I was sitting at the bottom of the grand staircase in front of Sabel Gardens, whittling a stick for Anoshni to fetch on a beautiful, sunny day. Mercury sprawled out next to me, worshipping Sol Invictus (the sun god, faithless ones). Anoshni trotted back to me with the last stick I threw. He didn’t quite get the concept of fetching. Which was why I was trimming the leaves and sharp edges off the new stick in my hand. He dropped to the ground just beyond my reach and proceeded to shred the old stick into toothpicks.
A limo pulled up. The driver got out, opened the rear door and stood by. A few seconds later, Sylvia emerged from the mansion. Sex over the last thirty-six hours had been frequent and heavenly. Unfortunately, the discussions about alternatives to violence between those sessions moved from bad to worse. Our last spoken words were not the words either of us wanted. Seeing her tore my heart in half. But we couldn’t stay away from each other.
She stopped at the top of the stairs. The limo driver ran up and took her bag. She met me halfway down.
I opened my arms for a hug.
She hesitated, then closed her eyes and embraced me, squeezing tight. She said, “Thank you for saving my life.”
There wasn’t any reply to that. I kissed her cheek and ear. I wanted her to stay. I wanted her to quit her minor role in the French soap opera and move to Bethesda. But a warrior and a pacifist have issues to work out before they make lifetime commitments. I said, “When will you be back?”
“It’s your turn to visit me.” She pulled back to shine her pale-blues at me. “Maybe we could spend a weekend on Santorini.”
Mercury squeezed into our cramped space. You don’t go anywhere near Greece. You hear me, dawg? She’ll take you straight to Aeaea and that’ll be the last anyone hears of you.
I said, Take me where?
Mercury said, Aeaea, Circe’s island. Remember? Ulysses told Penelope the reason he couldn’t get back to Ithaca for twenty years was because Circe drugged him and forced him to have sex with her.
I said, What’s so bad about drugs and sex?
Mercury smacked me and said, Dude. Do not go to Greece with Sylvia—or we’re done.
“I’d love to watch you work.” I kissed her lips. “Could I visit the set?”
“After I refused to give the producer a…” She huffed. “I’m pretty sure my character’s going to get hit by a car.”
“I don’t care if it’s dinner theater, I’d love to see you act.”
The limo driver coughed politely. Sylvia reached in her purse and pulled out a book and handed it to me. The Book of Forgiving by Desmond Tutu, the wisdom of a man who healed his nation after generations of apartheid. “Read this before we meet again. Please.”
I stepped away and grabbed my gift for her off the step. The Forever War by Dexter Filkins, a decade-old book about civilian and military service and sacrifice in Afghanistan and Iraq. “If you read this.”
She gave me a long kiss, then broke it off and ran to the limo. She stopped before getting in. With tears in her eyes, she blew me a kiss. Then she got in, and the limo pulled away.
My sister once told me that all a woman wants is a man she can change from whoever he is into whoever she wants him to be. When I asked why women didn’t look for men who didn’t need to be changed, she said, “They all need to change.” And walked away.
Would I change for Sylvia? Would I read the book? Would I make the trip to Monaco and Santorini? All that depended on how much I wanted a certain god hanging around.
Weighed in philosophical terms, the Mercury-experience has been interesting. Sure, he saved my life a bunch of times. Not to mention the lives of people around me. Then there’s the Temple Ms. Sabel was planning to build in her backyard. She liked him even though she couldn’t see or hear him. If he didn’t exist—and I am a total whack-job like Dad says—my life was significantly better when I had faith in Mercury.
Minus the Sylvia part.
The decision came down to what’s more important: a personal relationship with god, or babe-a-licious Sylvia?
Don’t answer that until you hear me out, brutha. Mercury held up his hands. The right answer will get you a free pass on your next murder rap—which is due in about three minutes. The wrong answer will bring down a pox that’ll make you so ugly your own mother will say, ‘pull the plug!’.
I said, Let me think on that for four minutes.
Mercury said, You suck.
Behind me, the mansion’s massive walnut doors slammed so hard I looked over my shoulder. Two men in suits looked pissed off but decided there was nothing they could say to a six-inch-thick hardwood door that would get them back inside.
Resigned to their humiliation, they dropped down the steps. I recognized them: DC detective Eddie Harris and Montgomery County Detective Czajkowski. They had once stopped by my crib after some anonymous person had invaded the Russian Embassy.
They recognized me.
“Ms. Sabel’s attorneys are downright nasty people.” Harris took a seat three feet away on the same marble tread.
CJ trotted down a couple steps and gave me his best evil eye. I would’ve quaked in my boots, but I’m not that good an actor.
Harris opened his mouth to speak, but CJ jumped him. “Harris is investigating a suicide.”
Harris gave his local counterpart a long, cold stare.
“Just saying.” CJ turned away.
“Suicide?” I looked at Harris. “What’s the matter, can’t figure out who done it?”
“I’d like to ask your professional opinion on a case.” Harris opened his laptop. “You enlightened us once before.”
I stopped trimming the stick and inspected the blade of my Fairbairn-Sykes dagger. “I’d love to help.”
“You see, a top aide to President Roche committed suicide in DC last night. Had a long career with the FBI before joining Sabel Security. Man name of David Watson.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say.” He regarded me, tilting his head to one side.
I went back to whittling my stick.
“You don’t look bothered by it none,” Harris said.
“Just so you’re aware—” I tipped the knife at him to make a point “—that man tried to discredit me several times when he was with the FBI and tried to kill me after he joined Sabel. It doesn’t bother me in the least if he finally succumbed to his shame. Besides, working for Roche would make anyone suicidal.”
“Interesting.” Harris’s eyes narrowed. He drew a long, deep breath. “Consider your attitude duly noted. Just so you’re aware: President-Elect Roche has demanded that the FBI investigate his death as a murder.”
I twisted to look at him. “The FBI doesn’t investigate murder.”
“I didn’t say Roche has a handle on the rule of law or even a passing understanding of basic civics, for that matter. I’m just explaining why the FBI handed this case to me.”
“OK.” I returned to my stick. “What do you want from me?”
“We have some surveillance video.” He pointed to his laptop. “Watson had one of those kits from Costco with cameras all around his house. Seems there was an intruder at his place right around the time of death.”
“Coffee?” I asked.
“I’d love me some.” Harris grinned.
CJ shook his head. I texted Chef for some curbside service.
Harris started his video. Nighttime, suburban house. A large shadow crossed the driveway and slap-hammered the kitchen door. The stealthy figure opened it. Harris stopped it on the frame where the shadow was silhouetted against the light inside. The black-clad operative filled the doorframe. “Does this person look familiar to you?”
“Ninjas all look alike.”
“Looks pretty tall, ’round six feet, wouldn’t you say?”
“If you’re implying that figure is me, I was on duty here at Sabel Gardens until ten this morning. Plenty of witnesses can verify me doing rounds.”
Harris looked up at CJ. The man took a note to check my alibi. He looked back at me. “Roche says this here is Pia Sabel.”
“Was he on drugs?” I asked. “Doesn’t she get an ounce of credit for bringing in that sniper the other day?”
“Why not? She’s a husky girl. Her profile from the National Team says she’s six foot something. This person is definitely over six feet. How much does she weigh?”
“You think I’m dumb enough to guess a woman’s weight?” I gave him the stink-eye. “Do you have any idea how much misinformation about that touchy subject is floating around western society, turning every girl in the country nearly apoplectic every time she steps on the scales?”
“Moving on.” Harris rolled his hand. “Can you tell me if there is anything in this video that can prove it’s not her?”
Mercury whispered and I spoke his words out loud. “Whatever happened to ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat?”
Harris and CJ shared a glance with their noses crinkled up. “Say what?”
“The burden of proof is on the one who declares, not on the one who denies, according to Justinian the Great, the last Roman and founder of the legal concept, innocent until proven guilty.”
“Just answer the question.”
I looked at the video still-frame. “Those are some shoulders. Ms. Sabel works out, but this person looks downright beastly.”
CJ leaned over as Harris spun the laptop back for a look.
“And the last time I checked, women have hips. That person—”
“Yeah. I get it.” Harris waved me off. “So, if you were going to disguise a woman, how would you do it?”
CJ leaned forward. “And let’s skip the part about stuffing the balaclava with tissues to throw off facial-mapping software. We heard about that from an expert.”
I flung my newly trimmed stick across the palace-sized turning circle in front of us and watched it sail into the manicured grass beyond. Anoshni watched it fall, then looked at me as if I were the most irresponsible stick-handler on the planet. He took off in a dead run to nab it.
“A woman might use shoulder pads.” I concentrated and nodded as I thought. “Taped up to look smooth, they’d push a jury from ‘reasonable doubt’ over to the ‘no-way-that’s-a-woman’ category. Later, she could disassemble the pads and toss the pieces into public trash cans from here to San Diego.”
CJ and Harris shared another sour glance.
A maid came out of the main house bearing a silver tray with cups and saucers and pitchers and sugars fit for a royal visit. She began her careful descent.
“One thing I don’t get, though.” I paused to watch Anoshni bring back the stick. Instead of responding to my entreaties, he returned to his spot three steps down from me and commenced chewing. I sighed. “Motive. Why does the Liar-in-Chief think she’d want to hurt a former employee?”
Harris squinted at me for a long time. “Word is, Watson killed her dad. The first one.”
The maid arrived and offered the coffee. Harris stood and bowed to her. He poured a cup and stirred in cream and sugar. She turned to CJ and offered the tray’s lone glass of chocolate milk. Chef keeps a profile on every visitor’s comfort-foods. CJ did a double-take and grinned like a kid. He grabbed the glass and chugged half.
I said, “Cock Roche is willing to testify to that?”
In unison, Harris, and CJ said, “No.”
“No motive, no evidence—good luck with that case.”
“We could offer you immunity for testimony.” Harris sipped from his cup and hummed its goodness. He slipped a glance at the maid, who stood bearing the tray like a statue. “You believe in justice, don’t you Stearne?”
“According to what you’ve just told me, justice was served when Watson put a bullet in his brain.” I looked at them. “Tell me he took the manly way out and ate his pistol. Cause if he took pills—that’s just so wussy.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Where was she?”
“See for yourself.” I pointed to one of several video cameras on the property.
“Where can I view those?”
Mercury waved his hands. Whoa, dude. Never show the cops a video you haven’t personally edited. Jupiter only knows what might be on there.
“Get yourself a warrant, come back, I’ll give you a personal screening.”
Harris put his coffee cup on the tray and gave a polite bow to the maid. He looked at me and shook his head, then turned and took a step toward his car.
CJ pointed a finger at me. “You can’t cover for her forever.” Harris grabbed his associate by the arm and tried to turn him around. CJ kept talking, walking backward. “We’re going to find where you tripped up, Stearne. We’re going to find your Achilles heel, and we’re going to tear you apart. You hear me?”
“Give it your best shot, boys.” I smiled up into the sunshine. “I have god on my side.”