to step around him. He moved over to block her way.
“Excuse me,” she said testily.
“No, ma’am, excuse me.” He held up a police badge. “Tavon McGee, MPD, detective first grade. Ms. Eva Youngblood, you’re under arrest.”
Two police cruisers pulled out of an alleyway and parked at the curb next to Eva.
Her heart expanded to fill her rib cage, then contracted to the size of a lima bean. The detective took the purse off her shoulder, turned her around, and handcuffed her behind her back. She could see the glass doors of the Bank of America, where the teller was standing. He held up a cell phone, taking pictures of her in her red dress and handcuffs, being led to an MPD cruiser. Eva briefly wondered how much money the teller would make for those photos.
“Thanks for your help,” Detective McGee said as he opened the police car’s back door. “We didn’t have enough evidence to get into that safe-deposit box—until you went there in response to the FBI’s phone call. Prosecutor got an anticipatory search warrant. We could search the box and arrest you or Dylan only if you went to the box.”
He put a hand on her head and lowered her into the backseat. Her first thought was that he was ruining her updo.
The detective shut the door, closing her into the smelly backseat. She watched him through the mesh wire that separated the back from the front. He put her purse on the front seat, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, and pawed through her stuff. It took him less than five seconds to pull out the dirty brick of cash.
“Mm, mm, mm.” He smiled at Eva as he held up the money, which was covered with the dried blood of Madeleine Connor. “I hope you got a lot more of this, ’cause you’re gonna need a good lawyer.”
Sunday
52
T
he pedicure room at Bliss, the spa in the W Hotel, was beautiful and serene, done in shades of light blue and filled with vases of hydrangeas. New-age music played softly from hidden speakers, and the air was lightly scented with eucalyptus and rosemary. Everything was designed to soothe and relax, and that was exactly how Anna felt. She reclined in the cushy white chair and watched the man painting her toenails a cheerful pink. Just looking at the color made her happy. She glanced over at Grace’s feet. Grace had chosen a metallic white polish, which looked great on her dark brown toes.
“Nice choice,” Anna said.
“You, too.” Grace smiled and raised her mimosa. “Thanks for the pedicure.”
They clinked and sipped. Anna had planned the day out for the two of them. She owed her friend some quality time.
“I’m sorry I’ve been out of the loop lately,” she said.
“Life of the prosecutor. Happens to all of us.”
Anna nodded, although they both knew it wasn’t just the usual work demands that had stolen time from their friendship. True, she’d been caught up in a big case. But she had been absent for longer than the Capitol investigation. She had been too absorbed by her relationship with Jack. That wouldn’t happen again, Anna promised herself. In the future, she would strike a better balance.
“What’s been going on with you?” Anna asked.
“Not much.” But then Grace launched into a story about a witness who’d pulled down his pants and mooned her because he didn’t want to testify. Anna and Grace laughed so hard that the guys painting their toes had to stop and wait for them to stop shaking.
When their pedicures were done, they went up to the P.O.V. rooftop bar at the top of the hotel. It had famous views of the White
House, the Mall, and the monuments. They ate brunch, gossiped, and watched hip young Washingtonians flit about. After their plates had been cleared, Grace leaned forward and whispered, “I want to hear about the Youngbloods.”
Anna glanced around them. It was after three
P.M
., and the place had started to clear out. They were alone in their corner. Still, she kept her voice soft as she described the scene at the Youngbloods’ house.
“It was so disturbing. I mean, we’ve seen worse injuries and more sympathetic victims. But it was like watching an idol fall off her pedestal. I thought Eva had it all figured out. But she’s even more messed up than most of us.”
“Everyone’s got something,” Grace said. “No one’s as clean as she looks from the outside.”
“You know, I grew up in this messed-up house. I wasn’t sure I knew how to make a marriage work. But now I figure, hell, I have as good a shot as anybody else. Maybe better.”
“Of course you do!” Grace met her eyes sternly. “So what are you thinking?”
“I miss Jack. And every night at eight-thirty, I’ve been wishing to be in Olivia’s bedroom, kissing her goodnight. I want to be with them. I’m ready for it.”
“Oh, girl.” Grace smiled sadly. “Just when I thought I was getting you back.”
“No, no,” Anna said. “I’m gonna do it better this time. I can be a good partner and also have a life of my own. I think Jack’s figured out how to be more flexible, too.”
“Have you talked to him about this yet?”
“No. But I’m going to.”
The waiter came over with the bill. Grace tried to pay, but Anna was too quick. “You got all the margaritas at Rosa,” Anna argued as the waiter took her credit card.
They went downstairs and emerged onto 15th Street. The humidity had finally let up, and it was a clear, beautiful summer day. They walked past the White House, around a group of kids playing roller hockey in the paved park that used to be Pennsylvania Avenue. They
strolled through Lafayette Park and then headed up Connecticut Avenue.
“So I was hoping you could help me,” Anna said.
“How so?”
“I want to show Jack how much he means to me. How ready I am to be with him and Olivia.”
“Are you?” Grace asked. “Ready?”
“I am.”
Anna said it with confidence, knowing neither of them was perfect, but also knowing they belonged together. He had some secrets, she realized that. Something with his wife, something with Carla, maybe more. Whatever they were, she would deal with them. They had problems to overcome, but she was ready to take them on. He was a good man, and she loved him, and the more she saw of the world, the more she understood what precious things those were. She wanted him back. If she could convince him to take her.
They reached the red awnings of the Tiny Jewel Box. Grace kept walking, but Anna put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me pick out a watch for Jack.”
“Wow, from the Tiny Jewel Box? Fancy.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure how this is done, reverse-gender-wise. But I think I need a token to show Jack how serious I am.” Anna smiled and breathed in the clean summer air. “I’m going to ask him to marry me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m thankful to all the police officers, agents, and victims’ advocates with whom I’ve worked on cases similar to those in this novel; their dedication has improved the lives of countless girls and women in D.C.
In researching
Discretion,
I relied on many professionals who took time from busy lives to speak with me about their work. I’m very grateful for this generosity, from which I gleaned fascinating true stories and details for this book. Any errors are my own. Thanks to: Kate Connelly, for her thoughtful insights into prosecuting escort cases; Mike Ferrara, for his expertise on the Speech or Debate Clause; Zulima Espinel, Missy Rohrbach, Moira McConaghy, and Dayle Cristinzio, for guiding me through the procedural machinations and actual hallways of Congress; Kelly Higashi, for her encyclopedic knowledge and all her support and friendship over the years; Glenn Kirschner, who is both an incredible crime fighter and an incredible resource for a crime novelist; Michelle Zamarin, Tejpal Chawla, Eric Gallun, Lou Ramos, and Ed, for their knowledge of specialized areas of law enforcement; Kristen Brewer, for her expertise on human trafficking; Detectives Bill Xanten and Carter Adams, for their insights into the lives of MPD homicide detectives; Detective John Marsh, for his knowledge of computer forensics; Detective Steve Schwalm, for his expertise on matters ranging from gorilla pimps to john jams; Matthew Rosenheim, who taught me about diamond identification; Dr. Mauricio Cortina, who helped me explore psychological angles for some of my characters; the instructors of IMPACT-DC, for their excellent self-defense course; and FBI Special
Agent Steve Quisenberry (after whom Samantha’s fictional partner is named), for his incredible eye for detail and for helping me keep Samantha in line.
I’m indebted to many people who shared their stories and insights but did not wish to be publicly acknowledged. Thank you for your time, honesty, and trust.
In some ways, a great literary agent is like a great lawyer, equal parts professional ally, personal confidante, tireless advocate, marketing guru, critic, psychologist, and magician. My deepest gratitude goes to my incredible agent, Amy Berkower, who is all of that and more.
I am thrilled to continue working with my editor, Lauren Spiegel. Sharp, ever cheerful, and shockingly wise beneath her beautiful exterior, Lauren amazes me with her ability to make a story better, and to make that wrenching process feel like a fun gossipfest about the characters.
Thanks to the wonderful team at Simon & Schuster, especially Stacy Creamer, Marcia Burch, David Falk, Shida Carr, Sally Kim, Marie Florio, Abby Zidle, Emily Remes, Josh Karpf, Ashley Hewlett, Meredith Vilarello, Cherlynne Li, MacKenzie Fraser-Bub, Parisa Zolfaghari, and Beth Thomas. I truly appreciate all the opportunities you’ve created for me.
I am grateful to Barbara Delinsky and George Pelecanos, two exceptional writers whose work I have admired for years, and who have been remarkably generous with their time, advice, and guidance through the publishing world.
A big thank-you goes to my good friends and earliest readers: Lynn Haaland, Jenny McIntyre, Jeff Cook, Missy Rorhbach, Jen Wofford, and Jessica Mikuliak, for their flashes of brilliance, their bluntness when necessary, and their provision of stiff drinks after the aforementioned bluntness. I might have completed this book without their help, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as good, or as much fun.
My family has supported me in a thousand ways, with encouragement and love. Thank you to my mom, Diane Harnisch; my sisters, Kerry Hughes and Tracey Fitzgerald; my father and stepmother, Alan and Laurie Harnisch; and my in-laws, John, Carol, and Barbara
Leotta. Special thanks are due to my cousins, Marilyn Reis and Jack Small, for all of their support and assistance as I’ve transitioned from prosecutor to writer. I am filled with love and amazement for my two little boys, who have been so sweet and patient as I wrote this book (although I hope they won’t read it until they are much, much older).
Thanks most of all to Mike, my fun, adorable, scorchingly intelligent husband, without whom none of this would have been possible.
Turn the page for a peek at the next novel from
ALLISON LEOTTA
SPEAK OF THE DEVIL
Coming soon from Touchstone
1
A
nna fiddled with the napkin on her lap and willed her stomach to calm.
Get it together, Curtis.
In court, she was tough. She was fearless. As a sex-crimes prosecutor in D.C., she looked in the eyes of the city’s most dangerous men, pointed at them, and described the worst things they’d ever done. But this was different.
This was her life. And tonight she had to execute the most important personal decision she’d ever made.
The Tabard Inn consistently ranked as one of the most romantic restaurants in D.C., which was why she’d chosen it. The evening was warm and clear, and she’d scored a table in the outdoor courtyard. Waves of ivy covered the brick walls; patches of dark sky peeked through a canopy of potted trees. Attractive diners sat around candlelit tables, swirling expensive glasses of wine. The setting was perfect.
Now if the guy would only show up.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced down hopefully, but the message was work-related.
Det. Hector Ramos: Parking near brothel. Heading in soon.
She texted back.
Good. Be safe.
She set the phone down and watched the door, wondering when Jack would walk through—and how it would feel to meet his eyes now that she’d made her decision. He was ten minutes late, which wasn’t like him. Maybe he wasn’t coming. That wouldn’t be surprising, given their recent history. She would either have the most romantic moment of her life or crushing humiliation. She felt like the Bachelorette, only with slightly less cleavage showing.
• • •
Two miles away, Tierra Guerrero counted the lines radiating from the circle of rotten ceiling. Seven. Not a perfect spider, then, but nobody’s perfect. She was just glad to have something to look at. The ceilings she worked under became intimately familiar, and the spidery crack provided a welcome distraction.
It was distracting her, even now, from Ricardo’s wet grunts in her ear. His red face bobbed a few inches above hers; his humid breath filled her lungs. The bed rocked with his relentless pumping. Most johns were limited to fifteen minutes, but the brothel owner could go as long as he wanted.
Her hips ached from being pummeled against the mattress all day. She wanted a hot shower, dinner, and a long night’s sleep. “Ooh.” She ran her fingers down Ricardo’s back and tried to sound like a woman overcome with lust.
“Sí, sí, sí.”
To her ears, the moans sounded lame, but most dates responded to even the feeblest signs of passion. Ricardo was no different. He squeezed her arms and pumped faster.
The room was small and shabby, lit by a cheap bedside lamp. A sheet hung from the ceiling, separating two sagging mattresses. The privacy curtain was unnecessary at the moment, though—the other mattress was empty. Tierra was the only girl working today, which meant lots of money, but also lots of wear and tear. She glanced longingly at the stack of poker chips on the nightstand. She hoped Ricardo would be fair when she exchanged the chips for cash. She was supposed to get half the money from her tricks, but Ricardo seemed like the slippery type. She sighed and went back to watching the spidery crack. How much longer could he keep this up?