by Jane Gorman
Adam looked back down at her. “So if nothing else, we’ve ruled out a cop as the shooter.” He smiled and she laughed with him.
“You’re saying it was someone not used to taking a shot, Detective?”
“Could be, if he was really aiming for Senator Marshall or Ambassador Saint-Amand,” Adam agreed. “It’s harder to shoot a person than most people realize. Even if you’re a good shot, the adrenaline in the moment can pull you off target, shake you up.”
“So what’s your next move, Detective? How do you want to handle this” — she nodded back toward the group of agents on the yard, half of whom were now packing up their gear and pulling out — “since you’re not really part of the investigation?” She looked back up at Adam. “What do you want to ‘observe’ first?” Her fingers traced the line of the quotes in the air as she spoke, underscoring the sarcasm of her statement.
“I get your point. I guess I’m at your mercy.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll look around, but I appreciate your help. I’m going to end up covering the same ground as the FBI. Getting a fresh look at things. You need to let me know when they find something. You know, be the liaison you’ve been assigned to be.”
“Hey!” The call from the young man who’d met Adam at the gate interrupted their conversation. “They want to talk with you, sir. In the house.”
As they approached the front door together, the young agent spoke again. “Just Detective Kaminski.”
Ramona stopped mid-stride, her eyes widening and a flush growing on her cheeks. “I’m supposed to be his liaison.”
“Only him,” was all the agent said, then he turned back into the house, holding the door open for Adam.
Silence greeted Sam when he walked into the large office he shared with other agents at the State Department.
He had avoided the main entrances to the building, coming in through a side entrance on 21st Street that only staff could access. Making his way through the warren of security offices that branched off the nondescript entrance, he had seen the usual array of U.S. Marines and Diplomatic Security Agents. Here at the supervisors’ desk area, no one was around.
Sam’s desk sat across the room, below a high, narrow window that controlled rather than permitted the sunlight into the work space. Unlike the other desks in the room, its surface was clean. All of Sam’s ongoing projects were neatly filed away in the metal drawers that lined one wall, securely locked cabinets that also held the hard drives of each computer in the room.
Sam shrugged his worn shoulder bag off his arm onto the desk. He turned toward the cabinets to unlock his hard drive when the phone on his desk rang.
In the silence of the office, its harsh jangle was startling. Sam turned with surprise. Truth be told, he didn’t often get calls on that line. People he worked with called his cell phone, and people he didn’t work with went through his supervisor — who then called his cell phone.
For a second, he considered not answering. He had two reports waiting for him, reports for two embassies overseas waiting on his review of changes to their security plans. Then more paperwork after that: duty assignments for the local agents under his supervision, staff evaluations, a position description to revise. The paperwork that needed his attention was stacked neatly in the front end of one of the metal drawers, patiently waiting for his attention. Once completed, it would join the other files. Files that filled an entire file cabinet. Files that marked each day of the past ten years of his life.
He knew these reports were important. Lives were at stake. Security and evacuation plans needed to be top-notch. He had the knowledge and experience to provide an effective assessment, and these people relied on him. But he had gained that knowledge through his time on the streets in DC, not through time spent reviewing reports.
Even thinking about the paperwork that awaited him raised the specter of that familiar fear — fear that he was losing his edge, losing his touch. Losing his ability to be a cop. A good cop.
“Agent Burke,” he answered the phone.
The sigh of the front door closing caught Adam’s attention even more than a heavy thud would have. The oak door shut out the front yard, the agents, Ramona Davis waiting on the grass, her frown deepening as the door closed between them.
Inside, the house was cool. Quiet. Calm. Adam followed the young agent across a marble-lined entrance hall heavy with the scent of lilies, perhaps cut from the front garden. Flowers with a beautiful scent, thought Adam, but also the flowers of death. An odd choice.
The young agent opened a wooden door off the main hall and gestured for Adam to step through. He didn’t follow and Adam felt the door close behind him.
“Detective Kaminski. Welcome.” Special Agent in Charge Roger Hennessy stood and moved around the room’s expansive desk to shake Adam’s hand. “What brings you down to DC? Someone could have interviewed you in the Philly field office, gotten your take on the planned visit.”
“I’m here because of the Kapoors,” Adam answered, then not seeing immediate recognition in Hennessy’s eyes, he added, “the parents of the dead man. Jay Kapoor.”
“I see.” Hennessy’s brow wrinkled as he walked back around the large desk, its surface stacked with boxes. “The ambassador sent his aide in here not long after we arrived to pack away any information that could be inconvenient for federal agents to see.” He laughed, nodding at the boxes. “Apparently there’s a lot of it.”
Both men turned their eyes as a shadow passed on the other side of the closed door, then moved on. One side of Hennessy’s lips turned up in a wry smile. “He packed up his files, and still keeps dropping by to check on us. Asking for constant updates, as if we have nothing better to do. God, what a scene.”
Adam considered the ambassador’s position. He might have been the intended target. He also might know more about the situation than he was letting on. “He’s giving you full support in the investigation, though, right? Access to the house?”
“Support?” Hennessy grinned. “Yeah, you could say that. Access to the house, no way. This is French property, remember. And this guy seemed to have it in for the Bureau before we even got here.”
“The agents in Diplomatic Security must know him.”
Hennessy shrugged. “I guess, he seems to talk to them more than to us. But this is our investigation, Detective, not theirs. Which makes me wonder, why did the Kapoors want you here? We got enough agencies involved already, we don’t need another. That complicates it even more, slows things down.”
“They wanted someone from Philly to work with MPDC, someone who would keep the interests of their son at the front of the investigation.”
Hennessy raised an eyebrow. “MPDC isn’t conducting this investigation.” He paused again, considering, then added, “If you’re here to work with MPDC, and they’re not involved in this investigation, then I guess that means you’re not involved, either.”
“I guess you could say that. I was led to believe that Officer Davis, who’s outside right now, had been assigned to work as a liaison between the federal investigation and MPDC. In case” — he frowned, raising his hands as if in prayerful supplication — “in case you needed someone who knew DC, knew the criminal element here. In case you needed more boots on the ground in support.”
“We always keep a connection with the local PD when investigating an attempted murder.” Hennessy’s words came out slowly, as if he were calculating the effect of each one. Or controlling his temper. “We rely on their knowledge and their resources. That’s all.”
Adam kept his voice low, calm. “This wasn’t an attempted murder.”
Hennessy inhaled sharply, sat back in the leather chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Adam leaned forward, sensing the power shift in his favor, just a little. The shadow passed underneath the door again. Light footsteps moved away and up the stairs. In the back of the house, a door banged.
Hennessy’s calculations were almost visible in his narrow eyes, his small frown. F
inally he coughed. “Good. It will be helpful to have someone keeping the Kapoors happy. Keeping them out of the way, you understand.”
Adam nodded his agreement.
“And understand this, Kaminski. I’m not sharing any details that DS doesn’t already know. Some things I’m going to need to keep close hold. And I don’t want you getting in the way, got it?”
“Understood.” Adam kept his face neutral. “I’ll help when I can, and I won’t overstep my purview.”
Hennessy leaned forward in his seat and pulled a manila file folder toward him, flipping it open. “Now tell me about the planned schedule for this trip to Philly. Who made the reservations? Who was your point of contact?”
Adam gave Hennessy all the information he had. About working with Jay to schedule the trip and the various meetings. About the role of Barton McFellan, the lobbying firm in which Jason McFellan was a partner, in covering the bills. About the museums, restaurants, and tours that had been on the planned itinerary.
Hennessy listened, jotting notes occasionally. He said nothing, though an occasional grunt here and there managed to convey his opinion of the value of the trip.
“That’s everything,” Adam wrapped up his story. “I don’t see anything there to shed light on who was taking shots at them.”
Hennessy sat for a moment, looking down at his notes, considering the details Adam had offered. “Well, you never know what will prove to be useful. Is it too much to hope you’re heading back to Philly this afternoon?”
Adam shook his head. “If you need more about the Philly end, I can make some calls, reach out to friends. Maybe find out more about the people who work at these places, see if there’s anyone with a record. Or a grudge.”
“That would help.”
“I can’t look for a motive unless I know more about the intended target. Whoever that was. The senator. The ambassador.” He thought for a moment. “Can you tell me who else was here at the time?”
Hennessy sniffed. “You think there was someone else who might have been the target?”
“You never know. Look, it was Jay who got shot, after all.”
“True. But we have to work with the odds. Chances are, the ambassador was the target. It’s his house. After that, the senator’s the most likely intended victim. We can’t waste our resources chasing after unlikely leads.”
“I understand that.”
Hennessy eyes narrowed, but he answered the question. “We had the senator, her husband, and Jay Kapoor, the ambassador and his aide.” Hennessy counted people off on his fingers as he spoke. “Jason McFellan, of Barton McFellan. The drivers — two cars. The servants who were in the house at the time.” He stopped, as if he had run out of fingers. “That’s everyone.”
“They weren’t all out on the drive when the shooting happened, were they?”
Hennessy didn’t look down at the notes in front of him. “No. Outside we had only the senator, ambassador, two aides, and two drivers.”
“So where were the others?”
“Servants were inside, we have statements from all of them. McFellan and Mr. Marshall were still in the morning room, about to walk out and join the others when the shooting happened.” He looked down at his notes. “Looks like McFellan was the last out of the room. Standing alone when he heard the shot.” He looked at Adam. “Or so he says.”
“He clearly knew their schedule. He saw them walk out of the room. Any chance he could have run out and shot at them?”
Hennessy smiled. “If only it could be that easy, Kaminski. Not a chance. Look around you, this is a big place. To get around the side of the house, he’d’ve had to run down the back hall, out the side door, all the way around from the back yard — that would take over five minutes, just to get in place. Everyone agrees it was a matter of one, maybe two minutes tops from the time the senator and ambassador left the room to the time the shot was fired.”
Adam nodded, thinking. “So someone was waiting for them outside. Or inside.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you considering that the shot might have come from inside the house?”
“We don’t yet know where the shot was fired from. We’re searching the grounds…” Hennessy paused, pursing his lips and frowning. “If we’re looking for a place someone like McFellan could get to in a hurry, he’s got a better chance of getting to another room in the house than getting outside.”
“Would that work? Could someone fire a shot from inside the house?”
“In an old house like this, sure.” Hennessy seemed to be warming to the idea. “The windows all open, but don’t have fixed screens like more modern houses…” His words trailed off again, but he kept nodding, as if to himself.
Adam knew better than to interrupt. He waited until Hennessy had made the mental connections he needed to make. Finally, Hennessy looked up, a slight smile on his lips. “That would narrow down the list of suspects, wouldn’t it?”
9
Sam followed a young man in a dark blue suit through the rotating doors shutting out the bulk of the rush hour noise on the street outside. Some of the after-work crowd was gathering inside the coffee shop, too, and Sam needed a minute to scan the room to find the man he was meeting.
They were in a chain coffee shop in Foggy Bottom, the type of shop where, once inside, you could just as easily be in Washington state as Washington, DC. The store had the standard decor, standard service lines, even the same music. It was anonymous.
Sam wondered if that was why John Marshall had chosen it.
When he’d answered the call from the senator’s husband, Sam’s first reaction was to direct Mr. Marshall to the FBI. That’s who he should have called in the first place, if he was really looking for an update on the investigation as he claimed.
A movement in the back of the room caught his eye, and he turned to see John Marshall taking a seat at a table near the large windows that fronted onto H Street. Even as he moved back through the room, his pulse quickened, and he remembered what he had missed about investigations.
He knew he should have insisted that Marshall call the FBI. The man’s interest in meeting with Sam was questionable. But he was perfectly capable of interviewing a witness. Or a suspect. He had been a good cop once. He still was.
Marshall stood as Sam approached, smiling, patting him on the shoulder as Sam took the seat opposite. He would share any and all information he got from Marshall, Sam told himself. If he learned anything new, the FBI would be the first to know.
Sam smiled back at John Marshall.
“Did you want to grab a coffee?” Marshall asked, raising his own paper mug.
“I’m good,” Sam answered, still smiling. “What can I do for you, Mr. Marshall?”
Marshall shrugged, looking down into his coffee. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have called you.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Marshall, but like I said on the phone, you really should have called the FBI if you’re looking for updates.”
“I know, I know.” Marshall glanced around the coffee shop, his eye lingering briefly on a long-haired young man slouching over a laptop at a nearby table, then moved on. “I just… they don’t want to talk, you know?”
Sam laughed. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Marshall.” He watched as Marshall’s eyes flitted to the door of the coffee shop, following a passerby on the street outside. “I’m not going to share any details with you, either.”
Marshall looked back at Sam, smiling. “I know, trust me. I’m not looking for any inside information here.”
Marshall’s smile was easy, engaging, and Sam found himself smiling in return.
“I wanted to talk with someone else who had been there. Who saw it.” Marshall shrugged again, looking sheepish. “It’s not an experience you can talk about with other people, you know? Someone who’s never seen that kind of violence can’t really understand. Lisa’s handling it better than I am. She gets the support she needs from her constituents’
condolences, from the support of her colleagues. Me? I don’t know.”
Sam knew all too well what Marshall meant, and he felt bad for the guy. Watching a young man get shot. Die. Marshall needed to talk about the experience.
“The investigation is still young, Mr. Marshall,” Sam said. “We’re still pulling together information from the scene. Don’t worry. The FBI is on this. And they’re putting extra manpower into keeping you and your wife safe. I really don’t believe you’re in any danger right now.”
“Thank you.” Marshall nodded. “That poor boy… he was so young.” Marshall’s eyes did another sweep of the coffee shop before landing on Sam. “He was a good kid, you know? Lisa was always happy with his work.”
“That’s good to know, Mr. Marshall,” Sam said. “Is there anything else about Jay that you can think of, that you can share?”
Marshall cupped his hands around his coffee cup, which had to be cooling off by now. He frowned. “Not really. I wish I did. He was good at his job. That’s what Lisa said. Good at his job.” Marshall looked back up at Sam. “Not much of an epitaph, is it?”
Sam frowned. Marshall was right. They really didn’t know enough about Jay, and needed to learn more. Good thing Kaminski was in town to help, since the FBI wasn’t looking in that direction.
So what was Marshall’s angle? He looked comfortable, relaxed. Sad, of course, but only as much as could be expected in the situation. His eyes never stood still for long. Constantly seeking out the corners of the cafe, glancing at other patrons, catching glimpses of pedestrians passing by.
“Tell me about yourself, Mr. Marshall. What does the husband of a senator do in his spare time?”
Marshall smiled, a wide, open smile that carried up to his bright blue eyes, and opened his hands over the table. “What doesn’t the husband of a senator do? Fundraising. Building relationships. Engaging constituents. Fundraising.” Marshall raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t always the husband of a senator, you know.”