Sacred Sins

father wouldn't have to make child-support payments.
    The rail of the Calvert Street Bridge was slick, but he got a good purchase with his gloves.
    All he wanted was peace. Dying was peaceful. He'd read all about reincarnation, about the chance of coming back to something better, as someone better. He was looking forward to it.
    He could feel the wind tossing snow, cold, almost sharp snow, against his face. He could see his breath puff out slow and steady in the dark. Below him now were the white-tipped trees and the icy flow of Rock Creek.
    He'd decided quite calmly against other forms of suicide. If he slashed his wrists, the sight of his own blood might make him too weak to finish. He'd read where people who tried to overdose on pills often vomited them up and just got sick.
    Besides, the bridge was right. It was clean. For a moment, for one long moment, it would feel like flying.
    He balanced himself a moment and prayed. He wanted God to understand. He knew that God didn't like people to make a choice to die. He wanted them to wait until He was ready.
    Well, Joey couldn't wait, and he hoped God and everyone else would understand.

    He thought of Dr. Court and was sorry that she was going to be disappointed. Joey knew his mother would be upset, but she had Donald and the new baby. It wouldn't take her long to see that it was all for the best. And his father. His father would just get drunk again.
    Joey kept his eyes open. He wanted to see the trees rush up at him. He took a long breath, held it, and dove.

    “M ISS Bette has outdone herself again.” Tess sampled the rich dark meat her grandfather had carved. “Every-thing's spectacular, as always.”
    “Nothing the woman likes better than to fuss with a meal.” The senator added steaming gravy to a mound of creamy white potatoes. “I've been barred from my own kitchen for two days.”
    “Did she catch you sneaking in for samples again?”
    “Threatened to make me peel potatoes.” He swallowed a healthy forkful, then grinned. “Miss Bette has never subscribed to the notion that a man's home is his castle. Have some more dressing, Detective. It's not every day a man gets to indulge himself.”
    “Thanks.” Because the senator held the bowl over his plate, Ben had little choice but to take it. He'd already had two helpings, but it was difficult to resist the senator's cheerful insistence. After an hour in the company of Senator Writemore, Ben had discovered the old man was vibrant, both in looks and speech. His opinions were hard as granite, his patience slim, and his heart undeniably lay in his granddaughter's hands.
    What relieved Ben was that after that hour he wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as he'd been prepared to be.

    Initially the house had made him uneasy. From the outside it had merely been quietly elegant, distinguished. Inside it had been like a trip around the world in a first-class cabin. Turkish rugs faded just enough to show their age and durability, were spread over black-and-white checkerboard tile on the hall floor. An ebony cabinet, high as a man's shoulders and magnificently painted with peacocks, stood under a long curve of stairs.
    In the parlor, where a silent Oriental had served before-dinner drinks, two Louis Quinze chairs flanked a long rococo table. A cabinet fronted with etched glass held a treasure trove. Venetian glass almost thin enough to read through was stained with color. A glass bird caught and reflected the light from the fire. Guarding the white marble hearth was a porcelain elephant the size of a terrier.
    It was a room that reflected the senator's background and, Ben realized, Tess's. Comfortable wealth, a knowledge of art and style. She'd sat on the dark green brocade of the sofa in a pale lavender dress that had made her skin glow. The pearl choker lay against her throat, its glinting center stone pulsing with light and the heat from her body.
    To Ben she'd never looked more beautiful.
    There was a fire in the dining room as well. This one had been banked to simmer and pop through the meal. Light came from the prisms of the tiered chandelier above the table. Wedgwood plates, delicately tinted, Georgian silver, heavy and gleaming, Baccarat crystal waiting to be filled with cool white wine and sparkling water, Irish linen soft enough to sleep on. Bowls and platters were heaped. Oysters Rockefeller, roast turkey, buttered asparagus, fresh crescent rolls, and more; their scents mixed into a delightful potpourri with