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Got his voice mail there, too.
I braked at the light on Eighteenth Street, tapped my fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, stepped on the gas as the light turned green.
An old memory came into my mind — the day I’d been promoted to lieutenant on the heels of bringing down the “bride and groom killer,” a psycho who’d surely earned a top-ten ranking in the Most-Depraved-Criminal Hall
of Fame. At the time, I viewed my promotion as pretty much a political appointment. No woman had held the job before. I’d stepped up, let them pin a gold shield on me, without ever knowing if the power and responsibility of the job were what I wanted.
I guess I still didn’t know.
I had asked to be put back on the line, so of course Tracchio didn’t understand my reaction. Shit. I didn’t understand it myself.
But sometimes you couldn’t know a thing until you were there.
A dotted-line reporting to Tracchio was bullshit.
I’d be going backward in rank.
Could I handle taking orders from Jacobi?
“I told him I wouldn’t take it unless it was okay with you,” he’d said.
I needed to talk to Joe.
I pulled the phone back from the passenger seat and hit redial, the sound of Joe’s voice on his outgoing message calling up so many memories: the storybook trips we’d taken together, our lovemaking, little things about Joe that I adored — every moment savored because I didn’t know when I’d see him again.
What I wouldn’t give to be in his arms tonight, to have him wrap me up in his love, and to feel his ability to see the real me. His touch could make the bad feelings go away. . . .
I clicked off my phone without leaving a message, called Joe’s other two numbers — same thing.
I pulled my car into a parking spot, set the hand brake, and sat there stupidly, looking at nothing, wishing that I could see Joe.
And then a bright idea broke through.
Hey, I can.
Chapter 26
I DIDN’T LOOK LIKE ANYONE ELSE in the flight lounge, all men in gray suits and red or blue ties — and me. I’d dressed in a new butter-colored cashmere V-neck, tight jeans, and a waist-skimming tweed jacket. My hair gleamed like a halo. Men stole glances, gave my ego a boost.
As I waited for the plane to board, I checked things off in my mind: That Martha’s dog sitter was on duty. That I’d locked up my gun and badge in my dresser drawer. That I’d left my cell phone in my car. Actually, leaving my cell phone was an oversight, but I didn’t need a shrink to tell me that by shedding my hardware, I was telling the Job to go straight to hell.
I was traveling light, but I had brought the essential stuff: lipstick and my round trip business-class ticket to Reagan National that Joe had given me with his keys and a note saying, “This is your ‘come-to-Joe’ pass and it’s good anytime. XOXO, Joe.”
I felt a little reckless as I boarded the plane. Not only was I leaving town with a major conflict unresolved but something else was giving me the jitters.
Joe had made surprise visits to me, but I’d never dropped in unannounced on him.
The glass of preflight champagne helped settle me down, and as soon as the plane lifted off, I lowered my seat into the reclining position and slept, waking up only when the pilot’s voice announced our imminent descent into DC.
Once on the ground, I gave a cab driver Joe’s address in northwest DC.
A half hour later, the cab swooped around the plantings and fountains in front of the deluxe, L-shaped Kennedy-Warren Apartment Complex. And only minutes after that, I stood in the densely carpeted top-floor hallway of the historic wing, ringing Joe’s doorbell.
Well, I’m here.
When he didn’t answer, I rang the bell again. Then I slipped the first key into the lower lock, used the second key on the dead bolt, and opened the door.
I called out, “Joe?” as I stepped into his unlit foyer. I called again as I approached the kitchen.
