“Slide it out.” Max averted her eyes in the opposite direction.
The doctor slid the gurney from behind the steel door. Then, after one more deep breath, Max watched as the sheet peeled away from the face of a once-dear friend.
“Check this out.” The coroner turned the head a tad to the left and held a magnifying glass over a tiny purplish dot—an injection site. “When I couldn’t find the stinger, I resorted to shaving the body and looked again. Some son of a bitch injected this poor fella by placing the needle in a hair follicle. To do so, the killer would have had to knock him out first before meticulously injecting him.”
The coroner scratched his head.
“What is it?”
“What had me puzzled was the slightly elevated dose of chloroform that appeared on tox report. But I blew it off because that level can usually be attributed to water, like a daily shower when the chloroform in the water naturally absorbs through the skin—now, it makes sense.”
Max appeared stunned and did not comment.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes. You’re telling me Jeff was murdered!”
“You want to sit down?”
Max waved her hand in the air and left the morgue, leaving the coroner to return the corpse inside the dark, cold drawer.
Chapter 8
Friendly Alliance
Stanton checked his watch and simultaneously hit the Uber button on his phone. On schedule, the car was waiting outside his condo. At last, he and Max were going to share an enjoyable dinner together, the one thing he had been anticipating throughout the day. He missed their intimacy; it had been a long time. But he was content to be the friend she relied upon, although he confessed to himself that one day he hoped it would lead to more. He also promised not to push, but then again, he thought, tonight could be the night.
“Have a good one,” he said to the driver and stepped out of the car. As soon as both feet were planted on the ground, his phone vibrated. It was not a great start to the evening. It was a message from POTUS. He read the text. In that instant, the possibility of staying the night evaporated. He remained at the base of the steps leading up to Max’s Victorian a while longer to delay the inevitable. But seeing the bronze plaque fastened on the brick outside her front door, emblazoned with the words, Max Ford Private Investigations, made him smile. It was a gift from him.
Max heard the car pull up out front and assumed it was Stanton. When she opened the front door to greet him, he was still standing at the base of the stairs staring into his hand.
“Coming in?” she asked, in a less than cheerful mood.
“Hey, beautiful!” He slipped his phone into his pocket and headed up the stairs. But as he got closer, he could tell something was horribly wrong. “What’s the matter?”
“Jeff Lance did not die of a heart attack—he was murdered.”
From the look on Max’s face, Stanton felt her pain. All he could do to console her was to hold her tightly in his arms. She did not resist. He embraced the moment and then suggested they go upstairs. Again, she did not oppose him. Still with his arm around her, they walked through the office reception area and upstairs to her apartment. Once seated on the sofa, he was careful to ask, “Tell me, what’s going on?”
Max began to feel more at ease having Stanton seated next to her. In a quiescent manner, she filled him in on her visit to the coroner’s office, steering away from the unnecessary gruesome details, maintaining her composure throughout.
He listened without interruption, and resisted razzing her for jumping on the case before he got back to her.
“So, you see—I was right to suspect something was amiss.” Her voice was abnormally quiet and low.
“You generally are, my dear,” he said, knowing full well there was no chance at that point that she would let it go. “You remind me of the Eleanor Roosevelt quote, when she said, ‘A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong it is until it’s in hot water.’”
“You’re calling me a bag?” she teased. Her mood reverted to form, and she turned the questioning around. “Tell me what you found out.” Her eagerness to learn of Jeff’s travels was more than clear.
Stanton handed her an envelope. “Here’s a printout of his appointment schedule. But I could only get the last six months. I hope this helps you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“You’re amazing. Evidently, your charm worked. I won’t ask what else it took.”
“I didn’t speak with Stefanie. I thought it best to keep a low profile until there’s an official investigation.”
“Then where did you get this?” She waved the envelope.
“Didn’t they teach you in spy school never to disclose your sources?” Stanton winked. “If I tell you, then I’ll have to kill you.”
She shined a hint of a smile as she reviewed the list of appointments. “I guess I’ll have my work cut out for me tomorrow.”
“I know this is a futile attempt on my part, but can’t you let the authorities handle the case? They’ll be swooping in as soon as the coroner reports his findings.”
“No, I have to follow through on this one.”
“Does Allison know?”
“No, and I told the doc to hold off briefly until I break the news to her. I should be the one who tells her that her husband was murdered. But not until after the funeral. She needs to get past that first because this will hit her hard.”
Stanton shook his head. “I thought in the PI biz that first you get the client and then you get the case.”
“You sound like…” Max caught herself as a vision of Noble flashed in her mind. She reverted to topic. “But I have a client.” A picture of Jeff lying supine on a cold, metal gurney quickly replaced her earlier image. “He just can’t tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t know Jeff on a personal level, but I heard he was an honorable guy. His wife deserves to know the truth.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful out there. You have a magnetic touch for danger. Now, about that dinner?”
“Do you mind if we order in? I’m really not in the mood to go out.”
“Sure, doll!” Stanton replied with great relief. Having dinner ordered in made it easier to call the night short. POTUS was expecting him in the Oval Office at ten o’clock.
“Sushi?” Max asked.
“Sounds great.”
While Max left to order, Stanton remained seated on the sofa, contemplating what the president possibly needed to discuss so late at night. He was still on medical leave for another two months, so he suspected it was not work-related.
“Done!” she said as she walked back into the living room carrying two glasses of wine. Her mood had taken another turn for the better.
After a clink of their glasses and few more sips, Stanton mustered up the courage. “Hey Max, I’m gonna have to cut out early. The prez asked to meet later.”
Max took a few seconds as her internal alarm sounded off in her head. “What does he know about that night—the night you were attacked?”
Stanton sensed a tad of paranoia in her question. “Only that I was trying to stop a break-in. And the burglar got away.”
“That’s all?”
“Max, I didn’t realize at the time what you’d gotten yourself into, but I kept your name out of it. Don’t sweat it. He probably wants to see how I’m doing. That’s all!”
“Not sure if you were aware, but Noble had become the president’s personal truth-seeker.”
Where’s this coming from? he thought, but allowed her to continue.
“He told me that in the current political climate, the president didn’t know who to trust, whether it be the FBI, CIA, DEA, DOJ, or any other agency. POTUS needed eyes on the ground. At least that’s what the president told Noble.” She paused. “Maybe you’l
l become his next pair of eyes?” Her question was not without suspicion.
Stanton remained silent, trying to figure out what was spinning through her overactive mind. But it soon became of no import as Max flipped back into an aggrieved state. It was obvious Jeff’s death had hit her hard. And not wanting to push his luck, he let it go. “Let’s enjoy the time we have.”
He set down his wine glass and reached over to hold her in his arms. For a second time, she did not resist. He happily enjoyed the moment until the doorbell rang. “You stay here. I’ll go get the dinner,” he offered.
Chapter 9
Spy To Spy
The sushi dinner was tempered by Max’s disposition and the night was cut short by POTUS. But a surprise visit early the next morning found Max in an unpredictably pleasant mood. She was already busy at work in her office scouring Jeff’s appointments, when Stanton reappeared.
“What’s the matter—can’t stay away?” she teased.
He smiled and handed her a package.
“What’s this?” she asked, as she unwrapped her gift.
“I know how much you like croissants.”
“No, I mean this,” she said, shaking the flaky crust off the wrapping.
“A peace offering for having to leave early. It’s Jeff’s personal calendar. I found it hanging out in the cloud.”
“Thanks!” Max said, seeming a bit surprised.
“Read nothing into it. I started thinking perhaps it wasn’t Capitol business that got the senator killed. Lucky you, my computer hacking skills are like riding a bicycle.” Stanton sniggered and soon realized it was out of place. And lucky for him, his quip went unnoticed.
Max was already studying the new list of appointments.
“All’s forgiven?” he dared to ask.
“Nothing to forgive. What did POTUS want?”
“Nothing earth shattering. Only what I suspected. How am I doing? When was I coming back? Basically, I think he misses his jogging partner.” Stanton attempted to make light of the conversation.
Max wondered whether it was all that innocent, but let it go for the time being. She put the paper down and reached for Stanton’s hand, which surprised him. “Hey, sorry for being so bitchy last night. I just couldn’t get Jeff off my mind.”
“It’s understandable, but remember you don’t have to be Super Sleuth all the time. Something or someone got Jeff killed. Walk this one carefully.”
“I will. And much appreciated.” She pointed to the paper spotted with flakes of buttery pastry.
Catching the time, Stanton leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek. “I really have to go.”
“No problem. Thanks to you, I have work to do.” Max walked him to the front door, where a car was waiting for him. Out of nowhere, another car pulled up to the curve. As Stanton’s car pulled away, a lanky man with graying hair and piercing gray eyes stepped out of the vehicle.
“Casper, what the hell are you doing here?!” Max shouted.
The surprise visitor made his way up the steps as she remained standing outside her front door.
“Okay, so what gives?” she asked.
“You sounded a little lonely the other night. I thought you could use some company.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Clearly, I was mistaken.” He grinned as he looked down the street. “The Secret Service agent was leaving your abode rather early this morning.” The mischievous grin returned.
“Well, now that you’re here, I can’t leave you standing at the doorstep. C’mon in,” she invited, blowing off his inference.
He set down his carry-on in the reception area and inspected the first floor of her office dwelling. “Nice. It shows off your decorating skills.”
“Ha-ha, my decorator will be offended. Why are you really here?”
He walked over to her office and peeked in and then eyed the vacant office across the hall. “That’s Jax’s?” he asked.
Max realized ever since Jax’s death, she had never gone back into his office. Everything remained undisturbed. She nodded.
“What do you say I give up my palm trees and sandy beaches for a little while—and hang out here? I’m sure you can find something to keep an old, crusty spy busy.”
Who’s the lonely one, she began to wonder, but admittedly, she was glad he was there. “I don’t take on freeloaders. But if you’re willing to help me work a case?” She hinted, flashing a huge smile that would put a Cheshire cat to shame.
“On one condition. Can the code name—call me Sam.”
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Sam, but I could use help. Another pair of eyes to see what I might have missed. By the way, the pay’s lousy. And where do you plan on staying?”
“I’ll find a place.” He shrugged his shoulders as he glanced toward his luggage.
“Okay, you can stay in the guest room. But remember what they say about guests and fish.”
“I’ll be out of here in three days. Let your agent man know the coast will be clear after that.”
“There’s nothing between Stanton and me; it’s purely platonic. We’re just good friends. And Sam—he knows nothing about Italy. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Sure thing, princess.” He smiled as he thought, mission accomplished. “So, what case are we working on?”
“Jeff Lance.”
Sam looked confused. “You said he died of a heart attack.”
Max filled him in on the details of her meeting with the coroner and his findings.
“Bee venom?” Sam asked.
“It’s murder, pure as honey, no matter the method. Now, go get yourself settled in, grab a cup of coffee, and meet me in my office.”
Seated behind her desk, Max found it comforting to have Sam around. She never would admit to needing a partner, but what she missed most was the synergy. First Noble, sometimes Stanton, and then Jax. There was always someone she could rap about the cases with, to look for clues, and share in the danger and excitement when presented. Casper, the spy, certainly had the credentials, considered one of the CIA’s best. But Sam, the civilian, brought something else to the party. He had been her protector since her childhood. Sam would make a great partner, even though I suspect he’s here for another reason. She shook her head. It was no time to speculate.
Max returned her attention to the case, eyeing between both lists, trying to decide where to start. Jeff’s business appointments or work off his personal calendar? she contemplated. Opting to start with his business calendar, she hoped to find something, anything, that would lead her to Brazil. At first glance, she noticed each of the appointments appeared to be coded, some marked with a “NO” and others with an “O”. That helps, she thought, if “O” stands for official and “NO” stands for non-official. A slew of acronyms also dotted the pages, seeming to indicate a committee. “Here’s one H-E-L-P. That’s one of Jeff’s committees.” She knew it was the U.S. Senate Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions Committee, because she considered the acronym an oxymoron. Her meager knowledge of the committee’s activities included the fact that it tackled a host of issues ranging from the rising cost of pharmaceuticals to the Food and Drug Administration’s user fee agreements.
“Hey, princess, talking to yourself?” Sam teased as he appeared outside her office door.
“Bad habit. Have a seat. I’m going over Jeff’s appointment calendar, trying to figure out why he was in Brazil.”
“Dare I ask how you got that information so quickly, Carmen Sandiego?”
She cocked her head.
“Oh, agent man.”
“What makes you say that?” Max smirked and before he had an opportunity to retort, asked, “Would you call the Seringal Hotel in Manaus, Brazil, and find out what they know? Arrival time, discovering the body, visitors—you know the drill. Check in with the local authorities as well.”
“Yes, but this one’s pro bono.” Max paused, expecting some guff.
“Okay. I’ll go call Brazil.” He stood, offered a full military salute, and left to go play detective.
Max still wondered what Sam’s angle was. Why is he really here?
“Well, I might as well start at the top of the list,” she mumbled, and looked at the appointments again. In a process of elimination, she crossed off what appeared to be strictly committee business and focused on those names marked with an “O.” She assumed for the moment, if she was correct, it meant official business because she recognized most of the names as those inside the Beltway. One surprising name kept popping up. It was Justin Slater, the infamous lobbyist for Big PhRMA. Hmm, I wonder what he and Jeff had going on? Max thought.
When she skimmed the list of appointments with various jumbled letters that indicated committee work, she became dismayed at the realization of how elected officials spend a great deal of their time. But then as she moved further down the page, she noted that several entries appeared to be airline flight numbers and departure times. Oddly, many were coded with a “NO.” Harking back to Allison’s concern that Jeff was playing around, she decided to switch directions, hoping to dispute the marital allegation. What was clear, his aides booked all his flights, both business and personal. She looked at the final entry: Jeff’s last flight. It read “AA324 /1265 1:50 pm.” Armed with the keyboard, she confirmed her suspicion. It was an American Airline flight to Manaus, Brazil, with a stop in Miami. He would have arrived at his destination that evening at 10:51, approximately nine hours later.
With only the last six months to work with, Max started in July with all non-official flights booked. American Airlines appeared to be Jeff’s preferred airline, so she typed in the various flight codes directly on the airline’s website. From the dates, Jeff traveled every week, but she concentrated on only those marked non-official, hoping Allison was wrong. The first trip appeared on July 5th, when he flew from Dulles International to San Francisco, with a stop in Los Angeles. On the twenty-sixth, he flew back to Los Angeles. On August 16th, he flew to Jackson, Mississippi. That was the only flight in August, even though Congress was in recess. But in September, he made two trips to Houston, Texas, but only one was marked non-official.
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