Sophie Medina: Ghost Image Part 4

"I should have guessed it was Victor. I heard Yasmin was looking for a celebrity photographer, no disrespect to you."

"Olivia," I said, "they're my clients."

She leaned toward me, elbows on her desk, fingers interlaced. "I wish you the best of luck. Yasmin went after Victor because she wanted his t.i.tle and all the glamour and wealth that come with who his family is. That's all there is to it. She wants to appear on the cover of magazines because she's such a fas.h.i.+on icon or she went skiing in Gstaad or vacationed on Richard Branson's private island or partied with some rock star after his concert." She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. There were two bright pink spots in her cheeks. "I wonder how long it will be before she finds a lover."

Teddy Roosevelt's daughter Alice Roosevelt Longworth, a flamboyant woman who had been known as "the other Was.h.i.+ngton monument" because of her sharp-tongued political zingers, owned a needlepointed pillow that read, "If you can't say something good about someone, sit right here by me."

"I think we ought to change the subject," I said. "I'm meeting Yasmin and her mother at the Franciscan Monastery at five o'clock. This is more information than I want to know."

She looked embarra.s.sed. "I apologize. I shouldn't have said anything, though all of it is an open secret around here. I met Victor last year at a Smithsonian lecture. He's a doll." She stood up. "Be in touch if you have questions about my notes. And let's get together again when you're done. Maybe the end of next week? I need your spring photos and all the interior shots by the last week of May, by the way."

I nodded. "I'm still waiting to hear from someone about taking photographs inside the Arts and Industries Building. Though I met a friend of yours who said he could cut the red tape. David Arista."

Her eyes flashed when I mentioned his name, but she said in a cool voice, "David? Really? How did you meet him?"

"At the party last night and then I ran into him walking through the Ripley Garden."

She straightened a pile of already tidy papers. "Last year right after Museum Press hired me, we worked together on publicity for a book on the history of the National Portrait Gallery." She fiddled with the pages until the edges were aligned. "Now he works with Yasmin. They're very close."

The pink color had returned to her cheeks. "Tell me," she said, "did he invite you for coffee or a drink?"

I smiled. "He did."

She didn't smile. "Want some advice about David Arista?"

"Sure."

She pointed to the corridor outside her door. "Walk down that hall. There are a couple of women who could give it to you."

I thought about what Thea Stavros had said to me last night: Get in line, darling.

"I'm not interested in anything except speeding up my request to get into the Arts and Industries Building."

She reached around and flipped her hair off her neck again. "I wouldn't ask him. Then you'd owe him a favor. And David always collects." Her phone rang and she glanced down at it. "Sorry, I need to take this. Good luck."

I left and wondered if she had been talking about the book or David Arista. And if Olivia Upshaw was also one of the women who could give me firsthand advice about the danger of getting involved with him.

I left the Smithsonian by the Mall entrance and stood under the portico. Across from me, the enormous green dome of the Natural History Museum rose behind a line of bare trees. The rain had come and gone during my meeting with Olivia, and the frigate-sized clouds piled overhead now streamed west toward the river, leaving a swath of bright sky behind. But the streets were still wet and slick, and the slant of the rain had made dark-ringed stains on the curves of the sand-colored American Indian Museum at the far end of the Mall.

As predicted, it took half an hour to find a legal parking place on Capitol Hill and then pa.s.s through security in the Russell Senate Office Building. Ursula Gilberti had an office in the Capitol as a member of the Senate leaders.h.i.+p, but her secretary had told me I was expected in her private office on the fourth floor of Russell.

It was the oldest of the three Senate office buildings, and to me the two other buildings-Dirksen and Hart-lacked its character, history, and elegance. They also didn't have the magnificent two-story columned Rotunda or the grand Kennedy Caucus Room, where the sinking of the t.i.tanic had been investigated and the Watergate hearings had unfolded.

I made a point of detouring through the Rotunda, which was silent and empty except for a security guard. Daylight flooding through the oculus in the dome softened the severity of the gray-and-white-hued marble, and I stopped to take photographs of the arches and columns and the carvings in the coffered ceiling while the guard watched me. Then I took an elevator to the fourth floor.

Ursula's state flag, the flag of West Virginia, hung from a stand in an alcove in the corridor outside her suite of offices; bright colors against more gray-and-white marble. One of the young female receptionists in the visitors' room took me back outside and walked me to a door that led to the secretary's office, where she handed me over to a white-haired no-nonsense woman. She, in turn, led me into Ursula's office.

The large room was furnished with a quirky mix of modern and antique furniture, the walls painted a b.u.t.tery yellow and covered with art, mostly avant-garde modern, which surprised me, along with numerous awards and rows of photographs of Ursula with the good and the great, which did not. On the mantel of her carved marble fireplace next to a modern sculpture of what looked like a bronze elephant was my framed engagement photograph of Yasmin and Victor.

She got up from a paper-strewn desk and shook my hand.

"Can I get you and Ms. Medina a cup of coffee, Senator? Tea?" the secretary asked.

Ursula gave me a quizzical look and I shook my head. "Not just now, thanks. Can you buzz me when my two o'clock arrives?"

I glanced at my watch. One fifty. Whatever Ursula had to say wasn't going to take long.

"Sophie, please have a seat." She gestured to a pair of leather mission-style armchairs across from her desk and I slid into one of them. "Thank you for coming by."

Last night, the golden light of the candelabras that graced the dining room table and the glittering chandeliers in the formal rooms of the Austrian amba.s.sador's residence had somewhat softened Ursula Gilberti's hard-sh.e.l.l demeanor. She had been a proud mother at a family celebration, not the tough get-the-deal-done woman she was known as on the Hill. Today she wore a severe black suit with a white blouse and a pearl choker, and any softness I'd seen at that party was gone.

"I have a proposal for you." She smiled, but it lacked warmth, and already I knew I didn't like where this was going.

She put on a pair of thick-framed reading gla.s.ses and picked up a piece of paper from her desk. Though I couldn't see through it, I thought it looked a lot like my contract. "It concerns the fee you're charging."

It was the fee we'd agreed on after a round of horse trading. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and waited for her to go on. She wanted more sessions for the same price or something like that.

"I'd like you to do this job pro bono."

"Pardon me?"

"Pro bono. It means you wouldn't charge me for it."

"I know what pro bono means, Senator."

"In return, I will recommend you to everyone I know, and believe me, I know a lot of people."

She had somehow managed to make it sound like she was doing me a favor.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'd prefer to stick to the agreement we have."

Ursula took off her gla.s.ses and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "I'm not sure you understand. Do you realize how much publicity you're going to get just from being chosen as the photographer for this wedding? A royal wedding in Was.h.i.+ngton? You couldn't pay for that kind of exposure. Already the guest list includes royalty from just about every European country, senators, cabinet secretaries, a Supreme Court justice . . . not to mention that we're juggling publicists from a couple of rather big names in Hollywood whom I've met over the years and would like to be here." She folded her hands. "The president and the first lady are on the guest list."

"It sounds like it's going to be quite an event. But with all respect, I didn't volunteer for this or compete with anyone else. Victor asked me because he likes my work and I said yes."

Ursula blew out a short-fused breath and looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, for G.o.d's sake," she said, focusing on me again. "Do you have any idea how much this wedding has cost me so far? I'm also in the middle of a primary where I'm being outspent by an opponent who's got deep pockets all the way to China, and then there's the election in the fall. When all is said and done, I'm a working single mother, not a millionaire. The expenses for all of this are absolutely crus.h.i.+ng. Can you possibly understand what I'm saying?"

Sure I could. I had bills, too. That's why I worked for a living and expected to get paid for it.

"I'm sorry to hear that-"

She cut me off. "I need you to do this, Sophie. I'm not really asking you. I'm telling you. I can't afford to pay you anything beyond what I've already given you. You were well compensated for last night's party, and I trust you'll be sending a link to those photos soon because I'm fending off press queries with a stick until I get them. I'm not asking for charity, you understand, because I a.s.sure you what I'm offering will be very much in your financial and professional interest. And I always keep my word."

Except for the contracts she signed. And it certainly felt like she was asking for charity. Before I could open my mouth, her phone buzzed and she reached for it.

"We're almost through here. Ask him to wait." She put down the phone and said to me, "If you don't want to do it, I'll find someone else. Any other photographer would kill to be in your position. And I don't want Yasmin to know, either. Or Victor. This conversation needs to stay between us."

Gloves off. Now I knew why she was so good at her job as her party's whip.

"I'll have to think about it," I said.

"Fine. You have until five o'clock, when we're supposed to meet at the monastery. If you change your mind between now and then, let me know. I'll need to start looking for another photographer right away." She paused and gave me a halfhearted smile. "I certainly hope it won't come to that."

I stood up. "I'll let you know. And I can see myself out. Good afternoon, Senator."

Before she could reply or buzz her secretary to escort me out and admit her waiting two o'clock, I walked over to her private door, which led directly to the outside corridor.

"You need to use the other door-" she said.

I had no intention of waiting to be escorted out by the secretary and I didn't hear the forbidden door click shut behind me until I pa.s.sed Ursula's state flag at the entrance to her suite of offices. This time I took the spiral staircase with its winding bronze bal.u.s.trade. When I reached the first floor, I was as breathless with anger as I'd been a few minutes ago in her office.

By the time I walked outside, it was ten past two. I had fewer than three hours to simmer down and decide what I was going to do.

I reached in my jacket pocket for my phone, ready to call Ursula and tell her she could find another photographer. But it was the wrong pocket and my fingers closed around the little key I'd found this morning by the j.a.panese lantern. I thought of Victor and the sweet letter he had written me, asking if I would do him and Yasmin the honor of photographing their wedding. Could I really face him and tell him I had changed my mind?

Whatever I decided to do about Ursula's ultimatum, I had to stop by the monastery anyway. I had promised Kevin I would take pictures of the community garden and I needed to ask him if he'd lost this key. It was too early to drive over there now. Kevin was probably still busy with the children from Brookland Elementary. Between the meetings with Olivia and Ursula I had forgotten about lunch, and right now I was famished.

I dropped the key in my pocket and walked down 1st Street past the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress on my left and the Capitol on my right until I got to Pennsylvania Avenue. A few blocks later, I slid into a booth at the Tune Inn, the scruffy, beloved bar that was one of the Avenue's oldest Hill hangouts, ordered a beer and a burger, and tried to forget about Ursula Gilberti. There was a sports program on the television over the bar, alternating between highlights of March Madness and ice hockey, while Willie Nelson, Brad Paisley, and the rest of them sang the old rip-your-heart-out country songs from the jukebox. I ate and drank and listened to them croon about lost love and women who were trouble and the tantalizing freedom of getting in your truck and leaving it all behind.

I thought about ordering another beer and just spending the rest of the afternoon at the Tune until whenever I felt like leaving, but I'm not that kind of girl. I paid the waitress and told her to keep the change, which was almost as much as the bill. Then I walked back to my car and drove to Brookland and the Franciscan Monastery.

It was time to face my own music.

The parking lot across the street from the monastery was deserted when I pulled in shortly before four, even though the gardens and the church were still open to the public. The Byzantine-style Church of Mount St. Sepulchre, built to resemble the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, always looked to me as if it had been plucked from the midst of the real Holy Land, where it had stood in the shadow of a sacred Catholic shrine, and set down in this working-cla.s.s neighborhood of Craftsman bungalows and wood-framed houses the way Dorothy's house had landed in Oz. The inlaid gold-and-red Jerusalem Cross, the symbol of the Franciscans since the Crusades, and the gold cupola on top of the dome gleamed in the dull late-afternoon light. I walked through the arched entrance to the Rosary Portico, the cloistered walkway that surrounded the monastery on three sides.

In a few weeks the formal garden beds on these grounds would be filled with hundreds of blooming roses and flowering annuals. Now they were mostly bare patches of earth except for bright yellow and orange pansies around the statues of St. Francis, St. Christopher, and the monastery's Franciscan founder, G.o.dfrey Schilling.

Kevin was either in his room in the friary or somewhere on the grounds. The quickest way to find out was to ask the guard who sat in the small anteroom connecting the residence and the church. But when I checked with him, he seemed surprised.

"I haven't seen Brother Kevin all afternoon," he said. "I don't believe he's here."

"He was supposed to meet the children from Brookland Elementary at the community garden at two o'clock," I said.

The man shook his head. "That was canceled because it was raining."

"I saw his car parked on the street just now. He has to be here."

"Then try the Valley Shrines in the lower garden," he said. "I just came from the church and he wasn't there. He also might be praying at the outdoor Stations of the Cross since it's Lent."

I thanked him and walked through the portico with its multicolored columns and small chapels with mosaics commemorating the mysteries of the rosary. A sign marked the entrance to the lower gardens halfway down the walkway, and a series of blacktop ramps zigzagged down to several flights of stairs that ended in what looked like a large park. From down here the monastery was nearly invisible, hidden by towering evergreens and ancient magnolias, a tangle of brush and vines and high stone walls.

The formal part of the garden was dominated by a replica of the grotto at Lourdes, a place where the faithful believed the Virgin Mary appeared to a young peasant girl named Bernadette Soubirous, and that the waters of a spring located on that spot possessed special healing powers. I called Kevin's name, my voice echoing weirdly off the ivy-covered wall where a statue of Mary looked down from an alcove on the white marble figure of St. Bernadette kneeling with her arms outstretched in the middle of a garden of bare, green-tinged rosebushes.

I made a complete tour, checking all the tucked-away chapels and memorials. Maybe Kevin was still working in the community garden, which was in a clearing on the upper level near the end of the Stations of the Cross. I followed the winding path through the woods until I was at the top of the hill across from the monastery.

The small garden was enclosed by chicken wire nailed to posts, presumably to keep out rabbits, with a gate at one end. Not much was sprouting this early in the year, as Kevin had said, so it was mostly tilled earth. Someone had left a pitchfork with a weathered handle in a pile of mulch near the gate, and a garden hose was coiled on a large hook attached to one of the posts.

Kevin wasn't here, so I finished the path of the Stations until I reached the final one, the laying of Jesus in his tomb. If Kevin's car was at the monastery and he wasn't in his room or the church, where else would he be? Had he returned to the catacombs for something else he'd hidden?

Then I remembered the Grotto of Gethsemane, a replica of the garden where Jesus prayed the night before his crucifixion. The entrance was on the hill opposite where I was standing, halfway between the upper and lower gardens and so well hidden you couldn't see it from either the monastery or the lower garden. I ran back through the woods and sprinted up the stairs, slipping on a slick patch of moss and mud. I grabbed a vine as thick as a small tree trunk that ran along the wall, but I still landed hard on one knee. The momentum knocked my camera bag off my shoulder and it b.u.mped on the ground.

I found Kevin in the grotto, lying on his side at the bottom of a small staircase. The wrought-iron grillwork door to the underground chapel was padlocked and looked like it had been that way for a while. In the viscous gloomy light, the small room hewn out of rock like a cave seemed more like a prison than a place to pray. I knelt beside my dear, beloved friend and touched my finger to the pulse point on his neck.

But I already knew I was too late. Brother Kevin Boyle was dead.

5.

A gust of wind blew through the trees above my head, a low, keening sound almost like a child crying. Had Kevin fallen, or had he been pushed? I whipped around in case I'd missed seeing someone come up behind me, trapping me in this dead-end place. But no one was there, only Kevin and me.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and got out my phone to call 911, turning away because I couldn't bear to look at him while I did this. A female dispatcher answered after three rings and thought I was calling to report the death of my brother.

"He's a Franciscan friar," I said. "He belongs to a Catholic religious order. Brother Kevin Boyle."

"Okay, I'm with you now. Sorry about that, hon. Spell the name, please."

I did.

"Address?"

I gave it to her and explained that Kevin was in the Gethsemane Grotto of the monastery garden, spelling Gethsemane before she asked. She took down my name and number, confirmed the monastery's address, and told me someone would be here shortly.

"Do you know how long?"

"As soon as possible. Please stay on the scene and meet the officer." She disconnected.

As soon as possible. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Longer? Kevin was dead, gone, so no police cruisers and ambulances with their flas.h.i.+ng lights and wailing sirens were going to come racing up 14th Street.

I turned back to him. He was lying on his right side in a contorted angle in the cramped s.p.a.ce. His left hand was thrown up over his face as though s.h.i.+elding himself from something or someone, and his outstretched right hand was clenched in a fist. His eyes were wide open, as though he'd been surprised, and judging by his position, he had fallen forward. Somehow he must have hit his head, maybe on the steps or the sharp corner of the stone wall or the padlocked wrought-iron gate, which had stopped his momentum, because a pool of blood underneath his right shoulder had oozed onto the stone floor and seeped into his habit. Both his feet rested on the last step, and dried mud embedded with bits of mulch was stuck to the bottom of his sandals.

Kevin was a good man, a holy man of grace and erudition and scholars.h.i.+p, fierce in his beliefs, loyal to his friends, devoted in his faith. I didn't want to remember him stripped of his dignity like this, blood spattered, his kind, intelligent blue eyes now staring blindly, his habit rucked up to reveal worn, threadbare trousers and pale flesh, a sense of death already permeating this place like a bad stink.

Fading daylight poured in through a fretted skylight inside the locked chapel. The wind rustled the trees, the s.h.i.+fting shadows rippling like the las.h.i.+ngs of a whip on the walls and floor. The spine-tingling feeling that something was crawling on my skin made me wonder if I was being watched. A replica of the tomb where Jesus had been laid after he was crucified was only a few steps from the grotto. I couldn't remember if that gate was locked as well. The air fizzed with a low-pitched vibrating whine. I scrambled up the stairs, needing to get away from this closed-in s.p.a.ce with its prisonlike entrance, to the open s.p.a.ce of the upper garden and the sanctuary of the church.

Halfway back to the main garden path I skidded on the muddy spot where I'd slipped before, and a branch from one of the vines brushed against me like fingers raking my skin. I whisked it away and ran, the crazy idea flitting through my mind that the spirits of the dead haunted this alcove and the vines and branches that ran along the walls had begun magically weaving together to form a barrier that would imprison me in the Gethsemane Grotto.

I raced up the ramp to the Rosary Portico, colliding with a friar who was striding toward me. He was tall and st.u.r.dy, with ruddy cheeks and a mop of dark brown hair, and wore a heavy dark plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt over his habit.