Guilty Minds

61

We didn’t get back to DC until late, almost eleven. I drove Mandy to her apartment, which was on Kalorama near Columbia, in Adams Morgan.

“As long as you’re here, why don’t you come up?” she said, touching my knee lightly. “You can pick up my Claflin files.”

To my surprise, I felt my cheeks warm, and I was glad she couldn’t see me in the dark. It was like that Shirley MacLaine line in Terms of Endearment, when she invites potential suitors to come up and look at her Renoir — a welcome invitation that confirmed the vibe that I’d wondered about between us. Apparently I hadn’t just been imagining it.

“Sure,” I said. “That’d be great.”

“Thanks.”

Her condo was on the third floor of a brownstone whose lobby smelled of curry from the Indian restaurant next door. She had three locks on the door.

“Apologies for the mess.”

The place was small but smartly furnished, in IKEA simplicity. An open-plan kitchen with an island. It looked more spacious than it should have. Nothing was out of place. There was no mess. “Slovenly,” I said.

She laughed. “Well, you know. Something to drink?”

“That would be nice.”

“Coke or diet? Or seltzer? Or I can make coffee. Actually, mind getting yourself something from the fridge while I change out of these clothes?”

I located a couple of glasses and clanked in a few ice cubes from the freezer and poured us both some Diet Coke. I felt like having a real drink, but that wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t want to be the only one drinking anyway.

She emerged ten minutes later wearing skinny jeans and a black silk camisole with spaghetti straps. She was barefoot. She looked great. I had a fairly good idea she had the same thing in mind as I did. She retrieved her phone from the kitchen table and a minute later I could hear Art Pepper’s silky smooth alto saxophone doing “My Funny Valentine.”

“Nice,” I said, handing her the glass of Diet Coke.

“You sound surprised.”

“I love Art Pepper.”

“You’re not a big jazz snob, are you? You know, like, it’s no good if it’s not Django Reinhardt, or Thelonious Monk at the Blackhawk, nineteen sixty?”

“Not a jazz snob. That’s not me. I mean, I don’t know what mouthpiece Art is using, if that’s what you mean.”

I set down my glass on the kitchen island and excused myself to use her bathroom. When I came back, she was sitting in an armchair covered in a slouchy slipcover placed at a right angle to the couch. She’d moved my Diet Coke to the end table between the chair and the couch. I sat on the couch next to the end table, where she’d put a brown accordion file. She waved at it. “My Slander Sheet files.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s the paper ‘What If’ file. The stuff I never got anywhere with. Rumors about everyone in Washington who counts.” She’d put on perfume, something light and floral, maybe jasmine.

“Like who?”

“Your old boss, Jay Stoddard, for one.”

“Whatever you have on him, no matter how kinky or disgusting, it’s true.”

“A lot of those leads never checked out. Never amounted to anything. Like ninety percent of them are just urban legends. But I never throw anything away. You never know when an old rumor turns out to be true.”

“Thanks for trusting me with it.”

“Before the Kayla debacle I was working on a story about a DC homicide that was allegedly covered up. A cold case involving some Washington bigwig.”

“Who?”

“I never got that far. A retired police detective in Southeast, an old guy who’s on his deathbed or close to it, supposedly covered it up and now he wants to talk.”

“You have a working theory who the killer was?”

“Theory? Your friend Senator Brennan.”

“Come on.”

“A drunk-driving incident, maybe.”

“You think?”

She shook her head. “I never got anywhere with it.”

“Well, I’m not going to bring it up with him.”

She stretched her legs. “You sure you don’t miss living in DC? All the intrigue?”

“Not at all. You like living in Adams Morgan?”

“Where I am now, yeah. I used to live on Columbia and had to sleep with earplugs.”

“The bar traffic.”

“The drunken arguments, the smashed bottles, the sirens. The woo girls and the frat bros. But that was mostly Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Any crime here?”

“I had a break-in a couple of weeks back, in fact.”

“Were you home?”

“Nope.”

“Get ripped off?”

“I don’t know. The place was ransacked, but I haven’t figured out what they took. They climbed in through the fire escape. I’ve changed the locks on the windows.”

“When was this, exactly?”

She shook her head. “About a month ago.”

“When you started working on the Kayla story?”

“Before that. Oh, hey.” She got up suddenly and went over to the kitchen. I turned to watch. She wasn’t skinny; she was curvy. Maybe voluptuous was the right word. Her legs were long and toned, like she cycled. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jameson. “I forgot, I keep some around for guests. If you want something harder than Coke.”

“Not for me, thanks.” As much as I wanted a drink, I also didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. “You can keep that stuff in the house?”

“It took a while. Now I’m okay with it. I really don’t mind if you have some.”

I hesitated, but not for long. “Then okay, I’ll have a little. On the rocks.”

She fixed the drink and brought it to me. I clinked with her Diet Coke and took a swig, felt the whiskey burn the back of my throat.

There was a moment of silence. She said, “So can I ask you something? When you were in Iraq...”

I waited for the inevitable question. Did you ever kill anyone? And What was it like? What does it feel like to kill another human being?

“Yeah?”

“Well, how did a rich kid like you end up in the army?”

“I wasn’t a rich kid.”

“You didn’t grow up rich? Your father—”

“Yeah, till I was a teenager. Then my dad went on the lam.”

“He got arrested?”

“Yes, but that was after a few years. He was a fugitive.”

“I remember reading about him. What’d they end up getting him for?”

“Insider trading. Fraud. A bunch of things.”

“Was he guilty?”

“Of that and more.”

“Not a nice guy?”

I chuckled. “I wouldn’t say so, no.”

“But you still visit him in prison.”

“He’s extremely smart. He still knows people. Sometimes he helps, but it costs me.”

“Costs you?”

“It’s hard to explain. I don’t visit him out of love or filial duty.”

“How about your mom?”

“She lives outside of Boston. She’s some kind of saint.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

I shook my head. Too complicated to explain about my brother Roger. “How about you?”

“Three older brothers.”

“You were the baby.”

She smiled. “I was.”

“Little princess.”

“Actually, I was a tomboy, until I discovered boys.” She cleared her throat. “But you never answered my question. Why’d you enlist?”

“I didn’t want to work for McKinsey.”

“The consulting firm?”

“Yeah. I worked for them a couple of summers.”

“Sort of an extreme way to avoid working for McKinsey, don’t you think?”

“I really didn’t want to work for McKinsey.”

She laughed a little.

“I enlisted because I believed in it. Maybe I needed something like that, at that time in my life. I wanted to not be Victor Heller’s son. I wanted to be my own man.”

“I think I get it.”

It was late and I was tired of talking. I stood up.

“Can I get you another Jameson?” she said, standing up as well.

“I’m good.” I went to give her a hug, and her face turned toward mine, and somehow our lips met. Her hands came around to my back and pulled me in toward her. I could taste her lipstick and the Diet Coke. My tongue found hers. Our mouths melted into each other’s. I slid my hands under her camisole and came around slowly to the front, felt the silky-smooth skin, her breasts.

She pulled back to take a breath and said, “God.”

“Mm,” I said.

“Heller, is this going to be a problem?”

“Hmm?” I’d gone from Nick to Heller. Interesting. Using just my last name connoted greater intimacy.

“You and me...?”

“No problem,” I said, and I kissed her again, my hands on her butt. Then I removed her cami and gazed at her full breasts, her nipples erect and pointed, and I sucked in a breath between my teeth.

Voluptuous. Yes.

I liked voluptuous.