by Lisa Shearin
Unfortunately, Julian’s body was the center of attention of nearly everyone in the room. There was no way I’d be able to get close enough to touch either him or his watch.
But what I had just noticed was potentially even more telling.
Between Julian’s body and the door was an area of carpet in front of a wall that every agent in the office was unconsciously avoiding. They seemed to be more comfortable standing near a corpse than they did that wall.
Intuition was a powerful thing. Some called it a gut feeling; others thought of it as instinct. All of those went back to how our primitive ancestors had survived from one day to the next. Fight or flight. Those who listened to their instincts survived. Those who didn’t became dinner for the sabre-toothed tiger stalking them, or the victim of a club-wielding rival. Either way, they were just as dead.
Law enforcement professionals and soldiers often had a more highly tuned sense of danger than the general population. There’d even been military programs to attempt to magnify this ability in soldiers. The FBI agents in Julian Pierce’s office were avoiding that spot.
I left Rees and went to stand directly in front of the wall.
Occasionally, if a crime had been particularly violent, I could get a sense of what had happened from opening myself up to the crime scene itself. If that was fear frozen on Julian’s face, perhaps a trace of what he had seen or sensed remained.
I emptied myself of everything I had seen so far, shutting out voices around me until they were as white noise, and waited for whatever may have remained to seep into my consciousness.
I sensed an intense focus from whoever had stood here, along with a complete absence of emotion. There was no hate, anger, or desire for revenge. None of the usual emotions of a killer for their victim were present.
A crash came from the outer office, breaking my connection to whatever I’d found.
The coffeemaker had been knocked off the table, and judging from the language, the contents had still been hot, and now those contents were all over the floor, compromising the hell out of the outer office crime scene.
I stepped back from the wall, caught my heel on a fold in the rug, and stumbled.
The next instant, Rees was there, his hand supporting my elbow. “Are you alright?”
“I’m—”
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said before I could tell him that I was fine.
“Excuse us,” he said, smoothly steering me out of the office suite and farther down the hall, away from the direction in which we’d come. “There’s a conference room around the corner where you can sit down.” He gestured to Berta to follow us.
Rees had seen me at worse crime scenes, and knew I was perfectly all right. His words expressed concern, but his eyes remained neutral. One did not go with the other. Something else was going on here, so I played along.
CHAPTER 5
“Guard the door, please,” Rees told Berta.
“From inside or out?”
“Inside.”
That told me Rees didn’t want anyone to even suspect we were here, and if someone did get curious, Berta would deal with it.
The agent crossed her arms and leaned back against the closed door. Privacy ensured.
“There are no security cameras,” Rees told me. “You may speak freely.”
“Good. Now what was that back there?”
“You gathered information from Alan Coe, and it was apparent that you had an unexpected encounter in Senator Pierce’s office.”
“Yes, to both.”
“I reasoned that you would appreciate being able to share your findings undisturbed and in private.”
“Again correct.”
Rees spread his hands. “I did my best to ensure an environment to your liking.”
“Nice try. I mean, what was your hurry in getting me out of Julian’s office? I don’t appreciate getting the fainting-female treatment.”
“I am aware of that, but the situation left me with little recourse. You have my sincere apologies. I required a distraction, and you and whoever caused the coffee mishap most thoughtfully provided one.”
I gave him a look. “What did you do?”
Rees leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his lips. Lips that twitched in the briefest of smiles. “In a moment. I would prefer to know your findings first.”
I told him what I’d felt when I’d touched Alan Coe. The confusion at the source of his pain, then a spike of fear, which escalated into panic when he knew he was going to die.
“At no time did he sense anyone in the office with him?” Rees asked.
“No. I didn’t get any indication he knew anyone was there. There’s only one door into or out of the senator’s suite, right?”
“Correct.”
“His desk faces the outer door, and anyone going into the senator’s office would have to pass right next to him. He did hear someone call his name. I wondered if that might have been Julian, checking to see what was wrong.”
The knob on the conference room door turned as someone tried to open it from the other side.
“In use,” Berta growled.
Footsteps quickly retreated down the hall.
Rees inclined his head. “Please continue, Ms. Donati.”
“That was all I learned from Alan. I’d thought I’d need his fountain pen, since he died with it in his hand, but I touched Alan himself, so I won’t be needing it.”
Rees slowly leaned back in the chair. The leather creaking was the only sound. “What did you learn from the floor in front of the wall?”
I should have known Rees would notice everyone avoiding that patch of carpet.
I answered his question with one of my own. “Did you stand there?”
“I did earlier, and I experienced a distinct sense of unease when I did so.”
“My creepy meter was tapping the red zone, too. I felt an intense focus but no emotion at all.”
“So, no one was there?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just unusual that I wouldn’t pick up any emotions, especially if this person was there to kill two men. There was no anger, no hate, no need for revenge. Even a psychopath would feel the satisfaction of a job well done. Just intensity. That’s all I got. The air was nearly vibrating with it.”
Rees sat forward. “Can you be more specific as to the time?”
“Time?”
“How long ago was this person standing there? Might that be an explanation for the lack of emotion? Could it have been an imprint left from earlier in the day?”
“It’s…possible.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Because I’m not. My gut says no more than three hours.”
Rees gave me an enigmatic smile. “This might help your viscera clarify matters.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a silver-banded wristwatch.
A watch I had last seen on Julian’s wrist.
Personally, I was horrified. Professionally, I was impressed. “You stole a watch off a dead man?”
“I consider it an acquisition of critical evidence in a murder.”
Berta snorted.
“Nice way to say ‘stole,’” I said.
Rees slid it across the table to me. “If you can use it to find his killer, do you believe Senator Pierce would have minded?”
I didn’t touch the watch. Not yet. “He would’ve wholeheartedly approved. So that’s why you needed to get out of Dodge.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“I’ll have it returned when you’re finished with it.”
I was sure he would. I was even more certain I didn’t want to know the details.
I picked up the watchband between my thumb and forefinger, handling it like the hot merchandise it was.
The connection was instant.
Recognition. Doubt. Confusion. Then the same agonizing p
ain Alan had experienced, only it was worse for Julian. Beneath the pain was fear, then denial. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible.
David tried to warn me.
Then nothing. Darkness.
I dropped the watch on the table and pushed it away from me. I sat back and took a couple of good, deep breaths. Rees didn’t speak. Berta was a silent sentinel. They knew I’d talk when I had sorted through what I’d sensed.
I closed my eyes and tried to rerun what I’d gotten in my mind while I tried to explain.
“Julian may have recognized his killer…or thought he did. I sensed confusion. That’s when the pain started. It was worse than what I felt with Alan. Maybe it was his age. Then I got denial. It could have been denial that he was dying, fear that this was happening to him, that it wasn’t possible. Then I actually got a name. David. ‘David tried to warn me.’ I heard that very clearly.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Rees murmured.
“That’s one way to describe it.” The inside of my mouth felt like sandpaper, so I fumbled around in my messenger bag for a bottle of water. While I was in there, I snagged a granola bar.
“Do you have any idea who David might be?” Rees asked.
“None.”
“As soon as the autopsies are complete, I’ll have more information for you,” he said. “In the meantime, your assistance has been invaluable, as always.”
We both looked at Julian’s watch on the conference table between us.
Rees spoke. “Would you be willing to—”
“Take it with me and try again later?”
Rees nodded.
I slid the watch into one of my messenger bag’s zippered compartments. I didn’t want an unpleasant surprise when I got home and reached in my bag for my house keys. “Hopefully I won’t get arrested for theft on my way out.” I was only half joking. “Though if I could keep the watch for a few days, I think it’d be good to have Grandad have a go at it. There’s a possibility he might know who David is. I can ask when I call him.”
“I agree. Good idea. And I’ll inquire among the senator’s staff.”
“Do you know if the cleaning crews here wear gloves?”
“They do,” Rees told me. “Nate Baxter was wearing them when he emptied the garbage at 8:22, as was the man at 9:15.”
“You don’t believe the second man was Baxter?”
“I do not. The similarities were remarkable, but there were more than enough lapses to make one doubt his performance. The way he walked, for instance. Though the imposter is to be admired for his most thorough preparation—at least in his physical appearance.”
“Would you be able to send me the security footage showing Nate Baxter and whoever it was the second time?” I was sure the FBI had been over the video pixel by pixel, but I needed to see it.
“Not a problem. I’ll also send the video of Mr. Baxter’s questioning.” Rees glanced at his watch. “It’s 3:35. Hopefully, you can get some sleep. May I call you in a few hours, if urgency warrants it?”
“Please do.” I seriously doubted I’d be able to sleep, but I owed it to myself to try, even though what I’d experienced here had created more questions and provided no answers.
CHAPTER 6
Berta dropped me off in the alley that ran behind my carriage house apartment. Sunrise was still a few hours away. I opened the door, quickly stepped inside, and keyed in the alarm code.
The Donati Detective Agency was based out of Grandad’s Georgetown town house. His 1971 Mercedes 280SE occupied the former carriage portion of the carriage house. My 1957 Harley XL Sportster occupied one of the two former horse stalls. My soon-to-be-restored Scout would be right at home in the other. I lived in the apartment upstairs.
There was a small light on in my bedroom and a few in the town house. We had selected lights on timers to mimic us being at home. For example, they would turn on the kitchen lights in the main house during the night as if Grandad were getting up for a late snack, turning them off ten minutes later. The kitchen light was on now.
I needed to call Grandad, and I wanted to check the town house and his cat Pablo, but first I needed to take care of myself. One of our neighbors, Mrs. Hughes, had been feeding Pablo while we were gone. She was one of the few people outside the family he would tolerate. The cat was well fed. I wasn’t.
A couple of years ago, the massive orange tomcat had presented himself for adoption on the town house’s doorstep. He’d been missing part of his left ear, so Grandad had dubbed him Pablo, as in Picasso, and had invited him in to join the family. The big tom appointed himself the protector of his new home and attacker of anything or anyone that didn’t belong. When we met with clients in the office, Gerald had to make sure Pablo stayed in the kitchen. Gerald was Grandad’s butler and cook and had been with the family for as long as I could remember. While we’d been in Zurich, Gerald was in Boston visiting family.
I dropped my bags next to the door and went straight to the fridge. I’d thrown out most of the perishables before I’d left for Zurich, but I’d made sure to stock some things I could fix fast and with minimal consciousness. Bagels. Cream cheese. Smoked salmon. Blessed carbs and protein. Just toast and slather. I could handle that. I put on the kettle for a cup of tea. I went with chamomile and lavender.
I called Grandad, but it rolled over to voice mail. I asked him to call me. There was no way I was about to leave a message that his best friend had been murdered.
I took a shower and changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt. When I checked my phone, there was a message waiting.
Samuel Rees, not Grandad.
I listened. Rees had emailed Nate Baxter’s interrogation video, as well as the pertinent sections of the security footage for my review. He also said that Julian’s office had sent out a statement to the media. Alan’s family had agreed to hold off on announcing his death for at least the next few hours.
I knew why.
An older senator dying of a heart attack at his desk would cause a brief but sizeable ripple in the national news. “Julian Pierce” would trend for maybe a day on Twitter, but it wouldn’t go far beyond that. But an older senator and his young and healthy aide dying of heart attacks at the same time in the same place? It would be a media feeding frenzy, and it’d only get worse the longer the FBI went without an explanation that could calm the conspiracy theories. From what little we knew, a satisfactory explanation wouldn’t be coming in the immediate future.
Rees closed by saying he’d call if anything else turned up.
I got my laptop and second cup of tea and made myself comfortable on the couch.
Occasionally, Rees asked me to be onsite for an interrogation. I’d watch from another room and afterward, I would go into the room and sit in the chair the subject had just vacated. Solving crime by the seat of my pants, so to speak.
Rees would often leave a pen or two on the table where the suspect would be sitting. Being questioned by the FBI made most people nervous, whether they were guilty or not. Few people could resist picking up the pen and holding, fidgeting, or playing with it. Playing with a pen gave the nervous an object with which to soothe themselves—and gave us details about the person without them saying a word. The more the suspect played with the pen, or the way they held it, signaled fear, anger, impatience, nervousness, or concern. In the absence of a pen or other pacifying object, they would touch necks, face, arms, hands, or hair, depending on the emotion involved. All were self-calming behaviors.
Later, I would hold the pen to see if I could pick up any additional impressions. A lot could be learned by how the person interacted with the pen as they answered specific questions.
I sipped my tea and opened the first attachment.
An FBI agent was on one side of a small table with the custodian Nate Baxter on the other.
Mr. Baxter appeared to be in his late sixties to early seventies, and he looked tired, not merely of body, but of spirit.
/> He was sitting straight in a chair with metal arms but kept his hands flat on his thighs. As the questioning started, he alternated between rubbing his hands on his pant legs and clasping them together in his lap, the thumb on top rubbing against the other. When he became aware of it, he would stop, or cross his arms with his hands clasping his upper arms in an attempt to calm himself. His eyes appeared red and he would sniff, occasionally reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Tears were easy to fake. It didn’t take much to squeeze out a few drops and run a handkerchief over eyes to redden them. It was an obvious way to convey sadness, but on Baxter I believed it was genuine.
Gifted actors or guilty killers could fake both and more, but Nate Baxter wasn’t an actor, and my first impression was that he hadn’t killed anyone, nor did he know who did. He recognized the seriousness of his situation and was trying to maintain what composure he had left. He’d lost someone he considered a friend, a man he respected and admired.
The agent asked Mr. Baxter to detail for him when he had last seen the two men. Unfortunately, even the FBI sometimes tended to focus more on what was said, not how it was being said—or what was left unspoken. Facial tics and body movements didn’t qualify as admissible evidence.
Micro-expressions were like a piece of a puzzle. The more pieces you had, the better the chance of getting an accurate picture of what the suspect was truly thinking. Relaxed didn’t necessarily mean innocent, very often quite the opposite.
“I stopped by on my rounds to empty the trash,” Baxter was saying. “Any cans that need emptying are left outside the office doors. Senator Pierce’s staff hadn’t left anything, so I took that to mean he was working late again. I knocked and Mr. Coe answered the door. He handed me two cans and thanked me for stopping by. That’s when the senator called out from his office, ‘Is that you, Nate?’ I said it was, and Senator Pierce invited me in.” He paused, his lips pressed together against a surge of emotion. “He asked about my new great-grandbaby. He’d recently become a great-granddaddy himself, and we shared pictures from time to time.”
“How did Senator Pierce appear to you?” the agent asked. “Any unusual paleness, signs of a tremor—”
