by Ellen Butler
The cell phone ringing startled me out of my contemplative daze. When I saw Rodrigo’s number, I sent it to voicemail and dialed Mike instead.
“Agent Finnegan,” he barked.
“Didn’t get your coffee this morning?”
His voice noticeably softened. “Sorry, thought I picked up my work phone. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in this investigation, which is why I haven’t called.”
“That’s what I figured, and it’s not the reason for my calling now. Did you hear about Finley?”
“Yes.”
“Is the FBI investigating?”
“They’re on scene along with local law enforcement, NTSB, and Federal Railroad Association investigators.”
“It’s awful.” I muted the television. “How could something like this happen?”
“You’d be surprised. Almost two thousand collisions happen yearly.”
“Jeez. I had no idea train-car collisions were that rampant. How come we don’t hear about them?”
“You do when it’s local, like today, or when it kills a large number of people—”
“Or when it involves someone famous?”
“Precisely.”
“Wow, first Harper, now Finley,” I mused.
My last volley received no audible response.
“Mike . . . do you think the two are connected?”
“At this point, I couldn’t even begin to speculate. My work phone is ringing again. I’ve got to run. Let’s plan dinner for tonight. I’ll call you.” He hung up before I could utter another word.
Since I hadn’t gotten around to drinking my now cold coffee, it took a moment for Mike’s words to penetrate my boggled brain. He’d said, “at this point.” Did that mean there could be a point in which the two would intersect?
Ugh! I pressed the heels of my hands against my temples. I needed a fresh cup of java and some sustenance if I planned to scramble down that rabbit hole. Which is exactly what it would turn into—a maze of unanswerable questions. At least, unanswerable for me. I’m sure detectives and agents could get what they needed in a matter of minutes.
I dispensed the skinned-over liquid down the drain, poured a fresh cup, and drank half of it before returning Rodrigo’s call.
“Have you heard?” he asked, bypassing the usual civilities.
“About Finley?”
“Yes.” His breath blew across the lines. “Thank the lord we didn’t tell anyone at the office. Just one more lost cause we’d have to explain. There is no way this goes anywhere now that Finley’s gone.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I played with the rim of my mug. “Does any of this seem strange to you?”
“It all seems strange. But, if you mean the congressman getting hit by a train. Yes. It seems weird. I thought that only happened in the movies.”
“I did too, until my FBI friend informed me that over two thousand train-car crashes happen every year.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Apparently not.”
I stuck a slice of whole wheat bread in the toaster and pushed the lever. I never understood how people could do the low-carb diets. Oh, I’d read all the latest studies on how gluten was the enemy, and through genetic modifications we’d ruined wheat. However, bread, pizza, crackers, toast points, and brie had all gotten me through some rough times. I supposed it was my vice; I simply couldn’t give up bread. “Are you coming into the office this morning, or do you have other meetings?” I asked.
“I’ve got offsite meetings this morning, but I’ll be in after lunch. Are we still on for the opera tonight?”
It’s a good thing he mentioned it. I’d forgotten. “Sure.” I made a mental note to text Mike and let him know I couldn’t make dinner tonight.
“Don’t forget a cocktail dress. See you this afternoon.”
I took a long, hot shower. No matter how much water beat down on my cranium, it couldn’t pound out the feeling of apprehension that stayed with me throughout the day. It probably didn’t help that I kept returning to the ghastly photos on Twitter.
Mike called midday. “I’m sorry, I have to cancel our dinner.”
“No problem. I meant to text you, I can’t go either. I’m going to the opera, to see Turandot, with Rodrigo tonight.”
“Who’s Rodrigo?” he asked sharply.
Was that a touch of jealousy I heard in his voice? “My gay coworker. I told you about him.”
“Oh . . . right.” That definitely sounded like relief. “Why didn’t you tell me about the opera this morning?”
“Frankly, you barely gave me a moment to get a word in edgewise. And this past week, you’ve been relatively incommunicado.”
He sighed. “I know. These cases are sucking me dry.”
“Cases?”
Ignoring my question, he carried on as though I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll make it up to you. How about I pick you up for brunch on Saturday morning? Say, eleven?”
“You talked me into it. See you Saturday.”
THE COCKTAIL PARTY atop the Kennedy Center wasn’t actually inside the lovely Rooftop Restaurant. It was in a generic box of a room next to it. Waiters with glasses of cheap wine and beer wove through the crowd while buffet tables in two corners provided a selection of finger foods. High top tables were scattered through the room.
Rodrigo, looking snazzy in a brown vest, navy slacks, and blue shirt with French cuffs, had been able to elbow some space for us at one of the tables. With a Michelob in one hand, he nibbled his way through a variety of cheeses on his plate with the other, while I—in a black dress I usually referred to as “Old Faithful”— drank something resembling a Chardonnay and crunched on a celery stick.
“How did you get invited to this, again? The sign outside indicated this is a reception for the performers’ friends and families. Do you know someone?”
Rodrigo snorted. “No, but I have a friend who works in the box office. He put me on the list. Usually these things can be light on attendance, so nobody notices a few extra people. However” —he eyed the room— “tonight it looks as though everyone’s friends and family showed up.”
He wasn’t kidding. The room was wall-to-wall people, and they were dressed to the nines. The ladies wore cocktail and long formal dresses with their best jewelry. Conversation from all sides overwhelmed the piped in music, and the poor waiters barely made it ten feet into the room before being mobbed and their trays emptied. All the bodies made the temperature rise.
“Everyone is very fancy tonight,” I commented.
“What?”
“Everyone seems to have pulled out the family jewels tonight.”
“It’s a charity event. The ticket sales are going toward Autism Awareness.”
Someone jostled my arm, and I would have been covered in wine if it had been full. “I think I’m done here,” I said in Rodrigo’s ear. “I’m going to hit the little girl’s room. Meet me in the hallway when you’re finished.”
He tipped his beer glass in acknowledgement, and I zigzagged my way to the exit. It was a breath of fresh air when I stepped into the hallway. I wasn’t sure where the restrooms were on this level, so I took my chances with the right. My instincts were correct, a sign directed me, but as I turned the corner, I was brought up short by a long line of ladies.
Not being a good line-stander, and knowing the building had multiple bathrooms, I headed in the opposite direction and meandered the hallways in search of a ladies’ room without a line. I finally stumbled across one on the opposite side of the building next to an alcove with an old-fashioned circular couch surrounded by pillars and antique mirrors. I’d always loved those types of round couches and decided I needed a selfie reclining on it. However, since it’d taken me so long to find the restrooms, my needs were now urgent. The photo op would have to wait. To my relief, the bathroom was empty, and I had my pick of the four stalls.
As I exited, voices of an arguing couple derailed my selfie plans. I waffled, trying to determine if I should retrea
t into the bathroom to wait them out or walk away and return later with Rodrigo. I’d just decided it had taken me so long to find the restroom that I’d better find Rodrigo, when I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.
“Nicolas, I promise you, I haven’t spoken to anyone since his death.”
“I never should have said a word. You can’t be trusted!” a man’s voice spat. That voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“How can you say that?” the woman said.
I shifted to see if I could see around the pillar and get a gander at the pair. Luck was with me. The antique glass must have been a two-way mirror. The man had his back to me, but the woman . . . she wore a brown cocktail dress that matched her long, sable-colored hair. Her heart-shaped face was dominated by a pair of square, black-rimmed glasses that were popular nowadays. But that face . . . I knew that face, and I wracked my brain to put a name to it.
“You talked to someone? One of your cronies? They would have been very interested in the turn of events. Wouldn’t they?”
“Lower your voice, please, I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” she said through stiff lips. Her eyes darted around the small enclosed space, then she whispered something I couldn’t hear.
The man responded in a quieter manner, so I only caught a few words: “things under control,” and “changing political climate . . . never be able to hold them off.”
I shifted position to hear the conversation better.
“I don’t understand. I thought it was an accident,” the woman responded.
“Then explain to me, Karen—” He hissed her name. “Why do I have three voicemail messages from an FBI Agent?”
When he said her name, the puzzle pieces snapped in place. The woman was Karen Ferngull, Deputy Secretary of Health and Human Services.
“I—I’m sure I don’t know,” Karen stammered.
“We’re done here.” He turned, and I had to press a hand to my mouth. I knew I’d heard that voice before—Nicolas, a.k.a Nick Ross, Congressman Finley’s right-hand man.
Karen caught his sleeve. “Nicky, wait. Give me a chance. Meet me at our usual spot tomorrow. Noon?”
“I don’t think you understand, Karen, it’s over. Ties severed.” He yanked his coat from her fingers and straightened out the cuff. “One last piece of advice: Your friends are playing a dangerous game. I hope you’ve insulated yourself.”
I rotated, pressing myself behind the pillar, and prayed Nick wouldn’t notice me as he strode past—my position looked exactly like it was, that of an eavesdropper, and there would be no way to talk my way out of it. I needn’t have worried, he didn’t give a backward glance. Peeking back at Karen, I found she’d removed her glasses, her shoulders drooped despondently, and the look in her eyes could only be described as . . . longing. She collapsed on the sofa, her profile toward me, and I took the opportunity to make an immediate departure, all thoughts of my silly selfie having vanished.
Hustling back toward the reception room, I practically mowed Rodrigo down as I powered around a corner.
“Whoa!” He grabbed my shoulders to keep me from knocking him down. “Slow down, speedy. What’s your hurry, and where have you been? I thought you went to the bathroom. I’ve been waiting outside for ten minutes.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going. I found a different restroom without a line.”
“The doors should be opening soon, if they aren’t already. Let’s head downstairs before the masses realize the food is all gone and start flooding out.”
Judging by the increased din in the hall and bodies spewing from the entryway like a tidal wave, I reckoned word had already gotten out about the lack of food. Nevertheless, I allowed Rodrigo to lead me to the crowded elevators, remaining silent on the short trip down to the main level. When the doors opened, I pulled Rodrigo in the opposite direction of the throng. “Do we have to go in immediately?”
He checked his phone. “I guess not, we still have twenty-five minutes before it’s due to start. And they rarely start on time opening night. Why?”
“I could use some fresh air. Let’s take a walk.” I curled my hand through his elbow and led him through the heavy glass doors onto the River Terrace. The terrace was a large expanse of Italian Carrera marble with arresting views of the Potomac River; Rosslyn, Virginia skyline, and the infamous Watergate complex, depending on which direction you chose to stand. The nighttime air was relatively mild, and handfuls of folks dotted the balustrade as the setting sun striped the clouds in a rainbow of pinks, reds, and oranges. I chose a place along the handrail away from the other patrons and contemplated the Potomac River. My own mind was the exact opposite of the slow-moving waters and would be better characterized by the crashing turmoil of Niagara Falls. The meeting I’d just witnessed between Karen and Nick swirled in my mind.
“Are you going to tell me what that pensive look is all about?” Rodrigo interrupted my thoughts.
I gazed down the rail at a canoodling couple. The woman’s lips were moving, but the rushing traffic below drowned out whatever she had to say. Blowing out a breath, I answered Rodrigo with a question of my own. “What do you know about Nick Ross and Karen Ferngull?”
His mouth made a moue. “How did you hear about them?”
“I just witnessed a rather heated discussion between them on my way back from the bathroom.”
“Hm . . . sounds like trouble in paradise.”
“Paradise? I thought Karen was married.”
“She is.”
“So, you’re saying she and Nick Ross are having an affair?” That would explain her forlorn look and their hushed tones.
His lips twisted. “I figure Nick and Karen met while he was working at Finley’s home office in New Jersey. Karen was working for J & P Pharmaceuticals then. They probably met at a fundraiser or something. J & P has sunk millions of lobbying dollars into Republican party pockets. When she moved to D.C., her husband remained behind at their mega-mansion in Jersey. He’s into real estate or something.”
“So she moved to D.C. not long after Ross?”
He squinted in thought. “I guess that’s about right.”
“How did you know they’re having an affair?”
“One memory sticks in my head as clear as crystal,” he explained, tapping a finger to his temple. “On the last day of boot camp class, Nick walked three blocks away from the gym—I remember because I’d trailed behind him on the way to my own car, still huffing from the workout—he got into a waiting white BMW. Once he closed the door, I saw him lean over and kiss her.”
“How close were you? How do you know it wasn’t just a peck on the cheek between friends?” I scoffed.
“No, it was a lover’s kiss.” He folded his arms. “There was definite tongue action. And . . . as she drove down the street, I watched her swat his hand away from her breast as he copped a feel.”
So, when Nick told Karen he was severing ties, he meant their affair. Their conversation outside the bathroom ran through my head again, taking on a different connotation.
“Now you go.”
“What?” I refocused on Rodrigo. “Oh. Well . . . I think I just witnessed their breakup.”
“Really?” He leaned in closer. “Did she end it or did he? Don’t tell me, her husband found out.”
“Not that I know of. Nick made implications that she’d revealed information, but she said she hadn’t talked to anyone since his death, whoever he is. And then, just before he walked away, he said that he hoped she had protected herself.”
Rodrigo nodded and clicked his tongue. “Pillow talk. Gets people in trouble all the time. That was a relationship ready to blow up in their faces at any moment. Finley would have been furious if he’d found out Nick was sleeping with her.”
“I imagine so. Now, they’re kind of working on the opposite side of the tracks, so to speak, with her working for the administration and him on the legislative side of things.”
Rodrigo’s mouth formed an O, and
I realized what I’d said.
“You know I didn’t . . . I mean . . . oh, hell, you know I wasn’t referring to the accident.”
But it was too late, my reference to the tracks had Rodrigo connecting dots. “You don’t think that Karen had anything to do with Finley’s death . . . do you?”
I gave him a fierce look. “I don’t see how. I mean, how could she have orchestrated a train wreck?”
“Wait a minute, let me think for a minute.”
I didn’t like watching thoughts run through Rodrigo’s brain that had briefly squirreled in my own head.
“Whose death? Whose death was she referring to? Harper? Finley? Nick Ross . . .” He snapped his fingers. “It’s Finley.”
“What?”
“She messed with his car. Got it to stop on the tracks.”
I shook my head. “How did she get the car to stop on the tracks at the exact moment the train was coming around the corner? How would anyone know he was going to be there . . . at that time? Even if you cut the brakes, you can’t determine exactly where they’ll go bad and stop the car.”
“You’re right, she didn’t do it. They did it. They messed with the braking system.”
“They? Who’s they? You know that sounds crazy,” I said dismissively.
Yet . . . Harper’s pacemaker had been hacked, though Rodrigo didn’t know. It’d already been proven that a car’s system could be hacked. I remember reading an article a few months ago on this exact issue. Security specialists had been warning carmakers that all the fancy, keyless technology left vehicular computers open to hacking through security holes. At the 2010 Enigma Security Conference, a University of California professor demonstrated the vulnerabilities by hacking into a Chevy Impala and disabling the braking system. If you could disable a pacemaker, brakes on a car were a no-brainer. I could see where someone could simply stop a car right where you wanted it to.
I shook away the thought. “Again, who’s they? And what’s the motive?”
“Wait, just wait.” He rapped his knuckles against the metal railing, paced away, pivoted, and returned. “I think I know who ‘they’ are. Who would it damage if we could get this bill passed?” He held out his hands, prompting the obvious.
