I ran my memories of Joe in fast forward, picturing him when I’d first met him. How he looked. How impressed I was with the way he worked our case. How smart and funny and solid he was. I tried to skip over the first time we made love, but the pictures took up a whole room in my mind.
My apartment. Our second date. Even now, as scared and as angry as I was, I could still feel the chemistry.
After that, Joe flew across the country to see me, time upon time. And then he left DC and his job and moved to San Francisco so that we could get off the roller coaster of bicoastal relating. That was meaningful. Job vs. Lindsay. He chose me. And I couldn’t have loved my big handsome lover more.
When my apartment on Potrero Hill burned to the ground, Joe said, “Move in with me.”
I did it.
I thought about the fights we’d had, and how he’d walk us back down. I liked that he was older than me, and I saw a good husband and father in his values and his manner and his actions.
When he proposed marriage, I had no hesitation, and since then, no regrets.
Until now.
Now it seemed that he had lied to me. Not “No, you don’t look fat.” This was enormous, a huge honking omission the size of a city. He’d not only left out a telling chunk of his life story, but he’d also skipped right over a relationship with a woman who’d been very important to him, a woman who might be a killer.
I couldn’t fool myself any longer.
Joe’s disappearance alone was a betrayal. And if he had been “involved” with Alison Muller once, he could damned well be involved with her now. It could not be a coincidence that Joe and Alison Muller had been in the same place and had disappeared at the same time.
A closetful of lacy lingerie flashed into my mind.
I couldn’t stand my thoughts.
I could not bear to be alone in this hotel with no moves at all. It was too late to call Claire or my sister. And I could not call June.
I thought of the last time Joe and I had made love. How warm and silly and wonderful that romp had been. I’d held him and kissed him and loved him up and then we’d had breakfast with our baby girl in a shaft of morning sunshine.
And now?
Was he in bed with another woman?
Or was he lying dead somewhere with a bullet through the back of his skull? Had Alison Muller killed him?
Had that bitch killed my husband?
CHAPTER 54
I DRESSED FOR my appointment to meet John Carroll at seven-thirty that morning. I put on yesterday’s trousers, a clean blouse, and my best blazer.
The National Mall, a long tree-lined park with iconic views of the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol, was only three blocks from the hotel. I crossed Constitution and walked along the center path, and I have to say, the grandeur of the place was just wasted on me.
All I wanted to do was meet Mr. Carroll and listen to him say my fears were ridiculous. That he knew for a fact that Joe was working on a job that was vital to national security. And that Joe was safe and had nothing to do with Alison Muller.
I saw a man sitting by himself on a bench, staring across a wide grass median to the Reflecting Pool. He was white, rangy, about fifty years old, with thinning brown hair. He wore blue pants, a black Windbreaker, and running shoes. As I got closer, I saw that he was gripping an aluminum cane in his right hand.
I said, “Mr. Carroll?”
He looked up and nodded, and I told him my name.
He indicated that I should sit down, which I did. And he said, “June said you wanted to know about Ali Muller, but she didn’t say why.”
“I’m with the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide. We think Alison may have witnessed a violent crime.”
“Oh. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time. So you’re looking for her as a material witness?”
“Exactly. Can you help me?”