Mistress

Chapter 8

Turns out this cop’s a lefty. I guess the holster on his left hip should have been a clue. President Garfield was a lefty. So was Truman. In the modern era-

I brandish my MPD press pass, which was folded up in my back pocket. “Capital Beat.”

The cop takes a breath and decelerates, releasing his grip on his sidearm. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

“No. Just a reporter.”

Actually, Garfield was ambidextrous. He could write ancient Greek with one hand while writing Latin with the other. Lefty was Al Pacino’s character in Donnie Brasco. In my opinion, it was his finest acting job, restrained and despairing.

The cop does a quick read of my credentials. They’re issued annually by the Metropolitan Police Department. “Benjamin Casper,” he reads. “Well, you sure as shit gave me a nervous moment there, Benjamin Casper.”

Great. He said my name twice, quadrupling the likelihood that he’ll remember it later.

President Buchanan often cocked his head to the left because one eye was nearsighted and one was farsighted.

“You’re supposed to keep your credentials in plain sight, pal.”

“Guilty as charged.” I nod in the direction of Diana’s building. “Jumper last night?”

He looks me over again. “PIO will release something later. Still working on identification.”

That’s a dodge if I ever heard one, and White House correspondents hear them every day. Most detectives or uniforms will feed you the basics even before the public information officer releases an official statement, especially if you promise to spell their names correctly in the story. That tells me something: this case is being treated differently.

The area where Diana landed is roped off with yellow tape. Pieces of the clay pot and some soil from the apple geraniums still remain. There is the bloodstain, which is amassed primarily on the sidewalk, with traces beyond it onto the curb.

Once blood has left the body, it behaves as a fluid, and all physical laws, including gravity, apply.

“Help me out, Detective,” I say. “No leads at all?”

He’s already begun to tune me out. Now that he makes me for a reporter, I’m about as welcome as a flatulent cockroach.

But my question gets his attention. He turns to me. “Leads on what? On a lady jumping from her balcony?”

“Have it your way,” I say, sounding like a reporter getting the stiff-arm.

“Sorry, Benjamin Casper. This is dark for now.”

What’s with repeating my damn name?

I decide to cut my losses and beat it. This was a net loss, all told. I didn’t get into Diana’s apartment, and one of the investigating detectives said my name three times, virtually guaranteeing it would be burned into his memory. But at least I used my reporter angle to avoid a catastrophic misstep.

And the trip wasn’t a total waste. I came away with three things I didn’t previously know. First, the Metropolitan Police Department is treating Diana’s death as a homicide investigation. Second, they’re acting like they’re not, for some reason.

And third, there are two guys wearing sunglasses, parked down the street in a Lexus sedan, who seem awfully interested in me and this cop.