Sam set her Birkin bag on the frosted glass bar that separated her from the assistant, and said, with a tone of confidentiality, “Honestly, George, I’m not quite sure. The details of the investigation haven’t given me a great deal to go on, and I find it helps my work to have a complete picture of who my...guests are. I’d just like to know more about her, if you’ve got a few minutes to share.”
He cracked a weak smile. “You’re an ethnographic researcher, just like her. You need all the components of her life to make sense of her death.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
“See, if the police would just look at their crimes in those terms, they’d solve so many more cases. I’m happy to help. Why don’t you come into her office, that’s the best place to start. Can I get you some coffee, or tea?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you. Light and sweet.”
“Of course. Follow me, please.”
The hallways of Ledbetter’s offices were adorned with photographs of the company’s namesake. Sam stopped to look at a few of them. There was the shot of Ledbetter with the Maasi tribesmen she’d seen online, and another of her bundled up in snow gear with a six-pack of Inuit and frolicking huskies.
“She did the Iditarod three years ago. That was taken after the race. She didn’t win, not by a long shot, but she finished, which was more than the majority of the nonprofessionals who entered.”
“She sounds like an extraordinary woman.”
“Oh, she was. Traveled all over the world, never saw a challenge she didn’t want to tackle. For the past year, she’s been training for alpine climbs, wanted to do the seven summits before she got too old. Of course, that meant she needed to stop smoking, and she’d tried so many times, and failed every attempt. It was the one thing I’ve ever seen that she wanted to do but had trouble with. But she’d pretty much licked it. She hadn’t had a cigarette in six months. She finally gave up doing it on her own and tried hypnosis, and it seemed to work.”
“Nicotine is worse than heroin.”
George laughed a bit, sadly. “That’s what Loa used to say.”
The pictures continued on, a parade of events that led down the hall into her office. It was just what Sam expected, neat as a pin, organized, well laid out. On the wall were more pictures, one of which Sam recognized from trips as a girl, the volcanoes of Hawaii. Ledbetter knelt with a huge grin on her face and her arm flung out to the right, framing the mountain behind her, as if to say, Wow, look at this!
Sam looked closer at the shot. Her heart started to beat harder.
“George, do you have a magnifying glass?”
He shook his head. “No. But that shot is on her computer. She was one hell of a photographer, as you can imagine, and has every trip she’s ever taken digitized. You need a closer look?”
Sam tapped the photograph. “I need to blow up this area right here. Just to the left of where she’s kneeling.”
“Sure. You want me to do it now?”
“Please. Thank you.”
Sam took the picture off the wall and stared at it, her mind whirling while George tapped away at the computer and pulled up the original.
“Here we are.”
Sam could understand why George held his position; for an exacting professional like Ledbetter, she needed someone who was as driven and talented as she was to be her eyes and ears and an extra set of hands. A second brain.
Sam went around to the back of the desk and looked at the area in question that George had blown up.
Son of a bitch.
“Were the cops here, George?”
“Oh, yeah. They took a bunch of files and asked us all questions last night.”
But they hadn’t seen the picture.
“Excuse me for just one second.”
“Sure. I’ll go get that tea.”
The minute he was out of earshot she got on her cell phone and called Fletcher.
He answered on the first ring but didn’t say her name, just said, “Fletcher.”
“I know what the toxin was.”
“That’s my girl. What is it?”
“Abrin. From the rosary pea plant. One of the deadliest, most poisonous plants in the world. They use the seeds in jewelry all over the tropics. It’s actually naturalized in Florida and Georgia, grows primarily in warm places. The labs would never know to look for it, because it’s never been successfully weaponized, like ricin and anthrax. The tox screen and air-quality tests will come back inconclusive unless we test for abrin specifically. But if it’s inhaled, it can absolutely cause hemorrhagic pneumonia like we saw in all three victims. It would mimic ricin, but the effects can be slower. The people who are still sick can get sicker if they’ve been exposed to enough of it.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“I’m at Loa Ledbetter’s office. There’s a picture of her in a pasture in Hawaii surrounded by the plants. When I saw it, everything clicked. I remember it from school, just a basic from the list of poisonous plants you’re supposed to stay away from.”
“Are we looking at her as a suspect instead of a victim?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll call Nocek and tell him to change the tox screens, see if I’m right.”
Fletcher hesitated. “Will you do me another favor when you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Ask him to get a DNA sample from the congressman.”
“I thought you already had it confirmed.”
“Before I go off half-cocked into this investigation, I want to make sure the previous investigators have it right.”
“Good call, Fletch. I’m going to go. You need to get with your people and have them spread the word of what the toxin is so they can treat the remaining victims as quickly as possible. I don’t think there’s an antidote, but there may be things they can do to help flush it from their systems faster.”
“Are you off to Conlon next?”
“I’m going to be here for a bit, look deeper into her life. The cops took a bunch of her files and such, but her assistant knows everything.”
“All right. Be careful. Bianco hasn’t figured out you’re gone yet. I’ve managed to distract Inez, but she’s going to catch on any second.”
“See ya, Fletch.”
She hung up the phone, feeling triumphant. Knowing what the toxin was would go a long way toward figuring out who was behind the attacks.
Chapter 21
Dillon, Colorado
Alexander Whitfield
Dillon, Colorado, was a small town nestled in a valley ten miles east of the Continental Divide, with a pristine lake that accepted the runoff from the surrounding mountains and provided a perfect place for ski season lodging and summer sports. Xander had grown up skiing the nearby slopes of Keystone and Breckenridge and Vail and Beaver Creek in the winter, boating on Lake Dillon in the summers, fishing its tributaries for trout that his father would fillet and his mother would cook for dinner. It was an idyllic spot, the perfect place to raise children when you wanted to stay off the beaten path. Xander’s parents had set down roots there, falling in love with the stunning setting, the sense of privacy and the fertile land.
His parents still lived in the house on Bootlegger Ridge Road. He laid bets with himself as he took the exit off the highway—Sunshine would be in the garden, Roth would be in the smokehouse.
He was right. When he rolled up in the driveway, he could see flashes of the cheerful yellow sundress his mother was wearing, one of her own making, from design to fabric to dye, and smoke rising from the chimney of the small shed to the right of the alpine house.
His parents’ dogs, Star and Day Lily, came rushing out to the car. Star was a German shepherd, sister to his own dog, Thor. Day Lily was a black spaniel, happy and giddy and sweet and silly. Su
nshine was right behind them, a huge grin on her face.
“Moonbeam! What a wonderful surprise! You didn’t send word that you were coming.” Xander grimaced at the name choice, but he knew from many battles long and short that his mother would never of her own free will call him Alexander.
She enveloped him in a hug, and the scents of his childhood overwhelmed him: earth, sun, sweat, the sharp tang of herbs, the milky scent that she’d never fully lost after Yellow was weaned, the clingy odor of fresh cannabis, overlaid with a healthy dose of patchouli. It made him happy, and he hugged her back, tight.
The dogs danced around them, caught up in their joy.
Xander finally stepped back and looked at his mother. She was still beautiful, her face relatively unlined, but her cornflower-blue eyes were crinkled around the edges and her gold nose ring sparkled in the sun. Sixty, and still slim as a girl. It was all the homegrown, pesticide-free vegetables she ate, she swore up and down. He thought it was more to do with the strain of pot they’d perfected that didn’t make them hungry, but he stayed as far away from that business as he could.
Another scent rose up, this one tantalizing.
“Roth getting ready to smoke a deer?”
“Lord, Moon, your nose is as sensitive as a truffle pig. He’s going to be thrilled to see you. Let’s go scare him.”
His mother would forever be a child.
But he humored her, because sometimes he was just a bit too much of an adult.
They snuck around the back of the shed, and at her cue, flung open the door and screamed like Indians. Alexander Roth Whitfield II jumped and screamed in turn, whirling on them with a skinning knife in his hand. When he realized the joke was on him, he set it down and laughed.
“You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, Sunshine. Moonbeam, good to see you, son.”
Xander accepted his father’s embrace gladly. Though his parents hadn’t supported his decision to join the Army, they still loved him, and stood by him, especially when he came home from the war and disappeared into the woods. The desire for solitude to come to grips with an unjust world, that they understood. They’d made their life on the sentiment.
“Give me a minute more here, son, I’m nearly finished.”
His mother chimed in, “Moon, you just missed lunch, but I can put together a plate for you. Fresh kale and edamame and toasted sesame dressing suit you? I can cut up some tofu if you want protein, we just finished the last of the chicken. The venison isn’t cured yet, obviously. The rest is put aside for stew tomorrow. What timing you have!”
“That sounds good, Sunshine. Thank you. I’ll be in in just a minute. I need to ask Roth something.”
“All right, sweetheart. Oh, it’s so good to have you home.”
She left the shed, the dogs following her as if she was the pied piper of the canine set.
He watched her go, smiling at her glee. When he turned back to his father, he saw the look echoed on the older man’s face. Nice to still be madly in love after forty years together.
He hoped for that with Samantha.
The thought brought him up short. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that after just three lovely months, all he wanted was to put a ring on her finger and call her wife. He didn’t think she’d want that, not yet, not so soon. He didn’t doubt her love, quite the opposite. She wouldn’t have gotten nearly as angry with him if she didn’t care. But he wasn’t sure if she was ready, and so he didn’t want to push the issue. Better to let it arise organically. He wanted a life of bliss with her, that he couldn’t deny. Maybe even children, if she could bear the thought of trying again. But he had a mission to execute right now, so he put thoughts of love and romance aside to speak man-to-man with his father.
“Help me, will you? This last bit is always a pain.”
Xander took his designated spot at the rear of the deer, helped guide his father’s knife. It was a stag, maybe eight point, a big fellow.
“Took him with your bow?”
Roth felt hunting with a rifle was unsportsmanlike, instead used a crossbow. He thought it evened the odds a bit.
“Yes. We’re out of season, but it was a mercy kill. His leg was broken. We saw him limping around in the forest two days ago, and I couldn’t let him suffer. And the wolves didn’t deserve an easy snack—they took three of the chickens last week.” He patted the skinned rump of the deer. “He led me on a chase, too. A fine beast. He died with honor.”
He said this with the gravest respect. Roth and Sunshine had taught Xander reverence for their fellow beings, regardless of their sentience, especially the ones that fed and clothed them.
“You in trouble?” Roth asked, finishing the skinning with three short, quick, practiced cuts.
“Not me. Not yet, anyway. Have you heard what’s been going on?”
“No. I’ve been in the woods for the past day and night, and you know how Sun is.”
He did. Growing up, his mother forbade television and radio, insisting instead on books and self-made music and imagination to entertain her children. There was a small portable television set they kept in the garage in case of emergency, but the fears of Washington hadn’t permeated the open land of Colorado yet.
“There was a supposed terrorist attack on the subway in D.C. Have you seen Stuart Crawford lately?”
“I have. You think he was behind it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You know Stu. He still thinks everyone west of the Divide should secede.”
Xander laughed. “If I remember, you weren’t entirely against that idea.”
“No, I wasn’t, but it was too political for me to worry about. I’m a farmer, not a fighter.” There was a catch to his voice, not disapproval, per se, just a statement of fact. It was not lost on him that he was a pacifist who’d somehow raised a warrior.
“Stu’s son, William? Remember him? He’s the computer genius. That’s who I’m looking for.”
Roth took a break, leaned his hip against the table.
“Little Will Crawford. Think he lives somewhere west of here, might be as far as Grand Junction. But Stu’s always around. We can go see him after you humor your mother and eat some lunch, if you’d like.”
“I’d like. Thank you, Roth. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
His father nodded once, still formal in his movements after all these years. “Of course. Now, let me get finished here, and you go see Sunshine.”
* * *
He’d never loved kale, but he ate it anyway, knowing how many vitamins and nutrients it had. Dark leafy greens warded off illness, as his mother liked to remind him. She was right, and her influence meant he generally ate exceptionally well, getting all of his nutrition from a balanced diet of vegetable, fruit and protein matter, with very little carbs that weren’t whole grains. Sam had been shocked at his culinary skills when she first moved in, not expecting him to be able to cook so well, but Xander was a bit of a gourmet, albeit an all-natural one. She’d joked that he should write a cookbook, The Warrior’s Guide to Clean Living. Her sherry-drenched eyes would laugh as she teased, her mouth quirked in a grin. The mouth he loved to settle his own upon, just because he could.
God, he’d only been away from her for six hours and he was already pining. If that wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was. He did know he’d never felt like this about another woman.
Sunshine cleared her son’s plate when he was finished, and, as if on cue, his father came to the door, washed and combed and neat after the slaughter, ready to escort his son into the lion’s den. Stu Crawford was an excitable sort; it would be best to have a friendly face along on their excursion. Sunshine kissed them both and told them to hurry back.
The drive to Crawford’s ranch would take twenty minutes or so. Xander and his father settle
d on a safe topic of conversation, Bach’s Sonata in A Major for Violin and Piano. After agreeing that it was among their favorites, they evolved on to a slightly touchier subject. The Chaconne was Roth’s particular passion, and Xander had sent him a CD he’d recently acquired with Juliette Kang performing on the violin. Xander thought it masterful, Roth agreed, the young prodigy was excellent. But she wasn’t Xander.
Xander had chosen piano over violin when he was only ten, though he could play both exceptionally well. Sunshine favored the piano, while Roth favored the violin; it was the first conscious decision Xander made that went against his father’s wishes. He’d nearly mastered the Chaconne, considered one of the most difficult pieces of music to play in the world, but the piano held more of a challenge for him. He didn’t feel the strings in his soul the way he did the ivory.
They were past Avon now, the exit for Crawford’s Ranch coming up quickly.
“If he comes out with that Remington pointed anywhere but at the sky, let me talk.”
Xander glanced at his father, saw he wasn’t joking. Roth shrugged. “He’s gotten crotchety in his dotage. Perhaps has a touch of dementia.”
“He’s younger than you, isn’t he?”
“By the calendar, perhaps. But hate ages a man.”
Roth said nothing else, and Xander took the hint. He took the exit for the ranch, wound up the mountain, through the deep, undisturbed forest until the gate showed itself. Xander drove across the metal cowcatcher over the gully into the turnoff. He rolled down the window and killed the engine, kept his hand visible. The gate had a small box where visitors could announce themselves. Xander did a moment of recon, saw two cameras, assumed there were two more that weren’t as easily spotted. His father wasn’t kidding, Crawford had gotten paranoid.
A voice crackled in the box.
“By all that’s holy, is that Roth Whitfield? And Xander Moon?”
“That’s right, sir. May we come up?”
“Sure. Drive slow. The dogs are out.”
“Roger that.” The gate swung open with a hiss, and Xander drove the Explorer through, careful to put up his window. The “dogs” were an attack squad of Dobermans, highly trained and battle ready. Beautiful animals, well maintained—they had a roomy doghouse that was heated and had running water, and they dined on raw steak, oats and vegetables. They lived better than some soldiers, and were twice as mean.
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