"A year apart actually, but everyone thinks they're identical twins." She took the photo from him and gently set it back on the shelf. "I haven't called them yet. It's better to wait until I know for sure what's happened to their father. They don't need any distractions over there."
Another shelf was filled with dozens of books, mainly fiction. Authors included Bowen, Crichton, Gross, King, Koontz, Mofina and Patterson, all arranged in alphabetical order by title. Below them was an assortment of legal tomes, shelved alphabetically as well.
Ben's brow furrowed. Someone suffers from OCD.
"Your husband has an interesting collection," he said.
Lorraine Sampson snorted. "He treated these bookcases as if they were made of gold. Always filing the books and binders just so. God forbid if he found one out of place."
"So everything here looks as it should?"
Scanning the shelves, she frowned. "Hmm…that's strange."
"What is?"
The woman ran her hand lightly over the top of a row of legal binders. "There's one missing."
"Are you sure?"
"I dust these shelves every day, Agent Roberts. I think I'd know if a binder was missing." She nudged a red binder and pointed to the empty space beside it. "There's usually a blue one right here."
Ben removed his gloves and examined a binder. It contained mostly legal mumbo-jumbo. He pulled out the next binder. It was much the same. Maybe Natassia could make sense of them later, after an evidence team picked them up.
He'd hoped to get a vision, but he didn't sense a thing.
He picked up the red binder. It was dated 2011 and contained notes on the year's federal budget and prospective bill proposals. The missing binder must hold similar paperwork for the current year.
His pulse quickened. "Do you know what's in the blue binder?"
Lorraine shook her head. "Like I said, Porter's been keeping to himself these days. I never read these anyway. Never wanted to." She released a sad sigh. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
"Can you tell me if anything else is missing or not where it should be?"
Lorraine opened a desk drawer. Her fingers skimmed across the contents and she picked up something small and round. "Porter's one-year coin."
"For…?
"My husband is an alcoholic, Agent Roberts."
When she handed him the coin, his psychometric senses immediately kicked in. He could feel Porter Sampson's struggle with alcoholism, his intense shame and his eventual relief. Sampson was proud of his accomplishment.
Lorraine smiled. "He's been sober for over a year, God bless him."
"You mentioned a wall safe," he said.
Lorraine pointed to a four-foot mirror in a leafy brass frame. "Behind that."
He examined the mirror. It was hinged to the wall for easy access to the safe behind it. He swung it open, exposing a Brinks wall safe, an older model with a touch screen access panel set for a seven-digit combination.
He touched the safe with bare hands.
Not one flash. Damn.
"Do you know the code, Mrs. Sampson?"
The woman shook her head.
He tried their phone number first.
Nothing happened.
"When did you get married?" he asked.
She told him and he tried the date. He tried birthdays next―hers, Porter's and their sons'. Still nothing.
"Can you think of any numerical code your husband would use?"
"Not really." She glanced at the shelf beside the safe. "Unless he used a date from one of these. He was a long-distance runner in university."
Ben picked up on of the trophies. "1975 National Senior Championships," he read.
"Our first date was the night of the Championships," Lorraine said in a soft voice. "Porter looked so handsome. It was the first time I ever saw him look nervous. We both were. And we've never forgotten that day."
"What was it?"
"June 30, 1975." Lorraine's face lit up. "Such an exciting night. He picked me up in his Corvette and drove me to the field. It was so exciting watching him run like he had the devil on his tail."
Ben was no longer listening. He tapped out the date, month first. Nothing. He entered the day first. Still nothing. Then he tried year, month and day.
Bingo!
The door to the safe gave a soft pop.
As he eased the safe door open, he glimpsed a manila folder. However, he never got a chance to examine it because they were abruptly interrupted by an angry voice behind them.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
A shriek filled the air.
11
Ben spun around.
Lorraine Sampson clung to a handsome man with milk chocolate skin, wide receiver shoulders, a sleek bald head and piercing black eyes. Her shrieking had stopped. Through her tears, she clasped the man's face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the lips.
Ben couldn't help but stare. The man was intimidating.
Not someone I'd like to bump into in a dark alley.
Of course, there was no denying who the unanticipated specter was. Porter Sampson. In the flesh.
The man reeked of alcohol, and his clothes had seen better days. The gray dress pants were wrinkled and the white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and stained with either red wine or blood.
Ben hoped it was wine.
Sampson peered over his wife's head and shot him a menacing glare. "Who are you?"
"Agent Benjamin Roberts. I'm with the CFBI."
"What the hell is the CFBI doing in my home, going through my things?"
Ben forced a smile. "We were investigating your disappearance."
The man opened his mouth to reply, but his wife cut in.
"You scared me, Porter. Where have you been?"
Sampson shook off his wife. Without a word, he plucked a cigar from the built-in humidor, snipped the end and lit it. A stream of fragrant smoke poured from his mouth.
He scowled in Ben's direction. "You haven't answered me, sir. What were you doing poking around in my safe?" The cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth, bobbing up and down as he spoke.
"We were worried about you. Your wife reported you missing. We were looking for a clue as to your whereabouts."
"And you thought you'd find it in my safe?"
"We didn't have anywhere else to look."
Ben caught the overpowering scent of alcohol.
Uh-oh, Sampson's been on a bender. Guess his days of sobriety are over.
Porter Sampson dropped into the leather chair, asserting a position of control. "Well, you don't have to worry any more. As you can perfectly see, I am not missing. And I'll thank you to keep out of my personal belongings."
Ben gritted his teeth. The man was starting to irritate him. "I'm just following procedure."
"Listen, Agent Robins―"
"Roberts," Ben said in a tight voice.
Sampson inspected the cigar, then took a long drag. Finally he said, "Anything else I can help you with?"
Ben sank into the chair across from him. "Well, for starters, you can tell me where you've been."
"I was…out. I had a meeting to go to." Pause. "I think."
"You think?" Lorraine snapped. "You'd better explain yourself, Porter Lee Sampson. Don't think I can't smell the booze on you, 'cause I can."
"I know that, Rainey!"
"How could you?"
The hurt in Lorraine's voice made her husband wince.
"I'm sorry," he cried out. "I slipped up somehow, but I don't remember any of it."
"That's mighty convenient," she said in a quiet voice.
"I'm telling the truth."
"Sure you are." Lorraine shook her head slowly and moved toward the door. "I'll make you something to eat."
After she'd gone, Sampson said, "I used to lie to her all the time, back when I was drinking at the bars every night, but I haven't gone near one in over a year. Not that I know of anyway. I assure you, I'm not lying,
Agent Roberts." He yawned and Ben noticed a gold-capped tooth. "I have no idea why I smell like a brewery."
"Where were you then?"
With a sigh of defeat, Sampson slumped down in the chair, the gravity of his situation finally sinking in. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow, past a dark mole below his right eye. A quick swipe of a beefy hand took it away.
"I'm not sure exactly. Last thing I remember was working here last night."
"Two nights ago," Ben corrected.
"What?" Wild, dark eyes betrayed the man's confusion and fear. "I've been gone two days? That's not possible. I was in my office last―"
"What day is it?"
"Tuesday."
Ben shook his head. "Wednesday. You've been missing for over thirty hours."
Sampson stared at the cigar for a long moment. Finally he tamped it out in a glass ashtray.
Ben leaned forward. "Mr. Sampson, I need to ask you these questions while everything is fresh in your mind."
"But that's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't remember anything. In fact, I don't remember a thing since working in my office two nights ago." Sampson's mouth thinned. "I don't know where I was, or who I was with. All I know is that I woke up on the concrete floor of the concert stage at Britannia Park a few hours ago, with nothing but the clothes on my back."
Ben was vaguely familiar with the park. He'd seen it on the map in his hotel room. The park spread out adjacent to the Ottawa River, southwest of Parliament Hill.
"Did you go see a concert?"
"No. They don't start up until June."
"How well do you know Monty Winkler?"
"Not well. I know who he is, and I may have met him at Parliament or at a social event, but other than that, we're involved in different things." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"He was murdered a few days ago, burnt beyond recognition and dumped in the river." Ben kept quiet about the strange scalp wounds.
"My God," Sampson said. "And you think his murder is somehow linked to what happened to me?"
"At this point we have to look at any possibilities. At least until you remember something."
"I don't understand. Why can't I remember?"
"You might have been drugged, like Monty Winkler. He was injected with a paralytic. If you were given the same drug, you'd be awake yet unable to move. You wouldn't be able to retain memories of the event either."
"Jesus! Why would someone do that to me?"
"That's what the CFBI is here to find out." Ben switched tactics. "On the night you worked here, do you recall getting a phone call?"
Sampson's forehead creased. "No."
"Are you sure? Someone called your home office number that night, from a payphone."
Sampson shook his head. "I remember going over some paperwork that night, but I didn't get any calls. And no one I know would call me from a payphone."
Ben studied the man carefully. Either he was a first-rate liar or he really didn't remember. Interesting.
"So you don't recall leaving the house, in your car?"
"I drove somewhere?" Sampson asked, stunned. "How can I not remember driving my car? Good God! Where the hell did I go?"
"To meet someone, maybe. At a bar."
"I don't go to bars." But even as Sampson said this, his voice registered a tremor of uncertainty.
Ben was baffled. The man's story didn't make much sense. Why couldn't Sampson remember?
"You have a tan 2009 Lincoln MKZ," he said, consulting the file on his 'com. "Maybe you met someone at a bar and the bartender took your keys afterward."
"I wasn't in a bar! I just don't…remember anything."
Ben was getting nowhere.
"I'll drive you to the hospital," he said.
"No way. Hospitals are for sick people. I'm not sick, Agent Roberts. I'm sure that once I've had some time to rest, I'll remember where I was."
And who you were with, Ben wanted to say.
One thing for sure, a guy didn't get this drunk by himself. Someone else must have been with him. Another woman maybe. Or maybe the drinking was only part of it. Perhaps a little recreational cocaine stuffed up the nose was Sampson's drug of choice. He certainly wouldn't be the first politician to go that route.
"You really should get checked out," Ben repeated. "Unless there's something you don't want your wife to know."
Sampson's eyes narrowed. "I know exactly what you're thinking, Agent Roberts. And no, I wasn't out cheating on my wife. I love Lorraine and I would never do anything to hurt her."
"Except start drinking again. You don't think that hurts her?"
"Of course I do! I'm not an idiot, you know." He stood shakily, his large hands gripping the desk. "I've been sober over a year. I've stayed sober because I love my wife. I have no idea why I started back again. I've asked myself that question a million times since I woke up on that park bench."
"Then come with me to the hospital. Maybe they'll find an answer."
Sampson moved to one of the bookcases. One hand hovered over the binders. His body stiffened suddenly.
"Something wrong?" Ben asked.
"Uh, no," the man said in a shaky voice.
"Your wife said there's usually a blue binder there. Is it missing?"
"It's probably at my office." He didn't sound too sure.
"What's in it?"
Sampson faced him. "Every bill or policy I've worked on this year. But like I said, I'm sure it's at my office. Now, back to our earlier discussion." He took a breath. "Nothing's wrong with me, Agent Roberts. At least, nothing that some sleep won't cure."
"But we need to know what happened to you."
Sampson turned away. "Anything more you need from me will have to come with a warrant, Agent. Right now, what I need is sleep."
Ben didn't need a warrant to take evidence in plain sight. He snatched something from the man's desk with a tissue and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
"We'll be in touch, Mr. Sampson."
"You do that. I'll be here. I'm taking a few days off."
As Ben made for the door, he paused to study a photo of Porter and the Prime Minister, one of those 'stand side-by-side, shake hands and smile like you're best friends' publicity shots common with prominent figures.
Sampson's dark eyes twinkled back at him, as if he had a secret he couldn't wait to tell. It probably didn't hurt for the younger Caucasian Prime Minister to be seen exchanging gracious handshakes with an Ebonic―or formerly politically correct African American―politician whose major platform was the elimination of racial discrimination.
Probably won the PM a lot of votes, he thought.
As Ben drove toward downtown, he thought about Sampson's bizarre memory loss. Having glimpsed a wounded man, one who was confused and devastated by his actions, he actually felt sorry for the man. Alcoholism was an insidious disease and recovery was a constant uphill battle, and there was no doubt in Ben's mind that something or someone had given Porter Sampson a downhill push.
But who?
Ben replayed their conversation. Sampson seemed honestly confused. No head games there. The man had disappeared for thirty odd hours and knew nothing about it.
Is this connected to Winkler?
"Time to pay Marilyn Winkler a visit," he decided.
On his way to Winkler Manor, Ben decided to take a short detour. He stopped at the park where Porter Sampson had woken up from his drug-induced sleep.
The concert stage at Britannia Park, he'd said.
The stage was situated on the bank of a duck pond. To the left of the stage was a bench made of wrought iron with weathered wooden planks for the seat, which had seen a lot of wear from Mother Nature and passers-by who'd stopped to admire the view. All around the bench grew short, scruffy-looking grass.
Ben checked the area thoroughly, especially the floor of the stage. He found nothing of notable importance. The city police had done their job. They'd already collected
garbage and prints from around the stage.
He sat down on the bench and gazed out over the pond. Patches of algae marred its otherwise perfect mirror finish, but that didn't matter to the three young ducklings that followed their mother into an overgrowth of waving reeds and cattails.
Witnesses?
Ben peered over his shoulder, observing the other occupants of the park. A young woman jogged along the paved path, a golden retriever at her side. The woman's ponytail swung from side-to-side. Her limber legs seemed to barely touch the ground. A couple of teenaged girls giggled nearby while taking long drags off a shared cigarette. Skipping school, most likely. The only other occupant of the park was an old woman dressed in layers of ill-fitted clothing that screamed 'street person.' She was busy feeding the ducks and talking to them.
He strode toward her. "Excuse me, ma'am."
The woman spun around unsteadily.
"What do you want?" she snapped, her cold hazel eyes drilling into him. "You gonna tell me it's against the law to feed my babies?"
"No, ma'am." Ben held up a photo of Porter Sampson. "I want to know if you've seen this guy around here."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why? He kill someone?"
"Why would you say that?"
She shrugged and turned back to feeding the ducks.
"He's a Member of Parliament, ma'am. He woke up on the floor of the concert stage this morning, with no knowledge of how he got here."
"Must've been plastered then. Or on drugs."
"Did you see anything suspicious, anything at all?"
"I ain't seen nothing." She peered over her shoulder at him. "And the only suspicious person 'round here is you. Who comes to the park in a suit like that? You can't be a cop."
Ben chuckled. "I'm with the CFBI."
"CFBI, CIA, CSI…it's all a conspiracy, you know."
He thanked her.
"You wanna thank me proper, leave me a tenner."
Without a word, he tucked a ten dollar bill into her outstretched palm. The skin on her hand was raw and red.
The old woman examined the bill. "Better not be fake."
"It's good," he said.
She beamed a smile at the ducks. "Babies, I'm going to get you the best lunch today." To Ben she said, "I heard music in the park this morning."
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