She was set up in the middle of the store, near the escalators. Pretty ladies in black smocks were spritzing passersby, while Jenna herself autographed bottles from a big pyramid of red-and-black boxes on a C-shaped counter.
When she saw our detective badges, she put a perfectly manicured hand up to her chest. “Oh, God! I’ve finally gone too far, haven’t I?” It got a good laugh from the crowd behind us.
“I was wondering if I could persuade you to take five,” I asked her. “It’s important.”
“Mais oui.” Wylie stood up with a little flourish. “Excuse me, ladies, but gossip awaits. The Metro Police know all. But—will they tell all?”
Some of the theatricality dropped off as soon as we were away from the crowd. “I’m not actually in any trouble here, am I?” she asked.
“Nothing like that,” Sampson said, and held the door for her out to Wisconsin Avenue. “We just need some help.”
We waited until we were in my car to go on. Then I just asked her point-blank. “I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything about a sex club for heavy hitters? Out in Virginia? Place called Blacksmith Farms. We’re looking, first of all, for some verification.”
She’d been rustling inside a little red clutch purse, but now she stopped cold. “You mean it’s true?”
“I’m just wondering what you’ve heard. Names, stories, anything at all.”
“Nothing in a while,” she said, pulling out a lipstick. “Not enough to make a story I could go with. I figured it was—what?—a ridiculous suburban myth?”
> “Aren’t you in the business of publishing rumors?” Sampson asked her.
“Honey, I’m in the business of being as accurate as I can be and not getting my ass sued. I learned that the hard way blogging on Condi Rice’s love life. And just for the record, there’s no such thing as an old rumor in Washington.”
“How do you mean that?” I asked.
“I mean you can’t swing a stick around here without hitting some investigative reporter looking to make a name for themselves. Rumors either turn into headlines real quick or they’re dead on arrival. When I didn’t hear any more about that one, I figured it was a dead end.”
She smiled happily and started reddening her lips in the rearview mirror. “Until now, anyway.”
“That’s another thing,” I said, catching her eye. “I need you to sit on this for a while.”
“Excuse me? You do know what I do for a living, don’t you?”
“And I assume you know what I do,” I said. “This is a murder investigation, Jenna, not a game. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me,” she said, returning the lipstick to her purse. Then she finally opened up and gave me a few names she’d heard connected to the sex club. New names, which was helpful.
“Listen.” I handed her two of my business cards. “Call me if you hear anything else, and please give me your number too. As soon as this thing is ready to go, I’ll bring you whatever I have. Do we have a deal?”
“That depends.” She fanned herself with the cards. “How do I know you’re the type to return favors?”
I chose my words carefully. “I’m here talking to you because I need you and I know you’ve been helpful to Metro before. That also means I can’t afford to piss you off. Is that honest enough for you?”
She took out a little gold pen, scribbled some digits, then kissed the card. She handed it back to me with a lipstick imprint next to the number.
“Delicious,” she said.
I took the card. “No, you had it right a minute ago—scary.”
Chapter 83
I WAS SURPRISED to hear from one of Tony Nicholson’s attorneys the next afternoon. It wasn’t the bow-tie-and-suspenders nerd from the night of the raid, but someone else entirely. This one sounded even more expensive, with a 202 phone number on the ID. The heart of the heart of the capital.
“Detective Cross, my name is Noah Miller. I’m with Kendall and Burke. I believe you’re familiar with my client Anthony Nicholson?”
“I’ve been trying to meet with your client since last week,” I told him. “I’ve left half a dozen messages for Anthony.”
“At Nyth-Klein?” he asked.