She went back to studying whatever she was reading and sort of casually asked, "So did you or didn't you study for your test?"
Okay, here's the deal. She had all the proper affectations of the model junior attorneyambitious, hardworking, buttoned-down, dedicated, and so forth. And yet she didn't strike me as overly brightnot dumb or brainless, just not bright. More obviously, she lacked a few human ingredients, like sympathy a sense of humor, and compassion.
Anyway, my choices seemed to be continue this line of conversation and end up putting her in a chokehold or change the subject. "So what's that you're working on?" I asked.
"What you should be working on." She pointed at one stack. "That's the original proposal sent by Morris Networks for the DARPA bid." She pointed at another. "That's the protest filed by AT&T, and that's the one by Sprint."
"It takes two hundred pages to file a protest?"
"They were probably in a hurry."
A voice behind me chuckled and said, "It's an industry standard, thank God. You don't suspect reputable firms of padding bills?"
I spun around. Cy was smiling, though it was something short of his normal, gregarious smile. He remarked, "Perhaps Sally failed to mention that we like our attorneys to come in before noon."
"She did mention it. But Lisa Morrow was murdered."
"Oh . . . ?"
"Apparently a robbery gone wrong."
He, at least, had the decency not to stare at his watch. In fact, he appeared both stunned and upset. After a moment of hesitation, he said, "I'm, uh. . . I'm sorry, Sean. Were, uh, were you two close?"
"We were."
Again he appeared uncertain what to say next, a reaction that struck me as uncharacteristic. Silver-tongued types like Cy were never at a loss for the right sentiment, the right words. He finally said, "She was quite a woman. Truly, she was. She had spunk and smarts."
He saw the confused expression on my face and pulled me aside so Sally and the others couldn't overhear. "She made quite an impression on us," he informed me. "We offered to bring her in as a partner."
I suppose I looked surprised, because he swiftly added, "In fact, she accepted. She asked for a few weeks to put in her resignation and get things cleared up with the Army. We were expecting her to start next month."
"I don't believe it."
He acknowledged this with a nod. "A salary of three hundred and fifty thousand, a cut of the annual take, and the usual assortment of gratuities this firm generously provides its partners. We intended to move Lisa to our Boston office, where she'd be near her family."
Okay, I believed it. In fact, it did explain his sudden discomfort, and also why Lisa wanted to talk to me about the firm. The Army is where you came to be all you can be, but there comes a time for all of us to get all you can get, and I suppose Lisa had reached that point.
"Have you heard anything about her funeral?" he asked.
"I'm arranging it. I'm also supposed to settle her estate and help get her family through this."
"Take whatever time you need. She made a lot of friends here, so please be sure to let us know. And Sean . . . anything I can do . . . let me know."
I heard a grunt of disapproval from Sally. But I said I would, and Cy wandered off to notify the rest of the Washington office that there was still an opening in the Boston office for a new partner.
I returned to my office and immediately called the Fort Myer military police station to inquire if a certain prick named Chief Warrant Spinelli worked there. Indeed he was a prick of thoroughbred proportion, the duty officer confided, but he wouldn't be in until 5:00 p.m.
I assumed Spinelli had experienced a long night and an even longer morning. The murder of a female JAG officer on military property raises a lot of eyebrowseyebrows of the wrong variety in the Military District of Washington, a sort of grazing pasture for general officers, some of whom have little better to do than stick their fingers up their posteriors, and their bossy noses into your business.
There was, of course, a television in my office, and I decided to catch the 5:00 p.m. local news. After fifteen minutes of chatter between a pair of overly jocular anchors, the male anchor said, "And in other news, the body of Army captain Lisa Morrow was found dead in a Pentagon parking lot, apparently murdered. The police are investigating."
Other news? What the . . . ? My phone rang. I picked it up and a female voice said, "Major Drummond?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"This is Janet Morrow. We met this morning."
"Oh, right. . . what can I do for you?"
"I just checked into the Four Seasons in Georgetown. I was wondering if we could meet for dinner."
"I, uh"
"Please. I'd like to go over a few details about Lisa's funeral and estate. You mentioned you were handling that."
NoI distinctly recalled her saying she'd handle the funeral and estate. So this was interesting.
However, she sounded perfectly sincere, and possibly she was perfectly sincere. I wasn't betting on it, of course.
But no wasn't even an option.
CHAPTER NINE.
I raced home and slipped into a blue blazer and tan slacks, appropriate attire for 1789, the Georgetown restaurant where Miss Morrow had suggested we meet and eat. Among those in the know, 1789 is a well-regarded D.C. powerplace. Though to be socially correct, it's an evening powerplace, which I guess is different from a midday powerplace, which I guess means only real schmucks eat breakfast there. As long as nobody made me drink sherry.
When I was a kid, my father did a tour in the Pentagon, which was my initiation to our capital and its weird and idiosyncratic ways. We lived in the suburb of North Arlington, some four miles from the city. Washington, back then, was a government town populated mostly by impoverished blacks, penny-pinching bureaucrats, and a small coterie of political royalty Even in those days it was an expensive town, but my mother was a wizard with Green Stamps, so we lived like kings. Just kiddingbut my father's commute wasn't all that long.
More recently, Washington has become a roaring business town, attracting a whole new breed of denizen; entrepreneurs, wealthy executives, bankers, and, with the smell of money, corporate lawyers. Military people these days live in North Carolina and commute. The city never had any pretension of being an egalitarian melting pot, yet the sudden influx of money, and monied classes, has upset whatever precarious balance once existed.
Back to me, however. I returned to the city to attend Georgetown University undergrad, courtesy of Uncle Sam's ROTC scholarship program, and, five years later, was hauled, comatose, to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center after I learned the Army lied; I wasn't really faster than a speeding bullet. I was an infantry officer, the branch that handles the Army's dirtiest jobs, like killing bad guys in wartime, and painting rocks in peacetime.
A bullet had damaged an organa spleen, if you care to knowthat needs to function effectively if you walk long distances with great weights on your back, a quality jackasses and infantry officers have in common, among others. I was already a captain, and the Army's personnel branch checked for shortages in my rank and years of service. The Army, you have to understand, views itself as a big machine, and when a nut can no longer be a nut, it can maybe become a washer, but not a screw or a bolt. Personal talents and desires are obviously secondary. In fact, I recall telling the personnel officer handling my case that as a wounded war hero, the service owed me a debt and should repay it by letting me choose. He thought that was hilarious.
So I was eventually informed I could become a chaplain, a supply guy, a lawyer, or a civilian. Wrong, wrong, maybe, wrong. As I mentioned previously, I'm Catholic, and while I'm drawn to fancy uniforms and elaborate ceremonies, that vow of chastity goes a bridge too far. A supply guy?. . . Get real. I wasn't ready for civilian life, and therefore defaulted into law and returned to my alma mater for a degree.
Which meant I'd lived in Washington nearly fifteen years, off and on. I love this city. I love the inspiring monuments to great deeds and great men, the monumental cathedrals of power, the everyday reminders that this city truly is the Shining Light on the Hill. It's the people I can take or leave. The town has more than its share of oily scoundrels and the pompously high-minded, and it can be impossible to differentiate between the two, or which inflicts the most damage. Anyway, I passed through the portal into 1789 at 6:30 and the maitre d' steered me to the table where Miss Morrow was coolly sipping a cocktail. I asked him to have a waiter bring me a beer and sat down.
So we studied each other a moment. She was smartly dressed in a red pantsuit, no makeup, no jewelryto include, I idly noticed, no wedding or engagement bands. I could detect no physical resemblance between her and Lisa, excluding their sizes, and the not inconsequential fact that both were stunners, with all the requisite plumbing, bumps, and protuberances associated with their chromosome. It was salt and pepper, howeverone blond and fair, the other raven-haired and darkly gorgeous. Plus, Lisa, as I mentioned, had the most sympathetic eyes I ever saw. Janet's were more .. . intolerant.
She awarded me what might be labeled a wan smile and said, "Thanks for joining me. I was brusque this morning, and I apologize. I was .. . upset."
"Perfectly understandable."
"It was very kind of you to fly up and tell us personally. Did you ask to do that?"
"I asked."
Her eyes strayed around the restaurant, and then back to me. "How long did you know Lisa?"
"A few years. We did an investigation together in Kosovo. Afterward, we tilted in court a number of times."
"That must have been interesting."
"It was. I got my ass kicked. Each time . . . every time."
She chuckled. "What was she like in court?"
"Devious, brilliant, and ruthless. She had a knack for coming up with the most wildassed defenses and making them stick."
"She was good, then?"
"No. She was the best."
She stared into her drink and seemed to contemplate, I don't know. . . something. For some reason she reminded me of Lisa. I had to think about it before I put my finger on itit was that same throaty, edgy voice I previously mentioned. Similarities between the living and the dead can be eerie. Also, they can cause you to transfer a false sense of familiarity and affection. This can be misleading and, in the wrong circumstances, dangerous.
Eventually she said, "We're not certain about Arlington National Cemetery Her family and friends are in Boston."
"I understand. Military honors come either way, but consider Arlington. The Army's Old Guard puts on a great show, it's a lovely setting, and she'll be in the best of company."
She replied politely, "You make a good argument. We'll think about it."
We then lapsed into a moment of friendly silence. We had gotten past the morning's rudeness, established that Lisa's death was emotionally affecting for us both, and some kind of unspoken bond had been forged. Miss Morrow was very deft at moving things along, I noted.
So we slowly drank our drinks and chatted amiably for a few more minutes. Nothing deep or really relevant; more in the nature of two strangers thrown together by a common grief and searching for some common ground. I learned she was twenty-nine years old, had attended Harvard Law, that she liked boating, was a big runner, preferred red wine, liked to read in her spare time . . . and so forth. She wasn't outwardly defensive, evasive, or anything. In fact, she remained impressively well-mannered, ladylike, expressive, great posture, and, if you're interested, had really great legs. Yet, she was not particularly talkative or open. Clearly, she had an agenda and did not intend to expose more of herself than necessary.
What she learned about me I wasn't sure. I did note that her questions were both more disarming and more penetrating than mine, and it struck me that she was probably quite adept at drawing out witnesses in a courtroom, or ascertaining if her blind date is a phony shit.
Also, her eyes were a sort of striking sea blue tone, which makes for a lovely contrast with black hair, and they had this almost foxlike quality to them, like she could see and detect things you might not want seen or detected.
In summary, she was getting up to speed on me, and I was learning about her hobbies. So I said, "Your business card mentioned you're an assistant DA."
"That's right. Five years now."
"like it?"
"I like putting assholes behind bars."
"The Lord's work."
"Amen." She smiled and added, "Of course, the politics and bureaucracy I could do without."
I smiled back. I'd given her an opening.
Without pausing, she asked, "If you don't mind my asking, Sean, what's your take on why Lisa was murdered? This was asked with disarming casualness, like, Could you please pass the salt? Very cool.
"And what makes you think it wasn't a simple robbery?"
"I've helped prosecute nearly thirty killings. I think I have a feel for the patterns."
"I'm listening."
"Start with the victim. Lisa was too street-smart. She would've handed over her purse."
"Perhaps she saw the robber's face and he wanted no witnesses. Or maybe he has a thing against women, or he was hopped up on something, or has a screw loose."
"Those are all possibilities. But consider the method. I had the taxi drive me by the Pentagon parking lot this afternoon. Lots of overhead lighting, cars coming and going ... no thief with a brain in his head would pick such an exposed spot."
"Good point. Maybe he was an idiot."
She nodded, but said, "Also, her neck was broken from behind, hardly the direction a robber approaches his victim." We looked at each other awhile before she said, "It doesn't look like a robbery. It looks like something else."
"And what would that be?"
"Premeditated murder."
I pondered this, then said, "Motive, Counselor. Lisa wasn't involved in anything dangerous. She'd just finished a year working in a civilian firm where her work was both nonprovocative and mundane."
"She was a criminal lawyer before that. How many criminal cases did she work on?"
"A lot. Possibly hundreds."
"Last year, half a dozen lawyers were murdered for representing a party in a divorce case. I've had death threats, and I've been stalked. Isn't it possible she made enemies?"
"Let's not confuse possible with likely."
"But you have to consider it." She added, "Would your CID know what to look for?"
"She had six years' worth of cases. I wouldn't know what to look for."
"Yes, but wouldn't it make more sense to have a couple of experienced attorneys poking through her files than a warrant officer who has never tried a case and wouldn't know a tort from a tortilla?"
"What?"
"You get my point."
"Yes, I get your point." I twirled my finger in my beer suds. "And it's a bad one. Lawyers don't investigate murders, we prosecute and defend after the dust settles."
"I'm aware of the technicality."
"It's more than a technicality."
"Well. .. let's change the way it works." She added, "You claim she was your friend."