Which brought him full circle back to Will Crawford.
Will wasn’t a survivalist, though if pressed, he could easily live off the land for days or weeks. Like Xander, his father had brought him up out of doors, with the forest to guide him. No, while Will could manage quite nicely in an emergency, that’s not where his interests lay. He was, and there just wasn’t a nice word for it, a hacker. An extremely talented hacker who worked with a team of very talented hackers who spent their time using their computer skills to break into government systems. Nameless, utterly incognito and rarely off taking public responsibility for their hacks, they were incredibly dangerous, and incredibly secretive. Unlike Anonymous, the group of hackers who were doing their best to destabilize the world in retaliation for the capitalist spirit that guided most modern countries by publicly claiming responsibility for their hacks and openly recruiting additional talent.
Will’s group was much more subtle. They stole the information and put it to use for themselves. They were information gatherers, and for the right price, you could quietly purchase whatever you wanted to know. They didn’t discriminate—so long as you could pay, you could have the info. Which meant some seriously nefarious people could wreak havoc should they choose.
The site Will ran that Xander had been on the night before the attacks was just one of thousands he had under his purview.
So who had been mouthing off about the attacks, and why had Will panicked and shut down the site? It wasn’t like him to react to external stimuli—the sites he ran were so deeply off the beaten path that without strict instructions no one could even hope to find them, much less get in once they did. Which meant Will and his cohorts knew the guy who’d been talking. He must have been one of their own.
Well, of course he was. It wasn’t some random guy’s chatter, it was one of Will’s men.
And it took him six hours to come to that conclusion. He was slipping.
The exit for Dillon was about three miles ahead. He woke Sam, who sat up rubbing her eyes like a little girl.
“I just had the most delicious dream.”
“Was I in it?”
“You were, yes.” She smiled at him and his stomach flipped. “Where are we?”
“About five miles from my folks’ place. You ready for this?”
“Of course.” She flipped the visor down and started attending to her hair, running her fingers through it lightly, then swiped on some lipstick. She didn’t need much in the way of maintenance, Sam was a beautiful woman naturally who took advantage of that fact to enhance herself, rather than overload her face and hair with makeup and products. Just a touch here and there and she was incredible.
“Good. I hope they’re still up. They’re going to love you. I know this is an awkward way to do this. I appreciate you being so kind about it.”
“Xander, meeting parents, family, friends, it’s always awkward. There’s no good time. So we’ll just go with it. How much have you told them about what’s going on?”
“About you? Or about the case?”
“Both?”
He laughed. “About you, they’ve heard quite a bit. About the case, though, not a lot. My dad knows more, he went to the Crawfords’ with me today. Just FYI, I think I have a lead on the situation with the website. We’ll go talk to my friend again tomorrow, and I’ll see if he won’t give us the rest of the information we need. He’s not one for the greater good, but we can try.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“So for the time being, I figure we can say our hellos, if they’re up. My mom will want to ply you with some dandelion wine, plus a whole new wardrobe, since you didn’t have time to pack a bag, then we can go to bed and start fresh tomorrow. Between the two of us we might have had three hours of sleep in the past two days, and we both need to recharge.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I’m beat.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Dandelion wine, huh. Is it good?”
“Actually, it’s not that bad.” He turned off the highway, narrating about his little town, then they were up the side of the mountain and in the driveway. The lights were on in the house, inviting them in, and he heard Sam take a deep breath. It made him feel good, knowing that she cared about what his parents thought of her. He liked that feeling a lot.
Chapter 30
Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher
Fletcher was received—which was the only term for it, a butler was escorting him to a drawing room, for heaven’s sake—in the Leighton home with a minimum of fuss, considering. The butler’s name was Davis, and he offered Fletcher a cup of coffee, which Fletcher accepted with alacrity, just so he could see the china service. He was perverse that way. Money didn’t bother him: some people had it, some didn’t, and he knew quite well that just because you had a fat bank account, it didn’t mean things were going to be easier, or better, or happier, or nicer. Quite the contrary, actually.
The Leightons’ D.C. home was on Capitol Hill, tucked in behind Union Station, two townhouses side by side that had the walls between the two kicked down to eliminate the shotgun architectural style and allow for some wider, larger rooms. It had four stories and was tastefully decorated in neutral colors and dark walnut floors. Fresh flowers provided splashes of color, plus several paintings in modern, abstract style. Fletcher parked himself in front of one of these, a monstrosity that covered nearly a full wall of the room, and started taking apart the brushstrokes while he waited.
Gretchen Leighton arrived in the room before the coffee.
She was a beautiful Nordic blonde, cool, composed, athletic. She wore black pants and a sheer black blouse with a Chanel jacket over top, and jet-black pearls around her neck. She was wearing glasses, chunky tortoise frames that Fletcher didn’t recall ever seeing her in before. She was often photographed with her husband, and Fletcher had gone through two pages of photos on Google to familiarize himself with their relationship. By all visual accounts, they were close, happy and, on the surface, stable in their marriage.
She approached with a hand out. “Detective Fletcher? I’m Gretchen Leighton.”
She shook his hand briefly. Hers was smooth and soft and manicured. Exactly what you’d expect from the moneyed wife of a congressman.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Leighton.”
“Call me Gretchen, and thank you. It’s been a terrible couple of days. Shall we?”
She pointed toward the grouping of chairs, two soft leather Ekornes chairs and a tan suede sofa. He took one of the chairs, she chose the sofa. Davis arrived with the coffee, and they busied themselves with the service. The cups were Limoges—Fletcher knew more about china than he’d ever wanted to because of his ex-wife’s obsessions with the stuff. When they were first married, she would take him on all-day outings to flea markets and antique stores looking for pieces to fill out her grandmother’s four sets that had been broken up and sold off during the Second World War. He could tell the manufacturer of most any bone china, thanks to Felicia. It was a skill he rarely got to use, unless he was running a homicide investigation with the affluent set.
Bizarre, the things you pick up in life.
Once their coffees were doctored to their satisfaction, Gretchen sat back on the sofa, her cup expertly balanced on her knee, and said, “So, Detective. Have you determined who murdered my husband?”
“You think he was murdered?”
“You don’t?”
“The medical examiner felt he had a massive asthma attack.”
“Brought about by his exposure to some sort of neurotoxin in the Metro station. It makes sense that he’d have a problem, his lungs were so ravaged by the disease. I understand it takes several hours for the symptoms to manifest, so it fits. Whomever released the toxin into the air is responsible for my husband’s death.”
&nb
sp; “On the surface, absolutely. And if more people were dead, I wouldn’t be here in this capacity. But only three passed away, and that’s a cause for concern. We won’t know for sure if they died from the abrin until the toxicology reports are back, and that could take a while.”
Gretchen looked stricken. “You need more to make it work for you? My God, what kind of man are you?”
“A careful one, Mrs. Leighton.” Fletcher set his cup on the side table. “Of the three people who died yesterday, two have already been tied together. I need to ask, did your husband know a woman named Loa Ledbetter?”
The merest flicker of an eyelid.
“I’m not familiar with that name outside of the reports on the news about her death. It’s tragic, just like Peter, and that poor boy.”
“And Marc Conlon, as well? You’ve never heard of him?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
“This is a company town, Mrs. Leighton. A lot of the kids intern on the Hill. I didn’t know if perhaps he’d been one of your husband’s staffers.”
“Not that I’m aware of. You’ll have to talk to Glenn Temple, he’ll know for sure. But surely he would have said something yesterday when you interviewed him.”
“He didn’t, but I’m going to speak with him again, so I can double-check. May I ask you a personal question?”
“Aren’t you already?”
Fletcher inclined his head briefly. Best not roil the beast until he had to.
“More personal than we’ve been discussing, ma’am. Your husband shaved his body. That’s not something a wife can easily miss. Can you tell me why?”
The laugh was genuine, sudden, and surprised both of them.
“Oh, I imagine that must have caused a great deal of astonishment, didn’t it? Peter is a swimmer. He got in the habit in college, when he was competitive. He felt it made him faster in the water, all the boys did it. A fraction of a second could actually make a difference in those races.”
“A swimmer? Does he still compete?”
“No, no. But he swims every day. He got into it as a child to help his asthma. The doctors thought it would increase his lung capacity and allow him to control his breathing better. And it worked, the more he swam the less medication he needed. His asthma had all but cleared up by the time he was an adult. Of course, the war exacerbated the condition and he was stricken again. The shaving, he’s done that as long as I’ve known him. A bit strange, but you get used to it.”
He sat back in his seat and watched her for a moment. She met his gaze frankly. She certainly believed that was the truth. Might as well see if he could push her buttons. Just in case. Something was off here, and he didn’t know what it was. Answers for everything, easy plausible answers, always made him nervous.
“You’re awfully put together for a woman whose very public husband might have been murdered.”
Her voice hardened. “Was he?”
Fletcher watched her for a moment before he answered. “Very possibly. That’s what I’m trying to find out. So anything you can tell me will help.”
Her hand went to her throat, and she sighed. The facade dropped and she finally looked like a grieving widow.
“Detective, I suppose you’re right to say that, because you can’t know what it’s like to be married to someone like my husband. Someone who served in the military, on the front lines. Someone who has a disease that can take him at a moment’s notice, who marched through deserts dodging bullets, who works in a building that has some of the highest level security in the country. Death is on our minds all the time. Life is not something that I take for granted. I’ve always known I wouldn’t grow old with Peter. He was on borrowed time. He knew it, I knew it. The asthma had ruined his lungs, he got sick at the drop of a hat, and his illnesses were getting antibiotic resistant. He’d been battling pneumonia this winter and spring, and it was barely cleared up. He was destined to die young. We’ve both been prepared for this inevitability. It sucks, and I’m devastated, but I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop for years. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here in D.C. yesterday. I didn’t get to kiss my husband goodbye on his final day. That will haunt me forever.”
“So you had a good marriage?”
“Yes, we did,” she whispered, and he felt the full brunt of her grief.
“Your son died in Iraq, isn’t that right?”
She stilled. “Yes.”
“That changed the congressman.”
Shadows passed across her face. “Many things about our son’s death changed us, Detective, the least of which was losing him to a brutal, pointless war. Peter was never the same.”
“And you?”
“I was his mother. Part of me died with him.”
Of course it did. The answer was exactly what he’d expect.
They sipped their coffee. Fletcher needed something to take back, and he wasn’t getting anything.
“Do you have any idea where the congressman’s briefcase might be?”
She looked confused. “I assume it’s at his office.”
“No one can seem to find it. Do you mind checking if he could have left it at home?”
She stood, setting her delicate coffee cup on the glass side table. “That would be very out of character for him, but yes, we can look. I haven’t been in his office since I arrived home. Please, follow me.”
The congressman’s office was on the other side of the house, opposite the living room they’d been sitting in. Fletcher got a much better sense of the man from his private space than he had from his congressional office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, jam-packed with titles—everything from 1970s green-and-white encyclopedias to ancient texts to modern espionage thrillers. A small Zen garden with a tinkling waterfall stood sedately in a corner, and the large dark wood desk was relatively straight, topped with just a few loose odds and ends, paper, pens, glasses, like he’d been forced to rush out and leave them behind.
She hesitated in the doorway, but just for a moment. He heard her sigh deeply, then she entered the room, went straight to the desk.
“Goodness, here it is.” Gretchen reached under the desk and pulled out a leather attaché case. She immediately opened it. She pulled out an EpiPen case, and an inhaler. Without looking at Fletcher, she asked, “If he had these with him, would it have worked? Would it have arrested the attack?”
“I don’t know. He had an inhaler with him, though. Glenn Temple told me he helped him with it.”
“Well, that’s odd.”
“What?”
“This is his primary inhaler. He does have a spare, but his security detail carries it with them, along with another EpiPen. I can’t believe he left home without it. Where were his detail when he had the attack?”
“Temple said they were probably in the dining room getting coffee.”
“But Glenn had the spare inhaler? Detective Fletcher, I’m sorry, but none of this makes sense. Even if my husband did leave his briefcase at home, the minute he realized it, a staffer would be sent to gather it and bring it to him. It shouldn’t be here at all, and Glenn shouldn’t have had the spare inhaler.”
Her puzzlement was turning to alarm. Fletcher knew there could be a number of innocent explanations, but the man was dead, and coincidence was a homicide detective’s best friend.
“Let me ask, does he have a day runner in there, or did he do everything electronically?”
“Electronically, but he did keep a journal. Nothing really personal, just day-to-day stuff. For when he ran for President. He liked the idea of having his letters published, after...”
She trailed off and Fletcher knew exactly what she’d been about to say. If he’d run and been elected, after he finished his presidency, he would have a presidential library, and his letters would be kept there. Even his m
ost trivial days would be revered and dissected.
“I’d like to see that journal, if I could. And is there anything else missing from his briefcase, or the room?”
She pawed through the case. “Not that I can tell.”
He had to do it. He had no choice. But he hated it like hell. He liked Gretchen Leighton. She was smart and sharp-edged and obviously respected her husband as well as loved him.
“Are you aware of the rumors surrounding your husband?”
Her eyes grew wary.
“What rumors?”
Tread careful, Fletch. You don’t want to exacerbate this situation past what it’s already turning into.
“Sexual rumors.”
“About my husband?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She colored, flushing the bright pink of the peony in the vase on the shelf by her head, until face and flower were nearly indistinguishable. She set the briefcase down in the chair and squared herself.
“Detective, I’m going to ask for your discretion here. You’re just going to have to trust me when I say any rumors about my husband are fabrications.”
“You sound so certain.”
“I am. He’s been impotent for years.”
Fletcher stood, as well. “Impotent?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you requested his semen from the medical examiner?”
She stilled, then straightened her spine and crossed her arms. “I think we’re finished for today. Please get in touch if you have any new information to share.”
She handed him her husband’s journal and left him standing in the drawing room, wondering anew just what the whole story behind Congressman Leighton’s life truly was.
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