THE DUNNE HOUSE was what local real-estate mavens might call Lutyens-style neo-Elizabethan. Neither Sampson nor I had seen too many of those in Southeast D.C.
Inside, the house had the serenity and diversity I guess might be common among the rich. There were a
lot of expensive “things.” Art Deco plaques, and oriental screens, a French sundial, a Turkestan rug, what looked like a Chinese or Japanese altar table. I remembered something Picasso had once said: “Give me a museum, and I’ll fill it.”
There was a small bathroom off one of the formal sitting rooms. Chief of Detectives George Pittman grabbed me and pulled me in there minutes after I arrived. It was around eight o’clock. Too early for this.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked me. “What are you up to, Cross?”
The room was really cramped, no place for two good-sized, grown-up men to be. It wasn’t your average toilet, either. The floor was covered with a William Morris rug. A designer chair sat in one corner.
“I thought I would get some coffee. Then I was going to sit in on the morning briefing,” I said to Pittman. I wanted to get out of that bathroom so bad.
“Don’t fuck around with me.” He started to raise his voice. “Do not fuck with me.”
Oh, don’t do that, I wanted to say to him. Don’t make a big, awful scene in here. I thought about putting his head underwater in the toilet bowl, just to keep him quiet.
“Lower your voice, or I’m leaving,” I said. I try to act in a reasonable and considerate manner most of the time. It’s one of my character flaws.
“Don’t tell me to lower my voice. Who the fuck told you to go home last night? You and Sampson. Who told you to go to the Soneji apartment this morning?”
“Is that what this is all about? Is that why we’re in here together now?” I asked.
“You bet it is. I’m running this investigation. That means, if you want to tie your shoe, you talk to me first.”
I grinned. I couldn’t help it. “Where’d you get that line? Did Lou Gossett say that in An Officer and a Gentleman?”
“You think this is a lot of fun and games, Cross?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t think it’s any fun. Now you keep the fuck out of my face, or you won’t have one,” I warned him.
I walked out of the bathroom. Chief of Detectives Pittman didn’t follow me. Yes, I can be provoked. No, that little turd shouldn’t fuck with me.
At a little past eight, the Hostage Rescue Team was finally gathered together in a large, exquisitely decorated sitting room. Right away I sensed something was wrong. Something was up for sure.
Jezzie Flanagan from the Secret Service had taken the floor. I remembered her from the morning before at the Day School. She stood in front of a working fireplace.
The mantel was strung with holly boughs, tiny white lights, and Christmas cards. Several nontraditional cards were obviously from friends of the Dunnes in California—photographs of decorated palm trees, of Santa’s sleigh in the sky over Malibu. The Dunnes had recently moved to Washington, after Thomas Dunne took a job as director of the Red Cross.
Jezzie Flanagan looked more formal than she had at the school. She wore a loose gray skirt, with a black turtleneck sweater, and small gold earrings. She looked like a Washington lawyer, an attractive and very successful one.
“Soneji contacted us at midnight, last night. Then again around one o’clock. We didn’t expect him to contact us so soon. None of us did,” she started things off.
“The initial phone call was made from the Arlington area. Soneji made it clear he had nothing to say about the children, except that both Maggie Dunne and Michael Goldberg are doing well. What else would he say? He wouldn’t allow us to speak to either of the children, so we don’t know that for sure. He sounded lucid and very much in control.”
“Has the voice tape been analyzed yet?” Pittman asked from his seat near the front. If Sampson and I had to be on the outside looking in, it was good to know Pittman was right there with us. Apparently, nobody was talking to him, either.
“It’s being done,” Flanagan answered the question politely. She gave it just about the attention it deserved, I thought, but she avoided any condescension. She was real good at keeping control.
“How long was he actually on the line?” the Justice lawyer, Richard Galletta, asked next.
“Not very long, unfortunately. Thirty-four seconds to be exact,” Flanagan answered him with the same efficient courtesy. Cool, but pleasant enough. Smart.
I studied her. She was obviously comfortable being up in front of people. I’d heard that she’d gotten credit for some strong moves at Service in the past few years—which meant that she took a lot of credit.
“He was long gone when we got to the pay phone in Arlington. We couldn’t get that lucky so soon,” she said. She offered the hint of a smile, and I noticed that several of the men in the room smiled back at her.
“Why do you think he made the call?” the U.S. marshal asked from the back of the room. He was balding and paunchy, and smoking a pipe.