Devil in Dress Blues

2

SARA WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING with gritty eyes and a nagging headache. She’d spent a restless night, the events of the evening replaying themselves over and over again in her head. And when she did finally fall into a restless sleep, sometime around 3:00 a.m., her dreams had been filled with disturbing pImages** of a darkly handsome man, his body moving over hers with strong, sure movements. She’d wanted to protest, to push him away, but there had been no denying the promise in his eyes or the way he’d made her body respond. She’d woken up hot and achy and unfulfilled.

In the kitchen, she flipped on the small television over her counter and mechanically went through the movements of making coffee. She was reaching for a coffee mug when she went still and then closed the cupboard, her attention riveted on the television. A Washington reporter, elegant in a tailored suit and chic hairstyle, stood in front of the emergency entrance of a local hospital.

“Senior White House advisor, Edwin Zachary, was brought here just past midnight last night with minor injuries, after falling asleep and crashing his car on Post Road. He was treated and released early this morning. There were no other occupants in the car at the time of the accident.”

Sara gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. “Fell asleep, my ass,” she muttered, and went into the hallway to retrieve the little evening bag she’d carried last night. She couldn’t wait to call Lauren and tell her about the incident. If anyone would understand the ramifications of what she had witnessed, Lauren would. Sara might not approve of everything Lauren did to get a story, but the woman took her job as an editor very seriously. She would know the best way for Sara to proceed.

Inside the evening bag she found her wallet, a lipstick, and Rafe Delgado’s business card, but no cell phone. It was only then that she recalled dropping it as she’d slammed on the brakes following the accident. Grabbing her keys, she slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops, opened the door to her fourth-floor apartment and made her way swiftly down the staircase.

Her car was parked just a few doors down from her building, and she unlocked it, crouching to check the floor on the passenger side. The carpeting was black, making it difficult to see anything. Ducking her head to peer beneath the seat, Sara caught sight of her cell phone, wedged between the seat and the center console. Stretching her arm, she was straining to reach the phone when her fingers closed around what felt like a small book. Pulling it free, she saw it was a pocket-sized day planner. She retrieved the cell phone and locked her car, and then carried both items back to her apartment. Dropping the planner onto the kitchen table, she quickly dialed her editor.

“Hi Lauren, it’s Sara Sinclair.”

“Sara!” The other woman’s voice sounded groggy and surprised. “You do realize it’s barely eight o’clock on Sunday morning, don’t you?”

“I know. I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Sara apologized. “But I was watching the news and there’s a breaking story I thought you should know about.”

“Go on.” Lauren’s voice sounded slightly less sleepy.

“Edwin Zachary, the White House advisor—”

“I know who he is,” Lauren interrupted. “What about him?”

“He was in a car accident last night. A car accident that I witnessed and stopped to help.”

“What happened? Is he okay?”

Sara tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and reached again for a coffee mug. “He was taken to hospital for some minor injuries, but he’s going to be fine.”

There was a brief silence. “I assume there’s a reason you’ve called to tell me this?”

“The news reports say that he was driving alone and that he fell asleep at the wheel.”

“O-kaay…”

Sara could hear the barely veiled impatience in her editor’s voice. “Well, that’s not what happened. He wasn’t alone and he most definitely did not fall asleep at the wheel. He was with a young woman who was definitely not his wife. After I stopped to help, Mr. Zachary asked me to give her a ride home and not to say anything about it. He even tried to give me money to keep quiet.”

“Really.” Lauren sounded wide-awake now.

“And the reason he crashed his car wasn’t because he fell asleep at the wheel, as the news reports claim,” Sara continued. “The reason he crashed his car is because the woman was giving him a blow job.”

There was a pause, and Sara could almost see Lauren rolling her eyes. “He wouldn’t be the first Washington powerhouse to be caught with his pants down. So what are you saying? That you want to expose him?”

Sara frowned. “Lauren, this is big news, especially considering that Edwin Zachary is one of Washington’s biggest proponents of family values. He was the first one to publicly denounce Senator Baldwin for having an extramarital affair. Zachary has a serious shot at the presidential candidacy, and yet he’s running around doing this? It’s incredibly hypocritical. I think this story is worth pursuing.”

Lauren sighed. “I agree. Do you know who the woman was? Can we get her to corroborate your story?”

“I know her name is Colette, and I know where she lives.”

“Okay. Get her side of the story and then we’ll talk. Without that, all we have is your word against his.”

Sara nodded. “I’ll get it.”

“And Sara? This has the makings of a good story, but it’s not a done deal. Your interview with Sergeant Delgado? That’s a clincher, and that’s your priority right now. I don’t want you spending a lot of time on the Zachary story. Are we clear?”

Sara barely resisted the urge to hold the phone away from her ear and stare at it in bemusement. She sensed a real reluctance on Lauren’s part to pursue the lead, but she didn’t understand why. American Man magazine wrote about strong men, but they didn’t limit those stories to feel-good features. The publication prided itself on showing the good, the bad and the ugly side of power. And Lauren was known to be ruthless when it came to uncovering political scandals. At least, she usually was. Why should this be any different? Sara didn’t get it. “I’ll call Sergeant Delgado today,” she promised.

Which was the last thing she wanted to do, she thought as she hung up the phone. Sara poured herself a cup of coffee and retrieved his card from her evening bag, sitting down at her kitchen table to contemplate it moodily. The dreams she’d had of him were still too fresh in her mind. If she closed her eyes, she could actually feel his lips on hers, warm and hard and demanding. She shivered and opened her eyes.

As business cards went, his was simple and straightforward: heavy white vellum with the Marine Corps logo in one corner and his name, rank and telephone number in bold lettering across the front. Drawing in a fortifying breath, Sara picked up her cell phone and dialed the number. It wasn’t yet eight-thirty, and Sara had the perverse hope that she might wake him up.

He picked up on the second ring. “Delgado.”

His voice was crisp and alert without the slightest hint of grogginess. The guy had probably been awake for hours. Unbidden, pImages** of him climbing naked out of a rumpled bed swamped Sara’s imagination. She could picture it clearly—smooth, tawny skin over sleek muscles, stubble shadowing his strong jaw and throat as he absently rubbed a hand over his corrugated abdomen—

“Hello?” Impatience sharpened his voice, jerking Sara out of her reverie.

“Yes, hi, Sergeant Delgado. This is, um, Sara Sinclair. We met last night at the charity ball?” She winced, wishing she’d used a more authoritative tone, wishing she had waited until later in the day to contact him. He no doubt thought she was desperate, calling him so early on a Sunday morning.

“The journalist.” His voice deepened. “I remember.”

“I wanted to set up a date—er, an interview—with you for the magazine, and I was wondering when a convenient time might be.”

“That all depends,” he drawled. “How long do you need?”

The question was perfectly legitimate, yet Sara’s rampant imagination imbued it with all kinds of double meaning, no doubt fueled by the dreams she’d had of him. She felt her face grow warm and was grateful that he couldn’t see her.

“I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me,” she finally managed, and nearly groaned at her choice of words. “I mean, however long it takes to get the story. But even if you only have an hour, then that’ll be fine, too.”

There was a brief silence, as if he were considering. “How does Tuesday work for you?”

Sara hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d been holding her breath and now she let it out in a rush of relief. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

Reluctant to meet Rafe in the intimate setting of a restaurant, she gave him the name of a popular café located at the edge of the sculpture garden on the grounds of the National Mall. The place had a lovely outside seating area, guaranteed to be pleasantly crowded. They agreed to meet there at three o’clock for coffee. Sara hung up and sat back in her chair, considering the prospect of seeing Rafe Delgado again. How would he react when she switched from discussing the Semper Fi Fund to the hostage rescue? She shivered, wishing that the story wasn’t so important to Lauren. Wishing that Lauren hadn’t asked her to conduct the interview.

Her gaze fell on the little black planner that she had found in the car. Frowning, she picked it up and thumbed through it, not recognizing the handwriting scrawled on the pages. The only explanation was that the book had fallen out of Colette’s handbag the previous night. The other woman’s apartment complex wasn’t all that far away. Placing it back on the table, Sara decided she would drop it off later that morning. While she’d been looking forward to a relaxing Sunday of doing nothing, she realized she could use the excuse of returning the book as a perfect way to obtain more information about Colette’s involvement with Edwin Zachary. No matter what Lauren said, Sara was certain there was a story there.

SARA STOOD ON THE STEPS of the building where she had dropped Colette off the night before and quickly scanned the list of residents posted near the entry, but didn’t see the name Colette or even any beginning with the letter C. She was unsure what to do next, when an older woman came up the steps.

“Can I help you, dear?” she asked.

Sara turned to her in relief. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for a—an acquaintance. She left a personal item in my car and I’d like to return it to her, but I’m afraid I only know her first name.”

The older woman smiled. “That’s no problem. I know everyone in this building and most of the other buildings, as well.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “When you’ve lived here as long as I have, well…let’s just say I make a point of getting to know everyone. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Colette.”

“Hmm. Colette.” The woman considered for a moment and then finally shook her head. “I don’t know anyone here who goes by that name. Are you sure you have the right address?”

Sara nodded. “Yes. I dropped her at this door just last night. She’s about twenty-five years old, my height, with long dark hair. Very attractive.”

The woman gave her an odd look. “You do know that this is an over-fifty community?”

Taken aback, Sara was momentarily at a loss for words. “No. I had no idea.”

“Trust me when I say there are no women in this complex who match that description. The youngest woman here is still twice the age of your friend.”

Sara frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, I dropped her off right at this door.”

“Did you see her actually enter this building?”

Thinking back, Sara realized she hadn’t. She’d been so anxious to get Colette out of her car and get home that she hadn’t waited around for the other woman to actually enter the building.

“No, I guess I didn’t.”

“Well, there you go.”

Sara blew out a breath. “I guess so.” She forced a bright smile for the other woman. “Well, thank you for your help.”

Sara walked back to her car as the older woman disappeared inside the building. With a sigh, she tossed the planner onto the passenger seat and began rummaging through her pocketbook for her keys. She was just getting ready to start the ignition when the planner caught her eye. It had fallen open to the previous day. At the top of the page, in neat handwriting, were the initials E.Z.

Edwin Zachary.

Intrigued, Sara picked the planner up and studied the entry. “What in the world…?”

E.Z.—Prefers relinquishing control. Likes B.J.s, red lipstick, sexy dresses, no panties. Fantasy is sex in public places.

Sara turned the pages until she reached the next weekend, and read the entry for Friday night.

W.W.—Dominant alpha. Likes bondage and rough play. Bring blindfold and silk stockings.

She raised her eyebrows and moved to the next entry.

P.D.—$$$$. Only Four Seasons Hotel. Champagne and caviar. Red-carpet gown with open-toed stilettos. Craves attention/pampering/full-body massages. Foot fetish. Likes doggy-style.

And so it went, entry after entry, weekend after weekend for several consecutive months. Sara returned to the date of the car accident and read the entry once more. Thinking back on what she had witnessed in the car in the moments before the crash, she realized the notation regarding E.Z’s preferences was accurate in every detail, right down to Colette’s red lipstick. Stunned by the implications of what the little book contained, Sara sat back against the seat and stared blindly through the windshield. No wonder Colette—if that was even her real name—hadn’t wanted Sara to know her true address. The law tended to frown upon women who provided sexual services for money, especially when those services were rendered to one of the most powerful men in Washington.

Opening the book again, Sara studied the initials of Colette’s other appointments and wondered how many of them were also political powerhouses. The journalist in her shifted restlessly, wanting answers. Wanting to know everything. Did Colette work alone, or was she part of a bigger operation? Had she realized that her planner was missing, and if she did, how badly did she want it back? She must be a little frantic at the thought of it gone. Even now, the reporter in Sara considered the possibilities of pursuing the information, of exposing not only Edwin Zachary, but the other clients in the little book as well.

Breaking this story would certainly guarantee that her name would become nationally known, but suddenly the prospect of being that journalist had her heart beating faster. While she’d dreamed of one day uncovering a story of this magnitude, she’d never actually considered the human element behind the headlines. Sex scandals weren’t uncommon in Washington, but something like this could destroy a lot of people. Could she accept that kind of responsibility? Did she really want her name connected with that kind of notoriety?

On the other hand, a story like this one could be her ticket to her own byline on any number of major publications. This was the kind of lead that could make her career.

With a small groan of frustration, Sara was about to close the book when she glimpsed handwriting on the inside of the back cover. Peering closer, she realized it was a telephone number, although she didn’t recognize the area code. She doubted that Colette would leave her own telephone number in the book, but what if by some chance the number did belong to her? Retrieving her cell phone, she quickly dialed the number. A woman answered on the third ring.

“This is Juliet.” Her voice was low and cultured.

“Hello,” Sara responded, her heart beating fast. “I’m looking for Colette.”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“My name is Sara Sinclair. I met Colette last night.”

“Really?” The voice sounded amused. “And what makes you think that I know your friend, or her whereabouts?”

“Well,” Sara explained, “your number is written in the back of this little black book that she left in my car. I don’t know Colette, but I gave her a ride home last night, after she and Edwin Zachary were involved in a car crash. You recognize that name, I’m sure. I can’t help but think that Colette might want this particular book back, since it lists her appointments for the next several months. In great detail, I might add. You wouldn’t believe what she wrote about Mr. Zachary. Shocking, really.”

There was another brief silence and this time, when Juliet responded, her voice was chilling. “I want you to listen carefully, Miss Sinclair. I recommend you burn that book and forget you ever met anyone named Colette. Now be a good girl and hang up the phone right now, and don’t call this number again. I’m telling you this for your own good. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Her words caused goose bumps to rise up on Sara’s arms, and there was a part of her that was more than tempted to do as the woman directed. She was in over her head.

“Who are you?” she finally asked. “And what are you involved in?”

There were several seconds of silence, when Sara thought the other woman might actually hang up on her. “Who I am isn’t important,” she finally said. “What is important is that you destroy that book and forget whatever you saw written inside.”

Sara’s glance flicked to the book. She recalled the incident with Edwin Zachary. There was no way she could ever forget what had happened, or how he had tried to bribe her into silence. She might not be an investigative reporter, but every instinct told her she needed to pursue this. Lauren would never forgive her if this story ended up on the evening news courtesy of another reporter. As distasteful as she might personally find the situation, and as much as she might want to take Juliet’s advice and hang up the phone, the journalist in her couldn’t do it.

“The thing I find most interesting,” she mused, as if the other woman hadn’t spoken, “is that Colette used initials to identify each of her…appointments. I’m pretty sure that I could figure out whose initials they are. By the way, did I mention that I’m a feature writer for American Man magazine?”

There was another silence, longer this time. “I can meet you Tuesday afternoon,” Juliet finally responded.

Sara quickly checked her calendar and realized that she’d already agreed to meet with Rafe Delgado on Tuesday afternoon at three o’clock.

“I’m free for lunch on Tuesday, if that works for you,” she countered. “How about one o’clock at the Pavilion Cafe? It’s located at the west entrance of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden.”

“I know where it is. Unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule and won’t have time for lunch. I can meet you at two o’clock, but I can’t stay long.”

Sara breathed a sigh of relief. At least her meeting with Juliet wouldn’t conflict with the time she’d already allotted for her interview with Rafe Delgado.

“That would be fine.” She paused uncertainly. “How will I recognize you?”

“Don’t worry,” Juliet said drily. “I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding you. I’ll just look for the woman who looks especially…hungry.”

As Sara ended the call, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made a fatal mistake.

3

SARA ARRIVED AT THE CAFÉ thirty minutes early on Tuesday afternoon, still trying to convince herself that she didn’t feel the tiniest bit paranoid or nervous about meeting the mysterious Juliet. She chose an outdoor table where she had a clear view of the walking paths that meandered through the gardens and an easy escape route over the decorative chain that separated the tables from the passersby, if required. She told herself that she was being overly imaginative, but if Juliet really was involved in something illegal, there was no telling what she might be capable of, especially if she considered Sara to be a threat.

The afternoon was clear and cool, scented with the fragrant aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the café. Sara ordered a steaming mug of hot chocolate and sipped it as she watched the people walking past on the sidewalk. A gust of wind rustled through the small trees along the nearest path, catching a handful of golden leaves and swirling them along the ground. Sara’s gaze followed them, until her attention was arrested by a man standing beside the nearest garden. He was leaning against a decorative lamppost and was studying what looked to be a Washington, D.C., guide book, but Sara had the distinct impression that he was watching her from behind his dark glasses.

Unsettled, she picked up the menu and pretended to be absorbed in reading it, feeling conspicuously alone despite the comfortable buzz of people all around.

“Miss Sinclair?”

Sara looked up and saw a woman standing by her table. She was older than Sara, probably in her mid fifties, but was one of the most elegant women that she had ever seen, with sleek black hair pulled into a ponytail, and exotic dark eyes. She oozed wealth, wearing boots and a pair of fine woolen slacks, and a leather coat that looked buttery soft.

“Yes, I’m Sara,” she said, rising to her feet to take the other woman’s extended hand. “Please, sit down.”

When Juliet had ordered a cup of coffee, she turned to look at Sara with a shrewd, assessing gaze. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

“And you’re older.”

A smile touched the other woman’s lips. “Touché. But age is no deterrent to a youthful spirit.” She glanced at her watch, an expensive piece of jewelry that glinted with what looked like real diamonds. “Shall we cut to the chase? I have a plane to catch this afternoon and I don’t want to be late.”

“Of course.” Withdrawing the small black book from her purse, Sara laid it on the table, but kept one hand on the cover. “This is the book that Colette left in my car, after she was involved in a car accident with Edwin Zachary. It contains detailed descriptions of Colette’s appointments. Salacious descriptions.”

Juliet’s eyes gleamed. “Were you also involved in the car crash?”

Sara shook her head, watching Juliet closely. The other woman didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the fact that Colette’s book contained potentially damaging information. “No, I wasn’t involved. I was driving behind them and let’s just say there was a reason why Mr. Zachary was unable to concentrate on his driving,” Sara said drily. “Considering what Colette was doing to him, it’s a miracle neither of them were killed.”

Juliet didn’t look surprised or shocked. Instead, a knowing smile curved her lips. “I can only imagine.”

Sara picked the book up and as Juliet sipped her coffee, opened it and began to thumb through the pages. “No, I don’t think you understand. Here, let me read a sample entry to you.”

She flicked her gaze to the other woman’s face. Juliet looked patiently composed, but Sara didn’t miss how her hands curled tightly around her mug. She gently cleared her throat and began to read.

“‘T.F.—Prefers group activities with toys, likes to watch g-g action.’” She slid Juliet a blandly innocent look. “I assume that means girl-girl action.”

Juliet briefly raised one hand from her mug. “That’s very nice. I’ve heard enough.”

“Wait, there’s more. ‘Sometimes brings a friend to watch.’” She turned to the next day and quickly scanned the entry. “Oh, this is a good one. It involves food items. I wonder who L.P. is? Hey…isn’t there a cabinet member named Lawrence Palmer? Of course, he’s pretty old, but you never know…”

“Okay, stop.” Juliet leaned across the table, and although her smile never wavered, her dark eyes glittered dangerously. “I don’t need to hear anymore.”

“Why is your number written in the back of this book?” Sara glanced around to ensure they couldn’t be overheard, and lowered her voice. “Are you running a sex ring?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what is your connection to Colette? You can’t deny that you know her.”

“Colette does work for me,” the other woman acknowledged, “but it’s not what you think.”