by G. K. Parks
“Right, so we’re checking into it. I haven’t heard anything yet, but it’s the most solid lead we have.”
“Who thought to check the inner workings of the fridge?” It was something I never would have considered.
“CSU was sampling all food and beverages found in the house, and one of the techs noticed the replace filter light blinking. One thing led to another, and after reading his medical reports and identifying the toxin, it linked together.”
My thoughts were on the filter. Why wouldn’t Eastman change it if the indicator light was on? Why didn’t he notice? More and more questions were presenting themselves, but not a single answer was in sight. This wasn’t working.
“Assuming the filter is responsible and intentional, what other headway have you made on determining the motive for poisoning Eastman?”
“None. He’s been squawking about his rights being violated, and once he’s cleared from the hospital, I won’t have anything to hold him on. If he refuses protective custody, there isn’t anything I can do.” Jacobs’ entire focus shifted to me. “Do you think you might be able to convince him otherwise?”
It was time to play hardball. “Perhaps, but it might cost you.”
“I’ll grant you access to the files on the two homicides and whatever reports we’ve compiled on the poisoning if you convince Eastman to cooperate.”
“Deal.” I extended my hand, and as we shook, Jason Oster stepped into the room, glancing nervously at the two of us. “Shall I go first or should you?”
Twenty
Out of courtesy, I let Detective Jacobs go first. He asked Jason Oster almost all the questions I could think of and a few I hadn’t considered. Despite the fact Oster and Eastman were friends, Jason didn’t know much about what Eastman did in his private life. The last time he visited Paul’s house was a month ago. It was a short trip to pick up a wireless surveillance camera for implementation as added security for one of PDN’s clients.
“So you helped him with his off-the-books projects?” Jacobs asked, jotting a note.
“Occasionally. We weren’t doing anything illegal, like making celebrity sex tapes or anything. He just wanted to make sure that no one from the hotel was gaining unauthorized access to PDN’s clients. A few months back, a complaint was made that jewelry went missing from some singer’s belongings. She blamed one of the security guards from PDN, and he blamed hotel security. Paul just wanted to make sure there were no other mishaps.”
“Seems unrelated,” I concluded, and Jacobs nodded. Nothing else Oster said was helpful in determining who poisoned Paul or why. We weren’t ready to rule Jason out as a suspect, but he offered to come to the station later for fingerprinting.
Since Jacobs was out of questions, it was my turn to play. I showed Oster the photos I printed. He identified a few PDN and hotel employees, but he couldn’t imagine any of them were involved. Jacobs gave me a look, and I surrendered the dead end leads to him. He probably already checked into everyone’s whereabouts and knew who had access to Paul’s apartment, but just in case, maybe he’d find something damning since I came up blank. In the meantime, I decided to throw a lit match at the gasoline tank.
“How was your meeting this morning?” I asked Jason.
“Fine. We have them every Tuesday and Saturday. It’s the best way for the manager to remain updated on issues within the hotel.” He checked his watch, realizing he should be back at work.
“No. I meant your other so-called meeting.”
“What meeting?” His eyes bore into me, trying to figure out what I knew and how.
“Do I need to spell it out for you? You could just make this simpler and tell us who she is.”
“That’s none of your business,” he responded vehemently.
“Hmm,” Jacobs leaned forward, “it seems like it might be. Particularly with everything that’s been happening in this hotel for the last few weeks,” he glanced at his notes, “correction, apparently last few months. It might be nice to have some idea of who you spend time with, Mr. Oster.”
“It’s casual. She’s no one serious, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Name,” Jacobs insisted, and the fact that Oster didn’t want to provide one made me that much more curious. “Don’t make us pull the footage or start asking around. It’ll be more embarrassing for you if we have to resort to such measures.”
“Rachel.” He looked away. “Romanski.”
“Alvin Hodge’s ex-wife?” I asked. Talk about incestuous relationships. These people really didn’t understand not shitting where you eat. Wow.
“Note the ex part,” he replied bitterly, standing. “We’re done. I have to get back to work.”
“Don’t forget to stop by this evening to give us those fingerprints you promised,” Jacobs called after him. Once we were alone, he turned to me. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Neither did I.”
“How’d you hear about his rendezvous?”
“Men gossip more than women,” shaking my head, we continued down the hallway and out of the building, “particularly the bored out of their skulls security guards.”
“Well, it’s not like it’d be that difficult to get a room.” He scanned his notes a final time and halted our procession once we neared his cruiser. “Anything else you’d like to share?”
“I hate yoga.”
He squinted. “Okay.”
“Yeah. I really hate yoga.”
Not bothering to elaborate, I continued to my car, leaving him to contemplate the importance of my statement. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out the connection, so I might as well stop by Rachel’s class and schedule a few more sessions before the police showed up and ruined my cover.
When I pulled to a stop outside Rachel’s studio, I was pleasantly surprised and relieved to actually be the first to arrive. Well, the first when it came to the police department or any other law enforcement agency that wanted to horn in on my investigation. Okay, so maybe it was their investigation, but I had a client. A paying client. Well, at least as long as he remained breathing, which probably meant I needed to figure out who was behind this. If not, it would be hard to collect from a corpse.
“Rachel,” I said, zipping my jacket quickly to conceal my side arm, “I’ve been cleared to return to a regular workout routine. Maybe we could discuss some of those classes again.” I glanced at the clock. Her last session finished fifteen minutes ago, and she was packing up to leave.
“Alexis, right?” I nodded, and she let out a friendly laugh. “I’m glad you’ve decided to give this another try. You seemed utterly miserable last time.”
“No more hot yoga for me.” Picking up one of the brochures and flipping through the options, I tried to find one with the most class meetings and the least amount of meditative benefit. “I’m still recovering, but the strengthening and stretching will help get me back on track.” Blabbering on, I wanted to broach the subject of her morning with Jason, but that required finesse. It might also require a night out with too much alcohol since we weren’t friends, but that would be more work and effort than just being blunt. “Are there any men in any of your classes? Maybe I can convince my guy to take a few of these with me.”
She smiled. “Mr. Cirque du Soleil?” Giggling, I nodded. “There are a few men that come every once in a while. Although, they normally only come for a class or two. They tend to think yoga is a great place to pick up chicks.”
“Is it?”
She blushed slightly. “Sometimes.”
Opening my mouth in clearly fake astonishment, I laughed. “Did you let some guy pick you up after one of your classes?”
“Well, I knew him before, but he showed up a few times, asked me to coffee, and well, let’s just say he offered to help stretch out my hips.” She snickered. “Anyway, what are you thinking?”
I’m thinking Jason Oster doesn’t look particularly flexible, but he seemed the most likely possibility. “Um, how about I take the intermediate class a
nd start on Friday. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” She handed me a contract for six months, which would be added to Paul Eastman’s fee, and I filled out the paperwork. “It’ll be nice having someone new around.”
“Yeah. It’s so hard to make friends when all I do is work. It’ll be nice to get to know some people.”
“Well, welcome to the class.” After swiping my credit card, she handed me a few more brochures on deep breathing, meditation, and the schedule. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“Can’t wait.” Heading for the door, I turned back. “What’d you say that guy’s name was? It might help convince my boyfriend to get out of the house and join me if I can name off some other guys who might show up.”
“Oh,” her brow furrowed briefly, and she shook her head, “Jason. There’s also Tim, Nathan, and Evan that show up once in a blue moon.”
“Great. Thanks.”
On the bright side, I was wheedling my way into a friendship which could result in who knows what kinds of important information. For one, at least I verified Jason’s story from this morning. Too bad that wasn’t really a priority. Unfortunately, this useless tidbit of information also meant I was sentenced to a few more yoga sessions. Somebody shoot me now. Oddly enough, I made it back to my car without a drive-by occurring.
Returning to my office, I ran a thorough background check on Jason Oster and skimmed through the information I already compiled on Rachel Romanski. Then I conducted copious amounts of research on fluoride toxicity and the ease of killing someone with such a common item. Most often, the poisoning would be prevalent within minutes, which meant the filter tampering couldn’t have been leaking such a high dosage that quickly. The vast majority of symptoms were gastrointestinal, but it could lead to neurological disorders and heart problems, which would explain the seizure. From the statistics alone, death wasn’t something that typically occurred, but if this was intentional, then that was probably the goal. Although, fluoride wasn’t the normal method of killing someone or even poisoning them, except for maybe dentists. There were plenty of more common and less easily diagnosed toxins, but this was clever. It would read like an accident, and even now, I was still having some doubts. Was it possible Eastman did this to himself, knowing the chance of death wouldn’t be that great?
“Tell me you have good news because I’m spinning my wheels,” I said, answering the phone on the second ring.
“Agent Walton has been very forthcoming in sharing his insights with me this morning,” Mark said, sounding particularly proud of himself. “Are you at that hole in the wall you call an office?”
“It is an office. And yes.”
“Okay. Grab a pen. Are you ready?”
“No, I can’t figure out which pen to use.” Snarky didn’t even begin to describe my attitude toward his infantile instructions.
“Blue.” Obviously, someone was in a good mood, or I would have been forced to endure a snappish remark instead. “Costan’s believed to be in the pocket of former senator, Rodney Wheeler. Ever since the guy stepped down, his main focus has been venture capitalism.”
“I’m beginning to see the connection.” It also explained part of the reason for the Secret Service presence at the conference. “Do we know anything else?”
“Like the entire list of attendees from the conference? Yeah, I might know that. I also might know precisely who is being monitored by the current FBI detail.”
“Would you like to share that information?”
“I already did.”
“Wait.” Shaking my head, I let out a derisive chortle. “One agency is guarding the bastard while another one is keeping tabs on him. And people wonder why the economy is going to shit and the government is basically bankrupt.”
“I believe the proper pronunciation is corrupt.”
“That too.”
“Look, pull Rodney Wheeler’s records,” Mark instructed. “Everything you can find on his appointment, business, et cetera. We need a full workup. I’m getting copies of the surveillance and as much of the current case file as I can. We’ll exchange information as soon as I get there.”
“You do realize I no longer work for you, right?” I asked, making sure he remembered this fact that oftentimes he seemed to forget.
“Sure.” He didn’t sound particularly convinced. “Did you get anything substantial out of your morning outings?”
“It’s too soon to tell. The head of security is sleeping with Hodge’s ex-wife which adds a new dynamic to this.” It didn’t seem feasible that the events were related to the news about Costan and former Senator Wheeler, but that was a hunch. It wouldn’t hurt to look into it. “But Detective Jacobs and I are getting along great, and maybe Rachel Romanski will be my new best friend.”
“You really need to cut out the sauce this early in the morning. Is your coffee Irish?”
“Goodbye, Mark.”
Hanging up, I searched for information on the former senator. Rodney Wheeler was an oil tycoon turned venture capitalist who was groomed for a political seat by a particular interest group, but once a few of his less than stellar deals and whispers of embezzlement circulated, he resigned and focused his energy on making money. Obviously, his constituency wasn’t a top priority.
He served half a term before stepping down, and the powers that be acted swiftly to sweep it under the rug. Since he was a newcomer to the political stage, it wasn’t a top news story, and the politicos squashed it before it turned into a media storm. Frankly, Wheeler didn’t appear to give two cents about any of it. He was focused on wealth and greed. After all, money begets more money.
So why did the Secret Service waste manpower and agents on protection for an out of office congressman who by all accounts did nothing useful for the country? Oh yeah, policy. Sighing, I pulled up the list of holdings Wheeler possessed. His private assets included a few million dollar homes, majority shares of three different mid-level companies, and various other highly lucrative positions among half a dozen other businesses. Someone must have hired a pretty brilliant accountant.
Fearing I might go into a coma after reading the mission statements and projected earnings for some of his companies, I switched tactics. Searching instead for anyone who was named as Costan’s potential associates, there was probably an overlap somewhere. Just as the names started to blend together into one giant, unmatched blur, something interesting caught my attention. It was a tiny footnote at the bottom of Wheeler’s financial record. He was part owner of the hotel where the conference was held. How involved was he in the hiring practices? Was he completely removed from the operation, only collecting dividends from the profit? Or did he arrange all of this, including the security hires, the procedures, and making sure Costan was able to sneak in without too much trouble? Who else was on the take? Did his Secret Service protection detail thwart the FBI investigation? And what the hell did any of this have to do with Paul Eastman getting poisoned?
“This is such bullshit,” I muttered. More information was leading to more questions and even less chance of finding a solution.
“Well, it’s a good thing your fearless leader is here to help.” Mark entered my office and sat heavily in the client chair, shoving a file at me.
Twenty-one
Rodney Wheeler had been under federal surveillance for the past year. After being forced to resign his Senate seat, he returned to the word of venture capitalism. The SEC originally wanted to investigate him on a few reports of insider trading and fraud, but his records were clean. There wasn’t any evidence to back the impropriety, even though his actions reinforced his guilt. He was a sneaky son-0f-a-bitch who happened to be smart enough to hide whatever scheming he was involved in. Hell, maybe Costan gave him a few pointers.
After the SEC let it go, the FBI continued to investigate. The ties Wheeler had to Costan were mostly hearsay, but since Costan’s own people were willing to hand over names and business partners to avoid federal charges, they had to earn their keep wi
th reliable information. The name that had been repeated half a dozen times was Rodney Wheeler. Maybe it was a hoax. But Costan was dead, and Wheeler was still under surveillance. So I doubted it.
“What do you think of the black and whites?” Mark asked, flicking one of the photos with his pointer finger.
“Not artistic enough for a gallery opening, but I’d say they qualify for a spread in a nature magazine with some kind of caption like ‘animals in their natural habitat’.” Giving the information a final glance, I leaned back in the chair and propped my leg up on the desk. “Where was Wheeler when Costan was killed?”
“Agent Walton didn’t share.”
“Fine, where was Wheeler for the duration of the conference? I’m guessing he attended all the meetings and business functions, but where was he when he wasn’t schmoozing and bartering?”
“He didn’t have a room.” Mark flipped to the guest registry.
“Yeah, but he’s part owner of the freaking hotel. He wouldn’t need a reservation.” I summarized my research, so Mark would be up to speed. “We need to figure out when Costan ended up below the hotel and who turned him into a bloody pulp. He was killed between midnight and six a.m. on Thursday.”
“I doubt it was Wheeler,” Mark pointed to the most recent photo, timestamped yesterday afternoon. “There’s no bruising on his knuckles. He couldn’t have beaten the living daylights out of Costan.”
“People like Wheeler pay other people to do their dirty work. Have you learned nothing?”
“How could he pay anyone? We’re monitoring his financials, and he knows it.”
“Yeah. Exactly.” Steepling my fingers, I tapped my index fingers against my lips. “What does the protection detail have to say?”
“Nothing. They were stationed in various strategic locations during the conference to ensure no threat was imminent. You know the drill. You were working for the Secret Service on this.”
