by Marie Force
She texted back: “It’s not, Sam, Senator. It’s Darren Tabor.” Laughing as she imagined him receiving that text, she gathered up her files.
The phone dinged again. “Very funny. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
She replied, “A reminder that X-rated texting can be dangerous to your political career, Senator. Now leave me alone. I have work to do.”
“You’re going to pay for this. Be ready.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sam carried Nick’s playful threat with her into the conference room, where Gonzo was updating the murder board to include an old mug shot of Bobby Ray.
“Here’s the ‘after’ shot,” Lindsey said when she joined them. She handed the autopsy photo to Gonzo, who went pale when he glanced at it.
They saw a lot of gruesome shit in this job, but this was more gruesome than most. When Gonzo posted the photo to the board and secured it with a magnet, Sam took a good look at what had been done to Bobby. Bloody black holes occupied the spots where his eyes once resided, and his lips were grotesquely swollen.
“Choked on his own blood,” Lindsey said matter-of-factly, though Sam knew she suffered on behalf of the victims. They all did.
“Someone wanted to send a message,” Sam said. “This is what’ll happen if anyone talks.”
“Exactly,” Hill said.
“Who caught the call?” Sam asked.
“Dominguez and Carlucci,” Gonzo said. “They’re on their way in with a report.”
“There went our best lead,” Sam said. “So let’s get busy finding another one. Cruz, do you want to report on our next step?”
“We’re going to talk to Ohio congressman Roy Tornquist, who wrote a letter of recommendation for Victoria Taft when she applied to Calahan Rice.”
“Gonzo, I want you and Arnold to go to Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, to speak to William Eldridge’s widow, Myrna. I want anything and everything you can get that would link him to Denise Desposito. Both their names were used to falsify Victoria’s identity, so let’s see how they’re connected.”
“Got it.”
“How close are we to figuring out who did Victoria’s background check?” Sam asked Hill.
“Getting closer. My contact at the Defense Security Service promised to get back to me today.”
“Lindsey, any word on the lab report on the skin found under Victoria’s nails?”
“Nothing yet. I’ll put some pressure on them to get back to us.”
“Let me know if you need me to get involved,” Chief Farnsworth said from the back of the room.
Where had he come from? Sam wondered.
“Couldn’t hurt,” Lindsey said.
“I’ll make a call,” Farnsworth said.
“I was also thinking we should go back to the gym where Derek and Victoria met and have them pull her record,” Sam said. “We might get some insight into her life before she met him. Cruz and I will do that after we leave the Capitol.”
Sam also wanted to talk to the friends who’d known Victoria before she met Derek, and wished McBride and Tyrone were available to take care of that.
A knock on the door preceded Detectives Dani Carlucci and Giselle “Gigi” Dominguez into the conference room.
“Morning,” Sam said to the third-shift detectives, both of whom looked a little tenser than usual. “What’ve you got on Bobby Ray?”
“A worker arriving at the Naval Yard spotted him lying on the median on the MLK Parkway,” Dominguez reported. She was short and compact with dark hair and eyes and an olive-toned complexion. Although she kept to herself, Sam found her to be sharply competent and good at her job. “The body was still warm when we arrived right after six, so Dr. McNamara placed the time of death between five and six a.m.”
“They’d done a number on him,” Carlucci said. Known for being proud of her Italian heritage, she resembled her Norwegian mother and was tall, blonde and stacked. The other detectives called her “Barbie,” a name she claimed to hate, but sometimes Sam suspected she secretly embraced the moniker. Carlucci gestured to the photo of Ray on the murder board. “As you can see.”
“Agent Hill will notify the next of kin,” Sam said.
“Oh, good,” Dominguez said, visibly relieved. “I wasn’t looking forward to making that call.”
“We’ll stay to write up the report and interview his known associates, if that would help,” Carlucci said.
“That’d be a big help,” Sam said, pleased by the initiative. “Thanks. Okay, everyone, you’ve got your marching orders. Report back at sixteen thirty. Gonzo, if you’re not back by then, call in.”
“Will do. Let’s go, Arnold.”
Sam asked Carlucci and Dominguez to stay for a minute as the others filed out of the room. “This was a tough one. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Carlucci said. “I’m not particularly interested in breakfast today, but I’m okay.”
“Ditto,” Dominguez said. “Gruesome.”
“You held up well,” Sam said. “Thanks for sticking around. I appreciate it. I’ll authorize the overtime.”
“Thanks, L.T.,” Carlucci said. “We’ll let you know if we find anything else that’s relevant.”
“Great.” Sam emerged from the conference room and headed for her office to collect her keys and radio before heading out with Cruz. She stopped short when she found a woman sitting in the visitor’s chair, scrolling through messages on a smart phone. She wore a business suit, heels and her light brown hair in one of those funky twist thingies that Sam could never pull off with her own unruly curls. “Um, can I help you?”
“Lieutenant Holland?”
“Who wants to know?”
She rose and extended a hand. “Jessica Townsend, department counsel.”
Reluctantly, Sam shook her hand. “What happened to old Leonard?”
“Retired.”
“Huh, I didn’t hear. What can I do for you?”
“I believe you’re aware that Melissa Woodmansee has filed suit against the department, alleging police brutality?”
As if the mention of lawsuits and thoughts of depositions didn’t make her heart beat a little faster, Sam picked up her keys, radio, sunglasses and cell phone. “I heard a rumor to that effect.”
“Your actions at the time of the arrest are at the heart of the suit. I’m going to need a statement from you.”
“You have a statement from me. It’s called a police report. Have you read it?”
Jessica’s blue eyes got awfully frosty. “Yes, I’ve read the report. I have additional questions.”
“Well, I can’t do it now. Got somewhere to be. You can make an appointment.”
“I have the authority to retain you at my convenience for questioning.”
“And I have the authority to track down the killer of a young mother who also stole a kid from the scene. Sorry to be blunt, but my stuff trumps your stuff any day. Now, if you want to make an appointment, I’d be happy to tell you all about how entirely justified I was in the tactics I employed to take a killer off the street, but I’m not doing it now.” Sam stepped around Jessica. “Cruz! Let’s go!”
Freddie came bounding out of the cubicles and followed Sam as she left the pit. She half expected Jessica to come after her, but she didn’t. “Shit,” she muttered.
“What now?” Freddie asked.
“I was a total hag to the department counsel about the Woodmansee thing. She wanted to talk to me, and I blew her off.”
“I don’t blame you for being pissed. I’m pissed that she’s suing us.”
“No kidding. I’d like to see what other people would do if some crazy chick came strolling into their house with a bomb strapped to her chest.”
“They’d do what we did and not apologize for it.”
“Exactly.” Sam rolled her shoulders and stepped into the maelstrom of reporters. Didn’t they ever go home? Or give up? Or get hot in the blazing sun? Apparently not. Their appetite for sensational tidbits took
precedence over every other thing. “Unfortunately, however, it’s not the department counsel’s fault that we’re being sued.”
“No, it isn’t, but she has to know you’re busy.”
“What’ve you got on the body found by the Naval Yard today?” one of the reporters shouted.
“Not much,” Sam replied.
“Was it a murder?”
“Yep.”
“When will you release a name?”
“Later.”
She and Freddie pushed through the crowd and continued toward her car in the lot. “Does that count as a press conference?” she asked.
“It does in my book. You conferred with the press.”
“I like how you think.” She opened the car door and recoiled from the blast of heat that greeted her. “It’s hotter than a billy goat with a blowtorch.”
“Where in the heck did you hear that?”
“Doesn’t everyone say that?” Sam asked, genuinely surprised.
“Um, no.”
“Huh. My dad has always said it.” Her heart ached a bit at the reminder of the father who was currently furious with her. “I thought it was something everyone said.”
Freddie laughed. “Not that I’ve ever heard, but I continue to learn and grow in your presence, Lieutenant.”
“Quit your sucking up and tell me what we’ve got on Tornquist,” Sam said as she drove out of the parking lot and headed for the Hill, wondering if she might run into her handsome husband while she was there. Wouldn’t that be nice?
“He’s an independent from Dayton, Ohio,” Freddie said of Tornquist. “Apparently he was a Democrat, but he left the party after he was already in office. I read that his reelection hopes are nearly nil, but he’s a big supporter of Arnie Patterson. Word is he’d be a shoo-in for a cabinet post in a Patterson administration.”
“Isn’t Patterson from Ohio too?”
“I think so.”
“Interesting,” Sam said. “Run with me here for a minute...”
“I am your faithful servant, as always.”
“For Christ’s sake, Cruz.”
“I’ve asked you not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“And I’ve asked you to quit being such a suck up.”
“As it’s seems we’re at an impasse, please...proceed with your speculating.”
He could be a pain in the ass, but her partner was always entertaining. “I have all this stuff floating around in my head, parts and pieces that don’t add up, but it keeps going back to Ohio. Victoria’s fake identity leads back there—the recommendation from the congressman, Desposito was involved in a Medicare scheme there, Eldridge worked for Patterson, Patterson is from there, the congressman and Patterson are in tight. And then I go back to who would have a motive to plant someone high up in the Nelson administration?”
“You think it’s Patterson? That this was all part of some ruthless attempt to secure the presidency?”
“I know it sounds way out there. It would’ve taken years of planning and a shit ton of money to target a member of Nelson’s team who’d be high enough to be worth the trouble, to create a whole new identity for Victoria, to fake the background check after she marries Derek, to fake her Social Security number and her fingerprint profile and to pay her God knows how much dough to take the gig in the first place. Who has those kinds of resources and a motive to go with it?” Sam glanced over at Freddie to find him staring straight ahead, pondering the magnitude. “I know it’s far-fetched...”
“This whole case is far-fetched. From the minute we found out Victoria wasn’t who we thought she was, it’s been one bizarre thing after another.” Freddie paused, pondered some more. “You’re right about one thing.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, which made her face burn like a motherfucker. She kept forgetting her face was unavailable for her many expressions. “Just one?”
“You really need to do something about your lack of self-confidence. It’ll hold you back in life if you don’t grow a backbone.”
“As much as I hate to admit this, your sarcasm has come a long way under my tutelage, and I’m very proud of you.”
“Aw, shucks... Thanks.”
“Now tell me what I’m right about. I live for these moments.”
Laughing, Freddie said, “Patterson certainly has the money to back something like this—and the ambition.”
“Nick told me the Democratic Party is worried about him. Nelson is vulnerable, and Patterson could take enough of the middle to deny Nelson a second term.”
“Listen to you talking like the political wife.”
“Bite me.”
“That’s not very diplomatic, Mrs. Cappuano.”
“Bite me harder.” Sam’s cell phone rang, denying his opportunity for a comeback. “Holland.”
“Sam, hey.”
“Hi, Trace,” Sam said to her sister. “What’s up?”
“I thought you’d want to know—Ang is in labor.”
The news hit Sam square in the solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of her for a second. Her mind went totally blank.
“Sam!” Freddie said, pointing to the yellow light at the upcoming intersection.
She slammed on the brakes.
“Are you there?” Tracy asked.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Sam...”
“Don’t say it, Tracy. Please.”
“Angela told me not to call you. We never know what to say to you at these moments.”
“God, I’m such an ass. My sister is in labor, and all I’m thinking about is myself.”
“Honey, come on. This is tough on you. We all get that.”
Sam forced a deep breath into her lungs and hit the gas when the light turned green. “I’m fine. It’s not about me. It’s about Ang and Spence and Jack. Who’s got him?” she asked of her six-year-old nephew.
“Dad and Celia have him for the duration. Her water broke at eight, and Spence took her in. They said it’ll probably be later today before our niece makes her appearance.”
“Keep me posted?”
“I will.”
“I’ll be there after my tour.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Positive. Thanks for calling, Trace.” Sam ended the call and stashed the phone in her pocket.
“Angela is having the baby?” Freddie asked.
“Uh-huh.” Sam appreciated that he didn’t say anything more. Her fertility struggles were no secret to him or anyone who knew her well. What else was there to say?
She pulled into the parking lot at the Longworth House Office Building and killed the engine. On the way inside, she stopped Freddie. “Let’s keep this possibility about Patterson between us until we have a chance to dig in a little further.”
“Will you ask Tornquist about his connection to Patterson?”
“Let’s see where our conversation leads. I’ll play that one by ear.”
“Got it.”
“Hang on one sec.” Sam reached for her phone and scrolled through the recent calls to get Hill’s number. When she had him on the line, she said, “You know what else we need to look into?”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“The doctor who implanted the GPS device in Maeve Kavanaugh. Where the hell has he been since word broke of the kidnapping?”
“Good thought. I’ll take care of that.”
“Great, see you later.” Before Sam jammed the phone back in her pocket, she dashed off a text to Nick to let him know Angela was in labor. “Let’s go,” she said to Freddie.
They found Tornquist’s office at the end of a long corridor on the third floor. Inside was a beehive of activity, with staffers on the phones, at computers and walking between cubicles and the congressman’s office.
Sam flashed her badge to the congressman’s assistant. “Lieutenant Holland, Metro P.D. My partner, Detective Cruz. We’d like to speak to the congressman.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the perky blonde asked.
“You know we don’t.”
“He’s tied up all afternoon, but I could get you in tomorrow morning around eight thirty? Would that work?”
Freddie grunted out a laugh as Sam leaned forward, placing her palms on the desk and her face two inches from Blondie’s upturned nose. “We’re cops. We want to talk to your boss. Now. Got me?”
Blondie’s eyes bugged, and her head bobbed. She bolted from her seat and disappeared into the congressman’s office.
“I love when they say stuff like that,” Freddie muttered. “In my head, I count down. Five, four, three... You never make it past three, incidentally.”
“I’m pleased to be predictable.”
Blondie returned, looking red-faced and distressed. A group of men and women in suits followed her from the room, each of them eyeing Sam and Freddie with nervous interest. When they were clear of the doorway, Blondie said, “He’ll see you now.”
“I love that kind of cooperation,” Sam said. “Don’t you agree, Detective Cruz?”
“You know I do, Lieutenant.”
Sam enjoyed watching Blondie swallow hard as they brushed past her on their way into the congressman’s office. He was short and round with dark hair and horned-rimmed glasses. Not the fashionable kind of horned-rims, but the old-fashioned kind that made him look like the class nerd.
Sam handled the introductions. “We appreciate you clearing your schedule for us,” she said in a sweet tone that was so not her, almost daring Cruz to laugh again.
Tornquist gestured for them to take a seat on a sofa and lowered his corpulent body into an armchair that groaned when he landed. “Of course. I’m always happy to accommodate the Metropolitan Police Department. Now, what can I do for you today?” He folded his hands over his beer belly as if he were settling in for a pleasant chat over iced tea and cucumber sandwiches.
“We’re investigating the murder of Victoria Kavanaugh.”
“Ah.” Tornquist clucked with dismay. “Such a sad thing. I know Derek Kavanaugh, and I can’t imagine his terrible grief.”
Sam held out a sheet of paper. “You wrote this letter of recommendation for Victoria, when she was known as Victoria Taft, when she applied for a position at the lobby firm Calahan Rice.”
