The Royal House of Niroli: Innocent Mistresses. Robyn Donald

a working girl, but she was dressed a little odd. Sort of business suit, so we couldn’t be certain. I put in a call on the radio, notified forensics, etcetera, and guess who shows up?”

      “Who?”

      “The number-one advisor to the mayor, Wayman Bishop. He was all over the scene like white on rice.”

      “Doing what?” Mel was intrigued. Wayman Bishop, who advised Mayor Al Torrell on all things of importance in the city of Washington, D.C., was less concerned about crime in the city than he was about litter. The death of a victim normally wouldn’t ruffle a hair on his head—unless it might have political repercussions.

      “Nosing around, hunting for facts about ‘the heinous crime.”’

      “I hate to be cynical, but it sounds like Mayor Torrell is getting ready to gear up some kind of antiviolence campaign. He’s building his base for the next election. It’s easy to be against crime. What’s hard is doing something to prevent it.”

      “Exactly what I thought,” Sonny said. He looked into the coffee cup sitting on his desk, made a face and threw the whole thing into the trash. “My wife told me to buy disposable cups. She said I’d never wash mine out. She was right.”

      “How is Louann?” Mel liked Sonny’s wife. She was a cartoonist, still waiting for a break with a syndicated strip or some steady income.

      “She’s fine. Working all the time. She’ll get a break eventually.”

      Mel nodded, but his mind was back on the dead woman and the mayor’s advisor. “So what did Bishop do, have the mayor’s picture taken with the dead woman?”

      Sonny laughed. “You have a macabre sense of humor, buddy. No, he just lurked around, taking notes. He finally got a look at the woman and then he split like he’d been shot at.”

      “Any suspects on the murder?”

      “Usual ones. Spouse, boyfriend, neighbor, pimp, unhappy customer. You know, fill in the blank.” Sonny shook his head. “This job makes it difficult to love my fellow man.”

      “I know what you mean,” Mel said. “Somebody dropped off a baby at a social event.”

      “No kidding.” Sonny’s dark eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline. “Posh party?”

      “Preston Johnson’s.”

      “Very posh,” Sonny said. “Plenty of money to give a kid a good home. But they won’t keep an abandoned baby.”

      “They will, if they can. That’s the good news,” Mel said. “I’m just wondering how the natural mother might have known that the Johnsons wanted a child. See, the more I look into this, the more I get that gut feeling that the Johnsons were carefully selected. Whoever put little David in the basket and left him on that doorstep knew exactly what she was doing.”

      “The plot thickens, eh?” Sonny said.

      “Yeah,” Mel agreed. “The plot thickens, and I want it up to a real good boil when I find the woman who dumped her kid.”

      He saw the curious look return to Sonny’s eyes and realized his tone had been a lot harsher than he intended. He stood up, picked up his coat and headed toward the door. “I’m going to run some leads. Good luck with your homicide.”

      “You bet.” Sonny waved goodbye as he reached for the computer mouse and began his own work.

      Mel was at a loss for the moment. It would take days to find all the private clinics around Washington, and then collect warrants to search their records. He doubted his superiors would put that much time, manpower and effort into finding a woman who’d thrown her baby away. No, Mel was going to have to work this case mostly on his own.

      And to do so effectively, he would have to play his hunches.

      He got in his car and drove over to the brightly lit building that housed one of the nation’s most powerful newspapers. When he found a comfortable spot to watch the employee parking lot, he settled down and waited for Lily Markey to appear.

      LILY GATHERED UP her things from her desk at the Post and was almost away from her desk when she heard her boss clear his throat behind her.

      “When can I expect that story on white-collar spousal abuse?” he asked.

      “I’m working on it.” Lily tucked her notebook in her purse.

      “What’s the holdup?” Bill Smith asked.

      “I’m…waiting for an interview to gel.” Lily finally met his gaze. More than anything she wanted to tell her boss the truth, but it was too dangerous. She’d crossed the line from journalist to activist, and Susie Bishop’s safety hung in the balance. If she ran the story on spousal abuse now, it would be a red flag to Wayman Bishop.

      “Is there something you need to tell me?” Bill asked. He was a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and above-average intelligence.

      “Not right now.” She dropped her gaze. “I’ll get the story. You know I always do.”

      “You’re reputation isn’t in question, Lily. I’m just wondering why you’re acting like a cat on a hot tin roof.” His look was astute and calculating.

      “Gotta go, Bill.” She flashed him a smile, albeit a forced one. “I have an interview and it may be the icing on the cake.” She thought of something truthful she could add. “I told you when I thought of doing this story that it might be Pulitzer material. I still think that. But I need time to be sure that I get everything just right.”

      “You’ve got the time, Lily. Just don’t step off in water over your head. You’re up to something. I’m just not sure what it is.”

      She didn’t bother to answer. Prevarication wasn’t her favorite form of communication, especially with a man she respected as much as Bill Smith. She headed out the door of the newsroom and straight to the grocery store where she picked up some items she hoped would make Susie Bishop a little more comfortable. She didn’t notice the gray sedan that fell in behind her as she drove toward one of Washington’s worst districts.

      Chapter Three

      Lily slowed her car to a near crawl as she turned right on Cedar Street. The name was so inappropriate that she allowed herself a bitter chuckle. If there had ever been a tree—or even a blade of grass—along this street, none of the residents had lived long enough to remember it.

      Whatever green and lovely visions had inspired the name of Cedar Street were long gone. All that remained was bleak pavement, torn and twisted chain-link fencing, broken bottles and broken streetlights. It looked as if a war had been fought in the not-too-distant past and the street abandoned. The only sign of life was the blue flicker of a few television screens in the windows of the run-down homes that she passed.

      A flash of car lights in the rearview mirror got her attention. She instantly tensed, her hand checking the automatic door lock to be sure she’d clicked it on. In the otherwise deserted street, the approaching car seemed dangerous.

      She pulled to the curb and waited, noting that the car had hesitated, then picked up speed as it drew abreast of her. She looked at the solitary driver, feeling a sense of shock at the profile she recognized. Detective Mel Haskin. And he was pulling up ahead of her.

      Fear of being injured instantly gave way to anger. Why was the policeman following her? She was a law-abiding citizen—at least, most of the time. Why was Mel so obviously tailing her? And why hadn’t she paid more attention to who was behind her?

      At his approach she rolled down her window. “You’d better have a damn good reason for following me, or at the very least a search warrant for my car.”

      Mel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze swept over the interior of the car, and Lily was glad she’d put the groceries in the trunk. Though the items were innocuous enough,