Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  “We don’t think that these outrageously staged murders are the only killing being done,” Keenan had reminded him. “They serve a purpose, and they draw attention. Please, keep an eye open for anything out of the ordinary that reaches your morgue.”

  The ME had seemed a bit amused. “We rather do that anyway,” he told Keenan, and the two men had smiled grimly. They’d exchanged a few words with Jean. She was still canvassing the streets near the alley where Andrea Simon had been found, asking for and viewing video surveillance, and helping Fred with the protection units that the police had taken on.

  Everyone was working.

  Everyone was frustrated. And afraid.

  No one wanted another killing to take place.

  It was the fact that so very many agents and officers were working the case that made her ask the question. They had so many of the people of interest under surveillance or protection. “The killer does seem very bold,” Keenan said. “All we can do is keep looking and hope we’re getting close enough that he’s getting nervous.”

  Stacey really hoped that was the case.

  “Is Smith in his office today? I take it we know, with agents watching Smith and his wife.”

  “Smith has not left his home yet,” Keenan said. “Not since we got in the car, at any rate. Congress is on hiatus. That leaves him a clear schedule. He’s probably calling all his buddies, one by one, warning them that they might have been on one of Billie’s lists that could become public, or making sure that they know that his name came up because of a picture—and thus he was falsely maligned and worthy of their sympathy. Then there’s his campaign ads. Next one could be a damned hard one for him.”

  “It’s strange,” Stacey murmured.

  “What, in particular? Since all this is strange.”

  “Cindy Hardy and her husband wound up in a bitter divorce because of Billie Bingham. But no matter what Smith did—with Billie or another woman—Sandra Smith is not going to let go of her position. But what do you think she’ll feel if he is forced to resign or if he’s voted out of office?”

  “People react to circumstances differently,” Keenan said. “We can go at Battle-Ax Agnes Merkle and find out what she thinks on that count.”

  It was evident, when they reached the suite of offices and opened the door to Congressman Smith’s office, that Agnes Merkle wasn’t just surprised to see them: she was alarmed.

  She stared at them as if they were twin demons brought up from hell, spewing fire and brimstone with each step they took.

  But she folded her hands on the desk in front of her, glaring at them.

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Oh, we believe you,” Stacey said pleasantly.

  “We’ve come to speak with you,” Keenan added.

  “For what? What do you want? Haven’t you done enough? Colin is a good man—a really good man. And you’re dragging him right through the mud. Well, you might just discover that all your horrid questioning and harassing of that man will get you nowhere. He has very loyal constituents.”

  Stacey smiled. “We’re here to help him.”

  “Yes, he’s been very cooperative with us.”

  Agnes looked at them skeptically.

  Stacey glanced at Keenan, her pleasant smile deepening. “He hasn’t been back to the office since he came down to help the FBI, has he?”

  “But he’s contacted you, of course. Seriously, a wife is a man’s love. But a secretary is truly the most important person in his life.”

  “I have my place,” Agnes said primly.

  “He’s brokenhearted. Just brokenhearted. You see, he did care about both Billie and one of the younger women who was killed. He cared for her a great deal. And he wants to help us catch whoever is doing these terrible things.”

  She arched a brow, doubting them.

  “We need to know if he was telling you the truth. He said that he’d talked to you about Billie. She was making some waves. And he said that she needed to be taken care of, and that he was talking to you when he said it.”

  “Oh, no! You think that he meant that I should do something to her?” the woman gasped in dismay.

  “No, no, of course not,” Keenan said. “We don’t believe you capable of such a terrible thing.”

  “I should hope not!”

  “But what did he mean?” Stacey asked.

  “He told you that he called me to talk about Billie? You’re not just making this up?” she asked warily.

  “I can’t believe he hasn’t spoken to you since we had him at the office,” Keenan said, shaking his head.

  “Because it’s true—you make his world go around,” Stacey said earnestly.

  Agnes looked down at her desk for a minute.

  “We’re trying to clear things up,” Keenan said. “Congressman Smith is trying to help us, but he admitted to making use of Billie’s services. We’re not interested in who is sleeping with who. All we want to do is solve these murders—and stop others. We’d hate to see you become involved—”

  “Your good name out there,” Stacey put in.

  “—when all you’ve done is be a good secretary,” Keenan finished.

  “Oh, good Lord!” Agnes Merkle said, her words explosive. “Money! Billie was a money-grubbing monster. I never saw what any of them... Well, men are fools. Sorry, Special Agent Wallace, but men are fools,” she snapped. “Yes, he talked to me about her. And if you just knew her... Money was her game. It was all she ever wanted. And I was going to make sure that she received her hush money. Are you happy? It wasn’t coming out of campaign funds. He inherited a good business from his father, who had been a peanut farmer and had made out extremely well. He had a machine that helped shell the things, and it sold well, and Smith has his own money. Okay? Is there anything else?”

  “Just one thing,” Keenan said.

  “What else?” Agnes demanded.

  “Did you ever hear him talk about a young woman named Jess Marlborough?”

  “I know that name,” Agnes said.

  “Yes?” Keenan asked her.

  She made a face, glaring at them. “I heard it in the news—just like everyone else all over the country and beyond. She was a Yankee Ripper victim. That’s how I’ve heard the name.”

  “He never asked you to get an apartment for her, finagle a way to pay a few bills?”

  “He wouldn’t ask me for the pennies needed to care for a two-bit whore,” she said tightly.

  “We know your financials, Agnes,” Keenan said pleasantly. “You’re very well-paid.”

  She straightened indignantly. “And you think that I...that I might be performing some special task that would warrant the amount I make? That I might be anything like Billie Bingham?”

  Keenan managed to keep a straight face as he replied, “Oh, no, Agnes, I wasn’t suggesting anything of the kind!”

  “Indeed not!” she said.

  “But you do handle problem people for him.”

  “I am an excellent secretary, and I minored in accounting. I am more than a secretary. I’m glad that wretched Miss Bronsen sent in her resignation. She was worthless! A young graphics major.” She paused to snort. “She was paid too much without a shred of loyalty. I swear that young woman flirted with the congressman. She wanted more than she was getting. She’s looking for greener pastures, I imagine. Thought a pretty face was all that was needed—and whatever other talents she might have offered. I can handle all problems, and that’s why I’m paid well!”

  “Of course!” Stacey said, and Keenan echoed her sentiment.

  “Is that all?” Agnes demanded. “Despite your best efforts, this is a busy office!”

  Keenan smiled. “Thank you. Thank you so much for your time, for speaking with us.”

  He turned. Stacey quickly followed.

  “What do you think?”
she asked as they left.

  “I think we might have stirred a hornets’ nest.”

  “Ah—telling her that Smith told us that he’d called her about Billie?” She grinned. “Or suggesting that her income might suggest sexual services as well?”

  He nodded and smiled. “I was thinking about her being angry that Smith would have told us that he talked to her about Billie. The sex thing—she is so uptight, I just couldn’t help it.”

  “Oh, you just feel that way because all men are fools.”

  He laughed softly. “I wish we had a tap on his phone.”

  “Don’t we have enough to get one?”

  “Even if we did...if he’s doing anything illegal—or even immoral—he’ll have a burner phone. Any calls from his house will make him sound like a Boy Scout. But it will be interesting to see how his future progresses.” He shook his head. “I don’t see it. His wife and secretary. Standing by—even if he goes down.”

  “Very well-paid secretary; a proud congressman’s wife,” Stacey reminded him.

  “And yet Cindy Hardy went right for the throat. I can’t help but wonder who knew who—and who knew what about who.”

  “Could Billie have been in on this, and when she became too troublesome, whoever else decided that she could both be out of the picture and part of the charade?”

  “Anything is possible. Anyway, we’ve got a long drive. This Dr. Lawrence is expecting us, right?”

  “I told him we were coming.”

  She might have told him that they were coming, but when they reached the hospital, he wasn’t there. A nurse suggested that they try his office; it was near.

  A receptionist at his office said that he didn’t take appointments that day: it was one of his surgery days.

  They thanked him and headed on out.

  Stacey was grateful that Angela was thorough. They didn’t need to ask for his home address because they already had it.

  “Do you think he’s hiding something—or he just doesn’t want the past brought back up?” Keenan asked her as they returned to the car.

  “He cried on the stand while McCarron denied having killed either Dr. Vargas or Mr. Anderson. He was a young doctor at the time, and he found his mentor murdered. Vargas’s neck was broken when he went down the stairs. And I guess Lawrence thought he could save him. Maybe it’s just something he really doesn’t want to remember,” Stacey said.

  “If that’s the case, I’m sorry. But we have his home address, and we’ve come this far. We’re going to find him.”

  Fourteen

  One of the continual trials of living and working in the DC area was traffic. Any major city offered that kind of daily challenge, but getting out of DC had been a nightmare, even using some of the shortcuts Keenan knew, and he knew the area as well as one possibly could.

  Then they had to deal with Richmond traffic.

  But Keenan was more determined than ever that they weren’t heading back without talking to Dr. Henry Lawrence.

  They got back into the car. Lawrence’s home was just north and west of the city. As they drove, Stacey murmured, “Beautiful country.”

  “There are a lot of old Victorian plantation homes out here. Not the ultralavish kind. And despite the Civil War, many survived. Compared to the Blue Ridge, it’s flat land out here, but flat land that rolls in gorgeous blues and greens.” He grinned at her suddenly. “My parents almost bought out here once.”

  “Oh? What stopped them? Certainly not ghosts!”

  “Nope. Ticks. They walked in the beautiful little patch of forest land around the house and discovered they were covered in ticks!”

  “Ah,” Stacey murmured. “We haven’t had much of a problem in Georgetown.”

  “But this countryside is so beautiful. You have Richmond and the District of Columbia just ninety miles apart, big places, stone, concrete, woods, buildings. But here, it’s nice, huh?”

  “As long as you can get a tick population under control,” she said. She straightened in the passenger’s seat. “I think that’s it ahead. Addresses aren’t that easy out here, but according to the GPS, that should be his house up ahead.”

  At the end of a circular drive stood the house. It had a broad porch, soaring white columns and a white, two-person swing right on the porch.

  “There’s a car in the drive,” he said. “Fancy!”

  “Well, he is a surgeon, and a good one. And as beautiful as these houses are, it’s far more reasonable to get a house out here than in the heart of the city.”

  Keenan pulled up behind a sleek sedan on the circular driveway. They got out of the car, looking at the house.

  He shrugged to her, smiling.

  “Ten to one, a housekeeper answers the door.”

  “Maybe,” Stacey said, and then added, “Okay, probably.”

  “Is he married? Does he have a family?” Keenan asked.

  “You know, not back when I was a kid, but that was a while ago now. And Angela didn’t say. I should have tried to find out more. I mean, that would have been easy enough.”

  “He’s not a suspect. We’re just anxious for his help.”

  “But he was a transplant doctor,” Stacey said. “Working with the best.”

  They walked up the steps to the porch, and he rang the bell.

  It was answered by a housekeeper in uniform. She looked surprised; they probably didn’t get that many visitors.

  Keenan glanced at Stacey. They smiled at one another.

  “Yes?” the housekeeper said.

  She appeared to be fiftysomething, a bit squat, with iron-gray hair swept severely back. Her eyes, however, were bright blue and friendly.

  “Hello, may I help you?” she asked, her manner pleasant and easy.

  “Hi, I’m Stacey Hanson, Special Agent Hanson, and this is my partner, Special Agent Keenan Wallace. I called Dr. Lawrence earlier today and asked if we might speak with him. We thought he’d be at the hospital, but he wasn’t, and we see his car—” she paused, sweeping an arm out to indicate the dark blue sedan in the driveway, though they really didn’t know if it was his or not “—and we’re just hoping for a few minutes with him. We drove down from DC. Not a terrible drive, but...”

  “Come in, come in, yes, Dr. Lawrence is home. He’s playing one of his video games, can you imagine? The man works so hard! I’m always trying to get him to relax a bit, and I was delighted when he made it home early today. Please, if you’ll wait in the foyer for just a minute, I’ll get him for you.”

  She opened the door wide and indicated that they should come in, and then hurried to whatever rooms lay to the left.

  The house was nice: it wouldn’t have been owned by the ultrawealthy back in the day but by someone who had worked hard and was doing all right. The ceilings were high. A hand-carved stairway led to the second floor. The foyer, where they waited, gave way to an expansive parlor with doors opening off to other parts of the house on either side.

  They were there barely a minute before the housekeeper returned, frowning and appearing to be very perplexed.

  “I’m so sorry. Dr. Lawrence says he can’t see you right now. He’s extremely busy with an urgent medical report,” she said.

  “I thought he was playing video games?” Keenan asked.

  “I...uh... Well, I guess I was hoping he was,” the woman said, stammering. It was evident that she wasn’t at all fond of lying, even when told to do so by her employer.

  She stood there awkwardly.

  Then a door opened, and Dr. Lawrence came out.

  “It’s all right; I’ll see these people,” Lawrence told his housekeeper.

  His housekeeper, evidently uncomfortable, quickly escaped.

  “I just have to close out on my computer,” Dr. Lawrence told them. “Give me a minute.”

  They stood alone in the foyer
.

  Stacey spoke softly. “Seeing him...he’s changed. Everyone changes, but I remember him so clearly from the trial. He broke down several times. Every time McCarron was on the stand—denying his culpability—Henry Lawrence looked as if he would burst into tears again.”

  “Well, physically, he came out fine,” Keenan said. “He’s got a good height on him—he’s about six-two—I could see that in the video footage. His hair was a sandy-blond back then, he’s just gaining bits of gray. I’m estimating he was in his early thirties at the time of the trial, which makes him in midforties now.” He lowered his voice still further. “He seemed to have an intense and quick manner about him then.”

  “And still, though we’ve barely seen him,” Stacey murmured. “The way he moves, it’s probably gained from years of learning his way around patients in an operating room.”

  “Let’s hope that he’s not too quick or jerky with a scalpel!” he muttered and fell silent.

  The good doctor was back.

  “Miss Hanson—or Special Agent Hanson, now,” he said, studying her. “You grew up well,” he told her.

  “Thank you. I’m hoping you’ve been well.”

  “Well enough, thank you.” He looked at Keenan.

  “And you, sir?” Lawrence asked.

  “Special Agent Keenan Wallace, Dr. Lawrence. And we’re sorry to bring back painful memories, but you were on the road to being one of the foremost transplant doctors in the country—until McCarron murdered your mentor.”

  Lawrence shrugged. “There are other challenges. I performed a hernia surgery today that may well be the most complicated to ever hit the books. I’ve saved lives when people might have died of ruptured appendixes. There are different rewards.” He looked at them both and then indicated an antique sofa and matching side chairs in the living room just past the foyer. “Please, have a seat. You’ve come this far.”

  They followed him and took seats. Lawrence studied Stacey intently.