Mistress

Great. He said my name twice, quadrupling the likelihood that he’ll remember it later.

President Buchanan often cocked his head to the left because one eye was nearsighted and one was farsighted.

“You’re supposed to keep your credentials in plain sight, pal.”

“Guilty as charged.” I nod in the direction of Diana’s building. “Jumper last night?”

He looks me over again. “PIO will release something later. Still working on identification.”

That’s a dodge if I ever heard one, and White House correspondents hear them every day. Most detectives or uniforms will feed you the basics even before the public information officer releases an official statement, especially if you promise to spell their names correctly in the story. That tells me something: this case is being treated differently.

The area where Diana landed is roped off with yellow tape. Pieces of the clay pot and some soil from the apple geraniums still remain. There is the bloodstain, which is amassed primarily on the sidewalk, with traces beyond it onto the curb.

Once blood has left the body, it behaves as a fluid, and all physical laws, including gravity, apply.

“Help me out, Detective,” I say. “No leads at all?”

He’s already begun to tune me out. Now that he makes me for a reporter, I’m about as welcome as a flatulent cockroach.

But my question gets his attention. He turns to me. “Leads on what? On a lady jumping from her balcony?”

“Have it your way,” I say, sounding like a reporter getting the stiff-arm.

“Sorry, Benjamin Casper. This is dark for now.”

What’s with repeating my damn name?

I decide to cut my losses and beat it. This was a net loss, all told. I didn’t get into Diana’s apartment, and one of the investigating detectives said my name three times, virtually guaranteeing it would be burned into his memory. But at least I used my reporter angle to avoid a catastrophic misstep.

And the trip wasn’t a total waste. I came away with three things I didn’t previously know. First, the Metropolitan Police Department is treating Diana’s death as a homicide investigation. Second, they’re acting like they’re not, for some reason.

And third, there are two guys wearing sunglasses, parked down the street in a Lexus sedan, who seem awfully interested in me and this cop.

Chapter 9

I kick the Triumph to life, throw on my shades, and turn in the direction of the Lexus with the two guys just to get a quick look. Each of them is Caucasian, steel-jawed, muscular, and constipated. Okay, constipated is just a guess. I don’t know their deal, but now is not the time to find out-not when I lack the element of surprise, they’re two and I’m one, and they’re in a car and I’m on a bike. Besides, I’ve aroused enough suspicion for one morning.

I drive back to my house slowly, giving them a chance to follow me. They don’t. So maybe they have no interest in Diana. Maybe they just wanted a glimpse of the Potomac from their vantage point. Maybe they’re bird-watchers.

Diana would ride with me on the Triumph sometimes. It was the best time I ever had on the bike, with her arms nestled around my waist, her chin on my shoulder, sharing an adventure. I haven’t yet come to grips with the fact that she’ll never ride with me again.

We were going to be a couple. I know that. The best couples are the ones who start out as friends first, like Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Except let’s face it-she was way too cute for him. Anyway, most people come together through sexual attraction and then try to figure out if they’re compatible. The sex distracts them, then they realize too late that their pieces don’t fit together. Diana and I, we were different. We were pals. Buds. True, I wanted more, but her resistance forced us to develop a different kind of relationship. Once we got to the romantic part, we would’ve already checked off all the other boxes.

Or maybe I was just dreaming. I’ll never know for sure.

Because somebody killed her. I’m sure of it now. She loved those apple geraniums. Even if she wanted to die, she would’ve taken care to step around them before taking the plunge. She wouldn’t have willy-nilly barreled over the side and taken them with her.

I can imagine a cop laughing at my analysis. The Case of the Fallen Geraniums. Someone in this room is a florist!

You’d have to know her like I do.

Anyway, the video surveillance in her apartment will tell the story. I’ll just have to wait until the police clear out-

Wait. Wait. Did Diana know somebody wanted to kill her?

Is that why she asked me to put the surveillance equipment in her apartment? She never volunteered why, so I never asked. But it makes all the sense in the world.

Why would Diana go to the trouble of having me install eavesdropping devices in her apartment if she were going to commit suicide the same night?