Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

Kenneth MacIntyre looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “We know that this company is not the only thing you own, Mr. MacIntyre,” said Dinah.

  MacIntyre smiled and stepped up the speed at which he flicked the pen between his hands. “I own in excess of 15 properties and businesses in the DC area alone,” he said, with what Dinah could have sworn was a smirk. “So was there a particular one you wanted to discuss?”

  Dinah loathed being patronized. “Your chalk factories,” she said shortly. “We want to talk about those.”

  “Okay,” agreed MacIntyre, unperturbed. He leaned back in his chair, trying to affect a relaxed air. “What about them?”

  Dinah studied him closely as she said, “Have you been out there recently?”

  MacIntyre thought for a moment. “No. I have managers who run them. I really only go out there if there is a problem.”

  “Then nobody has informed you about the most recent problem?”

  “No, what problem?” MacIntyre truly looked mystified.

  “When was the last time you saw Thomas Whitfield?” Ferguson took over.

  The sudden change in topic caused MacIntyre to pause for a few moments while he changed gears.

  “I haven’t seen him since the last board meeting, which was in September,” he said. Perhaps the reality of having two FBI agents in his office, both of whom were starting to be distinctly unfriendly, was starting to dawn on him. He backed his chair away from them, put his pen down, and interlaced his fingers so tightly his knuckles became white.

  “What happened at the board meeting?” Ferguson pressed. “Any arguments?”

  “No, our board meetings are always very civilized,” replied MacIntyre.

  “What do you usually talk about?”

  “Usually just the program of the museum over the coming season,” said MacIntyre. “You know, what displays we’re going to have and so forth. We talk about the budget. We talk about any issues that may have cropped up. It’s just your run-of-the-mill board meeting.”

  “So you are telling me that there were no arguments or disagreements of any kind either at the board meeting or since?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you know why we found human blood at your chalk factory?” Dinah interjected.

  This clearly rattled MacIntyre. “You found what?”

  “Human blood and a human tooth, at your factory,” said Dinah. “While you’re thinking about it, perhaps you could also tell us why we found chalk dust from your factory on the body of Thomas Whitfield?”

  MacIntyre rolled his chair even farther back, looking aghast. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Here’s what I’m talking about,” said Dinah, leaning closer to MacIntyre. “I’m talking about the fact that Thomas Whitfield was murdered at your factory. I know that because your chalk dust was found on Whitfield’s body and his blood was found at your factory.”

  “And I’m talking about the fact that despite you claiming not to have argued with Thomas Whitfield before he disappeared, I know that you did,” added Ferguson. “I know that the board as a whole was very unhappy with Thomas Whitfield. So my question to you is this: what did he do to wind up beaten and murdered in your warehouse, Mr. MacIntyre?”

  MacIntyre stared at the two agents in horror. Then he swallowed, and both agents heard his dry throat click. “I think I would like to speak to my lawyer,” he said finally.

  Ferguson shook his head. “You should know this, Mr. MacIntyre. I don’t care who you are or how many properties you own or even if you lunch with the president every week. I know that Thomas Whitfield died on your property and that you had something to do with it. You can talk to your lawyer any time you want, but you’re gonna go down, and we both know it.”

  There was heavy silence in the room as MacIntyre processed that. He seemed, to Dinah’s watchful eye, to be having a monumental struggle within himself to keep his emotions under control. It was at this precise time that Cheryl chose to enter with a tray of coffee and pastry. “Coffee!” she announced brightly.

  MacIntyre stood, not taking his eyes away from Dinah and Ferguson. “My attorney will be contacting you,” he said tightly. “In the future, you will direct any questions through him. You will not speak to me in person again. Please get off my property immediately.”

  Cheryl’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Ferguson sighed and shook his head as he rose from the chair. Dinah kept her eyes on MacIntyre as they backed out of the room. MacIntyre’s face was alive with muscle tics, but his body was as still as a stone.

  “You know what bothers me the most?” Ferguson commented as they took the elevator down. “Their stories are all exactly the same, like a bunch of well-trained robots. It’s like A Brave New World or something.”

  “It may be new,” muttered Dinah. “But it’s certainly not brave.”

  • • • •

  Ferguson clambered behind the wheel of the car, sucking in his ample girth to fit into the seat. “Back to the office?” he asked. “We need to check that the Colemans have arrived.”

  “Okay,” agreed Dinah. She tapped her fingers on her pants leg and then added, “I’ve been thinking about Lara all day. While you drive, I’m going to check up on her.”

  While Ferguson pulled out into traffic, she scrolled through her call register and dialed the cell phone number that Lara had called her from in the middle of the night. It rang a few times, and then a male voice answered, “Who is this?”

  Dinah frowned. “Who is this?” she demanded.

  “This is the police. Please tell me your name and relationship to Lara Southall immediately,” the authoritative voice said.

  Dinah gasped. “Lara! Is she okay? What happened?” She looked wildly at Ferguson and then remembered. “Sorry. This is Special Agent Dinah Harris of the FBI. Lara Southall is one of our witnesses. What on earth has happened? Where is she?”

  “I can’t speak to you over the phone, ma’am. I suggest you come to her condo as soon as you can.” He hung up.

  “Oh no!” groaned Dinah. “Lara went back to her condo. There are police there.”

  Ferguson understood and changed the direction of the car. “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Dinah felt sick. She drummed her fingers on her leg and wondered why Ferguson was driving so slowly.

  Once again, the condo at Forrest Hills was surrounded by DC police and yellow tape. Red and blue lights flickered across the stucco walls.

  Dinah found the captain in charge standing on the front lawn of the building, talking to a bunch of frightened occupants. She flashed her badge at him and he moved away with her. His badge said his name was Rocky Dubois.

  “What’s going on?” Dinah asked, frantic at the activity.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Harris. She didn’t make it,” Dubois told her.

  “She didn’t make it?” Dinah was overwhelmed. “What happened to her?”

  “The building super got a complaint that there was water dripping from Lara’s apartment through the ceiling to the one directly underneath. He knocked and didn’t get an answer, but he could hear water running inside. He used his master key to get in and found her in the bathtub.” Rocky Dubois pointed over to the super, a man Dinah had already met.

  “And?”

  “She’d been dead for some time. Her throat had been cut and she was lying in a bathtub full of water, both faucets still running.”

  Dinah was horrified. “What have you discovered so far?” she asked.

  “The front door has obviously been manipulated,” Dubois said. “Both locks bear some significant damage. There was no sign of robbery or assault. We have crime scene people in there at the moment trying to lift some evidence.”

  “There won’t be any,” muttered Dinah.

  Dubois eyed her curiously. “I assume this is somehow tied into the Thomas Whitfield murder.”

  Dinah sighed. “She was a witness. In fact, she was beaten badly recen
tly due to the fact that she spoke to us. Can we go in to see her?”

  Dubois shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  Dinah and Ferguson took the elevator up to Lara’s apartment in silence. Dinah could feel the elation she’d experienced over the past few days with the breaks in the case start to crumble away.

  The apartment looked much the same as the last time the agents had been there. Dinah studied the locks on the front door for a few moments. Last time, they’d been picked very carefully with a minimum of noise, to ensure that the occupants of both the building and the apartment wouldn’t hear anything. This time, Dinah felt that the locks had been almost wrenched free from the door with great emotion. Perhaps Lara’s killer had been enraged with her decision to talk to the FBI, particularly after being explicitly warned.

  The bathroom contained several crime scene technicians, going through the room carefully and slowly, looking for evidence that might lead to the identity of Lara’s killer.

  The body of the young woman was obscured by the shroud the crime scene workers used to give the victim some dignity. Dinah could see the water in the bathtub, however, and could see that it was heavily stained with blood. The floor was soaked and squished underfoot as the technicians moved slowly around the room.

  Dinah was saddened by the latest development. Lara had been murdered because she chose to tell the truth. Ferguson, too, was very quiet.

  “We’re going to the Smithsonian,” said Dinah, her voice tight with anger. “I’m fed up with the lies. Those lies” — she pointed to the shrouded body of Lara Southall — “have led to the death of this young woman and that is completely unacceptable to me.”

  Ferguson didn’t need to be told twice.

  • • • •

  The rage was all-consuming. Dinah’s entire body was moved by it, as if she were an amplifier at a rock concert. Ferguson glanced at her as they climbed back into the car.

  “Do you want to take a moment before we go back to the museum?” he asked.

  “No,” said Dinah, keeping her voice calm with a great deal of effort. “I’m fine.”

  Ferguson complied and turned the car toward the Smithsonian Institution. The sun was low in the sky, sinking fast as if it were ashamed to show its face over such a world where young women met their death alone at the hands of another.

  The institution was rapidly emptying of people as the agents arrived. Dinah wasn’t in the mood for niceties and strode straight past Catherine Biscelli’s secretary and threw open the door.

  Catherine Biscelli looked up, startled. When she saw Dinah standing in the doorway, her face turned cold. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked. She didn’t look at her visitors but continued to type on her computer.

  Dinah felt freshly enraged with the other woman’s indifference. She yanked out the power cord from the back of the screen and the screen fell dark.

  “Excuse me,” snapped Catherine, getting to her feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Dinah glared at her. “I’m investigating a murder,” she said. “Except now it’s not just Thomas Whitfield. Another of your colleagues has been found dead.”

  Catherine froze. “Who?” she whispered.

  “This may come as a surprise to you, but I think you know exactly who it is.” Dinah watched Catherine Biscelli’s face carefully. “And I wonder if you have another person’s blood on your hands.”

  Catherine sank into the desk chair. “I can assure you,” she said quietly, “that I did not have anything to do with the murder of this person, whose identity I don’t even know.”

  Dinah shook her head and leaned over the desk. “The problem is that I know you are lying. You’ve been lying to me all along and frankly, I’m sick of it.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I haven’t, I swear! I….”

  “Then you’d better explain to me why an independent witness has confessed that there was a great deal of friction between the board and Thomas Whitfield, and yet you insisted to me on several occasions that there was no such tension.” Dinah spoke in an even tone. “And you’d better think about your answer. Because if you lie to me again, I will arrest you for obstruction.”

  Catherine gaped at her, lost for words.

  “Do you attend the meetings between Thomas Whitfield and the board?” asked Dinah.

  “Yes, of course I do,” agreed Catherine.

  “What is normally discussed at such meetings?”

  “Well …just general business,” Catherine said. “Any day-to-day operations issues, presentations, and displays planned for the museums, Mr. Whitfield’s schedule.”

  “And why would any of that create friction that we’ve been told about?” Dinah demanded. “There must have been at least one contentious issue.”

  Catherine sighed. “There wasn’t any friction at the meetings,” she repeated.

  “Fine,” snapped Dinah. “You’ve left me with no choice. I am now going to read you your rights. You have the right to….”

  As she spoke, she pulled the plastic cuffs from her belt, approached the diminutive woman, and pulled both hands behind Catherine’s back.

  “Wait,” interrupted Catherine. Dinah let go of her hands and waited, still standing in close proximity. Catherine paused, appearing to compose herself.

  Under Dinah’s gaze, she added, “Look, the only thing I do know about is some e-mails.”

  Dinah nodded, encouragingly.

  “I know that Mr. Whitfield received some e-mails that upset him a great deal,” Catherine explained.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I came into his office to prepare for an upcoming press conference,” Catherine explained. She stared down at her desk. “When he looked up at me from his computer, he had tears in his eyes. Of course I asked him what was wrong.”

  She paused, and Dinah resisted the urge the shake the next tidbit of information from her.

  “He asked me whether I’d ever gotten an e-mail that had questioned my integrity,” Catherine continued at length. “I told him that I hadn’t, but that if he was receiving slanderous e-mails from members of the public he should inform me and that I could release something to the press denying it. I remember he just looked at me for a long time and then finally said that the e-mails weren’t from members of the public, but from within the Smithsonian.”

  “Did he say from whom?” asked Dinah, thinking about the computer hard drive that was with the Homeland Security lab in an attempt to have its contents restored.

  “No, he didn’t. I suppose I was trying to drag the information out of him without asking him outright. I did suggest that we could look at taking disciplinary action against a staff member if that was who was hassling him. He just laughed and said that wouldn’t work.”

  “Did he say why it wouldn’t work?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think that meant?” Dinah pressed.

  “At the time, I thought he meant that whomever had sent the e-mail was too powerful for disciplinary action.” Catherine stared at her hands.

  “Why did you not tell me this when we first spoke to you?” Dinah asked. “You don’t know how important this might be.”

  Catherine flushed. “I didn’t think it was relevant. It was just an e-mail.”

  “I’ll decide what’s relevant and what’s not,” said Dinah frostily. “That’s my job, and that’s why I ask the questions.” She paused, deep in thought for a few moments.

  “So you never discovered the identity of the writer of that e-mail?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “And you have no idea of the specific content of the e-mail?”

  “Other than what Mr. Whitfield told me, no.”

  “So as far as you know, someone questioned Thomas Whitfield’s integrity, which upset him. The only other thing you know is that Thomas Whitfield believed the writer of the e-mail to be above any disciplinary action of any kind.”

  “Right.”

  “Did you ever susp
ect anybody of having written the e-mail? A board member, for example?” questioned Dinah.

  “No. It’s not really my place. If Mr. Whitfield had needed my help, he would’ve asked for it.”

  Unless he believed you had something to do with the e-mail, Dinah thought as she stared at the other woman.

  Although Catherine had finally started to talk, Dinah couldn’t shake the feeling that the head of public affairs was still holding back important information. There was something about her story that didn’t ring true. Why would she bother to hide an e-mail — rather bland in the context — if she truly wanted to help Thomas Whitfield? It just didn’t make sense.

  “Can you tell me who has been murdered?” Catherine asked. She looked a little pale.

  “Lara Southall.” Dinah continued to watch the other woman carefully.

  Catherine seemed to turn even whiter and turned away. “That’s awful,” she murmured.

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Dinah. “And what would be worse is more people dying before I get the truth out of you.”

  “Well, I told you all I know,” said Catherine somewhat testily.

  “I certainly hope so, for your sake,” said Dinah. “The other thing I need from you is Maxwell Pryor’s contact details.”

  Catherine opened her mouth to object but Dinah shook her head. “Don’t,” she warned. “Just give them to me.”

  Catherine Biscelli’s entire face darkened but she complied.

  “Thank you,” said Dinah, keeping the sarcasm out of her voice with superhuman effort. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch again.”

  Dinah and Ferguson let themselves out.

  Ferguson shook his head as they walked back to the car. “That woman can’t help but lie,” he commented. “I’m willing to bet my next meal that she gave a snippet of truth to satisfy you, but that the real truth is still out there.”

  “You’re willing to bet your next meal?” Dinah said in mock wonder. “That’s a pretty big bet, Ferguson. Can you afford to lose?”

  Chapter 12

  The two agents were exhausted and agreed to call it a night. When Dinah arrived home, her apartment was dark and cold and supremely uninviting. Without turning any lights on, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat in the living room. She was bone weary and yet a restless energy coursed through her veins. She felt like she was in some doctor’s office waiting in anticipation of a painful procedure. She couldn’t sit still; she wanted to leave but knew she couldn’t; she couldn’t concentrate on anything except what was coming. Yet she couldn’t identify exactly what it was she was waiting for. Was it the end, perhaps?