Discretion by Allison Leotta Read Free Book Online Page A

police database. “May I come in?”
    She stared at the hole where his two front teeth used to be. In D.C., the gummy gap added street cred. Here, it made him more of an anomaly. She hesitated, then led him into the living room, a soft plateau of beige wall-to-wall carpeting. A family picture hung on the wall above them: a younger version of the woman, with a husband at her side, each holding a towheaded child. Caroline McBride, perhaps fifteen years ago, and her younger brother. McGee wondered what had happened to the father. He took off his fedora and suggested the woman and the boy sit down. They did, in tandem, on a blue couch.
    He remained standing and took a deep breath. He was about to create a moment that would forever mark their lives into two clearsections. Before and after. There was only one way to do it: as directly as possible, without dragging out the information, and leaving no room for uncertainty.
    “I’m afraid I have some bad news, ma’am. Your daughter, Caroline McBride, was killed tonight.”
    The woman moaned and collapsed into her son’s shoulder. The boy put his arm around his mother and stared at the carpeting as she sobbed.
    McGee had seen every different way people could respond to this, the worst of all possible news. It ranged from hysterics to absolute calm. He’d seen family members roll on the floor, scream, or punch holes through walls. He’d seen parents shake their heads and say, “I knew this day was coming.” In those cases, the victim had been lost to the streets for a long time. This wasn’t one of those families.
    The mother keened, “My baby, my baby, my baby.”
    It was the sound of a breaking heart.
    McGee waited while the woman cried. He waited a long time, hating the next thing he’d have to tell her: that she’d have to come to the District tomorrow to identify her daughter’s remains.

7
    A nna directed the cab to the yellow Victorian on a quiet street in Takoma Park, an oak-lined neighborhood in Maryland just over the D.C. line. She didn’t usually indulge in taxi rides, but the Metro didn’t run at two-thirty A.M . on weeknights. Stepping from the cab felt like entering a rain forest, the air was so muggy and filled with the chirping of insects. A few lightning bugs floated up from the ground and glowed as she tiptoed through the garden of roses and wild peppermint. She walked up the steps onto the wide front porch.
    The house was dark except for a light in the living room window. Anna put her key in the door quietly, trying not to wake anyone. In the foyer, she slipped off her shoes and set her bag next to a Princess and the Frog backpack.
    She followed the light into the living room. Jack sat on the couch in his navy DOJ T-shirt and jeans. At first, she thought he was reading by the light of the Tiffany dragonfly lamp. His head was tipped down toward some documents on his lap, and his reading glasses were perched on his nose. The lamp’s stained glass threw patches of colorful light onto his brown hands. When Anna got closer, she noticed his eyes fluttering in REM sleep under his eyelids. Poor guy.
    She sank down next to him. Despite her protests, he always waited up for her. His daughter, Olivia, woke up every morning around six, and he would be exhausted. But once he made up his mind to do something, Anna could rarely persuade him otherwise.
    She glanced at the papers on his lap: Westlaw printouts of cases dealing with the Speech or Debate Clause. There was something touching about the fact that he’d been trying to catch up on the subject. She’d spent the last three hours researching and writing the government’s memorandum to accompany her search-warrant application. Anna expected that the rest of the case would be handled bya more senior prosecutor, someone in the Homicide section. There was no chance the Sex Crimes section would wrestle the case away, with a dead victim and Jack’s presence at the murder scene. Arguing the issue tomorrow would be