Keeping Secrets Page 5

  With absolute clarity she saw that if Elizabeth Grayson, Phillip Tancil, Joseph Murray and Antonio delValle were killed because they were gay, the killer knew more about them than did their own families. Those people had fiercely guarded their secret, yet somebody had known, and it was a somebody each of them had followed willingly or met in a dark parking lot, late at night, far from home. Mimi pushed back her chair and stood so abruptly that she jarred the table, spilling water and startling Tyler.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, steadying the glasses.

  “To the gym. I need to think.”

  *****

  By unspoken agreement, afternoons at the Washington Women’s Gym belonged to the serious body builders, the heavy-duty pumpers of iron. Mimi did not belong in that category, but she’d put in enough afternoon hours to be accepted as dedicated and serious— the attributes most respected by the pros. It had been a couple of months since Mimi’s last afternoon workout and she wondered idly what familiar faces she’d see as she strolled into the locker room to change.

  The gym was a converted warehouse and perfectly suited to its new function. It had high ceilings with windows surrounding the top and in which hung dozens of baskets of plants, and yards of open floor space which the owners had wisely partitioned into upper body, lower body, and free weight workout areas, with mirrors covering every wall and a warm, deep cranberry carpet covering the floor. The aerobic area— rows of stair climbers, life cycles and treadmills— was adjacent to rows of mats for stretches, abdominals and other floor exercises. Energetic but not frantic disco music emanated at acceptable decibels from half a dozen speakers hung at variable intervals from the ceiling.

  Mimi ran a quick mile on the treadmill then lowered herself to a mat for stretches when a reflection in the mirror grabbed her attention: A back, not naked this time, the muscles fully flexed in a lateral pull down exercise. She watched transfixed as the muscles rippled and rolled under the olive skin, slowly, easily, again and again. Mimi wondered what it would feel like to have that power moving under her, on top of her...

  Gianna completed her set, released the bar, and turned toward the upright rowing machine. She spied Mimi coming toward her and lifted a hand in greeting, crossing to meet her. Mimi was mesmerized by the fluidity of the lithe, graceful body that in repose, offered no hint of the muscle power she’d just witnessed.

  “It seems we’re both cheating the system today,” Gianna said in the familiar voice.

  “The system deserves it,” Mimi said wryly and pulled on her weightlifting gloves. “Are you an afternoon regular?”

  “A couple of times a week,” Gianna said.

  Mimi again appraised the body before her and said with honest respect, “You don’t get that body with a twice a week workout.”

  “Oh, I work out daily in the gym at headquarters. It’s just that there are times when that’s more of hassle than I can handle and at those times, I appreciate the privacy and tranquility of this place.”

  “I can imagine,” Mimi said with feeling, and she could. She wouldn’t spend fifteen minutes in a leotard in a room with any of the cops she knew, and that included those she thought were nice guys. “You must have to wear sackcloth.”

  Gianna laughed and took a step away. “Let’s get to it, shall we? I’ll be watching your form, Miss Patterson.”

  They worked out in companionable silence though, true to her promise, Gianna watched her and Mimi was fully aware of it. She did not find the scrutiny uncomfortable but she was annoyed that she was unable to read any meaning into the glances. Idle curiosity or attraction? Gianna never once dropped her veneer of cool, professional control, never gave away a hint of reaction. Mimi, on the other hand, seemed powerless to manage her responses to the other woman. While helping Gianna with her bench presses, Mimi was acutely conscious of the rapid breathing, of the tiny droplets of perspiration on her forehead and above her lip, of the light groans that escaped her throat with the effort of raising and lowering the one hundred and twenty-five pounds of weight. The breathing and the moisture and the sounds made Mimi think of other forms of exertion, and with those thoughts her nipples showed rock-hard through the thin spandex of her workout bra. Gianna, if she noticed, remained impassive. Aggravated, Mimi stayed away from her until they were in the steam room together, stretched out full, Mimi on the bench above Gianna, the wet heat a soothing balm to their fatigued muscles.

  “Seen Beverly lately?” Mimi asked idly.

  “We had dinner together last night.”

  Gianna had responded just as idly and, Mimi thought, with just a hint of a smile. It wasn’t the answer Mimi had expected and she was silent for a moment as she decided whether to ask a follow-up question.

  “It seems you two are pretty close.”

  “We are,” Gianna said with such ease that Mimi shut up and gave herself over to the soothing power of the steam. She was almost asleep when Gianna asked, “What does the ‘M’ stand for and do you use that byline to deliberately confound the unsuspecting?”

  “Marilyn and yes.” Mimi smiled. She could have used the byline Marilyn M. Patterson or even Mimi Patterson, but the ambiguity of M. Montgomery gave her an upper hand from which some of her subjects never recovered.

  “Is it a family name?”

  “I was named for my mother, for which I’ll always be grateful. She died when I was seventeen, and I’ve always felt that having her name meant I was somehow living for her, too.”

  Silence hung in the steamy mist between them. Mimi felt no need to break it with small talk, nor, apparently did Gianna. Mimi knew they both were women whose entire days were filled with the thoughts, feelings, problems of others and they valued their moments of silent privacy, of pure, deep relaxation. They’d mastered the art of separating mind from body which is why, when needing to think, both escaped to the gym for a physical workout. Now, as her body luxuriated in the heat, her mind was a whirlwind of activity: she thought about the case, about how she could discuss it without damaging the fragile bond between them. And she thought about the growing power of the attraction between them. Gianna stirred and Mimi said, “Gianna, would you....” just as the door opened to admit a group of laughing, talking body builders. The mood broken, Mimi and Gianna rose together, as if on cue, exchanged pleasantries with the new arrivals, and left the steam room.

  Since their lockers were on opposite sides of the room and since there were now a half dozen or so other women present, they showered and dressed without speaking again. When Mimi turned to find Gianna, to say good-bye, she laughed, unable to stop herself. They were dressed almost exactly alike, the difference being only the color of their wardrobes. Mimi wore black wool slacks and a black blazer with a cranberry boat-neck sweater. Gianna wore moss green wool slacks and a matching blazer with a mustard colored boat-neck sweater, and she, too, laughed at their sameness.

  She walked over to Mimi, pins sticking out of her mouth, hands busy in the dark mane of her hair as she tried to force it into submission.

  “You started to say to me, ‘Gianna would you...’ and you were interrupted. Maybe you could complete your sentence?”

  Mimi looked into her eyes and said, “Would you let your hair just...be free?”

  At Gianna’s look of astonishment, Mimi apologized quickly. “I’m sorry. I had no right to say that.”

  Gianna didn’t speak. She merely began to remove the pins from her hair, holding Mimi with her eyes, until the mass of rich, dark hair was spread out on her shoulders. They held each other’s gaze. Then the beeper went off, and when they both checked their belts to see whose it was, Mimi realized she hadn’t been breathing.

  “It’s yours,” she said huskily to Gianna.

  “No matter how much you cheat it, the system always wins,” Gianna said, and she went to her locker, slammed it shut, took up her purse, and hurried away without looking back.

  Mimi watched her leave, thinking again, We are the same height and, I know, a perfect fit.

>   The FBI had located Susan Jolley and had, that morning, returned her to Washington and to the custody of the Metropolitan Police. She’d been hiding out on one of the islands off the coast of South Carolina, which normally would have been a great place to hide. In the fall of the year, there is not much crime in coastal South Carolina, because all of the tourists are gone and the locals are too relieved at their departure to feel like raising hell. But the entire police force of that tiny island consisted of one retired FBI agent who made it his business to keep up with the Bureau’s business—and Susan Jolley was the Bureau’s business. Which was how that single law enforcement official came to have time to read every single FBI bulletin, and how Susan Jolley came to be, with her attorney, in an interview room waiting for Gianna, who scrutinized them through a two-way mirror?

  Could this woman have murdered Liz Grayson? Or Phil Tancil or Tony del Valle or Joe Murray? She was small and pale and she sat at the table, head down, long blonde hair obscuring her face, hands stretched out and clenched. The attorney whispered a few words to her and Susan Jolley raised her head, giving Gianna her first look at a face etched with pain and misery, at pale blue eyes hollowed out by lack of sleep, at thin lips compressed into a tight white line as if to keep locked inside the screams that lurked at the edge awaiting their chance to escape. She wore a flowered skirt and a pink T-shirt, no doubt adequate for the South Carolina coast but certainly insufficient protection for early November in Washington. She was, Gianna guessed, not more than thirty-five. Gianna pushed open the door and entered the room quickly, crossing to introduce herself to the attorney. She sat down close to Susan Jolley and the woman shrank back into her chair. Gianna observed her closely for a moment, then began the questioning in her low, commanding voice.

  “Miss Jolley, did you kill Elizabeth Grayson?”

  “No,” said Susan Jolley almost inaudibly, shaking her head.

  “Do you know who killed Elizabeth Grayson?”

  Again, the shake of the head and the little-voice. “No.”

  “Did Karen Sachs kill Elizabeth Grayson?” At that name, Susan Jolley recoiled from Gianna, twisting toward the lawyer, a plea on her face, her voice a series of little whimpers. The lawyer looked at Gianna, who kept her eyes on Susan Jolley.

  “Why did you run away, Miss Jolley? Were you afraid that Karen Sachs had done something terrible, something to implicate you?”

  Susan Jolley’s resolve broke and she dropped her head on the table and sobbed. After a while, Gianna was able to extract her story. Susan Jolley and Elizabeth Grayson had quite literally bumped into each other in the lesbian literature section of Lammas Books at DuPont Circle on a Saturday afternoon. They’d talked and made suggestions to each other about which books to buy, and left the store together to have a cup of coffee.

  Susan had fallen in love with Liz almost immediately. They met for lunch almost daily, and several times a week at Susan’s house for dinner. And for lovemaking. At some point during the blossoming of her association with Liz, Susan broke off her affair with Karen Sachs.

  “She hated Liz, blamed Liz, and it wasn’t her fault,” Susan sobbed. “It was my fault. I didn’t love Karen, had never loved her, but I’d never said those words to Karen. So she thought Liz was the reason.”

  “Did she threaten to kill Liz?” Gianna asked.

  Susan sobbed helplessly. “Yes.” Gianna glanced at the attorney, expecting the woman at this point to stop her client from talking. This was dangerous ground for the guilty. The attorney’s face showed no sign of concern.

  “And when you learned Liz had been murdered, you thought Karen did it?” Gianna waited. “Why, Susan, did you think that?” Because, Susan explained through her tears, Karen had a violent temper, had spied on Susan and Liz, had followed Liz home one night, had called Liz’s home and raged at her husband, had vandalized her car.

  Gianna spoke slowly, quietly. “Did Karen ever do anything to you, Susan? Did you ever see her engage in actual violence?”

  “Only afterward,” Susan replied, drying her eyes, calming herself. Gianna looked at Susan and saw someone who had weathered the storm and emerged unscathed. Gianna had seen lots of worried lawyers and guilty clients and she saw neither here: the lawyer was relaxed and the client in mourning for the loss of a loved one.

  “After what, Susan?” Gianna experienced the let-down cops get in the instant they realize their suspect didn’t do it.

  “After Liz left me and I wouldn’t go back to her. Back to Karen, I mean. She didn’t understand why I wouldn’t.”

  Gianna sagged as her only hope of a lead faded. She listened distractedly as Susan explained how Liz grew tired of Karen’s threats and even more tired of Susan’s pleas for them to spend more time together.

  Bleak as Gianna felt about the case, however, Susan’s next words stirred painful memories within her.

  “Liz could never spend the night with me. She always had to go home to her husband and children. I thought...if she loved me...how could she not want to be with me?” Showing the first sign of animation, Susan continued. “She belonged to some group— women like her, gay but married— and they supported her position, said she had a right to have him and me. But I couldn’t bear the thought of her making love with me, then rushing home to him! I’d be lying there, still burning from her and needing more, and she’d be gone home to him!”

  Gianna knew that feeling so well. Too well. She forced those memories away and turned her attention back to Susan. “Why did you run away, Susan?”

  “I had no more reason to be there,” she said simply.

  Gianna sat in the Hate Crimes team Think Tank surrounded by seven spirited faces. Uncharacteristically relaxed, her feet up on the desk, hands folded behind her head, Gianna let her mind wander as she listened to them talk. They were an exceedingly bright group of young police officers, all of whom had volunteered for this unit. They were Black and Asian and Hispanic and white, male and female, straight and gay, and she took a proprietary pride in them. She liked listening to them talk because they spurred her own thoughts and theories and because she always learned something. “She was never my favorite suspect.”

  “Mine either. I was rooting for Karen. What a bi...”

  “Careful, careful! That’s no way to speak of the public.”

  “Anyway. It’s not a woman’s crime. Women don’t shoot people in the genitals, especially not another woman.”

  “That’s a sexist remark! Besides, unfortunately, women get more like men every day.”

  “Talk about sexist remarks!”

  “Anyway, it can’t be Susan and Karen.”

  “Explain please?”

  “They’d have a motive for Elizabeth Grayson only. That means we’d still be looking for who killed the three dudes.”

  “No shit Sherlock!”

  “It scares me that there’s somebody that crazy out there.”

  “It scares me that he—that whoever it is—would kill me just because I’m gay.”

  Gianna smiled inwardly at the ease with which they accepted and discussed their sexuality, their religion, their politics. She knew which of them were gay; she’d needed to in order to construct a balanced unit, and she needed several of them needed to be gay in order to conduct some kinds of undercover work. She pushed their conversation to the back of her consciousness so she could think about where their next suspect might come from. She hadn’t really believed that Susan Jolley was a serious candidate, not after reviewing her Army employment records, but Susan had been all they had and despite her probable innocence staring them in the face, there lingered a faint hope that something would come from her arrest. So now...the next course of action.

  She flipped through Eric’s report, frowning slightly. “You turning up anything in the groups and organizations?”

  Eric shrugged and raised his palms heavenward. “We’re inside a dozen of them, Anna, but you know how long it takes. I swear to God, as protective as some of these people are you’d t
hink it was the nineteen fifties all over again. The first time you ask a question about somebody they all get paranoid.”

  “Surely you’re not surprised?” Cassandra Ali’s tone was as arch as her eyebrows. “People still get fired or not hired at all for being queer. And besides, Detective, let’s face it: you just don’t look macho-butch enough to be totally believable in some of the places you’ve been frequenting lately.”

  The room exploded into laughter. Eric blushed deeply but took his ribbing good-naturedly, making a swaggering bow to Cassandra, who curtsied prissily in return. They spent the next several hours reviewing the case, line-by-line, report-by-report. Gianna had questioned and pushed and probed until she was convinced that every angle had been covered and uncovered, and that every member of the team was familiar with every aspect of every file.

  Finally, wearily, Gianna conceded. “Our only decent lead tells us that all four victims sought some kind of counseling for gay people. We’ll focus on those that provide advice and help to people in the closet. Show the photographs around, drop the names. Somebody knew those people.”

  “But that could make a lot of people nervous,” Kenny Chang said, “especially the killer. If that’s where the killer finds his victims.” Kenny was one of a tiny handful of Chinese-Americans in the Department, and Gianna took it as a high compliment that he abandoned the middle echelon of the elite Criminal Intelligence Division to work Hate Crimes. That he was about ten years older and therefore had that much more experience than the other team members also was a major plus.

  “I want him nervous,” Gianna said fervently. “I want him to think we’re getting close. Maybe he’ll make a mistake. Somewhere out there is a link to those four dead people, and I sure as hell want to find out who it is in the next two weeks.” She did not need to remind them that in fourteen days it would be the 21st of November and that if history was destined to repeat itself, the fifth victim of a homosexual-hating monster would appear in a parking lot somewhere in the Nation’s capital shortly after midnight.