by Ellen Butler
My lashes dropped to half-mast and I replied drily, “You know who, Big Pharma.”
“J & P! It’s Karen and J & P!” he said gleefully.
“Rodrigo, Karen doesn’t work for J & P any more. She works for the president. And who at J & P would be stupid enough to conspire against a senator and congressman?”
“No, listen, Karen probably still has tons of J & P stock. You and I both know, just the whiff of a price-fixing bill moving through Congress could tank their stock.”
“So, she, no—they—did it for money? That’s just ridiculous.” I yelled the last word as a plane flew overhead on its approach into National Airport. It passed by and I lowered my voice. “I think you’re blowing a simple breakup way out of proportion here. Maybe this has to do with her husband. Maybe he found out and Nick was angry about it because if her husband makes a stink, Nick could lose his job. Let’s go inside.”
Rodrigo must have noticed my gaze darting back and forth to the other patrons, for he didn’t argue as we swept onto the red carpets of the Grand Foyer. The general buzz of conversation hummed around us, bouncing off the extravagant crystal chandeliers as voices floated up into the rafters of the sixty-foot ceilings.
“Their conversation is definitely suspect. We should ask around. See if we can find out more. Maybe I can reach out to Nick Ross,” Rodrigo mused.
Regret settled in. “Listen,” I murmured in an urgent undertone, “we don’t know what any of this means. I only caught bits of Karen and Nick’s conversation. Whatever theory you’re rolling around in that head of yours is sounding a little crackbrained. All the reports are saying the train wreck is a simple accident. I’m not Nancy Drew, and you’re not Sherlock Holmes. Get it?”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing? How can we stand by and do nothing?” Those dark brows rose high on his forehead. “What did Nick’s final words mean?” he whispered fiercely.
“Maybe it just meant that Karen better have kept their affair a secret or her job could be in jeopardy. Or her actions could reflect poorly on the president. Besides, this is ridiculous, there is simply no motive. There wasn’t even a bill, or a whiff of a bill. Those two old men were still farting around. Even if there was a bill, there’s no way it would have passed in a Republican Congress. I can think of a dozen congressmen alone who wouldn’t have allowed it to get out of committee. I don’t care what votes Finley ‘thought’ he could get, it’s all speculation. There’s no way someone’s going to murder a congressman and senator on a what-if. Pharma would’ve stepped up donations, lobbied hard, and killed it before it got legs to stand on.”
“Okay, maybe a Ferngull/J & P conspiracy is a little farfetched. But there’s something here. I can feel it in my bones.” He made a fist. “We have to tell someone. The police or FBI. It’s a lead. Right?”
I didn’t know what it was, but I could tell Rodrigo wasn’t going to let it go. “Fine,” I sighed. “I will tell my FBI contact what I heard. Okay? Then it’s in their hands, the professionals, you know?”
“Promise?”
“Yes, of course. I plan to see him this weekend. I’ll let him know.”
“You’ll tell me what he says?”
“Yes.”
“On Monday?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Sheesh. Now hand the lady our tickets.”
I thought that would be the end of it. However, fate is a funny thing. The usher guided us to our seats and a man, already seated, rose to let us pass.
“Miss Cardinal?”
You guessed it. My eyes met those cold, hooded features. “Nick Ross!” The surprise in my voice was genuine. “You’re here!”
His brows drew down, enhancing the bird-of-prey look, and Rodrigo poked my back.
“I—I mean,” —I drew in a breath and tried again— “I’m surprised to see you . . . with the accident . . . and all.”
“It’s a charity event, didn’t feel I could miss it.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Congressman Finley. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“I believe you’ve met my colleague, Rodrigo Alvarez.”
“Yes . . . of course. It’s . . . good to see you again.” They shook hands, and I could tell by Nick’s blank look that he had no clue who Rodrigo was.
“Let me add my own sympathies. Congressman Finley was a good, hardworking servant of the people. He will be greatly missed.” Rodrigo was certainly a skilled bullshitter. I’m not sure how he didn’t choke over those words, when so many times in the past, he had cursed Finley’s “pig-headed” stance on legislation.
“Thank you, your kindness is appreciated during this difficult time.”
“Of course, what a tragic accident. Be sure to let us know if there’s anything we can do.” Rodrigo produced a contrite expression that put my teeth on edge.
Nick turned to me. “It looks like we won’t be working together after all.”
“Shame,” I purred, keeping a straight face. “I was looking forward to collaborating with you.”
Another couple waited impatiently behind us, and I moved past Nick as the five-minute bell binged and the lights dimmed. We took our seats, and I uttered out the side of my mouth, “Not a word.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rodrigo must have agreed, because we didn’t speak again until intermission. When the houselights came up, the two of us followed the rest of the crowd out to the Grand Foyer to stretch our legs and get a desperately needed drink. Luckily, our Orchestra seats were in a good spot and the music so moving, I’d been able to put Finley, the train wreck, and Nick Ross out of my mind and enjoy Puccini’s libretto. However, while Rodrigo stood in line for drinks, I milled about and found myself drawn toward a coterie of men gathered around . . . you guessed it, Nick Ross.
I pulled out my phone and, with the nonchalance of a Siamese cat, sauntered in the vicinity of the group, stationing myself behind of one of the taller men. Luckily, they were speaking loudly enough that I didn’t have to hover too close. My back to the group, I donned a fierce expression while tapping my phone screen as though answering a complex text or responding to an email. In reality, I played Candy Crush.
As I suspected, the conversation revolved around the congressman’s accident.
“What I want to know,” piped in a voice with a Boston accent, “is what on earth was the congressman doing out there. I mean, don’t get me wrong, isn’t that kind of a ghetto area of Virginia?”
“Those tracks aren’t far from the Potomac. I believe there are million-dollar houses along there, and a marina too. Meryl and Shayna Westingshire have a second home down around there,” said the man at my back.
“Still doesn’t explain why Finley was down there. Nick, don’t you know?” Boston voice asked.
“ . . . nothing on the official schedule . . .” was all I caught of Nick’s faint reply. He excused himself and left the group.
A snort drew my attention away from the colored candies at my fingertips, and I glanced up to find Elise Harper standing a dozen feet in front of me with a plastic glass of chardonnay in one hand and a black Gucci purse in the other. She wore a black dress with a black and red harlequin scarf around her neck.
“Elise?” The shock I felt at seeing her out in public so soon after her husband’s death couldn’t be feigned.
She glowered past me at the men who were now dispersing and wandering off in ones and twos. “I can tell you what he was doing there.” She took a swig of wine.
I approached her. “Mrs. Harper, I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Karina Cardinal. We met at the Women in Business fundraiser a few months ago.”
Her bloodshot gaze shifted to size me up. “I remember. You came to the funeral. You sat with Sandy.”
“Yes, I did. I didn’t get to tell you in person, but I had a great deal of respect for your husband. He was a good man, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes nar
rowed. “George spoke about you, he once called you spirited. Shrewd, but spirited.”
I swallowed, unsure how to answer. “I’m surprised to see you here, I thought you’d be home in Michigan.”
“A good friend had tickets, and Autism Awareness is an important cause to me. She thought it might cheer me up,” she said drily.
“You’re looking . . .”
“Like hell?” Her voice came out gritty and hard.
Makeup hid most of the tell-tale signs, but even the best foundation couldn’t conceal the sagging mouth and dark undereye half-moons. “. . . Tired. How are you holding up? You said you came with a friend.” I searched the milling crowd for someone to whom Elise might belong. “Perhaps I can help you—”
“Hanging on by a thread.” Another gulp of wine went down, and I noticed her neutral nail polish was badly chipped. “There are things I must tie up here in D.C., including my husband’s murder, before moving permanently back to Michigan.”
I flinched at her terseness and scrambled to think of a response. “I’m . . . sorry to hear you’ll be leaving the area. I thought . . . you might consider taking your husband’s seat until the election.”
She delivered a wry look. “No, I’m done with politics and the public life. I’m sick and tired of the press thinking my private life is their next story. Speaking of a story, have I got one for them. You heard those gossiping milkmaids?” She indicated with her wine where the now dispersed gathering of men had been. “I can tell you what Finley was doing in Virginia.”
“Really? What?”
“High stakes betting.”
“Poker?” That’s not at all what I’d expected to hear.
“Poker, blackjack, sports games, take your pick. They’d bet on anything and everything. About a dozen Capitol Hill insiders get together monthly to bet on a basketball or football game and play cards. And I’m not talking for chicken stakes.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ever wonder why Senator Wyatt stopped driving that classic Mustang and switched to a hybrid?”
“I assumed he garaged the Mustang and decided to go eco-friendly.”
“Ha!” She guzzled the rest of the wine. “He lost it. To the honorable Congressman Grant Odom.”
“Did—did your husband ever play with them?”
“Once. Wyatt invited him to a game a few years ago. George wasn’t much of a gambler and he couldn’t stomach the questionable company and high stakes. Or the overabundance of liquor.”
“So, he’d been down to . . . what? Is it a home or a boat in Virginia?”
Elise gave an elegant shrug. “No idea. The game moved around. They even had a secret password to get in. It was all very speakeasy . . . and childish, if you ask me.”
“Finley was a regular?”
“According to George.” She tutted, “Stupid ass probably lost the farm and decided to end it all on the tracks.”
“You think his driver agreed to that?” I said, unable to hide the tone of reproach.
That hard gaze rested on me. “No . . . you’re right. Taking an innocent life along with his own wasn’t his style. The news is probably right. It was just an accident. But if they get a hold of the reason he was down there to begin with . . .” She released a slow whistling sigh. “The press will have a field day. Poor Bitsy Finley. Can you imagine?”
Thinking back on some of my own interactions with the press, it wasn’t hard to see how they’d blow something like this up into a mountain of a scandal. “Who was in charge of finding the venues?”
“They took turns. It’s another reason George wasn’t interested. The one he attended was at an estate in McLean. He said it was owned by one of Wyatt’s campaign contributors. He felt the entire thing was shady.”
The chimes sounded to let us know the opera would soon resume.
“That’s my cue.” Elise tossed her plastic glass in a nearby trash can.
“Mrs. Harper . . . Elise.” I placed a hand on her forearm. “I . . . I was with your husband when he collapsed. . . .”
Her gaze sharpened to a needle point as it bore down upon me. “Yes, the police told me.”
I’d figured the cops had told her. Removing my hand, I questioned if going down this road was a mistake. “He . . . he spoke your name . . . at the end. He was thinking of you.”
Those bloodshot eyes shimmered, and she inclined her chin. “Thank you . . . for that.” Then she gripped my arm, her fingers, stronger than I expected, curled like the talons of an eagle. “Be careful, Karina. Don’t let them beat you down. Keep up that passion and spirit my husband spoke of. D.C. is a dangerous, old boys club. Watch yourself.” She sniffed and, releasing me as abruptly as she’d latched on, strode away.
My heart pounded, considering her words.
“You look like you could use this,” Rodrigo said by way of introduction, and held a half-glass of red wine in front of my nose. “I couldn’t find you, so I helped myself.”
Gripping the thin plastic, I gulped down the cheap wine, much like Elise had just done. “Thanks.”
“Is it true?”
My brows rose questioningly.
“Harper’s last words?” he clarified.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then why say it?”
“I thought . . . I thought I was comforting a grieving widow.”
“I’m surprised she’s here.” He watched her walk up the curving staircase to the box level.
“Me too. She seems to think Finley was at a private poker game.”
“The infamous floating craps game?”
“Floating craps game? I don’t think she mentioned craps.”
“Like from Guys and Dolls.” Rodrigo rolled his eyes at my blank look. “Your musical theater knowledge is sadly lacking. The roaming Capitol Hill poker game? Rumor has it there are some pretty big folks playing.”
“How do you know this? How have I never heard of it?”
“I listen to the gossip. You’re too high class for that.”
“Right.” More like, out of the loop. “Anybody from the White House administration play?”
Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I know of. Solely Capitol Hill. But . . .”
“But?”
“Maybe you’re right, and Finley’s death has nothing to do with Harper. What Elise told you about the poker game—it’s dirty. Could be motive. Maybe Finley won a ton of cash and someone wasn’t pleased. A new player who doesn’t like losing? Maybe his car was pushed onto the tracks at just the . . . right? . . . or wrong time?”
Rodrigo’s speculation about the poker game wasn’t completely off base. However, it would be the very devil to prove it.
“That’s what you need to tell your FBI friend, and . . .” He looked past my shoulder.
“And?”
“No time. The ushers are closing up. Come on, I don’t want to miss anything.”
We hotfooted it to the nearest door and slipped in as one of the red-vested ushers pulled up the doorstopper. The lights dimmed, and we shuffled past the other attendees. Nick Ross’s seat remained empty through the final act, and Rodrigo never got back to explaining his thoughts about the poker game.
Chapter Seventeen
MIKE
“I thought we were going out for brunch. Is that what you’re wearing?” Mike stood in K.C.’s doorway, wearing black jeans, a blue button down, and gray sport coat. She, on the other hand, wore a pair of faded leggings and a ratty UVA sweatshirt that, if he recalled correctly, went back to her freshman year.
“Come in. I decided to cook. We’re having brunch at home. I have a quiche Florentine in the oven and I’m just about to put on the French toast. Would you like a Mimosa? Iced tea? Coffee?”
“I’ll have the tea. It smells delicious.” He trailed her into the kitchen. “But you didn’t have to do this. I was happy to take you out.”
“Oh, I know.”
“How has your week been?” He stood in the middle of the kitchen.
>
She went to squeeze past to get the pitcher of tea out of the fridge. She smelled of vanilla and her coconut shampoo; she always smelled so good to him. Without thought, he caught hold and pulled her in for a kiss. She seemed surprised at first, but soon melted into his embrace and actively joined in. He pressed her against the pantry cabinet and considered tossing her up on the counter—to cross that line they’d been dancing around. He ran his hands down to her hips and squeezed.
BUZZ!
Mike practically dropped her on the floor as he turned in a crouch position to defend against the incessant buzzing.
“It’s just the oven timer. The quiche is ready,” she panted, pressing fingers against her reddened cheeks as she pushed past him to silence the noise. “You seem a little on edge. What’s going on?”
He straightened. “Nothing in particular. But with you? I never know.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.” She laid the steaming quiche on the stove top. “The tea is in a glass pitcher in the fridge. Help yourself. I need to get the French toast started.”
Mike poured himself a drink while K.C. dipped bread slices into the egg batter and laid them on a hot griddle. “So, how is the Harper case going?” she asked.
“Well, I think we’re following a good lead.”
“What’s that look? You’ve got more than a lead. Have you got the guy?”
“The FBI does not comment on ongoing investigations,” Mike replied from rote.
It was true, he had a lead and a damn good one at that. He’d tracked a series of death threats the senator had received to a hacker who went by the screen name NKBarbie. The hacker’s affiliations included a handful of white supremacist groups on the dark web, and the FBI profiler who’d drawn up the dossier on this guy believed the NK in his hacker identity stood for Nikolaus “Klaus” Barbie. Barbie was a Nazi SS officer also known as the “Butcher of Lyon”, a moniker earned for having tortured numerous French prisoners during WWII. Seemed appropriate for a white supremacist whack-job to take a famous Nazi as his avatar.
The hacker’s threats had been widespread after a vote on an immigration bill that passed eight months ago. All of the Democratic party members received the same generic death threat that they’d tracked back to NKBarbie. However, he seemed to believe that any Republican who voted for the bill was a traitor to party and country, and the death threats to the Republican members of Congress in favor of the immigration bill were quite personal. He’d even told Harper to drop dead. NKBarbie had been credited with at least three different government hacks that clearly showed he had the skills to pull off Senator Harper’s pacemaker hack and could have hired Jablonski through the darknet. The question that remained was whether NKBarbie was the mastermind behind the hit, or if there was a bigger fish running the op.
