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“Edita was sleeping with you both?” Sampson asked, eyebrows raised.
“She was going to break up with McGrath after I gave her the laptop,” he said, looking crestfallen. “She was finally going to be mine.”
Before she’d left Boynton’s apartment that night, Edita had told him she was taking McGrath to an early-morning yoga class and then to breakfast at her place. Boynton would have plenty of time to use the key and get the laptop. I thought about it, remembered Boynton running with the backpack from McGrath’s place. It all fit in a strange way.
Boynton said he had the laptop at his apartment. We got him to his feet, handcuffed him, and told him we’d swing by his place on the way to the hospital.
“Am I under arrest? They’ll throw me out of school.”
“You’re in custody for now,” I said.
In the car on the way to his apartment, I turned around in the front seat and looked at him.
“In one of your e-mails during your manic phase, you wrote something like ‘I know what you do, Edita, and I’ll tell everyone.’ What was that all about?”
Fear flickered across Boynton’s swollen face. “I was just bluffing, you know? Everyone has a secret, so I figured—”
“You’re lying to me, Mr. Boynton,” I said with a sigh. “Every time you lie, you get closer to an arrest and the end o
f law school. So what do you know?”
“I…I followed her a few times.”
“You stalked her?” Sampson said.
“Just followed her. I wanted to see what she did when she wasn’t at school. That’s all.”
“Get to it,” Sampson said. “Where did she go?”
“This place in Vienna, Virginia, called the Phoenix Club.”
Edita went there three or four days a week, he told us. She’d often stay until after midnight. Boynton tried to get inside once but was told it was a private club. He said he stopped following her once he realized someone else was following her.
“Who?” Sampson said.
“Another cop,” Boynton said. “At least, he talked like a cop.”
“He caught you following Edita?”
“Twice. The second time he told me he had her under surveillance and I had to stop or he’d have me arrested for obstructing justice.”
“Name?”
“He never said.”
“Never showed you a badge?”
Boynton shook his head. “But like I said, he acted like a cop.”
“What did he look like?” I said.
“Tall, big, but he didn’t look too good, like he was sick or something. He coughed a lot. And he wore a red Redskins cap.”
Chapter
27
Bree managed to get away from all her paperwork, and three hours later, Kurt Muller, Bree, and I pulled up in front of Terry Howard’s depressing apartment building in Northeast DC.
