“Thank you, Nana.” He beamed bright eyes and a thousand and one teeth. “High praise, indeed.”
CHAPTER
104
WE DROVE to Sara Rosen’s apartment in Sampson’s slippery-quick black Nissan. Nana’s hot breakfast had brought me back to the real world at least. I was feeling partially revived. Physically, if not emotionally.
I was already highly intrigued about visiting Jill’s home. I wanted to see her office at the White House, too, but figured that could wait a day or two. But her house. That was irresistible for the detective, and for the psychologist.
Sara Rosen lived in a ten-story building on Twenty-fourth and K. The building had an officious front-desk “captain” who studied our police IDs and then reluctantly let us proceed. The lobby was cheery otherwise. Carpeted, lots of large potted plants. Not the kind of building where anyone would expect to find an assassin.
But Jill had lived right here, hadn’t she?
Actually, the apartment fit the profile we had of Sara Rosen. She was the only child of an Army colonel and a high school English teacher. She had grown up in Aberdeen, Maryland, then gone to Hollins College in Virginia. She had majored in history and English, graduating with honors. She’d come to Washington sixteen years ago, when she was twenty-one. She had never married, though she’d had several boyfriends over the years. Some of the staff at the White House press and communications offices called her “the sexy spinster.”
Her apartment was on the fifth floor of the ten-story building. It was bright, with a view of an interior courtyard. The FBI was already at work inside. Chopin came softly from a stereo. It was a relaxed atmosphere, almost pleasant, devil-may-care. The case was, after all, closed.
Sampson and I spent the next few hours with the Feebie technicians who were searching the apartment for anything that might give the Bureau a clue about Sara Rosen.
Jill had lived right there.
Who the hell were you, Jill? How did this happen to you? What happened, Jill? Talk to us. You know you want to talk, lonely girl.
Her apartment was a one-bedroom with a small den, and we would examine every square inch of it. The woman who had lived here had helped to murder President Thomas Byrnes. The den had been used as an editing room for their film. The apartment had historical importance now. For as long as this building stood, people would point at it and say, “That’s where Jill lived.”
She had bought anonymous-looking furniture in a country-club style. They were middle-class trappings. A sofa and armchair made of brushed cotton twill. Local furniture store tags: Mastercraft Interiors, Colony House in Arlington. Cool, cold colors in every room. Lots of ivory-colored things at Jill’s place. An ice-blue, patterned area rug. A pale, distressed pine armoire.
Several frames on the wall contained matted Christmas cards and letters from White House notables: the current press secretary, the chief of staff, even a brief note from Nancy Reagan. There were no pictures of any of the “enemies” mentioned to me by President Byrnes. Sara Rosen was a secret starfucker, wasn’t she? Had Jack been a star for her? Was Jack really Kevin Hawkins?
Talk to us, Jill. I know you want to talk. Tell us what really happened. Give us a clue.
Sitting out on a small rolltop desk were mailings from the Heritage Foundation and the Cato Institute, both conservative organizations. There were several copies of U.S. News & World Report, Southern Living, Gourmet.
Also flyers about future poetry readings at Chapters on K Street, and Politics and Prose, bookstores in the Washington area. Was Jill the poet?
A poem had been cut from a book and taped to the wall above the desk.
How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one’s name—the live-long June—
To an admiring Bog!
—Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson apparently had the same opinion of celebrities as Jack and Jill.
The walls of the den and bedroom were cov
ered with books. The walls were bookcases. Fiction, nonfiction, poetry. High- and low-brow stuff. Jill the reader. Jill the loner. Jill the sexy spinster.
Who are you, Jill? Who are you, Sara Rosen?
There was even one bit of evidence that showed a sense of humor. A sign was framed in the front hallway: use an accordion, go to jail. That’s the law.
Who are you, Sara-Jill?