“Issues? What issues did Rebekah have with her grandfather?”
“I believe her grandfather wanted to justify his actions to her. He wanted to convince her he’d done it for her. He wanted her respect.”
“That’s a tall order, isn’t it? Respect a man of substance, a member of Congress, who put it all aside to commit a crime? How were you going to convince her to respect him? Selling what he did to her would be quite a challenge. You must have given that some thought.”
“Disbelieve my abilities—many do—but I tell you, I’ve found the Departed want those still alive, those they loved, to understand why they did what they did. Good or bad, it seems to be very important to them.” She shrugged. “But I doubt he will come back to me again.” She gave him a cold smile, then yet another sneer at full bloom.
She rose slowly, her hands fisted on the table, and looked Savich in the eye. “I wish to leave now, Agent Savich. May I?”
Savich studied her. He found her self-control amazing. She didn’t fidget, didn’t say anything more. She simply stood patiently and waited. He really couldn’t guess what she was thinking.
“Do you know Mrs. Gemma Clarkson, John Clarkson’s widow?”
“No, I do not. I only know what Rebekah and her grandfather said about her, nothing more. May I leave now?”
“Did you know Rebekah and her grandmother weren’t on good terms? That they’ve never been close?”
“No, there is no way I could possibly know that unless Rebekah told me, and she didn’t.”
“How old are you, Zoltan?”
She cocked her head at him. “What sort of question is that? You want to find that out, Google me.”
“Whatever your age, Zoltan, you are too young to die.” He said nothing more and nodded to Ollie, who opened the interview room door. He and Ruth fell into step on each side of her. Savich stood in the open doorway and watched them walk with her to the elevator, stolid and silent.
Savich walked back to his office, sat down, thought a moment, and pulled out his cell phone.
22
A pleasant older woman answered Savich’s call to the CEO of Clarkson United Industries on the first ring. “Mrs. Clarkson’s office. How may I help you?”
“I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, calling from Washington, D.C.” He paused a second to let this sink in. He knew it had when he heard the woman suck in her breath.
“The FBI? I don’t understand, sir, Agent. Mrs. Clarkson has never had any dealings with the FBI.”
“No, I imagine not. Please tell Mrs. Clarkson it concerns her granddaughter, Rebekah Manvers.” If nothing else, that should be enough to get Mrs. Clarkson on the line.
“Oh my, yes, certainly, Agent Savich. A moment, sir.”
Almost immediately Savich heard the clipped no-nonsense voice of the top dog. “The FBI? Agent Savich? This is Gemma Clarkson. I suppose this has something to do with Rebekah and her attempted kidnapping?”
It wasn’t concern he heard, it was a sheen of impatience, and wasn’t that curious? Rebekah had told him she and her grandmother weren’t close, but this?
“Mrs. Clarkson, as I told your assistant, I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. Rebekah said you were the best person to speak to about her grandfather and that’s mainly why I’m calling. I believe the two are connected.”
There was a moment of silence, then again, that hint of impatience. “Why on earth would Rebekah send you to me? She and her grandfather were like two peas in a pod. Surely she knows everything you would need to know. But that begs the question, Agent Savich. Why do you want to know about my husband? He’s dead now, at last, buried a month ago. Actually, he was dead for all intents and purposes when he fell into a coma sixteen years ago. Putting him in a casket was only a formality.”
“Mrs. Clarkson, Rebekah was attacked last Thursday in Washington. If you didn’t see Congressman Manvers briefly speak about it on TV, please don’t be alarmed. She was uninjured, but we have reason to believe her attack involved your late husband, Congressman Clarkson.”
“What? How in the world? I don’t understand any of this. I mean, of course I knew about the supposed attempted kidnapping. I saw her husband on TV say the FBI believed kidnapping her for ransom was at the root of it and the FBI was dealing with the situation. Well, her husband is rich, and so is she, what with the trust her grandfather set up for her a long time ago. I would have thought Rebekah would have the maturity to call me herself, but she didn’t. Are you certain Congressman Manvers didn’t stage this attempted kidnapping? For the publicity? He’s up for re-election, and an attack on his young wife would certainly garner him sympathy. I don’t understand how you could believe the attempt to kidnap her has anything to do with her grandfather. He’s dead and buried.”
“That’s why I’m calling you, Mrs. Clarkson. To provide me with information Rebekah is unable to. We know she held a special place in her grandfather’s life, but still, she was very young when he fell into a coma and so wasn’t able to answer a number of concerns.”
Silence. It felt calculated to Savich. He pictured her tapping her fingernails on her desktop, ready to what? Lie to him? Give him the heave and hang up? She said at last, her voice calm and matter-of-fact, “So it appears all the money her grandfather left her came to the attention of the wrong people. I hope you find the criminals responsible.”
“I’m certain we will. Now, what we believe, Mrs. Clarkson, as I already said, is that her attempted kidnapping is very probably connected to her grandfather and had nothing to do with a ransom demand. As I understand it, after Congressman Clarkson suffered the strokes that left him in a coma, he was placed in a private sanitarium. Is that right?”
“Yes. That is public knowledge, Agent Savich. What does this have to do with Rebekah’s attempted kidnapping?”
“I’m not at liberty to give you any details, ma’am. I’m asking you to verify. What is the name of the facility?”
“No details? You’re worse than a politician. Ah, very well. For sixteen years, my husband was in the Mayfield Sanitarium. It’s one of Virginia’s finest long-term-care facilities. He had round-the-clock nursing there for each and every long year. The nurses and doctors who tended him were kind and attentive. I hired private nurses for him as well. As you probably already know, the series of strokes brought on the coma, and he never woke up. And then he died, only last month. Is there anything else?”
“Did Rebekah visit her grandfather often?”
Mrs. Clarkson gave a short, brittle laugh. “Oh certainly, she was there at his bedside as often as possible. She worshiped him in life, as he worshiped her. I can’t imagine how his years in a coma could have anything to do with this—situation.”
“Let me ask you about another important person in Congressman Clarkson’s life: his longtime friend Nate Elderby. I understand Mr. Elderby drowned in the nineties. What can you tell me about him?”
“I do not see what Nate Elderby has to do with anything, alive or dead, Agent Savich.”
He plowed right over her again. “I imagine you remember his death, ma’am, since it must have affected your husband profoundly, and you as well, I imagine.”
If she considered arguing with him, she thought better of it. She said, her voice even more clipped, “Nate died in 1995, Agent Savich. It’s hard for me to even call his face to mind now, it’s been so long. Yes, he and Johnny were childhood friends, and they remained close until Nate drowned. My husband never spoke of it to me, but I know he mourned his friend deeply.”
John hadn’t talked about Nate’s death to his own wife? Savich said, “I know your husband had to deal with rumors insinuating he was responsible for his friend’s death, rumors it wasn’t an accident, that they’d had a falling-out and he murdered Nate. What happened between them to give rise to such rumors?”
She gave a full-bodied, let-it-all-loose kind of laugh. “Of course he didn’t kill Nate. There was no falling-out—I would have known about it if there had been. I blame his po
litical enemies at the time. As you well know, once a rumor starts, it’s impossible to stop it. Anything that juicy breeds like mold in the dark. And the press at the time, they were pushing, always pushing, to find something shocking, something to boost their sales. And people, no matter who they are, even supposed friends, are always interested, always seem to take pleasure in the misfortunes of others. The more gruesome, the better. The Germans even have a word for it—schadenfreude. The truth, of course, was very uninteresting. Nate was drunk. He fell overboard and drowned. It was an accident.”
“Here’s the thing, Mrs. Clarkson. Even though Nate Elderby’s blood alcohol level wasn’t high enough to be debilitating, according to the autopsy report, the local police ruled he fell overboard and drowned. How do you think such a thing could happen?”
“The fact is, Agent Savich, I believe Nate was an alcoholic. Maybe he hadn’t drunk himself stupid that particular day, but he really loved his bourbon. He was always careful—he didn’t want to jeopardize his criminal law practice. Still, he always drank a single shot before court, said it smoothed him out and fired up his brain. Then, of course, he always had a breath mint or two as a chaser. But he remained a firecracker in the courtroom, that’s what Johnny always said, until his untimely death. Yes, I believe he was drunk enough to be careless, and he did fall overboard. Believe me, Agent Savich, my husband was not responsible for his death. There wasn’t any earthly reason.”
Savich said, “So Nate was a successful lawyer?”
“Yes, he was, but he had the ethics of a man for hire. That is to say, he didn’t have many ethics. I do know Nate defended some bad people, got many of them off. I remember the police did look into one of his criminal clients in particular, a Mr. Showalter, but they couldn’t find any necessary proof.
“Johnny left town after Nate died, went into seclusion for several weeks. I have no idea where he went. I never asked, and he never told me. Again, he didn’t discuss anything about Nate’s death with me.
“Agent Savich, like most people, Johnny wasn’t all good or all bad, and he worked tirelessly for his constituents during his years in Congress, as well as the years before when he was mayor of Clairemont. He was no murderer.”
Savich said, “You and Nate Elderby were friends as well, I’m sure, for many years until his death, despite his questionable ethics, correct?”
“We all spent time together, of course, mostly with Nate and his first wife, Lorna. Yes, we were all close, even after Nate divorced Lorna and married a woman young enough to be his daughter. Miranda, a ridiculously dramatic name. I do not remember her maiden name.”
Savich heard it clearly, cold dislike when she’d said Miranda’s name. “Would Mr. Elderby’s second wife know any more particulars about her husband’s death, ma’am? And his relationship to your husband at that time?”
She huffed out a breath. “Miranda, know something important about anything? She was about as smart as a head of lettuce, a silly, vain young woman of questionable moral character. She wasn’t his equal, in either intellect or interests. She married Nate for his money, no doubt in my mind. If he hadn’t died, he would have divorced her within months. You know the type, flaunted herself in front of him, treated him like the king of the world, and Nate, being a man, fell for it.” She seemed to realize her voice had gotten louder, faster, so she paused, collected herself, and said in a calm voice, “Now, I still fail to see the importance of any possible disagreement between my husband and his friend for your purposes, Agent Savich. And what are your purposes, may I ask?”
“You’re being very helpful, and I appreciate it. We were talking about Mr. Elderby’s wife?”
She must have realized how her diatribe against Nate’s young wife had sounded, but she couldn’t take the words back. “They were married only six months before he died. After his funeral, she cashed out, sold the house, his cars, his boat, and left. I heard she moved to Maryland, married a dentist.” She gave a world-weary laugh. “It goes to show her sort always lands on her feet, always flourishes.”
Time to push. Savich asked, “Why all the venom toward the young wife?”
“Venom? The fact is, Miranda was a disaster. She ruined Nate’s life. If she hadn’t trotted out such a good alibi, I bet the police would have arrested her for Nate’s murder. Who knows?”
Jealousy, rock-hard jealousy, and it still burned. Savich asked, “Nate had no children?”
A contemptuous laugh. “No, although Lorna wanted a child.” She added, as if she couldn’t help herself, “As for Miranda, if Nate hadn’t died, I doubt she would have ever agreed to a pregnancy. She wouldn’t have wanted to ruin her figure.”
She was silent for several moments, then said in an emotionless voice, “It’s been too long even to remember clearly what one felt, what one believed. If someone murdered Nate, it wasn’t Johnny. I have no idea who it would have been.” She gave a short laugh. “I remember thinking if Johnny and Nate were gay, it would have been perfect for both of them. They were that close. You must excuse me now, Agent Savich. I’m needed in a meeting.” And without another word, she punched off.
Savich leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought. Was she telling the truth? Or did she not remember the events that clearly anymore? He’d bet his last dollar she remembered every detail of her own fourth birthday party. She was a fascinating woman, a woman still carrying a trail of bitterness after so many years. At her husband? He’d give that a yes. And Miranda. It was obvious to him she disliked Rebekah as well. Why? Was it again a case of simple jealousy because her husband loved his granddaughter so much? Maybe more than his wife? There had to be more. There was always more. He’d have to speak to Rebekah.
Savich looked up to see Denny Roper at his office door, grinning and holding another large brown paper–wrapped box. “Here you go, Agent Savich—just as you predicted.”
Savich led Denny and the agents who’d followed him to the CAU into the conference room. They gathered around the conference table, every eye on Savich as he cut off the wrapping paper, pulled out the third red box, and poured out the puzzle pieces. A couple of minutes later the new puzzle section was complete. Savich fitted the three sections together, and they stared down at an older big-bellied man wearing a purple Grateful Dead T-shirt and hanging out a window. Above him was a sign that read ALWORTH HOTEL. Flames were pouring out of the window, surrounding him, enveloping him. He was screaming.
23
ST. LUMIS
MONDAY
A man’s low voice brought her back to an aching head. Pippa listened but couldn’t make out his words, yet she knew instinctively to play dead. She slitted her eyes. Her vision was blurred at first, but she could see a man in a black hoodie standing near her, listening to someone talking from the cell phone in his hand. She could tell he was slightly built, his blue jeans loose, and his voice sounded on the young side, maybe thirties.
Turn around. Turn around so I can see you. But he didn’t. He paced away from her. He was wearing black high-top sneakers. Had she seen him during her walkabout yesterday? The jeans, the black hoodie. She didn’t think so. If she’d been alert, would she have noticed him, noticed something was off? She didn’t know. She held very still, eyes still slitted, and listened.
Then he raised his voice. “Yes, yes, I know.” She saw him shove his cell phone into his pants pocket. Before he turned back to her, he pulled up a handkerchief from around his neck and tied it over the lower part of his face.
Kill the fear and think cold, that’s what Hibbard, an instructor at Quantico, had preached. She heard Black Hoodie crunch over some broken glass, coming closer, until he stood over her. She imagined him studying her face. Don’t move. Play dead. Finally, she heard him step away and she slitted her eyes again. The only light came from weak sunlight through a high broken window. She gathered herself mentally and waited for him to come close again, but before she could act, he leaned down and whispered against her ear, “I saw you blink. So you’re playing
possum?” He struck her with the butt of his gun behind her left temple. Pippa saw a flash of light, then nothing.
24
WASHINGTON, D.C.
CORRECTIONAL TREATMENT FACILITY
TEMPORARY PRISON OF MARSIA GAY AND VERONICA LAKE
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Veronica Lake pressed herself against the prison wall, out of the stiff, cold wind, trying to keep warm. It didn’t help. She was alone and cold, always cold. She looked out over the yard with its dozen or so prisoners, some sitting on benches and gossiping, trash-talking, some shooting basketballs at the ragged metal net. She hated and feared these women, at least the coarse, violent ones who preyed on the rest. The few who were nice tried to keep to themselves and out of sight of the leaders, like she did. She saw three of the bullies approaching Leah, pitiful little Leah, who was awaiting trial for credit card fraud. She was small, no more than twenty-two, and rabbit-scared all the time. She sat huddled on a bench, knowing they were slowly moving in on her from all sides, trying to look nonchalant and not succeeding.
Early on, Veronica might have gone to help her, but not now. She knew she wouldn’t stand a chance. She had to protect herself. Her left arm still ached like a rotten tooth where one of Angela’s thugs had kicked her. She turned away when she heard Leah cry out. Where were the freaking guards?
Leah was crying now, deep gulping sobs, begging them not to hurt her. Angela wasn’t there, but the rest of them were mocking her, calling her vicious, ugly names, taunting her about what they would do to her. Veronica looked away again, she didn’t want to see it. She heard a punch, heard a guard shout—about time—and turned to see three guards running toward Leah, who still cowered on the bench, her arms covering her head. One of the prisoners cracked her knuckles in Leah’s face and motioned to her friends, who melted away. Another prisoner picked up a basketball from the ground and began bouncing it and whistling, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Veronica knew Leah wouldn’t tell the guards anything. She would be fine for now, until the next time.
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