Whiplash

  Maitland said, "Senator Hoffman's driver, Morey Hughes, claims no one ever got close to the Brabus. He even took a lie detector, turned out clean as a whistle. Morey rolled his eyes and said, 'That car costs more than I'll make in a lifetime. Do you think I'd let anyone near it? No sir, that Brabus is guarded closer than Clinton's black book.'"

  Savich looked down into his now empty teacup, at the mess of tea leaves at the bottom. He'd always enjoyed staring at the leaves and making out various shapes. He saw, oddly enough, what looked like a magician in a black top hat waving a wand.

  Maitland said, "Have all the Foggy Bottom Grill employees had lie detector tests as well?"

  "Not all, but we've scheduled them. No one's refused and demanded a lawyer."

  "Let me know the results. Then I want to hear you've got it figured out."

  "You'll be the first. Go home, sir, get some sleep."

  49

  Savich knew it often came down to clearing out his mind. It was a matter of believing that all the facts one needed were there, waiting to be put together properly, not all that different from a picture puzzle.

  After Mr. Maitland left, Savich checked on Sean, who was sleeping so deeply a clap of thunder probably wouldn't have disturbed his dreams. Then he returned to the living room and settled down, only to have his cell phone belt out Elton John. When he slipped the cell back into his pocket, he leaned his head back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought about nothing at all. And what came immediately to his mind was Dane's call.

  One of the Foggy Bottom Grill sous chefs, Emilio Gasparini, who'd been passed over in the first wave of lie detector tests because he'd said he'd been sick in bed with the flu, didn't show up for his rescheduled test. Dane's gut had started to salsa when he discovered Emilio hadn't shown up for his shift at the Foggy Bottom Grill either. Dane told Savich he'd bet his new kayak they'd find a drug problem or maybe gambling debts if they dug deeper. Emilio hadn't prepared the senator's shrimp that day, but he'd had access, and anyway, it didn't matter, because all the other Foggy Bottom Grill employees had passed their lie detector tests with flying colors.

  Emilio was long gone. His apartment manager cursed when he found out Emilio had skipped on two months' rent.

  Dane was worried Emilio might be dead, murdered by whoever had put him up to this. And the individual responsible for all this suffering, whoever he or she was, was still shrouded in mystery.

  Savich let the questions drift through his mind. Whenever he hit a brick wall, he simply backed up and let his brain drift. He kept coming back to Aiden and Benson Hoffman, to what they'd said, and he wondered if the answers were there, in their own words.

  Before he fell into bed, he read the transcript of their interview. Then he cleared his mind, called to Nikki, who didn't come.

  Nothing came to him that night, neither ghost nor inspiration.

  50

  WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Saturday morning

  Savich walked head down into the hospital, hoping no one from the media would notice him. He heard Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post call out his name, but he didn't react, just kept walking. A Secret Service agent stood at the bank of elevators, first in a long line of agents on the way to the vice president. He showed the agent his creds and took the sole elevator that stopped on the third floor. He said nothing to the dozen family members and friends stuffed in the waiting room. He walked into the ICU, creds out, and stopped. Half of the ICU was given over to the vice president. Savich had expected there to be protection, but there were six Secret Service personnel stationed outside of Vice President Valenti's room, eyeing every person who came within twelve feet of them. It seemed a bit of overkill, maybe partly for show.

  He spotted Secret Service Agent Alma Stone and pulled out his creds, flashing each guard as he passed.

  "Alma, you've got yourself a fortress here."

  "You got that right, Dillon. I was told you were coming to speak to Vice President Valenti. I'll tell you, he's barely conscious, but he wants to talk to you, insisted to his doctors when they dared to disagree. Those are two of his physicians now. These guys don't ever crack a smile, so don't worry about it."

  She introduced him to two very serious-faced older men in white coats and scrubs, turned, and quietly opened the glass door.

  The two doctors followed Savich into a private cubicle with curtained glass walls, quiet except for the sounds of the machines that kept Valenti tethered to life. There were only chairs and the bed in the room, no flowers, no cards, and enough equipment to launch a rocket, all of it beeping or whirring or humming in random rhythms.

  A man and a woman stood by the window, arms crossed over their chests until Savich came in, and they straightened, their hands going closer to their sides, and their weapons.

  Savich waited for Alma to nod her okay to the other agents. Then she patted his arm and left the small room. Savich looked hard at the two doctors who stationed themselves at the foot of the bed, giving them silent notice not to interfere, and walked to stand next to Valenti.

  Valenti looked ten years older, his handsome hawk's face waxy gray, his eyelids bruised, oxygen tubes in his nose, one of his legs in a cast. He was fastened to several IVs, including one in his neck. His breathing was slow, but not all that labored, which was a relief to Savich.

  Alex Valenti was in serious but stable condition, the media had announced with special reports and streamers running along the bottom of TV screens across the country.

  The talking heads were at a loss, with nothing much left to speculate about.

  Savich leaned down and lightly laid his palm on Valenti's forearm, above one of the IV lines. "Sir, I'm here."

  The famous green eyes opened slowly. It took Valenti a while to focus, but when he did, Savich saw awareness and the blaze of ferocious intelligence in his eyes. "Savich. Good, you came. Do you know who did this to me? Was it terrorists? Is anyone taking credit? I know it wasn't an accident."

  "No, it wasn't an accident. The car was sabotaged, but we don't think it was political or tied to terrorists. Sir, while we have the opportunity, could you please tell me about your relationship to Senator David Hoffman?"

  Valenti blinked. "David? Why?" Savich saw a flash of pain, a moment of confusion.

  One of the physicians came forward and pushed the morphine button beside Valenti. "That will help, sir. You'll feel better in a few minutes." He placed the button in Valenti's hand, and curled his fingers around it.

  They all waited, the physicians' eyes on Valenti, until he had it together again. "Okay, that's better now. All right, I'll tell you about David and what he did-he got that incredible Mercedes to rub my nose in it. He knew I'd be mad to drive it, since I'd never driven a Brabus before. He was right. All I could think was what an incredible machine, I was flying, that amazing engine purring, it was more than anything I'd known in a long time."

  "Let's get back to you and Senator Hoffman. Are you still good friends?" Savich saw Valenti had to shift mental gears, that it wasn't simply automatic. He had to work at it.

  "David and I are the best of friends. We've known each other for a thousand years, well, maybe a hundred is closer."

  "Very longtime friends," Savich said, all of which he already knew.

  "Yes, all the way back to just after we all graduated college. It was odd, really, now that I think about it. Both David and I knew-knew all the way to our bones-that we wanted to go into politics. We took different routes, though. David wanted Congress from the get-go but I preferred state government. I was reelected governor of Virginia the same year David won his first election to the Senate. He'd been a congressman for fourteen years before that."

  "And you, sir, before you were elected governor?" Of course Savich knew every single fact about Valenti, but he wanted him thinking and focused.

  "I started out local, mayor of Richmond, then moved to state government, worked up to governor. I hope I did some good, I
tried. Three years ago, when I was in my third term as governor, President Holley tapped me as his running mate. I hadn't considered it, really didn't want it, but David was one of those who talked me into accepting the nomination. Of course my wife and children were great assets in the campaign, they still are."

  "During these years, your family and Hoffman's family got together a lot?"

  If the vice president wondered at the direction of these questions, he didn't let on. Savich imagined he was pleased to be able to talk and make sense.

  "Yes, of course. I knew David's wife, Nikki, ever since we both attended the same high school. Then Nikki went to Stanford on a scholarship-she was very smart and so sweet. I went to Harvard, a tradition in my family going back to my grandfather.

  "Did you ever meet Nikki, Agent Savich?"

  "Yes I did, in a way."

  "Her death wasn't a shock, but I'll tell you, it was difficult for all of us, David in particular. I'll catch myself thinking of her even now, wondering what she'd have to say about this or that.

  "Like all eighteen-year-olds, we thought we were in love, but of course when you're young, life is always nearly too serious to bear. Nikki went to Stanford and met David. At Harvard I met my wife, Elyssa. She was two years behind me, at Radcliffe. I remember it was Nikki who got us all together back then. We've been great friends ever since." Valenti tried for a smile and managed a small one. "Our families ended up living within driving distance of each other."

  "You're also close to the Richards family, I know. Bowie sends his best wishes."

  "Oh, yes, we all go back nearly to the ark. Bowie's a cracker FBI agent. We were pleased when he came back east."

  "What do you think of Senator Hoffman's sons, Aiden and Benson?"

  Valenti closed his eyes and fell silent. He whispered, sounding so tired, it worried Savich, "I don't know what to say."

  "The truth, sir."

  "I don't guess it matters, everyone knows what they are. Frankly, both Aiden and Benson are disappointments. Nikki never got over how they turned out. They resent their father's tight hold on his own money. When Nikki died three years ago, David simply let them go. I remember he told me they're adults and there was nothing more he could do."

  "Have you ever known them to be violent?"

  "Yes, actually. With women. David hushed up a couple of assaults on women they were seeing, paid them off so they wouldn't press charges. Spoiled men acting out."

  "I've spoken to both Aiden and Benson. They tell me you're an excellent driver. You've driven competitively in Europe."

  Another smile brought on a dash of pain with it. Savich watched the vice president press the button for another hit of morphine.

  "Yes, Elyssa has always hated that passion of mine because it scared her so much. Now she wants desperately to say 'I told you so,' but since I'm down and out, she can't."

  Savich said, "The two gentlemen standing at the end of your bed say you're not going to die, sir."

  "I'm pleased, at least most of the time now." Valenti fell silent a moment, studying Savich's face.

  "Tell me what happened."

  Valenti gave Savich a small nod. "I see you have no doubts at all about this. Good, because there's no other way it makes sense. I was taking a turn hard, testing the cornering a bit, when something jostled in the wheel. Then the steering failed completely. I jerked the wheel back and forth, but it didn't work. Then it all happened fast. I hit the brakes, but I was moving too fast, must have been near eighty. I saw that tree and I hit it in the same instant. Then it was lights out. I didn't understand it, but I knew it wasn't an accident, even while it was happening."

  Savich was bursting with more questions, but he realized Valenti was fading. He leaned close to the vice president's face and said quietly, "Rest now, sir. I will see you again, and count on it, I will find an answer for you." He nodded to the physicians and the Secret Service agents and left the room. Secret Service Agent Alma Stone was soon beside him, escorting him to the door of the ICU.

  "You're on your own from here, Dillon. Do you know we caught a media yahoo up here early this morning? No idea how he managed to slip through this far, and he refused to tell us, babbled about the freedom of the press."

  "Keep him safe, Alma."

  "You can count on that. Give my love to Sherlock and Sean."

  "If you need me for anything, Alma, I'll be down the hall speaking to Mrs. Valenti."

  51

  MILLSTONE, CONNECTICUT

  Saturday

  The Glenis Springs Country Club boasted a bitch of a course, club golfers were heard to remark fondly. Even though the clubhouse hadn't been updated since 1981, the course was buffed and polished and improved upon every year.

  Sherlock bypassed the red stone and glass clubhouse and walked down a stone path, past the pro shop, toward the first tee. In the distance she saw a half-dozen tennis courts, all of them in use. It was a beautiful day, in the mid-sixties, and she hoped Mick Haggarty was giving tennis lessons on one of the courts. Surely Jane Ann Royal would not be here with Mick, not with her husband brutally murdered in her laundry room early yesterday morning. Surprise was usually a good thing.

  She was frankly surprised she didn't find Mick Haggarty. She checked in at the pro shop and learned he had an appointment at the Royal house. Go figure that.

  She called Bowie and Erin, en route to see Dr. Kender in New Haven, and told them she was off to Jane Ann's house.

  She pulled into the driveway and parked behind two forensic vans, both FBI. Forensic teams were still working inside the house. She was just about to ask if the techs had found anything useful when her cell played "Some Enchanted Evening." She smiled because Dillon had programmed it in right before he'd returned to Washington.

  "Sherlock."

  "It's me."

  "Hi, you, what's going on down there?"

  "I'm out near Leesburg. They found Emilio Gasparini, the Foggy Bottom sous chef, dead in his car at the bottom of a ditch. The Virginia cop who found him saw the APB and called us. He says it looks like an accident, but you can bet Astro's collar it isn't."

  "I'd make that bet. One more piece of the puzzle, Dillon. Our murderer is running scared. I don't want you being a hot dog, all right? I want you to be careful, you promise?"

  "My middle name, sweetheart."

  "Which word?"

  He laughed. "No one's tried to gun me down lately. Now, tell me this, Sherlock, how could anyone have messed with Senator Hoffman's Brabus without Hoffman's driver, Morey Hughes, knowing about it?"

  "How much time would it require?"

  "I asked the guys who reassembled what's left of the device. They said someone experienced at it could install it in maybe twenty minutes of intense concentration."

  "Morey's coffee break?"

  "Could be, since Morey also does other things for the senator besides driving him and taking care of his cars, so it's not like he camps out in the garage. But he's still there most of the time. His other tasks-like delivering to FedEx, dropping off papers to another lawmaker's residence or office, getting take-out for a staff meeting-it's always different stuff, so anyone watching for a set routine would be out of luck."

  "So our murderer already had the skill to both assemble and install a pretty high-tech device, or he's bright and learned how?"

  "Or our murderer hired someone to put it together."

  "Yes, that's what I'm thinking, too. We've put out feelers for someone here in D.C. or close by who would fit the bill. Demolition background, maybe. I'm also thinking the person would simply have to watch and wait until Morey Hughes left the Hoffman house, slip into the garage and install it, hope he wasn't spotted."

  "That's a lot of risk," Sherlock said slowly. "Whoever did it would have to be really committed, or extraordinarily well paid."

  "Yeah, and that keeps bringing me back to Senator Hoffman's sons."

  "You really think they have the answer to this mess?"

  "Sounds strange, I know.
I guess they could be just a distraction."

  "No, if that's your gut, I'd take it to the bank. You're trying too hard, Dillon. How many times have you read the interview transcript?"

  "Three, four times."

  "Don't read it again. In fact, try not to think about it, just let it simmer. I know you, you'll sit bolt upright in the middle of the night tonight and there it'll be, the answer, crystal clear." Sherlock could see his thoughtful expression, and smiled.

  She said, "Speaking of distractions, I'm beginning to think there are plenty of them around up here in Connecticut. I'm off to Millstone again to see if I can't find Jane Ann Royal. I'm here at her house and her Audi isn't in the garage, so I'm thinking she's with her tennis pro. I'm going to drive to Millstone, that's where Mick Haggarty lives. I want to see the two of them together. I could be wrong, I mean, Jane Ann could have friends right here in Stone Bridge, but I have this feeling. . . ." She paused, then added, "We'll see. Later I'll be hooking up with Bowie and Erin."

  "You be careful, you hear?"

  "You can count on it. I've got that enchanted evening coming up, right? And I don't mean pizza with Sean, either. How about Sunday night? Maybe we can get this all ironed out today."

  "Sounds good to me." And he laughed.

  Sherlock was grinning when she readjusted her mirror a bit, waved to the crime scene techs, and pulled out of the Royal driveway.

  She called Agent Dolores Cliff, got Mick Haggarty's address, and drove back to Millstone.