a year in a mental hospital, recovering from physical and psychic wounds. When she left, she moved into a small apartment near the National Cathedral. For months she had stayed in her sanctuary unless necessity drove her out. When her savings reached rock bottom she was forced to face reality. There was no way she could return to the D.C. police, but police work was the only thing she knew. Working as a private investigator was an adequate solution, and she made certain that her cases were routine and did not involve danger. Then, by chance, Dana had been involved in a case that helped bring down Christopher Farrington, the president of the United States. The danger she’d encountered had made her feel alive and the notoriety she had achieved from this high-profile case had brought her plenty of work, but now it was the rare assignment that induced an adrenaline high.
When Dana entered the bar, she’d seen Lars Jorgenson limping to a table, leaning his cane against its side, and grimacing as he slumped into a chair. Dana found an empty booth that gave her a good view of her quarry. The second half of a basketball game was just starting on one of the large-screen TVs. A long hour later, the Wizards succumbed to the Knicks. Jorgenson, in apparent pain, levered himself out of his chair and limped to his car. Dana followed him home. When the lights in Jorgenson’s apartment went out at midnight Dana slumped down in the front seat of her car, took a sip of coffee from her thermos, and prayed that a direct hit by a flaming meteor would end her misery.
Chapter Three
Charles Benedict disposed of Krueger’s body, the knife, and the old clothes before abandoning the Chevrolet with the key still in the ignition in the area of the capital with the highest crime rate. A smaller crowd was still schmoozing in the ballroom when he returned to the Theodore Roosevelt to mingle at the cocktail party.
After a reasonable amount of time, Benedict took the stairs to the lobby. As he walked by the Bull Moose Bar he spotted Carrie Blair in a booth in a distant corner, nursing a drink. Benedict took a step back. Carrie was alone. She was staring into her glass, and she looked sad. Benedict had always wondered what “The Society Prosecutor” would be like in bed, and he couldn’t pass up a chance to find out. Before he entered the bar, the lawyer took a pillbox out of his pocket and palmed a mild sedative that would make Carrie compliant. Slipping the pill into Carrie’s drink would pose no problem for someone with the lawyer’s skill at sleight of hand.
Carrie was leaning forward and staring into a double shot of bourbon. Benedict was certain that most of the men in the bar had eyed her more than once. He bet that they were wondering what could possibly make someone so perfect look so depressed. Benedict was fairly certain he knew the reason for the prosecutor’s funk.
Almost ten years ago, when Carrie was a young assistant commonwealth attorney, she had tried Horace Blair for driving under the influence. Horace had become smitten with the woman who was prosecuting him and he had pursued her relentlessly. Their marriage was the scandal of the decade in the circles in which Horace traveled. Everyone believed that Carrie had married Blair for his money, and the people in Horace’s set made no secret of their disdain. From what Benedict had heard, living the life of a millionaire’s wife had gotten old quickly. Society snubbed Carrie, and her old friends felt uncomfortable around her. Carrie was rumored to live in her office more than in the plush rooms of Horace’s mansion.
Benedict slid into the booth across from Blair. Carrie was not happy to see him. The prosecutor knew Benedict well enough to see past his GQ model looks. In her office, Benedict was thought of as a high-priced hired gun who had flunked his ethics course in law school. No one doubted his ability. He won more than his share of tough cases. But it was the way he won some of them that raised eyebrows. When the client was in the top tax bracket, or a member of Nikolai Orlansky’s crew, evidence disappeared from property rooms and witnesses went missing or developed faulty memories. No one ever proved hanky-panky was involved, but a rank smell wafted over many of Benedict’s cases.