Mistress(27)

A smile crosses his face. “There is no article. What is it going to say? That you, Mr. Casper, had a relationship with Ms. Hotchkiss? That you, Benjamin Casper, were at her condominium the night of her death?”

I do a slow burn.

“A person of interest in the death of Ms. Hotchkiss—a spurned lover who had, as you Americans say, motive and opportunity—is writing a story about her death? Would this not be considered something of a conflict of interest?”

These guys are all over this. What stone have I turned over?

Bald Guy puts his nose within a hairbreadth of mine. “There is no article,” he says.

He stands straight again and paces the room. “And if there is, it will get, shall we say, ugly for you, Benjamin Casper. Perhaps everyone will learn the interesting background of your own life. Including your childhood.”

Ben, you remember me, right? Detective Amy LaTaglia.

My dad says I’m not supposed to talk to you.

I know, Ben. So don’t. I’ll talk to you. I just wanted to let you know that we got back the fingerprint analysis. Did you know that we found fingerprints on the gun that was in your mother’s hand?

“Those records are sealed,” I hiss.

Bald Guy waves a hand. “Then perhaps it gives you a window into the resources at our disposal that we were able to access that sealed information.”

Do you want to guess whose fingerprints we found on that weapon, Ben?

My dad says I’m not supposed—

They were yours, Ben. Your fingerprints were on that gun.

“On the other hand, Benjamin, I suppose we can forget about that information if you forget about your wild and unsupported accusations against Mr. Liu.”

I lower my head and try to contain my emotions while memories cascade toward me in waves.

You’re in a lot of trouble, Ben.

You need to tell us what happened in that bathroom with your mother.

“If my accusations are so unsupported,” I say slowly, “then why am I here?”

Bald Guy lets out a hideous laugh. “Oh, Benjamin,” he says, “you were never here. And you better hope you never are.”





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.”