She paused a moment as she opened the car door. She looked at Erin over the roof. "You said the wife always knows, but this was so blatant, so accepted, and Jane Ann has this ironic perspective about it.
"Dillon knows to his toes if he ever slept with another woman I'd shoot him dead, not the woman. Her I'd just rough up some." Sherlock shook her head. "To make promises, then to break them for no good reason I can think of, and you've got kids at home looking up to you, that's simply pathetic." She sighed as she opened the car door and slid in. "All too common, I guess."
Erin slid in beside her. "To be honest, I don't understand it either, not that I have all that much experience. I was married for a total of two months and twenty-seven days when I was twenty-two, not yet graduated from college. My husband was a grad student in economics. He didn't sleep with my friends, nothing like that, he simply didn't want to take his turn at washing the dishes and doing the laundry, that was my job, and so he told me. He said he had more important things to do than be a stupid drudge. Can you beat that?"
"Please tell me you took a whip to him."
"I should have, but I didn't. By the time eight weeks had passed I was so disillusioned with the jerk I didn't really care what he said, I just wanted him out and gone. But Jane Ann, she's different."
"Yes. I wonder if Caskie knows she sleeps with her tennis pros?"
When Sherlock's cell phone rang two hours later, she looked at the screen and pulled over. "It's Dillon, Erin. Let's see what's going on down there."
Sherlock listened as she unfastened her seat belt and stretched. "You're already on your way to see Senator Hoffman? This is wild, Dillon. His wife sends him a warning through you from the vast beyond, and he discounts it. Or maybe he didn't, just didn't realize he could die in a public restaurant.
"I bet he's really shook now. Yes, call me later. Then I'll tell you about Jane Ann Royal."
28
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
Late Wednesday afternoon
Savich drove his Porsche through Senator David Hoffman's old established neighborhood, Ruth beside him. "A longtime lobbyist dead of poison with a United States senator sitting across the table from her, and he's probably the one meant to eat the arsenic. This is going to be pretty wild, Dillon. Good thing wild is our unit's middle name."
"Actually, our middle name is Apprehension."
Ruth punched him in the arm.
"'Wild' is the word Sherlock used when I called her."
"Great minds usually run in parallel," Ruth said.
Savich was grinning when he turned the Porsche smoothly into Senator Hoffman's driveway. He saw a TV van parked across the street. "They're fast. We've got to hurry." He and Ruth did a fast jog up the flagstone path to the senator's front door.
An agent stepped out. "Agents. Get inside before the locusts swarm onto the yard. Look at that yahoo running up here to get to you, waving his camera guy forward. The idiot, I'll deal with him."
Savich closed the door firmly behind them and turned to look around the large entrance hall. It was empty and dead silent. They waited a moment, but no one appeared. There didn't seem to be anyone inside the house. Since Savich knew the way, he led Ruth to Senator Hoffman's study, down the hall and to the right. Another FBI agent stood beside the door. He nodded to them.
The senator was seated behind his desk, his head back against the comfortable headrest, his eyes closed. His senior aide, Corliss Rydle, stood in front of his desk, arms crossed over her chest, yet another guard dog. Savich had seen two FBI agents. He wondered how many more Mr. Maitland had assigned to guard the senator. Corliss Rydle stared at them hard. Message received, Savich thought, we'll have to go through you first to get to the great man. She was closer to a guard poodle, he thought, petite, probably had to stretch to reach five-foot-two. She had short black hair and an olive complexion, probably some Mediterranean blood lurking around in her background somewhere. She was dressed in a stark black suit, white blouse, and a glossy pearl necklace. She all but growled at them.
Senator Hoffman opened his eyes, sat forward. "It's all right, Corliss." There was a hint of humor in his voice. "This is Agent Savich, and he's-very important."
Savich introduced himself and Ruth to Corliss Rydle, watched her step down a bit. He asked her to leave.
She didn't move, shot her dark eyes to her boss. Hoffman said quietly, "It's all right, Corlie. If I'm not safe with these people, then I should simply hang it up. Go finish drafting that statement for me. We've got to move on this, and as soon as Agent Savich brings me up to date, we're going to proceed."
When they were alone, Hoffman eyed Ruth. "Where's Agent Sherlock?"
Savich said, "Sherlock's up in Connecticut working on the murder of that German national."
"Oh, yes, I heard about that. What the devil is going on up there?" He stopped, shook his head at himself. "What am I blathering on about? Dana Frobisher is dead. I asked her to go to lunch with me and she ate my favorite dish-the fried shrimp-and died right there in front of me, seizing on the floor, foaming at the mouth." He shuddered, swallowed, then whispered, "It was meant for me, wasn't it, Agent Savich?"
"Could have been," Savich said matter-of-factly. "We're certainly looking at that as one possibility."
Hoffman stared at Savich like he was nuts. "You're telling me it's possible a middle-aged woman who happens to be a lobbyist had enemies who hated her enough to take the incredible risk of poisoning her in the Foggy Bottom Grill?"
"The same could be said for you, Senator. You're a middle-aged man who just happens to be a United States senator, and someone took the incredible risk of trying to kill you. What's the difference?"
"Well, that's a point, Agent Savich, but there is a world of difference between the murder of a lobbyist and what could have been an assassination attempt on a United States senator.
"My wife told you-warned you-but I refused to take it seriously. Even if I had taken her warning seriously, I wouldn't have questioned having lunch at one of my favorite eating places. But it happened there. Now, you're not going to tell me Dana Frobisher's ex-husband paid someone in the kitchen to poison her lunch? The woman isn't-she wasn't-rich, she wasn't particularly savvy or charismatic, she wielded very little power, hardly a person worth killing for any reason other than a personal one."
Ruth said, "Actually, sir, Dana Frobisher did very well financially. Her experience and contacts have given her a certain power, a certain cachet, if you will. I'm told she was a very effective negotiator.
"So far we have not found anything out of the ordinary-no stalkers, no angry neighbors, no seriously pissed-off clients. Her ex-husband is a farmer in New Mexico. He was distraught when we spoke to him. She left one grown daughter, in her third year at Brown, and an extended family, who are in shock. But of course we'll keep looking on her side of things, to see if she could indeed have been the target."
Savich said, "Let's back up a minute, Senator. Tell us why you invited a lobbyist to lunch."
"My wife worked with her years ago, admired her for her energy, her commitment to charities focused on raising money for childhood diseases. I wanted to make use of her expertise in this particular fund-raising area because it is my intention to rekindle Nikki's charities, particularly for spinal meningitis, the charity closest to her heart since her own sister died of that disease when she was six years old. I remember Nikki told me if Dana Frobisher really believed in a cause, she'd throw all her energy into it. I was eager to get her commitment."
Savich said, "Senator, I've told Ruth we have it on good authority-namely, from your wife, Nikki-that danger was coming in your direction. I agree, it seems more likely you were the target. An assassination attempt? I don't know, but it simply doesn't feel like that to me."
Hoffman said, "Over the years you learn to expect a lot of things on the campaign trail and on the Hill. Lies about your record, distortion of the facts, thinly disguised attempts to buy influence, even attempts at extortion-but that some
one would try to kill a senator for personal gain? I will tell you, it gives me pause. It certainly felt to me like an assassination attempt."
Hoffman slowly rose, splayed his hands on his mahogany desk. "I think you are wrong about this. I also hope you haven't told anyone about my dead wife contacting you, asking you to warn me. Dear God, man, if the media picks that up, I'll look like a major fool on every TV screen across the United States. It could end my career."
"Only three people other than Sherlock and I know about your wife, Senator, and they are FBI agents I trust to keep things close to the vest. What about the people you've taken into your confidence-Corliss Rydle and your two sons? Are there others you confided in?"
"I told you about my nonpolitical friend, Gabe Hilliard, who owns several security firms. He knows, but believe me, he has no axe to grind. He doesn't want to kill me, he only wants to beat me at golf. Listen, if I can't trust him, I can't trust anybody." The senator looked down at his watch. "Corliss told me Gabe's coming by anytime now. She told him he might have to run the gauntlet through the media. You can meet him if you like."
Savich thought that would be a good idea. "Your aide knows Mr. Hilliard personally?"
"Oh, yes, they're great friends. You know, maybe one of the house staff overheard something, but no one else. All right, I see your point. There are lots of possible leak sites."
Savich said, "I suspect your aide, Corliss Rydle, could have her fingernails yanked out and still not tell anyone about this. I gather you've told your sons you'd cut them off at the knees if they let this thing out?"
"Cut them off at the neck, more like it."
Savich added, "You're sure the investigator has no clue about Nikki?"
"No, Corliss told him we were worried about a stalker, not a ghost. Listen, Savich, a media leak still concerns me."
Savich said, "The media is not what I'm worried about. The fact is, everyone who knows, whether innocently or not, has a tie to this. We have to find out if this was personal, or, as you believe, an assassination attempt, before they have a chance to try again. Now I want to hear everything that happened from the moment you stepped into the Foggy Bottom Grill until Dana Frobisher was taken away by the paramedics."
29
Hoffman jerked his fingers through his hair, and looked both ashamed and embarrassed. "Here I am thinking about myself, and how all this will affect me. That poor woman is dead because I called her to ask her to lunch.
"All right. When she arrived, we chatted about things in general, you know, nothing important, one doesn't discuss business right away. . . ." He paused a moment. "Then we ordered. I had just begun telling her why I'd asked her to lunch, when she became ill and-died."
Ruth asked, "Did your office call her office?"
"Yes, Corliss usually makes my calls."
"Did Corliss tell her the reason for the lunch invitation?"
Hoffman frowned down at his clasped hands. "No, I don't think so. Corliss was after me about an upcoming vote, and I needed some more information, and so I don't think we did. She accepted my invitation, and that was that."
Savich said, "Did your office make the reservations, Senator? And when?"
"Yes, my staffer, Al Pope, always gives them a heads-up even though I'm there like clockwork every single week, usually with a colleague. It's only polite to let them know how many people will be coming. I believe he made the reservation five, maybe six days ago."
"Which of you arrived first, Senator?"
"I did. I always arrange to get there first, say hello to everyone, shake hands with the diners I know. Dana Frobisher arrived some ten minutes later, if I remember correctly. My waiter-the same waiter I've had for years, Mr. Graves-he would know for sure."
"Did you order something to drink while you waited for her?"
"Yes, mineral water, lemon slice. Mr. Graves always brings it without my even asking."
Savich said, "Did you suggest she order the shrimp, Senator?"
Again, Hoffman paused, looked over at the draperies covering the long windows at the front of the house. "Maybe I did, or maybe Mr. Graves did. Isn't it odd? I don't remember Mr. Graves's first name, never used it. In any case, Mr. Graves might have mentioned to her that it was excellent, that it was the dish I always ordered, or I might have. She told me this was her first visit to the Foggy Bottom Grill.
"As I said, I always order the fried shrimp. It's my one dietary sin for the week. Everyone who works there knows that, it's sort of a joke, you know, they batter up the shrimp extra thick for me, fry it in a skillet with two inches of hot oil. But I wanted something light, as my weight was up this morning, so Mr. Graves suggested I order the small Cobb salad. Can you believe that? I overindulge at dinner last night and that saves my life? Something so insignificant, so arbitrary. It's hard to deal with this, Agent Savich."
Ruth asked, "You're sure Mr. Graves told her you always ordered that dish, Senator?"
"Yes, I think so. I remember how I also told her it was the best thing on the menu. And we laughed about fried food and how delicious it was. I really can't remember anything else, my brain feels a bit scrambled right now.
"I remember the look on her face when she ate that first fried shrimp-sheer bliss. I think she said something about having a spiritual moment. I remember I laughed, and wished I'd ordered it too, I could diet the next day." He paused a moment, swallowed, then he rubbed his hand over his throat.
"What?" Savich asked.
"She was doing that, rubbing her hand over her throat. I didn't know why, really didn't think about it, but now of course I realize it had to do with the poison beginning to act, she must have been having trouble swallowing.
"I reminded her she'd worked with Nikki, easing into what I wanted to ask of her-now that I think about it, she didn't say anything. Listen, Agent Savich, it all happened so very fast. One minute she was eating shrimp and we were talking and then she turned silent, working her hands against her throat, then she fell out of her chair and onto the floor, and she vomited, and went into seizures." Again, he shuddered, seeing it clearly, Savich thought, knowing it could easily have been him on the floor, wracked by seizures, spurting out foam as he lay dying.
"And then she was dead. Just dead, gone."
Ruth said, "So she never knew why you'd asked her to lunch?"
He drew back a bit, looked impatiently at Ruth. "No, I don't suppose so." He fanned his hands in front of him. "Who cares?"
Savich said, "Mr. Graves initially set down the shrimp plate in front of you, didn't he, sir?"
"Yes, he did, and I told him it wasn't for me today, and he apologized, moved the plate in front of Dana. I don't remember if he said anything else. Obviously you've spoken to him. What did he say?"
Savich merely smiled. "Did you have time to eat any of your salad before she became obviously ill?"
"Maybe a bite or two. As I said, it all happened very fast."
Ruth said, "The M.E. said she'd eaten five shrimp, and yet you only ate a couple of bites of salad?" Her voice was a bit sharp, a bit disbelieving. Savich never changed expression. For a moment he thought Senator Hoffman looked at Ruth like he'd just as soon she jumped out the front window. But when he spoke, his voice was deep, disarming, his words self-deprecating. "It was probably because I didn't have time-I was doing most of the talking." He gave both of them a tired smile. "Agent Savich knows how much I like to talk," he added to Ruth. He rubbed his forehead. "Maybe I ate more than a couple of bites, it's hard to remember. I close my eyes and see her lying dead on the floor, everyone standing over her, horrified, and all I can think of is that it should have been me eating that fried shrimp, not Dana Frobisher. It should have been me lying dead on the floor. I should have listened to you, Agent Savich, when you told me about Nikki."
Savich was on the verge of asking him about the work Dana Frobisher and Nikki shared, when there was a knock on the study door, and Corliss Rydle stuck her head in. "Gabe is here, sir."
"Show him in, Co
rliss." Hoffman rose to walk around his desk. "Gabe, thank you for coming."
Savich and Ruth watched the man squeeze Corliss's hand, then he walked to Hoffman and the two men embraced. Hilliard stepped back. "I was scared out of my mind, Dave, are you all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine, just rattled."
"No wonder." Gabe Hilliard turned his attention to Savich, who'd slowly risen from his chair.
He was a block, Savich thought, nearly as wide as he was tall. He was about Hoffman's age, and perfectly bald. His features were as blunt as Hoffman's were refined.
"Gabe, these are two FBI agents. Agent Savich, Agent Warnecki, this is Gabe Hilliard, a very longtime friend. Incidentally, his son, Derek, knows Corliss."
Gabe Hilliard grinned. "Maybe there'll be an announcement from those two pretty soon."
They all shook hands. Ruth had to admit she was impressed when Hilliard offered her his hand as well. She gave it a good shake. He was shorter than she was.
"Sit down, sit down, Gabe. We were talking about what happened today and that poor woman's death."
Gabe Hilliard pulled up a chair beside Ruth's, sat down and crossed one leg over his knee. "If you want to, tell me everything. I've got a brain, maybe I can help."
"From your lips to God's ear," Hoffman said.
30
Ruth was on her cell phone as Savich negotiated the heavy traffic back into Washington, wondering what Sherlock was doing, praying she was keeping herself safe.
Ruth punched off. "That was Ollie giving me the results of his last interview. He said he got statements from all the staff who handled food in the kitchen at lunchtime today."
"Talk to me."
Ruth thought briefly of her husband of one month, Dix, and the boys, and realized she wasn't going to be in the stands for Rob's Friday night high school football game. It was the beginning of the season, but still . . . "There were eleven employees in and out of the kitchen today at the Foggy Bottom Grill: the chef, two sous chefs, three dishwashers, two busboys, and three waiters all had easy access. The owner, Raul Minsker, was also in and out of the kitchen, but he doesn't think he was in there during the time the poison had to have been introduced into the shrimp batter, but who knows? We're not going to discount him.