Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

  “Mr. Whitfield was due to give a presentation at eleven o’clock,” Lara continued. “So I didn’t really start worrying until about ten-thirty. He hates to be late, and he had to come back to get his presentation and make it uptown in less than half an hour. At eleven, I started to make some calls.”

  “Has he ever been absent from the office before?” Ferguson asked.

  “Sure, he often has meetings or goes out into the museum to talk to visitors. The thing is, I always know what he’s doing. That’s part of my job. He never goes anywhere during the day without letting me know.”

  “So you started making calls at eleven. Who did you call?” Dinah asked impatiently.

  Lara ticked off her fingers as she remembered. “I called his cell phone, and I called the other museums. I thought maybe he’d just forgotten to tell me he had a meeting. Nobody had seen him and his cell just rang out. So I called his home. His wife told me he’d left for work at about five-thirty and she hadn’t seen him since. Then I called some of the senior executives. I thought they might’ve had an emergency. But nobody had seen him.”

  “Did the people you called — his wife, the executives — seem concerned about his whereabouts?” Ferguson asked.

  “Yes, they did. It’s so unusual for Mr. Whitfield to act this way that everyone I spoke to was concerned. I think his wife is actually here somewhere at the moment.”

  “So then you called the police?” Dinah said.

  “No, one of the directors came over to look at the security tapes. She specifically told me not to call anyone until she’d viewed the footage. I thought that Mr. Whitfield might’ve had an accident on the way to work. Mrs. Whitfield was calling the hospitals when Ms. Biscelli — the director — came back from security.”

  “What did the tapes show?” Dinah asked.

  “They showed him arriving at six-thirty or so. That’s all I know.”

  “Did any of the tapes show him leaving?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Right. So what then?”

  “I called the police.”

  Ferguson nodded. “What did they tell you?”

  “Basically they won’t do anything until he’s been missing 24 hours.” Lara stopped clicking her nails together and started twisting her hair with one finger. “So I told Ms. Biscelli, and she wasn’t happy with that. I think she must’ve pulled some strings, because here you are.”

  Dinah and Ferguson both raised their eyebrows at her in confusion.

  “The FBI,” explained Lara. “You guys wouldn’t normally get involved, would you?” She may have been a very pretty secretary, but Lara Southall was an intelligent girl. She’d asked the very question Dinah had been mulling over all morning.

  “We’re going to look in his office,” Ferguson said, ignoring the question. He handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”

  She nodded and picked up the ringing phone. “No,” she said, sounding very weary. “Mr. Whitfield is in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”

  • • • •

  Ferguson opened the door to the office while Dinah waited to get the log-on details for Thomas Whitfield’s computer. Dinah stood in the doorway, looking into the impressive room, and felt the thrill of the chase wash over her like a wave. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.

  The office was furnished with heavy cedar furniture that consisted of a large desk, a leather-bound chair, a couch, and two armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table and one entire wall of built-in bookcases. The floor was covered with thick burgundy carpet, and the drapes at the picture window were also burgundy. The walls contained portraits of several great scientists and inventors — Dinah recognized Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, and the Wright Brothers — as well as photos of the secretary with the president, the queen of England, and other dignitaries. The room itself was clean and uncluttered, likely symbolic of the man himself, Dinah thought.

  Ferguson was moving around the room, muttering to himself, as was his habit. Dinah had forgotten how intensely annoying she found this habit. She preferred silence so that she could concentrate.

  Having received the log-on details from Lara, Dinah strode to the desk and pulled on her latex gloves. The top of the desk was shiny and would be a great medium to obtain fingerprints. She was careful not to allow herself to touch the desktop while she turned on the laptop.

  “By the way, Harris,” Ferguson said from the wall of bookcases, “I forgot to mention that if something has happened to Mr. Whitfield, the media scrutiny is likely to be intense.”

  Dinah scowled at the screen of the laptop. She hated the media, and it was a long-term grudge she held from the last case she’d been involved in. “You can handle it,” she said. “I want nothing to do with those vultures.”

  Ferguson glanced over at her. “Of course I’ll handle it. But I can’t guarantee that they’ll leave you alone.”

  Dinah tapped her foot against the leg of the desk impatiently as the laptop struggled to come to life. “Sticks and stones, Ferguson,” she said tightly. “Words can never hurt me.”

  She could see that Ferguson didn’t buy the lie, but he’d decided to let it go. He at least knew not to push too far.

  “This whole office is giving me a weird vibe,” he said after a moment. “It’s too …organized.”

  Dinah logged onto the laptop. “I’m listening.”

  “Look at the desk,” Ferguson mused. “No files or paperwork. Not even a pen or a Post-It note. No diary.”

  “Maybe he’s just really neat,” Dinah said, opening Outlook on the laptop.

  Ferguson went back to his muttering as he continued drifting around the room. Dinah frowned as she clicked through the folders in Outlook. Then she opened the other programs on the computer and looked through the folders there.

  “That’s odd,” she commented at last. Ferguson looked up and came over to her.

  She clicked through the inbox, sent items, and calendar of the e-mail program. There were no entries in any of them. “They’re completely clean,” she said. “The calendar is the strangest. You’d think the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution would have at least a couple of meetings a week.”

  “Maybe he uses a paper diary,” suggested Ferguson.

  “Certainly a possibility,” agreed Dinah. “But couple the empty calendar with the fact that he’s neither received nor sent an e-mail from this computer and something isn’t right.”

  Ferguson opened the desk drawers and started looking through them.

  “Also,” added Dinah, “there is not one single saved document in any other program — no letters, articles, presentations, anything. The entire computer is as if it’s never been used.”

  Ferguson sat back on his heels. “You think someone has wiped his computer?”

  “Well, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: did Thomas Whitfield wipe his own computer before disappearing or did someone else wipe his computer before abducting him?” Dinah began to shut down the programs. “After all, there is no evidence to suggest that he has been abducted. There’s no sign of a struggle in here or blood stains, is there?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “No, there isn’t. But there is something off about this office. Nobody, least of all a man in his position, can get through a working day without sending an e-mail or doing paperwork of some kind.” He gestured at the desk drawers. “There’s absolutely nothing in them.”

  “I agree,” Dinah said. She closed the laptop and picked it up. “I’m going to have the lab look at the hard drive. What else?”

  “I’ll call in crime scene to lift some fingerprints and check for blood.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Biscelli, and I’d like to talk to his wife.”

  Dinah nodded. “If Mr. Whitfield has been abducted, what do you suppose is the motive?”

  Ferguson considered. “I don’t know. Money? Fame? Half the time I think these
loonies go around killing people just so they can get their name in the news.”

  Dinah stared at him. “Do you think Thomas Whitfield is dead?”

  He shrugged. “Right now, Harris, I know nine-tenths of absolutely nothing. Let’s talk to Ms. Biscelli. Maybe she’ll know what happened and we can solve this case before dinner time and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”

  Flippancy, Dinah remembered, was just Ferguson’s way of dealing with the intensity of this job and the horror they’d witnessed over the years.

  Chapter 2

  Lara Southall called Ms. Biscelli on her phone and showed the two FBI agents to a small boardroom. She also gave them a copy of the last 12 months of Thomas Whitfield’s schedule and appointments, as Dinah had asked her.

  “Just for the record,” Ferguson said, before Lara left them. “What is Ms. Biscelli’s position, exactly?”

  “She’s the Director of Communications and Public Affairs,” Lara said, and shut the door.

  “I guess that’s why she’s so worried about Thomas Whitfield,” murmured Dinah. “It can’t be very good for the institution’s public image for the secretary to vanish into thin air.”

  “I just don’t know how you got to be so cynical, Harris,” sighed Ferguson. “What with all the loving, caring, generous human beings we deal with on a daily basis.” Dinah managed to smile. Even Ferguson knew that was a small victory.

  The door burst open and a very small woman walked briskly into the room. She was five-feet all told, with short, curly dark hair and a rather masculine jaw.

  “I am Catherine Biscelli,” she announced, extending her right hand to the two agents to shake. Ferguson introduced himself and Dinah and they sat down again.

  “We’ll have coffee,” decided Catherine Biscelli, and she buzzed Lara. The two agents glanced at each other. This was clearly a woman used to giving commands and having them obeyed. She wouldn’t have been out of place in a marine corps, Dinah thought. Sir, yes sir!

  “I’m in charge of public affairs,” explained Ms. Biscelli. “You can understand that I’m concerned for Thomas.”

  Dinah noted the familiarity with which the small woman referred to Thomas Whitfield. “Are you concerned for him personally, Ms. Biscelli, or concerned for the institution?”

  Catherine Biscelli narrowed her eyes. “Both, of course. I must say that it would be most out of character for Thomas to simply disappear. I’m dreadfully worried that something has happened to him.”

  “You worked closely with Mr. Whitfield?” Ferguson asked.

  “Yes. I managed all of his public appearances and speeches, as well as managing the institution’s press releases and exhibition launches.” She paused, thinking. “He was a very polished, precise person. Do you know what I mean? He was always early, never missed an appointment or meeting, re-wrote every speech until it was perfect. He was very structured, he would never just disappear.”

  The coffee came in and Ms. Biscelli busied herself with cream and sugar.

  “So you believe that he’s been abducted?” asked Dinah.

  Ms. Biscelli flinched. “I haven’t had time to think about it, but I suppose I do. I certainly don’t believe he’s disappeared of his own volition.”

  “Let’s keep both options open for a moment,” suggested Ferguson. “Have you noticed any differences in Thomas’s behavior recently?”

  Catherine Biscelli looked blank.

  Ferguson continued, “Has he been edgy, upset, anxious, losing sleep or weight, sad?”

  Sounds like he’s describing me, Dinah thought with a start.

  Ms. Biscelli pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I don’t remember anything specific. He was always very professional in his interactions with staff and visitors. I think that if there was something bothering him, he would never let it affect his work.”

  She has a serious case of hero worship, Dinah scribbled on her notebook and edged it to within Ferguson’s line of vision.

  “Did you notice any tension or arguments between Thomas and other staff or visitors?” Ferguson asked, and then wrote in reply to Dinah, Does that mean she’s covering something up?

  “Oh no,” breathed Ms. Biscelli, as if the idea repulsed her. “Everyone here respects and idolizes Thomas. Nobody would want to start an argument with him. There is nothing to argue about.”

  “Were you aware of any trouble in Thomas’s personal life?”

  “No, I really wasn’t. I’ve only met his wife briefly at social events, and she seems very nice, although obviously upset right at the moment.”

  “So as far as you know, Thomas Whitfield was an organized, dependable saint with whom nobody dared argue?” Dinah asked, her voice as caustic as vinegar.

  Ferguson flashed a warning look at her.

  Predictably, Ms. Biscelli’s hackles rose. “Special Agent, I am trying to help by answering your questions as best I can. I worked with Thomas and I sent him a Christmas card every year and that was the extent of our relationship. If he was having problems, he certainly did not confide in me.” She glared at Dinah, who simply stared back without blinking. They reminded Ferguson of two feral cats, poised in the moment of stillness before attack.

  “Have you notified the board of regents?” asked Ferguson, trying to negotiate a ceasefire. “And will you notify the media?”

  “I’m about to do that,” Catherine Biscelli said. “I won’t issue anything to the media until the board advises me to do so.” Her demeanor was noticeably frosty.

  “Do you know what Thomas’s presentation to the Congress this morning was going to be about?”

  She shook her head, dark curls bouncing. “No, I don’t.”

  “Wouldn’t you, as Director of Public Affairs, at least see an outline of what Thomas was going to say? I would think that even the secretary would be required to have his speeches vetted.”

  Catherine Biscelli flushed and Ferguson knew he’d hit a sore point. “That is generally the case,” she admitted. “But I trusted Thomas’s judgment implicitly. He chose not to tell me what was in today’s presentation and I respected that.”

  “But that’s not normally the procedure.”

  “No. Anything released into the public domain must be signed off by me.” Catherine Biscelli would have been a hard taskmaster, Dinah thought.

  “And generally speaking, why is that?” Ferguson pressed.

  She looked a little non-plussed. “Well, to ensure that the information aligns with our mission statement and our culture; to make sure there is nothing offensive in it; to make sure there are no personal agendas. Generally speaking.”

  “But you are absolutely certain that Thomas’s presentation to Congress this morning would not have contained any of those things?”

  “Yes. I am. He is the secretary of the Smithsonian. If he can’t be trusted, nobody can.” Catherine Biscelli turned her hard obsidian gaze on Ferguson. He decided he’d harassed her enough.

  “Thank you, Ms. Biscelli. Here is my card. If you think of anything, please call me.” Ferguson stood and saw the small woman out.

  “She’s lying,” said Dinah. She was scribbling furiously in her notebook.

  “I agree,” said Ferguson. “But I don’t want her to know that we know that. Do you think she has any idea?”

  Dinah shrugged. She didn’t care, but then, she didn’t care about much these days.

  • • • •

  Eloise Whitfield was waiting for news of her husband in the institution’s cafeteria.

  The two agents hurried over to the staff cafeteria where Mrs. Whitfield, a blond, fine-boned woman who looked like a scared bird, hunched over a half-eaten sandwich.

  “Thanks for meeting us,” Ferguson said as they sat down. “I’m sorry for the situation we’re in.”

  She nodded, a short, sharp gesture. “He’s in trouble,” she said. “Thomas is in trouble. I can feel it.”

  “You think he hasn’t done this of his own accord?” Ferguson asked.

  “No, absol
utely not. That just isn’t Thomas’s style. He’s been taken.” Her words were jittery and spilled over each other, like someone who had consumed too much coffee in a short space of time. Her thin fingers clenched an empty coffee cup so hard her knuckles were white.

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just know he’s in trouble.”

  “Do you know who would want to take him? And why?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I can’t think of who they might be . . . all I know is that he had upset some people in recent times. He was so mild-mannered usually; I can’t remember him ever getting into a fight. Just recently, though, I overhead him arguing on the phone.”

  “And you don’t know who he was arguing with?”

  “I have no idea. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said he was having a difference of opinion with someone at work.” Her hand moved to smooth her hair, then scratch her arm, and then tap the table. “I came here to ask who that someone was. Nobody would tell me.”

  “So you were told that Thomas gets along with everybody and there had been no tension or conflict recently?” Dinah caught Ferguson’s gaze and rolled her eyes.

  “Yes. All I know is that he was arguing with somebody and now maybe that somebody has gotten mad and tried to hurt Thomas.” She looked up at them. The fear she was feeling roiled across her features like waves across the face of the ocean. “Please. You must find him.”

  “We’re trying, ma’am,” said Ferguson, gently. “Did he happen to tell you what his presentation to Congress was going to be this morning?”

  “No, we’ve always kept work and home life separate. I probably wouldn’t understand it even if he did tell me.”

  She glanced around, seemingly checking to see if there was anyone within hearing distance. “Listen,” she said, leaning forward. “I picked the phone up one night, during one of Thomas’s arguments. I wanted to see what they were about. I shouldn’t have done it, but I was curious.” She glanced around nervously again. “I heard Thomas being threatened.”

  Ferguson glanced at Dinah. “What exactly did you hear?”

  She shivered involuntarily. “The voice told him to stop what he was doing, or they’d come for him.”