by Ellen Butler
Finally, almost twenty minutes past ten, the vice president and his wife arrived, taking the two seats on the left. Then Elise, her two children, their spouses, and three grandchildren came in through a side door. Ponderously, the congregation rose to its feet. Elise wore a black dress, pumps, and a black hat. A widow’s veil covered her features, undoubtedly concealing exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. The presiding bishop took the pulpit, signaling the beginning of the service with a congregational hymn.
Half a dozen speakers got up to memorialize the senator, or to read passages from the Bible. A few shared touching and humorous stories about Harper, but it was his daughter Connie who brought the congregation to tears when she read her father’s favorite poem, The Tyger, by William Blake. Elise’s shoulders shook with grief. Poor Connie could barely finish; her brother came to her aid escorting his weeping sister back to the family.
Over an hour after it began, and a pocketful of tissues later, the memorial came to its conclusion. Music rose to a crescendo, echoing around the flying buttresses and permeating the deepest corners of the magnificent limestone walls. The vice president was escorted by Secret Service out the side door, while Senator Harper’s family filed down the long aisle behind the bishop.
Like the rest of the congregation, I began gathering my things. My movements were halted by Sandy’s firm hand on my forearm. A silent conversation passed between us. I put my purse back down on the seat, and shared small talk with those around me, speaking inanities—how tragic the death, the beautiful touching service. Sandy introduced Henderson Carroll, and we talked about his upcoming documentary on the conflict in the Middle East. We stepped aside to allow those in our row to slide past and exit onto the aisle. Henderson bid us adieu, and we were finally alone. I followed Sandy’s lead, retaking my seat.
She cut straight to the chase. “Tell me what happened.”
I recounted an edited version of that awful walk in the tunnels.
“So you believe it was a heart attack.”
“I’m no expert, but that’s what it looked like to me.” I didn’t mention the pacemaker, assuming Sandy knew. “Why do you ask?”
“Something’s up.” She glanced around before lowering her voice. “The police came to the office.”
My breath caught. “What did they want?”
“They wanted the senator’s agenda for the past three months, the call logs, and asked if there had been any new death threats.”
“Do all threats still go to the FBI?”
“Yes.”
“Has the senator received anything new lately?”
Her mouth turned into a grim line. “Not this month, but there is this one guy who’s been sending threatening emails every few months.”
“Death threats?”
She nodded. “He spouts white supremacist garbage. It started when the senator voted against the Muslim immigration ban. I know of at least five other Senate offices that got similar ones.”
“Was that all?”
“They questioned all the staff members.”
“About what?”
“If they knew of any enemies the senator had.”
I couldn’t help the snort that slipped out.
Sandy nodded. “I know. Right? It’s not as though Harper was dirty, but we all know, you don’t get to his position without making some enemies. I mean, you don’t even have to cross the aisle. There are some Republicans that are probably glad to see Harper gone because he was not conservative enough.”
“Did you implicate anyone?”
“And commit career suicide? Heavens, no.”
“Did the police want anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, his cell phone. Apparently, he didn’t have it on him.”
“Oh.” I reached for my purse. Then stopped myself. Harper’s phone wasn’t in there. I’d left it on my kitchen counter. Only . . . I couldn’t recall seeing it by my phone charger where I’d left it on Monday. “That’s . . . unfortunate.”
Sandy must not have noticed my odd behavior because she moved on to another topic. “The medical examiner hasn’t released the body yet.”
“What? Why not? How do you know?”
“Elise told me. She can’t make funeral plans until the ME releases the body.”
“What does she want to do once it’s released? Will he go back to Michigan? Arlington Cemetery?”
“There’s a family plot in Michigan.”
“I see.” I glanced around to make sure no one was in hearing distance. “Sandy . . . before he passed, Senator Harper told me he was working on a new bill. He said it would be better than S46. Sounded like he was calling in favors. Do you know what that was all about?”
She frowned. “Only a little bit. Christy could tell you more. The senator was playing this one close to his chest, but I believe she was working on language. I know he was talking to folks on the House side.”
“Really? Who?”
“I want to say Finley.”
“Finley?” I frowned. “Are you sure? Those two have never been friends.”
“Not positive. Like I said, Christy knows more about it. Why don’t you give her a call? Although, now he’s gone . . . I’m not sure what it’ll be worth. If it’s not already on the floor, it’s dead in the water. Right now, I’ve got to keep the day-to-day operations running. Basically, we are in a holding pattern until someone else is appointed.”
“Will you stay?”
“If it’s Elise . . . yes. She and I have been friends since I joined Harper’s office. She could do it. She’s smart and has been helping Harper win ever since he first ran for mayor. If not . . . ” She shrugged.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. There’s always someone on the Hill looking for good staff.”
“You’ve been on the Senate side for what—twenty years?”
“Nineteen.”
“There will be opportunities in the private sector. It pays more.”
“Maybe.”
I patted her arm. “You don’t have to make a decision today. If you decide to move into the private sector, give me a call. I’ll throw your name around in some circles that might be interested.”
“Thanks, Karina. That’s kind. In the meantime . . .” She got to her feet and, again, I followed. “I think it’s time I headed out. Are you going to the reception at the Congressional Country Club?” She drew on a glove.
“No . . .” I slid an arm into my coat. “I need to get back to the office. I’ll reach out to Christy in a few days. See if there’s anything I can do to help.” We wandered up the empty aisle.
“I’ll let her know to expect your call.”
“Thanks. Please tell Elise—” A pair of men in dark suits loitered near the entrance to the Cathedral and seemed intent on the two of us. My heart sank.
“Tell Elise?”
My attention returned to Sandy. “Oh, sorry, give Elise my condolences, will you?”
“Of course. Do you recognize those men?”
“No. Do you?”
“The one on the left, balding, glasses. He was one of the detectives who came to the office.”
I was afraid of that.
“What was his name? Shinbone? Shabby chic? I can’t remember, it was something with a ‘Sh.’”
“Take care of yourself, Sandy. I’m going to have a word with the detective and his friend.” By now the men were staring exclusively at me. The waiting hadn’t been pleasant, but now I could take a proactive role. After all, Sandy had practically told me it was a case of murder.
“Be careful. I didn’t care for that Shabby Chic investigator. He rubbed me the wrong way,” she said in a low voice and avoided looking at the pair.
“I’ll be fine. See you later, Sandy.” We hugged, then turning my attention to the pair of cops, I walked directly up to them. “Hello, gentlemen. Were you waiting for me?”
“Why would you ask that?” The younger of the two men shifted. He looked to be in his early thirt
ies, no gray around his temple or fine lines around his eyes. I could tell his barrel chest was a result of the bullet proof vest he wore beneath a black dress shirt.
“Sandy told me you’d been to the office asking questions about the senator . . . his schedule, enemies, death threats. If he died of natural causes, why is a D.C. homicide detective sniffing around his affairs?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” the balding detective said, chomping a piece of gum.
“I’m Karina Cardinal, by the way. But, you already knew that . . . didn’t you, detective? And you are?”
“Detective Shinebocker.” He didn’t bother to take the hand I held out.
“Linus Moore, Capitol Police.” He shook my hand and with his left removed a business card from his front pocket.
I slipped it into my coat. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Shinebocker snapped his gum. “We’d like you to come down to the station and go over your statement.”
I pulled out my cell. “Sure, let me check my schedule. I can come by this afternoon, around four. How would that be?”
Shinebocker uncrossed his arms and he stepped closer, invading my personal space. “How about now?”
“Now is not convenient.” I didn’t move. Unfortunately for Shinebocker, his intimidation tactic wasn’t working in his favor. My stilettos gave me a good three inches on the man. I rolled my lips inward to suppress a smartass grin that would win me no points.
“I’m not asking.” Peppermint flavored breath rolled across my face, and he took hold of my bicep. Shinebocker’s glasses exaggerated his muddy hazel eyes, and I could see why Sandy had taken him in dislike.
Moore shifted uncomfortably.
“Are you placing me under arrest, Detective?”
“Should I?”
“If you’re not placing me under arrest, I suggest you release me. I don’t care to be manhandled. If you don’t already know, I am a lawyer. I know my rights, and I don’t believe the city can afford any sort of scandal . . . about following protocol . . . police brutality? Especially one that took place in a House of God.” I gave him stare-for-stare.
“Shinebocker,” Moore interjected, clearing his throat, “I’m sure we can wait until four.”
“Four o’clock. We’ll be waiting.” He squeezed hard enough to leave bruises and swept out, leaving Moore behind.
I refused to flinch, ignoring the pain. “Since he left so abruptly, perhaps you can tell me which precinct I should come to?”
“Do you have a card? I can email you.”
I withdrew the little placard from my purse. “Is there a problem I should know about, Officer Moore?”
“Just don’t be late.”
“Of course. See you at four.”
Chapter Eight
Though I’d kept it together during the interaction with the police, my hands were shaking by the time I made it back to my car. I had to take a few deep breaths to calm myself enough to text my boss. I lied, telling her I was headed over to the reception and probably wouldn’t make it into the office today.
City traffic was moderate and I drove aggressively, cutting people off and running a red light; it still took a solid thirty minutes to reach my destination. A sigh of relief escaped me as I entered the comforts of my condo. I didn’t bother to take off my coat, dropping my keys and handbag on the hall table as I passed it on the way to the kitchen counter where the phone charger lay.
Sure enough, the senator’s phone was nowhere to be seen. I checked around the floor, cabinets, and barstools before expanding my search. For the next half hour, I combed the apartment—searching coat pockets, my purse (multiple times), tables, dressers, dirty laundry, between the couch cushions, front hall closet, and underneath the furniture. My search ended where it began—next to the phone charger.
A distinct memory persisted—the senator’s black phone sitting next to my white one as it charged. It was there on Monday night.
“Did I see it on Tuesday?” I said to the empty room.
If I had, I would have dropped it at his office.
“Where the hell did it go?”
I turned in a circle, stopping as my eyes alighted on the large sliding door.
“What night did I wake up to turn on the heat and find the back door open? Monday night?” I drew on a glove and, with two fingers, pulled the glass open. “Do lock picks leave behind evidence? Did I even lock the door that night?”
Being on the fifth floor, I wasn’t always vigilant in securing that particular entrance. My sister once suggested putting a broom handle in the track—a good piece of advice I never got around to heeding. An inspection showed a slight scratch along the latch, but I had no way of knowing if it was fresh.
I leaned over the iron railing. The complex decks lined up every other floor, as the apartment layouts varied. I didn’t see how someone could free climb from the ground. The apartment complex had six floors. I flipped my body to stare upward. Was it possible to rappel from the rooftop?
Stumbling back into the apartment, I collapsed on the sofa.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumbled, rocking back and forth. If my currently screaming intuition was correct, someone had broken into my apartment to steal the senator’s phone. Someone who knew I’d been at the scene. Someone who knew I must have taken it.
Had I been followed? What was I to do now? If I wasn’t a suspect before, I would be now.
My options were limited, and I wasn’t sure which one was the best way to keep myself out of jail. There was little doubt ‘ole Shitkicker was going to ask about the phone. I could lie and say I knew nothing about it. On the other hand, I simply couldn’t remember if I’d mentioned the phone in my statement. Assuming I did, I could feign ignorance and tell them it must have gotten left behind in the tunnel. There was no way in hell the pair would believe my story about it being stolen from my home.
I could call Mike. He’d believe me, but it could put him in a touchy situation. Would his superiors take my word? If someone did rappel onto my deck and break in, it was doubtful they would have been stupid enough to leave behind fingerprints. One question kept rearing its ugly head—why risk breaking into my home, as I slept, to retrieve the phone? What was on that phone?
There was another person I could reach out to. He owed me a favor. . . .
I found the Silverthorne Security card with Josh’s handwritten cell number in the glass bowl where I tossed random business cards that I hadn’t gotten around to inputting into my phone’s contact list.
He answered on the third ring. “Go for Joshua.”
“Josh, hi! This is Karina Cardinal . . . remember, from a few months ago?”
“I remember.”
“I was wondering if you could help me get in touch with Rick.”
“He’s out of the country right now.”
“Oh . . . I see.” I chewed my lip.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Um . . . well . . . maybe. Is there some way to tell if a lock has been picked?”
“Depends. Using a bump usually damages the pins, a professional lockpick would leave little sign. Maybe some scratches. Look for shiny metal around the lock.”
“Okay.” I inspected the scratch again. “Listen, have you ever done any rappelling?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Off of a building?”
“When the occasion warranted.”
Needless to say, his answer didn’t surprise me. “What signs would I look for? A grappling hook? Holes in the roof, or—”
“Depends. Why do you ask?”
“Uh, research.” I pivoted in circles on my tiny back deck.
“Research for what?”
“I mean, asking for a friend.”
“Does this have something to do with what happened in January?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Do you think someone rappelled off the roof, onto your balcony, and broke into your apartment?”
“
Uh . . . ” Josh may have dark blond hair and a linebacker physique, but he sure didn’t fit into the handsome but stupid stereotype.
“I’m ten minutes away.”
“No, really. I don’t want to be a bother. If you just tell me what to look for . . . ”
“It’s no problem. Today is my day off.” He hung up.
Ten minutes later, I buzzed Josh in and stood in the open doorway while he made his way up to the fifth floor. He came around the corner wearing dark jeans, boots, and a brown leather jacket. Pretty much the same style of clothes he’d worn when protecting me. He walked with the confidence of a military man and the freshly cut hairstyle only enhanced the impression.
“Josh, you didn’t have to come, but since you’re here . . . ” I waved him into the apartment. “Thank you.”
“You think someone came in through the back?” Having been in the apartment before, he didn’t hesitate, walking through the foyer, down the short hallway, and into my living room.
I chewed a thumbnail as he inspected the lock and balcony floorboards.
“When do you think it happened?”
“Monday night.”
He did the same thing I did earlier, leaned over to look down, then up. Only Josh took it a step further. I caught my breath as he pulled himself up onto the railing and balanced on one foot to inspect the break line where my balcony roof met the brick siding. With cat-like agility, he dropped down, and came back inside.
“What do you think about the lock?”
“It’s hard to tell. That scratch does look new, but . . . ”
“What about the rappelling?”
“Let’s take a field trip to the roof.”
“Do you think someone could do it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Joshua bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairs. He held the door for me, but I paused on the threshold. My heartbeat increased and sweat popped out on my upper lip. Two months ago, I’d been attacked in this stairwell. Granted, on the basement floor—still, the hollow echo of steel and concrete affected me at a primal level.
