* * *
Jasmine Palumbo stared off into space, ignoring the piles of work on her computer screen, primarily the schedules and assignments for Bexholt staff for the security installation at the Kentington Hotel. It was a top-drawer contract for top-drawer clients. The Bexholt Group would be providing communications security for a series of private negotiations between staff of the Federal Reserve and the European Central Bank, starting on Monday. She smiled as she rubbed her arm through the sling. Not broken, they said, but it still throbbed, and her smile quickly fell away. She didn’t want to take any more pain meds, they fuzzed her brain. What were the odds it would all come down to an accident? What wretched luck she would drive into that intersection and into an FBI agent’s car just as Justice Cummings shot out of that alley and went flying over the agent’s hood. There was still no sign of that pissant idiot. Was he holed up somewhere? Dead behind a dumpster on K Street? No, she knew he was out there somewhere, injured but still a threat.
She sighed, rubbed her arm again. She’d had the formal Bexholt Group plans printed up for her scheduled meeting with Nikki and Nathan Bexholt, brother and sister, Nathan, COO, and Nikki, VP of the Bexholt Group their father had founded, including how the Bexholt people would interface with hotel security and with the Central Bankers’ own security teams. What a joy that would be. She knew Nathan Bexholt was smart, savvy, and driven, and could barely tolerate his sister, Nikki. Not that the feelings weren’t mutual. Nikki was officially in charge of the operation, and he would try to find holes in her plans to look superior, so Jasmine knew everything set out had to be perfect. If all went well, Nathan would never know what the real plans were, what they were really going to do in the meeting room.
Jasmine looked up when her door unexpectedly opened, and there stood a tall, good-looking hunk duded up in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie, giving her a dead-man’s stare. Where was Glynn, her assistant, who guarded her door like a mother bear? She gave the man a quick study. He looked tough and professional, made her wonder what he’d look like stripped down. In the next moment, she saw a woman standing just behind him—tall, slender, curly red hair—Jasmine jumped out of her chair. “You’re Agent Sherlock!” She came around her desk at a run and stopped in front of Sherlock. “You’re here and you’re all right. I’m so sorry I hit you, I didn’t see you. No excuse, but I’m so sorry.”
“Ms. Palumbo,” the man said in a dark sexy voice, a nice addition to the package. Jasmine looked away from the woman staring at her curiously.
He was holding out his creds. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Agent Sherlock. But you already recognized her.”
Sherlock nodded to her, said nothing. So this was the person who’d struck her. Palumbo was tall and fit, dressed all in black. A requirement for a security engineer?
Jasmine, flustered, stepped back. She accepted Savich’s creds, gave them a cursory look, handed them back. She waved away Sherlock’s creds, splayed her hands in front of her. “I already knew who you were, Agent Sherlock. Again, I am so sorry.”
Sherlock said quietly, “But you do have an excuse, Ms. Palumbo. You were watching for Justice Cummings. You saw him running out of the alley and he distracted you. Maybe you thought you could bring him down?”
Jasmine froze, but only for an instant. She had to keep her head. How did they know? It had to be a guess, nothing but a guess. She shook her head, looked bewildered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anyone running out of an alley. No, I lost concentration thinking about a security project I’m leading—for a meeting here in Washington, and I—I really don’t know who this person is you mentioned. Justice, you called him?”
Savich said, “We’d like to talk to you about him, Ms. Palumbo. And the accident.”
Jasmine wished she were anywhere but here, facing these two FBI agents. She’d even jump at a meeting with Nathan Bexholt and Nikki sniping at each other. She turned, walked back to her desk, and slowly sat down. She waved them to the two chairs in front of her. She knew, of course, they’d recognize a delaying tactic when they saw it, but it didn’t matter. She needed time to get herself together. She had a superior brain, she could do this.
She should have known the FBI would come to talk to her, but she hadn’t expected them to know about Justice Cummings and she hadn’t expected Agent Sherlock. Of course she knew what Sherlock looked like from pictures and from countless videos, but in the flesh, she looked as stylish and kick-ass in her black blazer and low-heeled black boots as the male agent. She’d heard Sherlock had left the hospital, but she was back at work already?
Jasmine said matter-of-factly, “Look, I know you’d like to speak to me about the accident. I mean, I did hit an FBI agent. Again, I’m so sorry for my inattention. But I’m afraid I don’t know who Justice Cummings is. Is he the man you crashed into?” Her voice came out nice and smooth, utterly sincere, even though she was still shocked at hearing they’d even considered a connection. Athena—Nikki—had been so sure they wouldn’t—it was the first time she could remember her being so wrong.
Savich could see no obvious sign she was lying. She was good, steady and sincere. He settled back and said easily, “Before we discuss Justice Cummings and the accident further, tell us, Ms. Palumbo, what is it you do here at the Bexholt Group?”
Familiar ground. Jasmine felt her confidence returning. She said, “As I’m sure you know, the Bexholt Group is known for our expertise in electronic security and vulnerability assessment for our clients’ communications. We do some manufacturing of firewalls, too, and some of our own R&D. I’m a security engineer here, among many others. I work in security monitoring, primarily.”
“Were you at work for Bexholt at the time of the accident?”
“No, it was late in the day and I was off.”
Savich said without pause, “Did you know Eleanor Corbitt was murdered last night in her apartment?”
Jasmine heard his words, but they didn’t immediately make any sense. Then she gasped, shock freezing her. No, there had to be a mistake. Ellie had called her last night, frightened, and Jasmine had told her not to worry, she’d take care of it. So how could Ellie be dead? Murdered? She wanted to scream, to weep. What was going on here? She knew she had to keep it together. She looked Agent Savich in the eye. “This is horrible, unbelievable. Why would anyone kill Eleanor Corbitt? She was an accountant in our accounting division. Do you know who’s responsible?”
Savich saw the shock, knew it was real. “Not yet. Tell us about Ms. Corbitt.”
Jasmine shook her head back and forth. She still couldn’t take it in, couldn’t deal with the reality of it—Ellie dead, not just dead, but murdered. Get it together. “I’m very sorry to hear this, though I didn’t know her well. She was more an acquaintance, you could say. This is nuts, it makes no sense. As I said, she was an accountant, for heaven’s sake.”
Sherlock said, “The killer waited until she was asleep and shot her in the head.”
Jasmine shuddered, couldn’t help it. She picked up a pen and began weaving it between her long fingers. “Do you know if it was a boyfriend?”
Stupid, stupid, the agents would know Ellie was divorced from an abusive crap-head. Ellie was leery of men at best. Jasmine’s brain cleared and she said aloud, “Stupid question. Her husband abused her. She finally divorced him. Everyone in the office knew about the situation. I can’t imagine she’d have a boyfriend so soon after the divorce. I heard her ex now lives somewhere in Virginia.”
Sherlock said, “It was a very nasty divorce, we understand.”
“From what I heard around the office, yes. Then you suspect him? I believe his name is Brook Hughes.”
Savich said, “Brook Hughes is currently in the South of France, near Cannes. Crimes of passion usually aren’t like that—a bullet to the brain of a sleeping woman—more often they’re loud and bloody if two people really hate each other. It looked like a robbery on the face of it, but it’s more than a small coincidence given bo
th you and Ms. Corbitt work at the same company.”
Sherlock picked it up. “That and the fact Ms. Corbitt was caught on video standing at the street corner at the scene of my accident on Tuesday, staring straight at you. It seems logical to assume she was somehow involved. And did her involvement make her a loose end? Was someone afraid she might have helped us understand what all this is about?”
Jasmine splayed her hands in front of her. “What you’re implying is horrible and insulting. I can’t help you, Agents. I have no idea why she was there. I’m very sorry she’s dead, she was nice, a good worker, but I don’t know what she did after work, how she spent her evenings and with whom.”
Savich said, “If you were only acquaintances, how do you know her ex-husband’s name? Ms. Palumbo, where were you between midnight and four a.m. last night?”
Jasmine rose straight up, cleansing waves of anger pumping off her. “You dare ask me that? What is this? We both worked at the same company, nothing more, nothing less.” Keep it together, calm down. She looked at Sherlock. “Is this out of spite because I hit you? You know I didn’t mean to, it was an accident. Look, I was hurt, too—” She waved her sling at them. “Listen, I told you, I knew Ellie Corbitt as an employee here, that’s all.”
Sherlock’s voice stayed calm. “Come, Ms. Palumbo, we need to know your whereabouts.”
“Very well. I assume you’re asking everyone? But why are you involved at all? Ellie was in Washington. Isn’t that a police matter?”
Sherlock merely waited, not taking her eyes off Palumbo’s face.
Jasmine shrugged. “Very well. I was home in bed, alone. No alibi.” She stared at Sherlock, caught a glimpse of the Band-Aid beneath all that curly hair. “I’m very sorry about Eleanor Corbitt. I’m also very pleased you’re going to be all right. You are, aren’t you?”
Sherlock cocked her head. “So they tell me.”
45
* * *
GAFFER'S RIDGE SHERIFF'S STATION
FRIDAY MORNING
Booker Bodine sat stiffly in a chair across from his own desk in his own office, his jaw locked, his eyes looking down at his big watch that even gave him the time in Hong Kong. And Griffin studied him. Perhaps it was petty of him, but the sheriff’s office was the only private place in the station house.
Griffin said, “I read your files on Heather Forrester’s disappearance, Sheriff Bodine. You were obviously very thorough. After all, Heather’s family has lived in Gaffer’s Ridge for years and you know them well. Now, as for the teenagers missing from Marion and Radford, those investigations also appear quite intensive. All three reports determined the girls were kidnapped, even though there were no demands for money. All the reports indicate there’s no direction to go in now, and they’re awaiting further developments. You were in Marion yourself yesterday, weren’t you? Did you discover anything to help us?”
Sheriff Bodine looked up from his watch. “No, I didn’t. It’s Sheriff Bud Bailey’s town, so sure he was thorough, as was Chief Mule Lindy in Radford.”
“Mule? That’s his name?”
“Not until he got kicked in the head by his pa’s mule when he was a kid, no harm done. Look, the reports I gave you are everything Bailey and Lindy had. Of course, there’s nothing to go on, or we would have solved the case. Look here, this town doesn’t run itself, I’ve—”
Griffin said, “Sheriff, I don’t like the fact I’m sitting here at your desk any more than you like me doing it. You might get it back if you work with me. Now, answer a question for me. In Mule Lindy’s report, it’s noted several times Amy Traynor was a very independent girl with a mind of her own, always questioning her parents and her teachers.”
“Yeah, she was known as a flat-out little hellion. But that didn’t give anyone the right to take her.”
“No, but it is interesting. In your report and in the Marion report on Latisha Morris, the missing girls are close to sainthood. Now, Sheriff, give me an account of what you saw yesterday.”
There was just enough threat in Griffin’s voice to make Booker’s lips seam, but he wasn’t stupid, he managed to swallow his bile. Griffin had known Booker would push him, challenge him. In his position, Griffin supposed he’d do the same.
“I met with Sheriff Bud Bailey in Marion, but he didn’t have anything new to add except whoever took Latisha was real smart. Then I went to talk to Ms. Sulina Morris—she’s Latisha’s mother, a social worker with five kids. Latisha recently turned sixteen and she’s the oldest. Ms. Morris couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, anything that isn’t in the reports.” Booker shrugged. “When I told Bud the FBI was involved now, he spat in his wastebasket.”
“Was this a sign of approval or disapproval?”
Booker chewed this over, thought better of lying about it. He said, reluctantly, “Bailey thought it couldn’t hurt to have fresh eyes on the case. Said to tell you he was now considering that maybe Latisha was tired of taking care of all her younger brothers and sisters, and had run off. Maybe there were drugs involved, but nothing solid. I think he was shooting off his mouth, wanting to impress you.”
“I trust you told Sheriff Bailey you agree with FBI involvement?”
“Me? Doesn’t matter what I think, does it? I can’t remember exactly what I said.”
Griffin said, “Let’s leave the drugs aside. I saw there was no mention of Ms. Morris seeing any strange boys around or seeing any strangers at all near her daughter.”
“Look, Ms. Morris’s got five kids, no husband, and a full-time job. I doubt she notices much of anything. Still, she was frantic, said her daughter has to be kidnapped or she’d have gotten in touch with her. The trip was a waste of time. My time. Nothing new, only Sheriff Bailey’s lame ideas about drugs.” Booker shrugged, looked bored.
“Where is Rafer’s SUV? It’s evidence from the crime scene. Where is it?”
Only a slight pause, then, “I asked Rafer in the hospital, and he said he didn’t know, said he was going to report it stolen.”
“And you know nothing about it?”
“Of course not. You know, Rafer’s lawyer, Mr. Jobs, said you couldn’t hold Rafer, said he was going to file for habeas corpus. Rafer’s going to leave the hospital today.”
Griffin knew this. Mr. Jobs had already called him, pointed out there was no evidence, presented him with a release warrant, so Griffin had agreed to his staying with his parents when he left the hospital. And he was to stay there until further notice. Mr. Jobs had grumbled, but finally agreed.
Bodine said, “Rafer didn’t do anything, neither did anyone else in my town.”
Why not lay it out? Griffin said, “Let me add I’ve met his mother, Cyndia Bodine. She’s a person of interest, along with her son and your brother. Tell me, Sheriff, did you call her or your brother at Rafer’s house before you brought Dr. DeSilva and me in? Did one of them tell you to remove the evidence? Or vice versa?”
Booker snapped back in his chair, his face flooded with furious color. “No, I didn’t call her! I didn’t call anyone!”
Griffin studied him a moment, knew he’d never get the truth out of him. He rose as he said, “Be here tomorrow morning, Sheriff.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“You’re right. So not too early, say eight o’clock?”
After Booker marched stiffly out of his own office, Griffin sat back down, took stock. Then he picked up his cell to make sure Quint Bodine was at the bank and not at home with his son. Then he called Carson. “You said you needed to call your boss. What did Aquino have to say?”
“He thinks there’s a great story here, and I can stay as long as I wish, just so I bring home the goods.”
“I’ll make sure the goods happen. Be ready in ten minutes. You and I are going to visit with Rafer’s daddy at his bank, the grand pooh-bah himself, Quint Bodine.”
He opened his cell phone to the files Savich had given him about Quint Bodine and started reading.
When Carson stepp
ed into Booker Bodine’s office, Fayreen’s laser glare nearly searing her back, Griffin looked up. “I called Slick and DeAndre. Rafer already left the hospital. I told them to go back to Richmond, I’d holler loud if I ran into trouble.”
Carson couldn’t believe it. “He’s out of the hospital? Not coming here to jail? But—but—Griffin, he kidnapped me!”
“I know. But I’m thinking his being free might work to our advantage. You ready to go see Quint?”
46
* * *
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
WAREHOUSE DISTRICT
FRIDAY MORNING
Justice Cummings woke up to humming—soft, soothing, close by. He opened an eye to see a man with a towel around his head sitting cross-legged next to him. He smelled ripe.
The man stopped humming, leaned in close to study Justice’s face. He said, “I’m Dougie.” He straightened his towel and smiled down at him. Justice saw the towel was more gray than white, MARRIOTT emblazoned on it. Justice eyed the grizzled man, who could have been fifty or eighty, impossible to tell. He wore a dirty Hawaiian shirt and pants once green, now more like stale guacamole. And that weathered Marriott towel. He had surprisingly beautiful white teeth.
“Hummer will be back with some more antibiotic cream for your leg and nose. If you don’t know, your nose is offline, but I’ll tell you, boy, when the swelling and bruising go down, it’ll make you look tougher, less like a nerd.”
“But I am a nerd,” Justice said, and sucked in his breath when a mountain of pain slammed into his leg.
“A nerd’s okay. I knew a nerd, a long time ago, maybe ten years, I dunno. Hummer left me aspirin to give you. All I got is Wild Turkey to wash it down. Here you go.”
Justice didn’t care if Dougie was giving him arsenic. He opened his mouth, felt his stomach lining burn off when the Wild Turkey hit it. He wheezed and coughed and Dougie laughed. “I guess you gotta get accustomed to it,” he said, and drank down the rest of the bottle without stopping. He wiped his hand over his mouth. “Oh yeah, Hummer’s going to bring you back some bottled water. I told him booze cures anything, but he said since you’re hurt, you need the water to keep you hy-drated.”
Labyrinth Page 19
