“He works Sixth District,” Sampson said. “I guess he came on the force after you left.”
“Sixth District? As in, he’s a cop?”
“Yeah. I don’t envy him that beat though. It’s rough over there these days.”
My mind was reeling, and I felt a little sick to my stomach. Jason Stemple was a cop?
“How’s the Georgetown case going?” I asked, probably to get Sampson off the track he was going down.
“Nothing new,” he said, sliding right over to the new subject. “I’ve covered three out of the four known victims, and I’m still not out of the gate.”
“So no one’s talking at all? After what happened to them? That’s hard to believe. Don’t you think so, John?”
“I do. A woman I spoke with today, army captain, she admitted the rapist made some kind of bad threat against her family. Even that was more than she wanted to say.”
We finished our beers in silence. My mind alternated between Sampson’s case and Kim Stafford and her policeman fiancé.
Sampson downed the last of his Corona; then he sat up and handed me another. “So listen,” he said. “I’ve got one more interview to do—lawyer who was raped. One more chance to maybe crack this thing open.”
Uh-oh, here it comes.
“Monday afternoon?”
I swiveled in my chair to look at the appointment book on my desk. Wide open. “Damn, I’m all booked up.”
I opened my second beer. A long slat of light came in through the wooden blinds, and I traced it with my eyes back over to where Sampson sat, looking at me with that heavy glare of his. Man Mountain, that was one of the names I had for him. Two-John was another.
“What time on Monday?” I finally asked.
“Three o’clock. I’ll pick you up, sugar.” He reached over and clinked his beer bottle against mine. “You know, you just cost me seven bucks.”
“How’s that?”
“The twelve-pack,” he said. “I would have gotten a six if I’d known you’d be this easy.”
Chapter 60
MONDAY, THREE O’CLOCK. I shouldn’t be here, but here I am anyway.
From what I could tell so far, the firm of Smith, Curtis and Brennan’s legal specialty was old money. The expensive-looking wood-paneled reception area, with its issues of Golf Digest, Town & Country, and Forbes on the side tables, seemed to speak for itself: The clients of this firm sure didn’t come from my neighborhood.
Mena Sunderland was a junior partner and also our third known rape victim, chronologically. She seemed to blend in to the office, with a gray designer business suit and the kind of gracious reserve that sometimes comes from Southern breeding. She led us back to a small conference room and closed the vertical blinds on the glass wall before letting the conversation begin.
“I’m afraid this is a waste of your time,” she told us. “I don’t have anything new to say. I told that to the other detective. Several times.”
Sampson slid a piece of paper over to her. “We were wondering if this might help.”
“What is it?”
“A draft press statement. If any information goes public, this will be it.”
She scanned the statement while he explained. “It puts this investigation on an aggressive path and says that none of the known victims have been willing to identify the attacker or testify against him.”
“Is that actually true?” she asked, looking up from the paper.
Sampson started to respond, but a sudden gut reaction flashed through me, and I cut him off. I started to cough. It was kind of a sloppy move, but it worked fine.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” I asked Mena Sunderland. “I’m sorry.”