“That’s where the poor lady fell off,” the doorman said.
Dana stepped out onto the huge terrace and walked over to the edge. A four-foot wall ran completely around the terrace. There was no possible way anyone could have accidentally fallen over it.
Dana looked down at the street below, bustling with Christmas traffic, and thought, Who could be ruthless enough to do a thing like that? She shuddered.
The doorman was at her side. “Are you all right?”
Dana took a deep breath. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”
“Did you want to see anything else?”
“No, I’ve seen enough.”
The lobby of the downtown police precinct was crowded with felons, drunks, prostitutes, and desperate tourists whose wallets had mysteriously disappeared.
“I’m here to see Detective Marcus Abrams,” Dana told the desk sergeant.
“Third door on the right.”
“Thank you.” Dana walked down the corridor.
Detective Abrams’s door was open.
“Detective Abrams?”
He was at the filing cabinet, a big man with a paunch and tired brown eyes. He looked over at Dana. “Yes?” He recognized her. “Dana Evans. What can I do for you?”
“I’m told that you’re handling the Joan Sinisi”—again that word—“accident.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you tell me anything about it?”
He walked over to his desk carrying a handful of papers and sat down. “There’s not much to tell. It was either an accident or suicide. Sit down.”
Dana took a chair. “Was anyone with her when it happened?”
“Just the maid. She was in the kitchen at the time. She said no one else was there.”
“Do you have any idea where I can reach the maid?” Dana asked.
He thought it over. “She’s going to be on the news tonight, eh?”
Dana smiled at him. “Right.”
Detective Abrams walked back to the filing cabinet and searched through some papers. He took out a card. “Here we are. Greta Miller. Eleven-eighty Connecticut Avenue. That do it?”
Twenty minutes later Dana was driving on Connecticut Avenue, looking at the house numbers: 1170…1172…1174…1176…1178…
Number 1180 was a parking lot.
“You really believe the Sinisi woman was thrown from the terrace?” Jeff asked.
“Jeff, you don’t call to make an urgent appointment and then commit suicide. Someone didn’t want her to tell me something. It’s frustrating. It’s like the Hound of the Baskervilles. No one heard the dog bark. No one knows anything.”
Jeff said, “This is getting scary. I’m not sure you should go on with it.”
“I can’t stop now. I have to find out.”
“If you’re right, Dana, six people have been murdered.”
Dana swallowed. “I know.”
“…and the maid gave the police a phony address and disappeared,” Dana was saying to Matt Baker. “When I talked to Joan Sinisi, she seemed nervous, but she certainly didn’t strike me as being suicidal. Someone helped her off that balcony.”
“But we have no proof.”
“No. But I know I’m right. When I first met with her, Joan Sinisi was fine until the second I mentioned Taylor Winthrop’s name. That’s when she panicked. This is the first time I’ve seen a crack in the wonderful legend that Taylor Winthrop has built up. A man like Winthrop didn’t pay off a secretary unless she had something really big on him. It had to be blackmail. There’s something weird going on. Matt, do you know anyone who worked with Taylor Winthrop who might have had a problem with him, someone who’s not afraid to speak up?”
Matt Baker was thoughtful for a moment. “You might go see Roger Hudson. He was the majority leader in the Senate before he retired, and he worked with Taylor Winthrop on a committee or two. He might know something. He’s a man who’s not afraid of anybody.”
“Could you arrange a meeting for me?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
An hour later, Matt Baker was on the line. “You have an appointment to see Roger Hudson Thursday at noon at his home in Georgetown.”
“Thanks, Matt. I appreciate it.”
“I have to warn you, Dana…”
“Yes?”
“Hudson can be pretty prickly.”
“I’ll try not to get too close.”
Matt Baker was about to leave his office when Elliot Cromwell came in.
“I want to talk to you about Dana.”