by Lisa Shearin
The Japanese had dispensed with trying to make their version look homey and had taken it to its ultimate conclusion with those sleep pods for business travelers.
We walked into the lobby. Berta was right. If you came in and out wearing business casual or the cheap suit and tie that was the uniform of government contractors everywhere, you wouldn’t be seen and only barely noticed. And if you were trying to hide, you’d want to go where you could blend in with the local flora and fauna.
David Barrington had come here to hide.
Thanks to Elaine Pierce, we had his name. Thanks to Pete, we were where he’d called Julian from. I didn’t know if it would be enough, but at least it was more than we had a few hours ago.
Berta went to the front desk. She was the one with the badge. I was just the two-legged psychic bloodhound.
I took a tour of the lobby and elevator area. It was small, so it didn’t take long.
The man working at the front desk was shaking his head at the photo. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He doesn’t look familiar, but then I don’t work during the first half of the week. Let me see if he was registered.” After a few computer key clicks, he shook his head again. “We haven’t had anyone by the name of David Barrington registered here this week or last.”
Elaine had known him as Uncle Barry.
“How about anyone with the first name Barry?” I asked.
More clicking. “Yes, we had a Barry Davis here for one night. He checked out Thursday morning at 6:05.”
Close enough to be probable. And David Barrington, aka Barry Davis, had checked out the morning after Julian and Alan had been murdered, probably after seeing it on the morning news.
“Heck of a morning what with the earthquake and all,” the clerk said.
“Yes, it was,” Berta readily agreed. “Has anyone stayed in his room since he checked out?”
The clerk looked at the screen and shook his head. “No, ma’am. It was cleaned a few hours after he left, but no one’s stayed there since then.”
“We’d like to see it, please.”
“Let me get someone to cover the desk for me, and I’ll take you up.”
What I hoped to find, no amount of cleaning and vacuuming could remove.
Berta deftly got rid of the desk clerk, requesting the make, model, and tag number of the car Barry Davis had been driving when he’d checked in and whether there were any security cameras that had captured his image while he was checking in or out. The clerk dutifully went to look, leaving us alone.
As Berta quietly searched for any remaining physical evidence, I stood for a few moments in the middle of the room to see if I could pick up any emotional remnants David Barrington might have left behind.
There wasn’t anything, but that didn’t mean that direct contact with, say, the bed wouldn’t get me the information we were looking for.
The room had a kitchenette. Other than that, the furnishings were what you’d find in any other hotel room: bed, bathroom, desk, phone and clock radio on a bedside table, and a table and two chairs in front of the window. Considering that David Barrington had stayed for only one night, only three of those things had probably been used.
Bathroom, bed, and phone.
I started with the phone and just as quickly eliminated it. The phone hadn’t been used by anyone in quite some time, which made sense considering that most people carried their own. Not to mention, David Barrington had a burner phone that he used to communicate primarily via text. Rees was trying to locate Barrington’s cell phone and trace any calls that had been made on it. Or better yet, track his location. But since he’d been using a burner and was on the run, in his entirely justified paranoia, it was highly unlikely he’d have left his cell phone powered up.
I moved from the phone to the bed, hopeful that Barrington had used it so that I wouldn’t need to resort to sitting on the toilet. But if it was necessary, I’d take one for the team. I’d done it before.
If Barrington was on the run, he would have at least tried to rest.
There was only one double bed. Generally, regardless of what side of the bed a person slept on at home, while in a hotel, they slept on the side closest to the bedside table and phone.
I lay down on the side nearest the phone, closed my eyes, and tried to relax.
David Barrington had lain precisely where I was now, and on top of the bedspread as I was doing. He’d known he wouldn’t be able to sleep and hadn’t bothered getting under the covers or removing any of his clothes.
He’d also wanted to be able to move at a moment’s notice.
David Barrington was being hunted.
He’d been betrayed and was terrified. He couldn’t trust anyone except Julian. He was wracked with guilt about involving his friend more than he already had. They didn’t want him dead, at least not yet. If caught, he’d vanish, never to be seen again.
He’d created a monster. Now he was paying the price.
The room was completely silent. I could sense Berta watching me.
I opened my eyes.
Berta was standing by the window. “Anything?”
“Well, I can confirm that Barry Davis is David Barrington. And if he hadn’t been an absolute nervous wreck, he could’ve gotten some sleep on this bed. This mattress isn’t half bad. I’ve slept on much worse.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, sat up, and told her what I’d sensed.
“Sounds like the monster he created has gone on the rampage,” Berta noted.
“And Julian hid his burner in a copy of Frankenstein, a story where the creation turns on the creator.”
“They didn’t want him dead…yet. It would’ve been nice if he’d told you who ‘they’ are.”
“Tell me about it.” I rubbed my hand over my face. Closing my eyes and stretching out on a bed for just for those few minutes had made me realize just how tired I was. “He’s worried about being caught because they’d make him vanish and he’d never be seen again. Does that sound like a certain CIA officer?”
“Yeah, but from what I know, Gabriel Marshall only kills people who deserve it.”
“And David Barrington doesn’t strike me as the needs-to-stop-breathing-our-air type, meaning Julian and Alan’s killer is probably after Barrington as well.”
Berta gestured at the brightly patterned bedspread, which most people would refuse to have in their home. “Do you need to take that designer bedspread with you?”
“I’ve gotten all I’m gonna get from it.” I stood up. “Though let me go sit on the toilet before we go back downstairs. Some people do their serious thinking in the bathroom.”
Less than five minutes later, we were back at the front desk.
I hadn’t gotten anything helpful from the toilet in Room 312.
The desk clerk had called the manager with our request. They came up with a surprisingly good photo of David Barrington at the front desk checking in, and a side view of him leaving.
He wasn’t exactly dressed for Washington’s present weather.
They were calling for snow on Sunday, but Barrington had been dressed for snow on Thursday morning in jeans, a down jacket, and snow boots, and had been carrying a medium-sized duffel bag. The doctor was traveling light. There wasn’t enough snow in DC to warrant that kind of gear, but there’d be plenty in the Adirondacks where Julian Pierce and David Barrington used to go fishing with their friends. Berta reported to Rees, who said he’d touch base with Elaine Pierce to see if she’d made any progress on getting those fish camp locations.
Barrington normally drove a 2019 BMW 7 Series M760i. He’d arrived at the hotel in a white 2019 Range Rover. Berta called it in to run the tags and found that he’d rented it at Dulles. Rees would have the long-term airport parking checked for Barrington’s Beemer. I didn’t think I’d get anything from the car that I hadn’t gotten from the bed, but a forensics team would go over it.
We’d just gotten back in the car when Be
rta’s phone rang. “Pike.”
Then she listened, and as she did, her jaw tightened, and eyes narrowed.
“We’ll be there as fast as we can.” She ended the call.
“Where?” I asked.
“The Hart Senate Office Building. There’s been another death.”
CHAPTER 21
“Mark Dalton was the most hated man in the US Senate,” Berta said. “Republican or Democrat, it didn’t matter. Everybody hated this guy.”
Now he was dead.
Cause of death was unknown, but it’d been sudden, and Dalton had been relatively young and healthy, pointing to a third cardiac arrest.
The Russell may have had classic architecture with a fireplace in every senator’s office, but I preferred the Hart Senate Office Building. It’d been built around a center atrium capped by massive skylights that allowed sunlight in for the trees planted below. Each floor of the nine-story building alternated walkways with windowed offices looking out over the atrium. There was the prestige of having an office in the Russell Building, but if I were a senator, I’d rather work here.
Senator Mark Dalton may have felt differently.
He’d died on one of the building’s toilets with his pants around his ankles.
What a way to go.
Berta was speaking. “Rees said Dalton had just spoken to the media about the ‘tragic death of a noble opponent and fine American,’ stopped by the head on his way back to his office and—”
“Did an Elvis,” I said before I could stop myself.
“Not exactly,” Berta pointed out. “Elvis fell off the toilet. The stall broke Dalton’s fall.”
We both paused to push down any morbid giggles.
“We’re horrible,” I said. “Though maybe we’re punchy from lack of sleep.”
“I vote for horrible.”
“And you’re not in the least bit sorry.”
“Hey, I didn’t like the guy, either.”
It was Friday afternoon. Between the call for snow on Sunday and the president’s address coming up on Tuesday, senators and representatives staying in town, and the halls were packed with people who didn’t look like FBI. Outside Julian’s office, the FBI agents had spoken in hushed tones. There was nothing quiet or reverential going on outside the Hart Building’s third-floor men’s room. Some people were at least making an effort to show respect for the dead. They were in the minority. I caught snatches of conversation as we made our way through the crowd to the cordoned-off men’s room.
“Good riddance.”
“Karma’s a bitch.”
“Served him right.”
“Appropriate way for the bastard to die.”
“Probably dragged to Hell kicking and screaming.”
“See? There is a God.”
“And he answers prayers,” another voice added, followed by a few muffled laughs.
I also heard a couple of Elvis references, though the King was getting more respect than Senator Dalton, as was the Almighty for his dual senses of humor and irony.
I could see the Capitol Hill area bars being more festive than normal tonight.
We got to the men’s room and the Capitol Police manning the tape were scrutinizing Berta’s badge and my FBI consultant’s ID when Rees’s voice cut through the noise.
“They’re with me.”
And we were in.
Not that I was looking forward to this particular scene, whether it turned out to be a crime scene, or was just what Dalton’s Senate colleagues were essentially calling divine justice.
There were six stalls and four urinals in the men’s room.
I’d expected the room to be packed with people, as Julian’s office had. Here, there was only the ME with one assistant, and three FBI forensics agents.
And of course, Senator Mark Dalton on a gurney in a half-zipped body bag. At least he wasn’t still sitting on the toilet. I did not need to see that.
Samuel Rees and Grandad were standing by the door, as much out of the way as they could be. Grandad was wearing an FBI consultant’s ID on a lanyard around his neck that was identical to mine.
The third stall from the door was getting all the attention. The door and handle had been dusted for prints.
“Another one?” I murmured to Rees.
“That’s for you to tell me. We have a witness this time. He was in the fifth stall and heard Dalton say, “Hey! Occupied!” Less than five seconds later, he heard Dalton’s head and body hit the side of the stall. The witness…completed his business, and when he opened the door, no one was in the room, and he could see Dalton’s hands hanging limply under the door to the third stall.”
“No other sounds?” I asked. “No struggle, muffled voice? Spritz of an aerosol spray?”
“None. The witness called to Senator Dalton and didn’t get a response, and in doing so, potentially exposed himself to whatever substance—if there was one—was used on Dalton. He pushed on the door, but it was still locked from the inside.”
I would not have wanted to be the Capitol Police officer or FBI agent who’d had to crawl under that stall door to unlock it.
“The witness has shown no symptoms of any airborne toxin,” Rees was saying, “but he was taken to the hospital for preemptive treatment and observation. No substances were found on either side of the gap in the door. He also didn’t hear the intruder. Just Dalton expressing displeasure of someone either pushing on the door or looking through the gap between the door and stall frame.”
“Security cameras in the hall get anything?”
“A man exited at the time the witness gave for the incident. He was wearing a suit, overcoat, and a hat. The brim was pulled down and he knew where the camera was. He turned his head just enough that his face was completely hidden, and his hands were in his coat pockets.”
“Of course they were. Can I see the footage?”
“It’ll be emailed to me, and I’ll immediately forward it to you.”
Rees knew what I wanted to do. Compare the way the man in the security footage on Tuesday moved compared with this new suspect.
“Any chance of me being in here alone for a few minutes?”
Rees nodded. “The ME is finishing up, and I can clear the room.”
“Thank you.”
I wanted to stand in front of the third stall where Dalton’s intruder had stood and compare it to the sensation I had gotten in Julian’s office.
“The ME will be doing the autopsy immediately,” Rees was saying. “We should have the initial results before this evening. We’ve interviewed his aides. The only thing Senator Dalton had complained about was having to stay in town this weekend. There was no severe headache, nausea, trouble speaking, blurred vision—”
“Those aren’t cardiac arrest symptoms.”
“We don’t believe it was a cardiac arrest.”
“You weren’t here, so I got this one,” Grandad said from just behind me.
“Did you. . .?” I tilted my head in the direction of stall number three.
“I should think not. If it had been Julian, I would have ‘taken one for the team,’ as you would say. I touched the deceased. Considering how I felt about him as a senator and a poor excuse for a human being, that contact was nearly as distasteful as sitting where his. . .” Grandad shuddered. “A man looked through the gap and no sooner had Senator Dalton admonished the intruder than he was stricken with an excruciating headache.”
“We’re thinking aneurysm,” Rees said.
“Then it wasn’t the same—”
“Only you can tell us for certain. You know what his presence feels like.”
“How much longer until you can clear everyone out?”
“They’re ready to take the body. I can get you a few minutes after that.”
If Julian Pierce and Alan Coe’s killer had been here, I wouldn’t need that long.
CHAPTER 22
As I waited for Mark Dalton’s
body to be removed and Rees to clear the room for me, I thought that there had to be easier and less risky ways to get to a US senator.
Julian and Alan had been killed in the early hours of the morning, but Dalton had been stricken in the middle of the afternoon. This killer was going to a lot of trouble, but for what? Why here and why now? I hadn’t asked Rees what Julian and Senator Dalton had in common. Was it the pharma bill? Or another connection? Did that connection, even from their positions on opposite sides of the aisle, get them both killed? Did the killer want to make a statement, not just about the two dead senators, but about the Senate itself, perhaps even the entire government? Aside from the White House, Capitol Hill was seen as the ultimate symbol of the United States. They were two of the safest places in the world, symbols of power and control. The killer was doing a fine job of destroying that sense of safety.
And the elephant-in-the-room question—how were they killed?
Rees would remain inside the restroom while Berta stood guard on the other side of the door.
As the last agent and forensic tech left, the emotional white noise left behind by the Capitol Police, first responders, FBI agents and investigators, and the medical examiner and her team began to fade.
Rising in the stillness was a sense of the presence I’d felt in Julian’s office, with the same intense, single-minded focus.
I went to stand in front of the stall door, which Rees had pulled closed before retreating to the area near the hand dryers. I didn’t touch the door, because the killer hadn’t touched the door.
His hands had never left his sides.
I closed my eyes, emptying myself of the sound of voices outside in the hall, the smell of recently used cleaning chemicals, the thoughts and theories jostling in my mind for attention. I centered my focus on the one presence, opening myself to it and letting it flow over and around me.
As my breathing slowed, my body shivered at the contact, but I remained perfectly still, letting the presence speak to me, telling me what had transpired here. It had been hours old by the time I’d gotten to Julian’s office. It was much newer here, its potency making it seem more recent still.
