The Entity Game: An Aurora Donati Novel

by Lisa Shearin

  “How long did he stay that time?”

  “According to the time stamp on the video, he was in there less than a minute.”

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation?” I asked.

  “Hudson.” Berta paused. “For now. Considering who the victims are, the director and deputy assistant director will probably be calling all the shots by the time the sun comes up. They might let me and Rees stay on the case. They might not.”

  Roger Hudson was one of four special agents in charge in the FBI’s Washington Field Office. Rees reported directly to SAC Hudson. Unlike others in the DC office’s upper ranks, Hudson was secure enough in his abilities and position that he didn’t feel threatened by Samuel Rees’s well-earned reputation for solving the unsolvable. I could see Capitol Hill being disputed territory between the DC Field Office and headquarters. In addition, the crime involved the death and possible murder of one of the most loved and respected senators in the US. There was going to be a fight over who got this one. I was grateful that Hudson jumped on it and brought in Rees while he had the chance, otherwise I wouldn’t be on my way there right now.

  We’d be working against the clock. Even more reason why I had to get it right the first time.

  “Do you know what the senator was working on so late?” I asked.

  “Rees said he was drafting a pharmaceutical bill.”

  “I’m not exactly a political junkie. Is that a bill worth killing for?”

  “From what Rees told me, it sounded like it’d close the loopholes that let drug companies jack up prices for no good reason.”

  “And the senator writing the bill suddenly dies of a heart attack, along with his senior aide.” I hesitated. “I know that Julian served in the Marines in Vietnam and was ex-CIA, but I don’t know what committees he served on.”

  “Finance, Armed Services, and Intelligence,” Berta said.

  “A pharmaceutical bill is under finance?” I asked.

  “It is.”

  All high-profile committees, and all providing endless possibilities why someone would want Senator Julian Pierce dead.

  Berta turned onto Constitution Avenue, and with our arrival at the Russell Building, she stopped talking, and I knew I’d gotten all the information I was going to get until I saw the bodies.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’d been in the Russell Building before, though it’d been during the workweek. The rotunda amplified the sound of the voices of the people inside, and on that particular day, with TV cameras and crews, the interior had reminded me of a gigantic human hornet’s nest. I treated it as one. Move carefully and I wouldn’t get stung.

  Washington was chock-full of high-strung, stressed-out overachievers whose chances for professional survival could change with the next tweet. Needless to say, I steered clear of Capitol Hill watering holes in the evenings and DC nightclubs anytime. Accidental contact could register as anything from a sting to what you’d get by dropping a hairdryer in a bathtub. On-purpose and unwanted contact would result in blunt force trauma—to the asshole who thought it’d be fun to put his hands on me.

  I didn’t need to worry about being touched, brushed, or groped in the Russell. At least not right now. Every man and woman there was focused on two highly suspicious deaths that had occurred upstairs.

  Berta was watching me take it all in. “They’re searching the entire building.”

  “Good. Though that’s a lot of nooks and crannies.”

  Even with Berta and my FBI consultant’s ID, I was concerned about being allowed past the security checkpoint. On the other hand, Samuel Rees was the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla. When we’d first started working together, Rees had seen to it that I had the clearance necessary to go where I needed to go. No one knew exactly what I did, but word had gotten around the FBI that any case Rees brought me in on had been quickly solved.

  I’d gone to a lot of trouble to go as unnoticed as possible. I didn’t want anyone questioning who and what I was now. I certainly didn’t want anyone to know what I did.

  An FBI agent was standing at the checkpoint with a tablet. He checked our IDs, consulted his tablet, and we were in.

  I was average height and build, so that didn’t stand out in a crowd, but my hair did. On humid days—and right now—it nearly had its own zip code. My tan had everything to do with my Italian heritage, and nothing to do with spending time in the California sun.

  Berta and I threaded our way through the crowd, my coat taking the brunt of any contact.

  Suddenly and without warning, I felt the pressing weight of someone’s attention on me: not merely watching, but studying. Intently and with full knowledge of who I was and what I had come here to do. It wasn’t Samuel Rees or Roger Hudson, or anyone else I knew.

  I dimly heard Berta ask if I was okay.

  I looked around me, then scanned the second-floor balcony that ran around the entire rotunda.

  The presence had vanished as quickly as it’d appeared.

  “Fine,” I told her. “I’m fine.” I headed toward the stairs. “Let’s do this.”

  We took the stairs to the second floor, where a familiar figure awaited us at the top.

  Special Agent Samuel Rees was tall and thin in his trademark dark suit. Even when perfectly still, there was an intensity to him that was vaguely unnerving, like he knew every remotely illegal thing you’d ever done and was adding them up to see if the total was enough to warrant jail time. Nearly everyone else looked like they’d rolled out of bed to come here. Not Rees. He was as meticulously dressed and groomed as always, regardless of the hour, location, or circumstances. His carefully trimmed hair was black shot through with silver, and his eyes a vivid blue that missed nothing.

  “I’m sorry I had to call you here under these circumstances,” he said.

  “No apology needed. I want the same thing you do, to catch whoever did this. I just hope I can help.” I hesitated. “I’m glad Grandad isn’t here to see this.”

  “How much longer will he be in Zurich?”

  “He’d planned to stay another couple of days and then stop off in London on his way home, but once he finds out about Julian…I’ll call him when we’re finished here.”

  Rees nodded. “The senator’s office will be issuing a statement to the media within the hour.” He started up the next flight of stairs to the third floor. “How was the conference—and the tournament?”

  He was interested in my answer, but his intent was to distract me for a few minutes. He knew I did my best work with a clear and calm mind. “Zurich was cold and wet,” I told him. “Vegas was warm—in comparison—and dry. The tournament went as planned.”

  One corner of Rees’s lips curled up in a brief smile. “I’m glad to hear it. I know you’ll enjoy that motorcycle.”

  “The conference session on antiquities looting and global terrorism funding was worth the trip,” I continued. “As always, there was a lot of networking.” Rees knew how I felt about networking. Talking was great, but Europeans were entirely too touchy for my comfort. Well, except for the Germans.

  He led the way down a wide corridor, though even without him, I could’ve found Julian’s office. All I had to do was follow the trail of people in dark suits and blue FBI windbreakers. As we got closer, the number of people increased, and the noise level decreased. Voices were kept low, whether out of respect for the dead men, or shock at where the men had been killed, I didn’t know. Talk stopped as we approached, and whispers started once we’d passed. Rees’s reputation both preceded and followed him. The Sherlock comparison applied to his uncanny ability to solve the seemingly unsolvable, as well as his disregard and disdain for anything that got in his way, be it interagency protocol, politics, or the toes of his FBI colleagues.

  Julian Pierce was considered an elder statesman by his peers on both sides of the aisle. He was known for reaching across those aisles, brokering deals when the possibility of agreement had seemed long pas
t. Such a man was sure to have made enemies, but revenge on Capitol Hill consisted of figurative backstabbing. Senators and congressmen would gleefully murder reputations without a second thought, but to kill a colleague, even a hated one, in cold blood? They might want to do it, entertain themselves with the thought while their rival held forth on the Senate or House floor, but to actually commit murder or even hire it out? No. In Washington, it might take years for the truths of scandals and crimes to become known, but if you had a big enough shovel and were willing to dig deep, they would be found. That was the kind of publicity—and potential prison time—no elected official wanted.

  A senator killed in his office would tighten what had to already be stringent security measures. Not only were the FBI looking for a killer, they would uncover the lapse in security that had allowed a senator and his aide to be killed. When they found that lapse, heads would roll down Capitol Hill, and then get kicked down the mall. Whether the individuals were actually to blame or merely had the bad luck to be on duty in the right place at the wrong time didn’t matter. In DC, blame must be laid at someone’s feet, preferably a person or persons associated with the opposite party of the one who ended up in the position to cast the blame.

  The activity only increased the closer we got to Julian’s office.

  I hadn’t been in any offices in the Russell Building, but I would imagine that after serving in the Senate since the mid-eighties, Julian would have the seniority to warrant one of the larger ones. What probably would seem quite spacious under normal conditions was nearly claustrophobic now. Maybe it was just me.

  “I’ll wait in the hall,” Berta told us.

  Every man and woman in that room knew that what had happened here would soon be a Breaking News banner on every news channel and site in the country, if not the world. My earlier comparison to a hive was right on target. Buzzing, not of contented worker bees, but angry hornets. An improbable thing had just happened in an impossible place, and those here knew from experience how this would likely play out. The press would descend, higher-ups would start looking for the killer—or in the absence of a killer, a convenient scapegoat they could feed to the press. Everyone here would do their job at two hundred percent, no paperweight would be left unturned, no question left unasked. The spotlight was on them, though right now that spotlight probably felt like a magnifying glass on a hot summer sidewalk. If they took too long to find an answer, they’d burst into flames.

  I stopped in the doorway to the office suite. There were two side chairs and a sofa, all facing an oval coffee table. The walls of the outer office were full of framed photos of Julian smiling or shaking hands with celebrities or famous constituents. Scattered among these were photos of the senator with at least seven presidents. Whether Republican or Democrat, all of them would have wanted to stay on the good side of one of the Senate’s most powerful men.

  Alan Coe’s desk was near the door to Julian’s inner office. I pressed myself against the wall so I wouldn’t be in anyone’s way while I came to terms with what I was seeing. Alan was slumped over the top of his desk as if he’d merely fallen asleep over the papers he’d been working on. His laptop was on the floor in front of the desk. The handset of his desk phone was off the hook. I wondered if he’d tried to call for help. From where I stood, I couldn’t see his face, and I was grateful.

  The outer office was a hub of activity. Across from Alan’s desk was a small table that served as the office’s coffee station. The coffee machine’s glass carafe was about half a cup from full. No one drank half a cup of coffee. That meant samples had been taken for testing. Nitrile-gloved techs were also taking the grounds, filter and all. The sugar and creamer had already been bagged and tagged. Alan had made a fresh pot and neither man had lived long enough to drink it. Who had died first? Alan or Julian?

  I moved around the desk, careful to stay out of the way. Alan still held a pen in his hand. I leaned in for a closer look, careful not to disturb anything on his desk. A Lamy AL-Star fountain pen, not expensive, but a dependable German pen. A workhorse. I had two. The line was relatively new, so Alan was probably its first owner. Old pens retained residue from their previous owners. Many people didn’t like vintage pens with the owner’s name or initials engraved on them. For me, it made the connection to its past all the more tangible.

  I needed to get my hands on that pen, but there were too many eyes on me now. It could wait.

  I saw the flash of a camera from Julian’s office.

  I leaned toward Rees. “Are the techs finished with Alan?” I asked quietly.

  “They are.”

  I pulled on my altered nitrile gloves.

  There were five agents and investigators still in the outer office with Alan’s body. One of the techs bagged the pen. I quickly glanced from the pen to Rees, letting him know I wanted it. He’d be able to get the pen for me later. I then gave him the barest of nods.

  We’d done this dance before.

  As I moved around behind Alan’s office chair, Rees stepped between Alan’s body and the agent and tech closest to me, blocking their view.

  “Did the ME check for a pinprick in the neck area?” he asked the tech. “Of a size that would have been made by a needle-sized dart?”

  That was my cue.

  Alan’s head was turned to the side, his carotid artery helpfully exposed just above his shirt collar. I quickly steeled myself and touched it with the exposed tip of my index finger for one second, two, then three.

  In those three seconds, I was flooded with pain so intense I had to clench my teeth to keep from gasping. Alan hadn’t even been able to do that. The pain and tightness in his chest kept him from breathing. Fear. He hadn’t known what was happening to him. The pain intensified, squeezing, constricting. Panic. He knew he was dying. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He fell forward, the wood of his desk cool and smooth against his cheek. Alan dimly heard a voice call his name as his vision darkened…his heart slowed…and he was gone.

  CHAPTER 4

  I stepped back from Alan’s body. No one had seen what I’d done.

  I slowly inhaled and exhaled through my nose, calming myself. Yes, it was possible for a healthy, active man to suddenly die from a heart attack with no warning, but Julian had died in the next room at the same time and in the same way. This was no macabre coincidence.

  “Yes, we checked,” the tech was telling Rees. “Though the ME won’t know for sure until she gets him on the table.”

  Rees nodded his thanks and went to the door leading to Julian’s office, waiting for me to join him. He wouldn’t expect me to tell him anything until we’d left the office suite and were well away from any overly attentive ears. To get in we had to pass several agents who would have questioned my right to be here if I hadn’t been following in Rees’s wake. Though with Rees, it was more like gravitational pull.

  I paused at the two empty trash cans sitting together beside the door. I was still wearing my gloves. I’d touched Alan with my right index finger. I quickly bent and touched the rim of the trash can with my left.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. There was a jumble of many people who had touched it. None of them stood out to me. I needed to see the security video for myself.

  I entered Julian’s inner office.

  I avoided looking at the body on the floor beside the desk, instead beginning my study of the scene with the room itself. I knew Julian the man; I had next to no knowledge of Julian Pierce the senator.

  The only photos in his inner office were those of his family and close friends. One of them was of him and Grandad. Julian had been a father, grandfather, and had recently become a great-grandfather. There were almost as many photos here as in the outer office, and many of them included a smiling Julian Pierce. It wasn’t the business smile he’d had in the outer office photos. These smiles lit up the face of a man who obviously loved and was proud of his large family.

  On his desk was a silver-framed photo of h
is wife, Beryl Hoffmann Pierce. She had died of cancer three years ago. Grandad and I had gone to the funeral. Next to her photo was a more recent addition: Elaine’s swearing-in ceremony with Julian as a proud grandfather holding the family Bible for his granddaughter.

  The art in the office was limited to two paintings and one bronze sculpture—all by Frederic Remington. Grandad had introduced Julian to an art dealer friend of his who’d given him a good deal on them.

  Work lights had been set up by the medical examiner on the other side of Julian’s desk. Aside from the body, absolutely nothing seemed to be out of place, no sign of any kind of struggle or of the office having been searched. The position of the body suggested that he had been sitting when he’d been stricken. He’d stood, possibly to confront his killer, been overcome, and then died.

  I followed Rees to where he stood close to the body, but with enough distance not to trigger the medical examiner’s territorial instincts.

  Julian Pierce had not died peacefully.

  I didn’t know whether his facial contortion had been due to pain from the heart attack or fear. Julian was a man who wasn’t afraid of much, if anything. So, if what he’d seen tonight had scared him, it must have been something worth fearing.

  I looked at his body, pushing my emotions aside in favor of clinical detachment.

  From his position on the floor, it appeared that he had stumbled forward and gone down on one or both knees, and from there had fallen on his side. I moved to get a better look and was rewarded with a glimpse of a metal watchband. It’d been an anniversary present from his wife. He’d been wearing it every time I’d seen him. Watches touched the wrist pulse point, imbuing them with the emotions of their wearers. Julian had been dead only a few hours. I should be able to pick up more than mere traces of his final moments, and hopefully what had immediately preceded them.