by Ellen Butler
I swallowed. “What’s going to come out?”
“Senator Harper didn’t die of an innocent heart attack.”
The fork clattered across my plate. “What do you mean—he didn’t die of a heart attack? Of course, he did. I was there. I even spoke with one of my cardio PAs. He said on rare occasions, the pacemaker malfunctions. In Harper’s case, his heart must have gone out of whack, and the pacemaker wasn’t working properly to slow it down, put it back into a proper rhythm . . . ”
Those hard eyes softened into the sweet mocha I preferred. He shook his head sympathetically.
“What? I was there!” I pounded my fist on the counter with each word.
Mike pushed off the stool and paced away, running a hand through his hair.
“What is it?” My stomach turned into a hard knot; my earlier ardor deflated like one of Brady’s footballs. “Mike? Tell me . . . please.”
“I shouldn’t . . . but not doing so is like leaving a lamb to slaughter. And you’ll find out soon enough.” He turned back to me. “Harper’s pacemaker was hacked. Someone purposely put it into overdrive, pumping the heart way too fast for the circulatory system to keep up.”
“What do you mean hacked? How can you hack a piece of equipment in your body? I don’t understand. And what does it have to do with you?”
“Technically, anything with firmware can be subject to hacking. People really have no idea how vulnerable we’ve become by being so reliant on all this technology.”
The clouds of confusion cleared. Mike worked in the cybercrimes department. “They brought you home for this case. Harper’s death.” Then it hit me. I was the last person to see Harper alive. “Oh-my-gawd.” I think my eyes widened to the size of baseballs. “Am I a suspect?”
Mike’s mouth flattened and his jaw flexed again.
“Damn it! Is that why you were so hot to get together with me? What’s your role in all this?” I jumped off my stool so quickly it fell to the floor with a resounding whack. “Are the police outside my door right now? Did they send you in to divert me so I can’t escape? Are you here to take me in?” The questions sliced between us.
“Whoa, K.C., calm down.”
“Calm down! Are you nuts? Never, ever, in the history of the world, did two words”—I held my fingers in a V formation—“do the exact opposite of what they were meant to do. You, tell me right now”—I pointed those two fingers at him—“Michael Finnegan, what is going on? Or, you can march your prevaricating ass out of my door for good. And you can deliver a message to your FBI friends: I had nothing to do with Harper’s death! I tried to save him. If they don’t believe me—they can . . . they can . . . talk to my lawyer . . . and . . . and stick it up their pipe stack and smoke on that.”
Occasionally, like the volatile Irish ancestors on my mother’s side, I talked with my hands when I got excited or upset. It’s a habit I tried to curb, however on this occasion, I’ll admit, the arms were flying in all directions as my voice continued its rise to train whistle decibels. “Stop laughing at me. This isn’t funny!”
“Stick it up their pipe stack?”
I folded my arms and delivered a death glare that would quell a stampeding bull.
Mike’s smile wilted. “You’re right. It isn’t funny. Technically, you were the last person to see the senator alive. As far as I know, the police are not lying in wait outside your door. But they will undoubtedly talk with you further.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“I wouldn’t say you are a suspect. You’re what they call a ‘person of interest.’”
I righted the stool and sat. “I’m a lawyer, Mike, I know what a person of interest is. Why haven’t they come to me already?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think they’re trying to build a case against me?”
He clasped his hands behind his back and shrugged.
“What’s your role in all this?”
“We’re following a number of leads. Since I used to work for the Capitol Police, I’ll liaison with them and D.C.P.D. cybercrimes unit.”
“Who’s in charge? D.C.? FBI? Capitol Police?”
Mike sighed. “It’s a joint investigation, but since it’s a senator, technically the FBI. . . . ”
I waited for Mike to elaborate but was met with continued silence. Pushing my heels, I rotated the seat around to face away from him. “What do you know about the lead detective at D.C.P.D. or Capitol Police?”
“Capitol Police is good, he’s a younger investigator but graduated top of his class. Now, D.C.P.D.—” Mike hesitated. “He’s a twenty-year veteran on the force. His name is John Shinebocker. He’s methodical and calculating.”
Mike’s distorted reflection refracted off the stainless steel microwave door. “In other words, I’d better get my lawyer when he comes knocking on my door.”
“Yes.”
“What do they know about our relationship?”
“D.C.? Very little.” Mike climbed onto the chair next to mine. “The FBI . . . ”
I rolled my eyes and nodded. My part in returning the stolen masterpiece had been haphazard. Though no one admitted to what exactly happened, the FBI wasn’t stupid, they knew I’d orchestrated the havey-cavey return on behalf of a reluctant client. No doubt, I remained on the FBI’s radar. “I’m surprised you risked coming over. Or was it to assure yourself that I had nothing to do with Harper’s bizarre death? I’m not going to find bugs all over my home, am I?”
He gave a stricken look.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was out of line.”
“K.C. . . . I came because . . . ”
“I know.” I waved him off. I knew, in my heart, Mike cared deeply for me. Hell, maybe he even loved me. He had tried to help with the painting fiasco and, just like now, had put himself in an ethically questionable situation to ensure my safety. “If I let anyone know what you’ve told me, they’ll fire you.”
“Maybe bring me up on charges.”
“Shit.”
“Precisely.”
I pushed the plate away, my appetite, along with my libido, long gone. He laid a hand over mine, but I slid it into my lap.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Now I knew why I’d been feeling anxious. It was my intuition forewarning me. Since I knew I hadn’t murdered the senator, the question that remained uppermost in my mind was—who did? And why?
“Want to tell me what’s squirrelling around in that noggin of yours?”
“Mike, while I appreciate the risk you’ve taken in telling me all this, I think it’s best if we don’t discuss the case further. At least, not until after the police question me. I don’t want either one of us to . . . have to cover up more than we already are.”
“K.C.—”
“I’m serious. I know this is the second time you’ve gone against protocol to warn me. And I appreciate it. I really do . . . ”
“Okay, okay. I get it. Why don’t you tell me about your fundraiser last night? When are you going to take me to one of them?”
“You’re not allowed. It was a political fundraiser,” I said absentmindedly.
“Oh? Tell me who was there.”
“A shitload of rich people and a bunch of lobbyists.”
Mike shifted. “Want me to tell you who I saw on my flight home?”
“Who?”
“Michael J. Fox.”
“He testified on the Hill today.”
“Oh. Did you see him?”
“I saw the crowd surrounding him,” I replied in a deadened voice with a finger at my temple.
Mike pushed his plate back. “I should go.”
“Yeah. . . . No. . . . Wait. I’m sorry. It’s . . . ”
“Hey.” He pushed my chin up. “I get it. We’ll do this another time.”
My heart and head pulled in two directions. As much as I wanted him to stay, I couldn’t keep my brain from swirling around this toilet bowl of ramifications. There was no way I’d be able to carry
on a normal conversation with Mike.
Yet . . .
He didn’t wait for my answer. He put his unfinished meal by the sink and went to the front hall closet. I met him there, pausing his fingers as they buttoned the overcoat with my own.
His forehead leaned against mine. “I hate seeing you mixed up in this.”
“Don’t worry. I plan to extricate myself from it as soon as humanly possible. Or . . . as soon as the police decide to question me again.”
His lips came down on mine. “Take care of yourself, K.C. Call me if the police show up.”
“After I call my lawyer.”
“Right.”
Chapter Six
MIKE
Mike’s work phone rang as he drove out of Karina’s parking lot. “Agent Finnigan.”
“I got it.”
“Both? The phone and her computer?”
“Yes, both. I’m searching the materials now.”
“I’m sure there is no way she’s involved in this. K.C. calls a USB drive ‘that flashy thingy.’ The thought of her being a hacker is laughable.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“No. I want her cleared, ASAP.”
“The powers-that-be don’t believe she’s the hacker.”
“Then what?” Mike slowed to a stop at a red light.
“She’s an innocent bystander. But no one has ruled out the possibility she’s a conspirator. Part of the plan to make sure he died.”
“Did you find anything in her bank statements or phone records?”
His colleague paused. “Not yet.”
“Because there’s nothing to find, damnit! What’s her motive?”
“He voted against the bill.”
Mike slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “That’s thinner than fishing line, Amir, and you know it. Lots of congressmen voted against the bill. Why Harper?”
“He flip-flopped. Maybe she took it personally.”
“Come on,” Mike protested.
“Mike . . .” Amir’s deep voice skated over the phone lines. “You’re too close to it. I’ve worked with you four years now, if you didn’t know this woman, you’d be all over her. As it is, your training and gut is the reason we’re doing this off the books. And I’m going to give you a piece of advice—your feelings for her are compromising your judgement.”
“You’re wrong. It’s because I know her. I know she had nothing to do with this.”
“If you’re right, then nothing will show up on her devices and you can submit the findings to Leon in the morning. Are you sure you got out clean? She didn’t suspect anything?”
“It’s clean. I did it while she was in the bathroom.” A horn blared behind him, and Mike accelerated through the green light. “But I’m telling you, the death threat I sent around earlier today . . . I’ve got a gut feeling about it.”
“And Leon wants you to continue following that lead. But you know you won’t have access to this part of the investigation. McGill will keep you in the loop only as much as he needs you to remain close to this woman.”
Mike cursed under his breath. “Amir . . . ”
“What?”
“Just . . . call me if you find something.”
“I will. And seeing as we didn’t have a search warrant for this information, we both know it would be inadmissible. But I warned you, when you asked me to do this, that if I found anything, I’d have to tell Leon.”
“You owe me,” Mike reminded him.
Amir let out a heavy breath. “You sure you want to call in that chip on this?”
“If you find something . . . yes. If not, then you still owe me one.”
“Fine. If I find something . . . you get one hour to warn her to get a lawyer.”
The line went dead and Mike pulled the Bluetooth out of his ear, tossing it none too gently into the cup holder. He had to consciously unlock his jaw and loosen his grip on the wheel. He felt like a heel. No . . . he felt like a piece of shit. But it was better that he did the dirty work. Otherwise, the FBI would get a search warrant and send in a team to tear up her apartment and her office. He’d been part of a team that did this sort of thing. It wasn’t pretty, even worse now that everyone had a phone and could record it. Standing by and watching it done to K.C.—that he couldn’t stomach.
Amir wouldn’t find anything. Mike would take the lack of evidence to Leon, and she’d be none the wiser.
The reasoning and justifications for invading her privacy didn’t make him feel any better.
Chapter Seven
Traffic crawled into the underground parking garage as each vehicle was sniffed by a K9 unit and the undercarriage examined with a mirror. I arrived forty-five minutes early and idled in line for ten before pulling forward.
“I need to see your I.D., invitation, and please pop your trunk, ma’am.”
I followed the officer’s instructions and waited patiently for the team to inspect my vehicle. It seemed to be taking a while for the guy with my I.D. to return, and I tensed with trepidation. Two vehicles ahead of me had been pulled off to the side and searched by hand. Knowing what I knew, it wouldn’t surprise me if D.C. police flagged my name.
“Okay, ma’am, you can move forward.” He handed my documents through the window.
“Thanks, officer.” The car rolled forward, and I released the breath I’d been holding. Security was amped up. The mirror check didn’t surprise me; however, the dogs had been unexpected.
Stepping out of the elevator, I was greeted with another line. A large green tent had been set up for security, and the crowd slowly shuffled along, placing purses, coats, wallets, keys, etc. on the x-ray belt and patiently waiting their turn to walk through the metal detectors. Police and Secret Service presence could be seen everywhere. I hovered close to one of the kerosene heaters, warming my hands. Winter continued to hold the northeast in its tight grip, even though today was the first official day of Spring.
As I stepped out of the tent, a Lincoln Town Car pulled up and Congressman Finley exited. Secret Service directed him up the stairs, bypassing all security measures. The Town Car drove off and a black GMC Denali took its place, likely another VIP circumventing security. I followed the rest of the crowd up the Cathedral’s stone steps and again handed my I.D. and invitation over inside the door. I made it through the gauntlet unscathed and was directed by an usher to sit anywhere in the unreserved section. The front third of the seats were roped off with ‘Reserved’ signs. An usher directed Congressman Finley to a row in the roped area. I found a place halfway down on the left side with a decent view of the pulpit.
The building hummed with quiet discussions among the mourners, while next to me, a pair of young twenty-somethings madly texted on their phones, possibly to each other. I got out my phone in time to see Henderson Carroll strolling down the aisle. Surreptitiously, I snapped a picture of the handsome, silver-haired news commentator as he approached my row. Latesha was going to love this. The photo came out well, and I texted it to her with the message:
Here you go. Henderson Carroll. Is he famous enough?
“Excuse me.” Someone tapped my shoulder.
I glanced up to find one of the ushers. “Yes?”
“Are you Karina Cardinal?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me, please.”
Uh-oh. This is it.
I wondered if the police would stake out the senator’s memorial, lying in wait for me. But, really, how tacky. It’s not as though they didn’t know where I lived. They could have come to my home. I didn’t want to make a scene, so gathering my things, I excused my way past the half dozen attendees who’d followed me into the row. However, instead of guiding me up the aisle as I’d expected, the usher continued forward past a dozen rows of reserved seating. We finally stopped at the fourth row from the front.
“But, I don’t think . . . ” My eyes connected with Senator Harper’s Chief of Staff, Sandy Harding.
Her shoulder length, silvery b
lond hair was styled, per usual, in its classically chic bob, and wearing a black suit, she fit right in with the rest of Washington’s mourners. However, the wrinkles around her eyes stood out dramatically due to lack-of-sleep hollows and red rims. She waved and pointed to the empty seat next to her.
“Thank you.” I maneuvered past the senator from Kentucky, his wife, and a woman I didn’t recognize. “Senator, nice to see you. Excuse me, pardon, excuse me,” I muttered, bumping into knees and trying my best not to sink my stilettos onto someone’s foot. Finally, I reached my destination and, draping my coat over the back of the seat, met the steel blue gaze of Henderson Carroll. He nodded, I returned his nod, and sank down into the chair.
“Sandy, my condolences. Harper was a good man,” I said in muted tones. Sandy had been with Harper since his first election.
“Yes, he was. I understand you were with him when it happened.”
My eyes darted side-to-side. So far, my name hadn’t gotten into the press regarding the senator’s collapse, though I was sure my statement was public record. However, if his death was murder, and the police started questioning me, it wouldn’t take long before the bloodhounds were on my tail. I shifted and gave a quick nod.
“What can you tell—”
My head rotated, I gave her a hard stare and mouthed the word, “Later.” With a slight tilt of my chin, I indicated the news anchor behind me.
No dummy, Sandy clamped her mouth shut.
“How is Elise taking it?” I arranged the handbag at my feet.
“She’s devastated.”
No surprise there. “Any ideas who’ll take his seat until the next election?”
She shrugged. “I think if Elise showed interest, the governor would appoint her. Otherwise, my guess is the lieutenant governor.”
I nodded. The right front row stood empty, waiting for Elise Harper and her family. Two more seats on the left also remained unoccupied. Guests continued to pour into the church, including a few Hollywood darlings active in politics, diplomats, and the current editor of The Washington Post. Latesha was right, the D.C. elite were turning out in droves for the event. Flowers covered the high altar, and a large color photo of Senator Harper, in his late twenties and handsomely sporting a Navy uniform, sat on a stand, front and center. A choir, in dark robes, waited quietly in their anterior pews.
