"Actually, it's about my wife, Nikki. You worked with her at one time, didn't you?"
He wanted to talk to her about his dead wife? What was this all about? Dana said, "Yes, and I liked her very much. It was a huge loss to all of us when she died." That sounded good, she thought, and it was the truth, at least way back then. She saw a spasm of pain cross his face. He was still grieving? She ate a bit of organic salad, and waited for him to speak. But the salad didn't taste very good, more like a TV remote with vinaigrette on it. Had he asked her to lunch for a trip down memory lane about his dead wife? Wasn't this about the advice she could provide him on the miserably low funding currently under discussion in committee for children's diseases?
"I believe you and my wife were involved in one of her favorite charities-spinal meningitis? As I recall, you were just a baby lobbyist at the time, full of passion, wanting desperately to move up in your lobbying firm. Weren't you with Patton and Associates at the time? Nikki was very impressed with the work Patton did."
Dana nodded automatically. She couldn't believe it, he'd asked her to talk about his damned wife? And her damned charities? She felt deflated, a bit angry at his deception.
Hoffman suddenly sat forward, his lunch, a small Cobb salad, untouched in front of him. "I still miss her, Dana. I suppose you could say she even speaks to me."
Speaks to him? Was he crazy?
"There was something I wanted to ask you about, something she told me about the two of you-"
Dana Frobisher heard his deep mellifluous voice, the words nearly resonating, a master's voice, she thought, but oddly, she couldn't seem to understand the words, what they meant, ah, but they were so beautiful, his voice so mesmerizing. There were two shrimp left on her plate and she forked one up, but as with the salad, she couldn't taste the delicious fried fat anymore. She stopped chewing the shrimp when she felt a hard pounding over her right eye. Oh, no, not a headache. The last thing she needed was a headache while she was sitting not two feet from one of the most powerful men in Washington. She never had headaches, but she knew this wasn't just a headache, this was something more, this was fast becoming excruciating, vicious. She closed her eyes and swallowed, felt suddenly nauseated.
"Dana?"
She opened her eyes, tried to concentrate, but she couldn't quite focus. She realized she couldn't seem to swallow, and she started to hear her own breath in her throat. She rubbed her palms over her neck, working the muscles, but everything seemed to be backing up inside her, not just her precious breath, but something black and rancid and vile. She tried to scream with the sudden terror of what was happening, something she couldn't begin to understand, but nothing came out of her mouth. She fell over onto the floor, vomit heaving out of her mouth. In another moment, she went into violent convulsions. She heard the shouts of those around her, felt hands touching her, and she saw Senator Hoffman's face over hers, a pale blur, and she heard him say over and over, "Tell me what's wrong, Dana. Talk to me. Tell me what to do."
What to do? Her stomach was ripping apart and he wanted her to tell him what to do? He was shaking her shoulders, still speaking, but now it didn't matter because her mind spasmed with horrible, unspeakable pain and then something inside her brain seemed to pop, and she didn't know she was convulsing anymore, or that foam was billowing out of her mouth.
Her heart stopped at exactly one-thirty p.m.
25
Wednesday afternoon
Savich stepped out of the black FBI Bell helicopter at exactly five p.m. Special Agent Dane Carver waved him toward his Jeep. As Dane pulled out of Andrews Air Force Base, he said, "Everything's still in an uproar. The body of the lobbyist who was poisoned at the Foggy Bottom Grill is already with Dr. Branicki at Quantico. The paramedics who showed up a few minutes after she died said it looked like arsenic to them. We already know they were right. Of course, they've closed the place down and it's all over the news."
Savich said, "Where is Senator Hoffman?"
"Back at his home in Chevy Chase, with Mr. Maitland. He's shaken, as you can imagine. Look, Savich, Mr. Maitland told us you'd been working with Hoffman, that you told him his wife was trying to warn him-do you think the poison was meant for him? That Dana Frobisher was poisoned by mistake?"
Savich looked out the Jeep window at the sun baking the sidewalks, radiating enough heat to make you sweat just looking. Here it was mid-September and nearly ninety degrees. There were still tourists wandering around, families with tired children in tow. Wasn't school back in session? He remembered Dane's question. "To swallow a bullet meant for someone else, to die because of a mistake. That's tough, Dane."
Dane turned onto K Street. He spotted staffers thick on the ground, off for the day, heading for the local bars, maybe for home. He pulled the Jeep into a parking slot in the underground garage at the Hoover building.
Dane said, "According to Senator Hoffman, she'd had only a few bites of the salad, but she'd really plowed into the fried shrimp. I guess the poison was probably in the batter coating the shrimp. It's all being analyzed as we speak."
They walked through security, took an elevator to the fifth floor, and walked down the impossibly wide hall to the CAU, Savich's Criminal Apprehension Unit.
Ollie Hamish, Savich's second in command, was speaking to Ruth Warnecki, gesticulating as he always did. Agent Cooper McKnight, only three months in the unit, stood close, listening intently. Shirley, their unit assistant, sat on Dane's desk, chewing on an apple, listening as well.
Everyone turned when Savich and Dane walked into the large room. Ollie called out, "Mr. Maitland just phoned. Arsenic poison was all over the shrimp, in the batter, and she ate five of the six shrimp they served her. That's why she died so quickly. He said it wasn't elemental arsenic, but an arsenic compound-arsenic trioxide, to be exact. Get this-arsenic trioxide is approximately five hundred times more toxic than elemental arsenic. A lethal dose of pure arsenic in adults is about a hundred milligrams. The woman ate about four hundred milligrams of the arsenic trioxide. Dr. Branicki said she'd have died from just one shrimp.
"It literally exploded her system. She was dead within minutes, maybe less. The senator is in shock.
"Ruth here personally interviewed the waiter. Tell him, Ruth."
Ruth Warnecki said, "Mr. Graves is a twenty-year veteran waiter at the Foggy Bottom Grill. He told me the senator always orders the fried shrimp every week when he comes in. This time he didn't. Mr. Graves said he was surprised, but the senator told him, laughing, that his waistline was begging for only a salad today, and Mr. Graves recommended a small Cobb salad. He remembers the senator told his companion about how great the fried shrimp was, and she ordered it.
"When he brought their plates, Mr. Graves said he accidentally placed the shrimp plate in front of the senator, only to be reminded that Ms. Frobisher had ordered it. He said he remembered thinking that it was a forgivable mistake on his part, since he was used to serving it to the senator, and usually it was the ladies who ordered small salads."
Savich said, "Okay. Ruth, I'd really like to speak to Mr. Graves myself."
Ollie gave him a big grin. "Ruth and I figured you would. He's in the conference room with Lucy."
When Savich walked down the hall into the conference room, he saw Agent Lucy Carlisle sitting beside an older man who was squeezing the life out of a Coke can. He was long in the torso, thin as a plasma TV, and was trying to grow a beard that had, so far, produced only patches of hair on his chin and cheeks. Lucy looked up, smiled at Savich. "Ollie said you'd be here in twelve minutes. Ruth said ten. She was right." She turned. "Mr. Graves, this is Special Agent Dillon Savich, my boss. He'd like to speak to you."
Mr. Graves raised tired eyes to Savich. Savich saw his right eye twitch. He'd finally crushed the Coke can, and now he was tapping it up and down on the tabletop. The man was a mess.
Savich sat a
cross from him. "Mr. Graves, I appreciate your waiting for me." He shook the man's hand, wishing he could calm him. "I'm Agent Dillon Savich. Now, I know this must be very difficult for you, a huge shock. I know you've probably told what happened at least a half-dozen times by now, but I hope you would tell me. Please go slowly, all right?"
". . . When I first saw it, the shrimp plate was under the warming lights, the table number and order tucked beneath it. The Cobb salad sat beside it, not under the warming lights. You never put salads under the warming lights." Mr. Graves blinked, cleared his throat. "I took both plates to Senator Hoffman's table and automatically put the fried shrimp plate in front of Senator Hoffman. He laughed, told me not today, he had to lose an inch, but the lady was fit as a fiddle and so it was for her enjoyment today. I was embarrassed, I'll admit it. To make a mistake like that with Senator Hoffman, but as I said, he only laughed, wasn't put out or anything, not that he ever is. He's been coming to the Foggy Bottom Grill for maybe ten years now, once a week, like clockwork, and he always orders that shrimp plate-" He looked at Savich and his eye twitched again. "That poor woman, it was horrible, Agent Savich. One of the busboys pulled my arm, and I looked up to see her holding her throat. I remember thinking she looked more confused than anything, like she didn't know what was happening to her. It was so fast, it's hard to remember, but then she toppled off her chair and onto the floor and she was vomiting and writhing and then she just seemed to freeze. White foam was pouring out of her mouth, I can see it so clearly, that white foam just gushing out of her mouth, so much of it, then she lay there perfectly still, and I just knew she was dead.
"Senator Hoffman was with her, talking to her, trying to find out what was wrong, shaking her, but it didn't do any good. She was gone. It was horrible."
Mr. Graves put his head on his folded arms on the table. His shoulders were shaking. Lucy reached over and patted him.
Suddenly Mr. Graves raised his face, now white and drawn, his eye twitching again. "What if Senator Hoffman had ordered the shrimp? What if I'd given him the plate? He would have died." He stopped cold, as if appalled at what he'd said. "It didn't matter, did it? No matter where I put the plate, one of them would have died."
"I know, sir. Mr. Graves, do you have any idea how the poison got into the shrimp batter? Are there any new employees?"
"Yes, I already told Agent Hamish. There are a couple of young kids working in the kitchen, busing, washing dishes, that sort of thing. It's a low-paying job, but enough to give high school kids walking-around money. All the waitstaff, we've been there for years. It's a good job, and we have our own clientele, really, who come in and ask for us specifically."
"I want you to think back, Mr. Graves. Picture the kitchen in your mind after you placed Senator Hoffman's lunch order. That's right, think about it. Just relax. Now, tell me what you see."
Mr. Graves said slowly, "I see Gomez, he's one of the sous chefs, a real mean little pisser, chewing out one of the new kids because he dropped a pan of sautéed mushrooms on the floor. There's lots of commotion because the mushrooms were going on the filet mignon Senator Reinwald had ordered. The chef's screaming for quiet, the dishes are getting scrambled around, everyone's on edge." He paused a moment, then shook his head, opened his eyes. "I'm sorry, Agent Savich, but I really can't recall anything else. Just the chaos. Do you think those mushrooms were spilled on purpose? The kid said someone bumped him, he didn't see who, so it wasn't his fault. You think that person could have slipped into the kitchen and put the arsenic in the shrimp batter?" He closed his eyes again.
"Who normally prepares the shrimp batter?"
"One of the sous chefs, always. The chef himself sometimes. Today? I honestly don't remember."
"Thank you, Mr. Graves," Savich said, and put his hand on his shoulder. "I know this is very hard for you. You've been a great help."
26
STONE BRIDGE, CONNECTICUT
Wednesday afternoon
At two o'clock, Sherlock and Erin pulled into the Royals' impressive tree-lined circular driveway on Maple Lawn Drive. Sherlock knew Caskie Royal was at the office, probably being worked over by the Schiffer Hartwin lawyers trying to ensure he stayed with the program and kept his mouth shut.
The house was a huge white Colonial, at least eight thousand square feet with a four-car garage, its newly painted white doors glistening in the September sun. The grounds were beautifully groomed with thick full bushes and well-spaced maples and oaks.
There was a new black Audi coupe in the driveway, a motorcycle beside it, and a bicycle propped against the garage.
Sherlock knew Erin was psyched, nearly jumping out of her skin, but trying hard not to show it. She'd called Erin a short time after Dillon had left for Washington and asked if she'd like to come with her to interview Mrs. Royal, saying it might help to have another woman with her, even if it was official FBI business. The truth was that in her gut Sherlock knew there was something going on with Erin, something she didn't understand yet, something Erin knew and she didn't. Her interest in this whole case seemed excessive. Sherlock wanted to find out more about Erin Pulaski, P.I. And what better way than to invite her along to interview Mrs. Royal? She hadn't told Bowie.
Erin said, "You're sure Mr. Royal isn't here?"
Sherlock pulled the key out of the Pontiac's ignition. "Nope, Caskie's at the office, either being pounded by the Schiffer Hartwin lawyers or huddled with Ms. Carla Alvarez, or all of the above. Nice spread, isn't it?"
Erin, who'd driven by the Royal house several times on Sunday evening, merely nodded. "It would appear there's lots of money in drugs."
Sherlock grinned. "Sure enough."
A young Hispanic woman with beautiful glossy hair answered the door. She was wearing an actual uniform. Sherlock gave her a big smile and showed her FBI creds. She watched her study them carefully before she said, voice wary, that Mrs. Royal was playing tennis. Well, Sherlock thought, of course there were tennis courts. The maid handed back her ID, and led them through an immense entry hall, through an equally impressive family room, through glass doors into a large covered patio. Jasmine wove in and out of white beams overhead, scenting the air, and baskets of flowers spilled out of Italian pots lining the patio, their scent mixing with the scent of the jasmine. Sherlock said to Erin, "This is beautiful. Sean would really like that swimming pool."
"Georgie would, too." Erin shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the tennis court some twenty yards beyond them, then on to the woods behind the six-foot gray stone fence that separated the woods from the property. At one time the fence had enclosed the entire property, but now gray stones lay scattered in small piles along a section of it, probably left there on purpose to add atmosphere. "So would I, actually," and Erin grinned.
"I would, too," the maid said, smiled, and left them. They skirted the pool area and walked down a flagstone path to the tennis court. A double, of course, not a single. One for family, one for friends.
"I wonder why the original owners built that fence all around the property," Sherlock said. "It would make this place feel like a prison. Just look at the height of that back wall."
Erin said, "I wonder why they left that last piece. Surely not for protection. Walk around it and you're inside."
"Probably to keep the woods from encroaching. It's stark but beautiful, isn't it?"
Erin nodded. "I'll bet you there are alarms all along where the fence used to be."
"That was good, Erin."
"Yeah, well, I saw an alarm box on the back of the house. Wow, look at her move. She's got a great backhand."
They stood alongside the court watching Jane Ann Royal playing a vicious game of tennis with a hunky young guy, probably her instructor. When she aced her serve, she tossed her racket in the air and did a victory dance. The young man, perfectly tanned in his tennis whites, called out, "Very nice game, Jane Ann.
You really got some heat on that last serve. Sharp English, too. Well done."
"Yep, that's a teacher, not a friend," Sherlock said. "A friend would be properly pissed at losing."
"Lover too?" Erin wondered aloud.
"We'll soon see. She sure seems like a happy camper, doesn't she? All caught up in winning the game, not a single worry to her name. You'd think her husband hasn't spoken to her about any of the trouble camping at their door."
Jane Ann Royal saw them and waved. When she trotted to them, short blond hair shining in the bright sunlight, long lean tanned legs covering the ground at a fine clip, she was smiling, flushed with victory, not a care in the world. "Hi, who are you? Alana brought you back so I suppose you're not jewel thieves."
Sherlock handed over her ID.
Jane Ann Royal studied her creds more thoroughly than Alana. She looked up, frowning. "FBI? Oh, yes, Caskie told me you people were in town to investigate the murder of that German guy."
Sherlock's eyebrow went up as she slipped her creds back in her pocket. "Didn't your husband tell you who the German guy was?"
"No, he was busy, on his way out to some meeting. I heard on TV the dead guy worked for Schiffer Hartwin. I asked Caskie if he knew the guy the next morning, but he said he'd only heard of him, didn't have a clue why the man was even here. What's up?"
"I'm Agent Sherlock and this is Erin Pulaski. We'd like to talk to you, Mrs. Royal."
"You're kidding-Sherlock? That's very cool."
"Thank you," Sherlock said, and smiled. She felt a tug of liking for Jane Ann Royal.
"Come over to the patio, we'll sit down, and Alana can bring us some iced tea." She turned to wave at the tennis instructor, who waved his racket back at her and disappeared around the front of the house. A few moments later, they heard the motorcycle fire up.
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 112
