Mistress

Chapter 30

They dump me back on Connecticut Avenue, near the building where Jonathan Liu’s company takes up space. I relish the thick air and freedom after my unplanned visit to the Chinese embassy. So now I know that the Chinese-and probably Jonathan Liu in particular-were involved in this somehow. But how? How did my Diana gain the attention of the Chinese government and the president of the United States?

I ride over to Idaho Avenue, where the MPD’s Second District station is located. I ask for Ellis Burk, a detective I profiled a few years back when he solved a murder involving a congressman’s daughter. We’ve kept in touch since then, because he’s a pretty good guy and because it’s my job to have friends everywhere.

I’m good at that-having friends, the superficial banter over dinner or drinks, the wisecracks, the false flattery to get them to open up, always leaving them with a favorable impression so they’ll be receptive next time you need them. I even have a database of my acquaintances, noting how I met them, any significant events that tie us together (in Ellis’s case, it was the Dana Manchester murder), a carrot to use if I need a favor (for Ellis, it’s Cuban cigars), and any return favors I may need to remind them of (a flattering profile of the detective who solved the Manchester murder).

That’s my specialty, superficial friends. But I don’t get too close, and I don’t let them too close. Keep your fingers away from the cage, and everyone will be okay.

When I arrive, they tell me Detective Burk will be a few minutes, then they put me in a room. It’s a windowless, gray room with a mirror running horizontally along one wall and a single table surrounded by four chairs. I assume this is an “interview” room, where they watch you through the mirrored wall as you’re interrogated.

Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce,

First Amendment rights upset us;

All we ask is that you let us censor your words.

Sure, now I think of it.

“Ben-jamin Casper,” Ellis sings as he comes through the door. “The man who survived a plane crash.”

Oh, right. The AP must have picked up the story. “Hey, Ellis.”

He shakes my hand. His expression changes after he gives me a once-over. “Took a toll on you, looks like. Well, listen, most people don’t survive a plane crash, so just consider everything that happens in your life from here on out a bonus.”

Actually, that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing.

“You okay, man?” Ellis asks me. “You look a little…stressed-out.”

I try to manage a smile but can’t. No sense putting lipstick on this pig.

“It’s been a rough week,” I say. “A friend of mine died. I think she was murdered. And since then, somebody’s been trying to kill me, too, starting with-”

Ellis raises a hand to calm me. He’s tall and wide, an African American guy who grew up in Boston when it wasn’t so easy for a black man to become a police officer. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him in person, more than a year ago. Maybe a diet, maybe illness.

“One step at a time,” he says. “Start from the beginning. Tell me about this friend of yours.”

I blow out a sigh. “Okay. My friend works as a staffer for the CIA. She lives in Georgetown and someone pushed her, I think, off her balcony-”

Ellis cocks his head. Recognition dawns all over his face.

“-and I was there, in her apartment, just be-”

“Stop.” Ellis scoots his chair back. “You’re talking about Hotchchild, or Hotch-something-”

“Hotchkiss. Diana Hotchkiss.”

He nods his head. “Diana Hotchkiss.”

“You know the case, I gather.”

He studies me for a moment. “That’s not a case you want to be connected with. There could be some trouble for you, Ben.”

You don’t say.

“This is a case you’re working on?” I ask.

He gets up from the table and paces. “I wasn’t the lead, but we had it here in the Second.”

I pick up on the use of the past tense. “Not anymore?”

He laughs without humor. “Couple days ago, the CIA comes waltzing in here. They announce that the Diana Hotchkiss case is a matter of national security and they’re taking over. They demanded all our files, right there on the spot. I mean, they literally carted everything off. Over twenty years on the job, I’ve never seen it handled that way.”

This is getting stranger by the minute. The feds are all over this case now. The president of the United States mentions Diana in his weekly press conference. The Chinese haul me in for a friendly off-the-record inquisition.

What the hell is going on?

“If I were you,” says Ellis, “I’d take some of that money you inherited and fly to some remote island for a month or two.”

Probably good advice. “I’m not going anywhere, Ellis. I need some kind of a lead. Something. Anything. The CIA took everything from you?”

Ellis stares at me for a long, sober moment before his expression breaks.

“Maybe not quite everything,” he says.