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Authors: Dorothy St. James
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decade’ that’s getting under her skin. Francesca and Bruce are as honest as you can get in a political couple. There’s no way that Parker fellow could have anything of substance on either of them.”
“I don’t know about that. Even if it wasn’t ‘the scandal of the decade’ Parker knows how to make it sound as if it is that terrible.” That was what he did when he went after me this past spring.
“Oh, here we are.” Annie pointed across the yellow tape. She’d been right; we could see what was going on much better from this street.
Beyond the yellow tape, police officers worked as an efficient team around the base of the park’s centerpiece bronze statue. An older man sat slumped on a marble step at the statue’s base. He seemed oblivious to the activity buzzing all around him. His head was bowed as if he’d fallen asleep.
“Even
Media Today
can’t get away with printing out-and-out lies,” Annie reminded me. “Before going into politics Bruce used to work as a trial lawyer. He gave my late husband his first job at his law firm. At the first whiff of libel, Bruce will sue, and the newspaper editors know it.”
“I hope so. Even though Griffon Parker is a snake, his stories seem to sell papers,” I said, feeling my face heat. “He’s won plenty of awards for his investigative reports. I hate what he does and who he hurts. He’s a weasel. A weed. A sorry excuse for a human being. And—”
“
Dead
,” Annie finished for me.
Chapter Five
Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.
—JOHN ADAMS, THE 2ND PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES
“
D EAD? ” I squinted at the policemen working diligently within the taped-off area of the small park. “What do you mean Parker’s
dead
?”
Annie gestured toward the statue of some long-forgotten hero and the man slumped at its marble base. The man—not the statue—was dressed in the same tweed suit Griffon Parker liked to wear. His stark black hair was slicked back in a style that had long lost favor. His long narrow nose and leathery skin reminded me of Parker.
All of his features matched, and yet…
“That’s not him,” I said, shaking my head. “It can’t be. He’s like kudzu. No matter how hard you work at pulling it out, the darn thing just keeps popping back up somewhere else.”
“People aren’t plants, Casey. And there’s no sprouting from the roots for him.” Detective Hernandez from the D.C. Police approached from the other side of the yellow tape with his hands pushed deep into his pockets. “Your friend is correct. You’re looking at the infamous Griffon Parker.But don’t go blabbing anything I’ve said just now to the press, okay?”
A pair of stony-faced medical examiners lifted the body, carefully lowered it into a black body bag that had been arranged on a gurney, and zipped the bag closed.
Although I didn’t feel any fondness toward the crusty reporter, and I mean none at all, I found his death troubling.
“What are you doing here anyhow?” Hernandez asked. “Don’t tell me you listen to a police scanner in your free time and run to every reported location hoping to find a crime scene.”
“I would never do that! I didn’t want to see this.” I rattled the large tray of patriotic petunias to make sure he noticed them. Not that I doubted the detective had missed them. “We’re planting flowers. Or we were.”
“Bad luck, then,” he said and scratched his mustache thoughtfully.
“I can’t believe it,” I repeated needlessly.
The detective shrugged as if he didn’t care what I did or didn’t believe, which only drove home the fact that Griffon Parker had wilted to the point of no return. Never coming back.
“
Francesca
?” Why had she been so adamant about talking about the perfect murder plot yesterday?
“I beg your pardon?” Detective Hernandez leaned across the yellow
“I don’t know about that. Even if it wasn’t ‘the scandal of the decade’ Parker knows how to make it sound as if it is that terrible.” That was what he did when he went after me this past spring.
“Oh, here we are.” Annie pointed across the yellow tape. She’d been right; we could see what was going on much better from this street.
Beyond the yellow tape, police officers worked as an efficient team around the base of the park’s centerpiece bronze statue. An older man sat slumped on a marble step at the statue’s base. He seemed oblivious to the activity buzzing all around him. His head was bowed as if he’d fallen asleep.
“Even
Media Today
can’t get away with printing out-and-out lies,” Annie reminded me. “Before going into politics Bruce used to work as a trial lawyer. He gave my late husband his first job at his law firm. At the first whiff of libel, Bruce will sue, and the newspaper editors know it.”
“I hope so. Even though Griffon Parker is a snake, his stories seem to sell papers,” I said, feeling my face heat. “He’s won plenty of awards for his investigative reports. I hate what he does and who he hurts. He’s a weasel. A weed. A sorry excuse for a human being. And—”
“
Dead
,” Annie finished for me.
Chapter Five
Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.
—JOHN ADAMS, THE 2ND PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES
“
D EAD? ” I squinted at the policemen working diligently within the taped-off area of the small park. “What do you mean Parker’s
dead
?”
Annie gestured toward the statue of some long-forgotten hero and the man slumped at its marble base. The man—not the statue—was dressed in the same tweed suit Griffon Parker liked to wear. His stark black hair was slicked back in a style that had long lost favor. His long narrow nose and leathery skin reminded me of Parker.
All of his features matched, and yet…
“That’s not him,” I said, shaking my head. “It can’t be. He’s like kudzu. No matter how hard you work at pulling it out, the darn thing just keeps popping back up somewhere else.”
“People aren’t plants, Casey. And there’s no sprouting from the roots for him.” Detective Hernandez from the D.C. Police approached from the other side of the yellow tape with his hands pushed deep into his pockets. “Your friend is correct. You’re looking at the infamous Griffon Parker.But don’t go blabbing anything I’ve said just now to the press, okay?”
A pair of stony-faced medical examiners lifted the body, carefully lowered it into a black body bag that had been arranged on a gurney, and zipped the bag closed.
Although I didn’t feel any fondness toward the crusty reporter, and I mean none at all, I found his death troubling.
“What are you doing here anyhow?” Hernandez asked. “Don’t tell me you listen to a police scanner in your free time and run to every reported location hoping to find a crime scene.”
“I would never do that! I didn’t want to see this.” I rattled the large tray of patriotic petunias to make sure he noticed them. Not that I doubted the detective had missed them. “We’re planting flowers. Or we were.”
“Bad luck, then,” he said and scratched his mustache thoughtfully.
“I can’t believe it,” I repeated needlessly.
The detective shrugged as if he didn’t care what I did or didn’t believe, which only drove home the fact that Griffon Parker had wilted to the point of no return. Never coming back.
“
Francesca
?” Why had she been so adamant about talking about the perfect murder plot yesterday?
“I beg your pardon?” Detective Hernandez leaned across the yellow
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