“I miss you already.”
“I miss you. I’ll come back as soon as I can. In the meantime, we both have our work cut out for us. And congratulations, Madame P.I.”
“I love you, Noble.”
“I love you, too. Gotta go.”
Max grabbed the cup of strong brew that sat waiting and began to read the entire article. Somewhat surprised, she learned nothing more than what she already knew. Senator Sherman Spark, a Republican from the state of Florida, was found dead in Lincoln Park, apparently from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The rest of the article focused on his various accomplishments, including his latest appointment to a committee established to review climate-change initiatives. The article continued with the usual list of survivors: his wife Isabelle, two sons, a daughter, and five grandchildren. Hmm, she thought, nothing nefarious enough for someone to want to kill himself. Then, out of the blue, a scene flashed in front of her eyes. Almost like a reflex, the self-generated virtual reality caused her to shudder. She shook her head. Stop it! Focus on the case.
Max tossed the paper down on the table and gulped the rest of her coffee, providing the final oomph she needed. Hurriedly, she showered and dressed. Then she trotted back downstairs, grabbed her oversized handbag from her office, and headed out the door.
Max knew her way around the US Capitol Police building on D Street, having made a slew of official visits over the years. The building itself was rather innocuous and a bit worn at the heels, but within no time she meandered down the narrow corridor, walked past the secretary, and barged directly into the chief ’s office in her usual brazen manner. “Okay, Ray, what gives?”
“Good morning to you too, Max. I see I have to remind my secretary that you no longer work for the SIA.”
“How could you release to the press that the Senator shot himself before you even investigate?”
“It was pretty open-and-shut. Anyway, what’s your interest?”
“A prominent senator commits suicide for no reason. It doesn’t seem open-and-shut to me, at least until you’re sure of the reason. Was there a suicide note?”
“Max, you’re chasing rainbows. I’m not releasing any more information, so quit while you’re ahead.”
“How come there were only Capitol police and no DC cops at the scene last night?”
“Because we got the call and were told to handle the case.”
“Call from whom?”
“Max, that’s it! I wish you the best of luck with your new agency, but I think you have the sequence all wrong. First, you get the client, and then you get the case—not the other way around.”
“You used to be one of my best sources, Ray.”
“Look, I’d help you if I could, but this case is closed.”
Max could not explain why, but she had just another one of those overwhelming feelings that would envelop her at a moment’s notice. The one that told her that this was only the tip of the iceberg.
“Thanks, Chief. I’ll back off.”
The Capitol police chief and Max had worked on many cases in the past. And he was well aware that she was not one to back off. He knew he would have to keep his ears to the ground, paying extra attention to her snooping. “Thanks, Max. And I really wish you luck with your new venture. Stay safe out there.”
“You, too.” Max turned and left.
Chapter 5
JAX IN TIME
Max had only been back in her office for a few minutes when she heard the lock at the front door click and the knob turn. The intercom did not sound off with its usual buzzer and there was no opportunity to glance at the monitor. Suddenly a tall, thin, bald, black man appeared in the reception area.
“Jax, your rusty-old spook reporting for duty!” he said, offering a military salute.
“Spook, like in ‘spy’?” Max said with a chuckle. She was well aware that a politically correct bone did not exist in Jax’s exceedingly muscular body, a physique with “military” written all over it. Certainly, she knew that he was ex-CIA and had performed special assignments for Noble in the past, although she was not privy to all of them, including the last clandestine assignment for the president. And when Noble first recommended Jax, she suspected it was a way of keeping her safe. Most likely he induced Jax to take the job in preparation for his not-so-impromptu travel plans. But she had to admit, despite Noble’s overly protective motive, that Jax was a perfect choice. She liked and respected him. He was well trained in the field and had a wicked sense of humor. In their business, sometimes the latter was more important.
Initially, when Noble had broached the subject of hiring her new associate, Max attempted to learn more about him, but she hit a brick wall. The records for Jackson Monroe were sealed. No longer having clearance, she was unable to access them. All she really had to go on was Noble vouching for Jax’s integrity. In the end that was good enough for her.
As far as Jax was concerned, he was more than ready to try some spy-lite cases for a change. Sizing up Max was easy. It was widely known deep in the belly of the CIA that she was highly intelligent and resourceful and one of the best agents in the field. And the fact that she was easy on the eyes did not exactly hurt. Yes, Jax had sized up the situation and suspected it was going to be a fun gig.
“Any cases yet, Ma’am?”
“Jax!”
“Sorry! I’m just a southern gentleman at heart—Max.”
“Funny you should ask! I have a case, but I don’t have a client.”
“Aren’t we supposed to operate the other way around?”
“Someone made that very same point earlier.” Max filled him in on what she saw in the park the night before and what little she knew about the senator and his apparent suicide.
“Perhaps the chief’s right. Maybe it is open and shut,” Jax challenged.
“My gut tells me otherwise—and my gut never lies.”
“Noble warned me about that ever-reliable gut of yours.” He chuckled. “I’m going in to set up my office. Anything else for now, boss?”
“Nothing now,” she replied offhandedly; clearly her thoughts had traveled elsewhere.
Chapter 6
NO TIME TO GRIEVE
“Mrs. Spark, you have my sincerest condolences,” the guard offered.
“Thank you. I’d like to go to my husband’s office and retrieve a few of his personal belongings.” She tried her best to be stoic.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Access to the senator’s office has been restricted while the investigation continues.”
“But his case has been closed!”
“Ma’am, I’m not aware of that.”
“The Capitol Police Chief notified me, himself, this morning,” she insisted.
“Give me a minute.” The guard left his station and walked across the rotunda.
Isabelle Spark stood by and watched while he appeared to be calling someone from another phone. She could not overhear the conversation, but it looked to be a difficult and lengthy call. She also suspected that he intentionally went out of earshot. After what seemed like an eternity, the guard finally returned.
“I was able to get you access to the late senator’s office, but only long enough to retrieve personal items. And I can’t let you enter alone. The police chief still wants the office cordoned off.”
“What! Am I a suspect?” Isabelle was indignant. “Apparently, there is an inconsistency between a closed case and an office ban. I assure you the president will hear about this!”
“Please wait while I call another guard to escort you.” The guard refrained from further conversation.
Moments later, a female guard appeared. “Mrs. Spark,” she announced, “please follow me.”
Isabelle was still reeling but walked with the guard through the winding hallways of the Russell Senate Office Building, until she arrived at her husband’s office.
“I’ll only be a few moments. I know exactly the personal items I want,” Isabelle said, ignoring the other guar
d’s instructions.
“Sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you go in there by yourself.”
Isabelle was beyond distressed, but she fought to maintain a cool demeanor. She acquiesced and motioned the guard to lead the way. Inside, she set down a large, canvas gym bag that she had brought with her to carry away the personal effects of her dearly departed husband. With an eerie sense that her every move was being watched, she proceeded carefully to collect the personal photos in the various frames that graced the bookshelves and the credenza behind Sherman’s massive mahogany desk. Then she began to collect the bits of paraphernalia scattered on the desk.
“Only personal objects,” the guard reminded her sternly.
“Please, this is our family photo album.” Isabelle now opted to plead.
“According to my orders, nothing with his writing can leave this office. I’m sorry.” The guard tried to show a hint of empathy.
“It’s just photos. You can look for yourself.” Isabelle willingly released it into the guard’s custody.
The guard, who had earlier showed compassion, now displayed annoyance as she hastily flipped through the pages. She handed it back to Isabelle in the same manner.
At that point Isabelle was a bit numb from the whole ordeal, but satisfied that she had at least won that round. Applying great patience, she collected several of the figurines the children had given their father and gathered up the baseball caps he had collected from his favorite teams. Finally, she took one last glance around the office. Content that she had collected Sherman’s personal effects, she zipped up the gym bag and then walked across the room. Her final act was to remove the oil painting that hung on the wall—the family portrait was the one item she wanted above all others.
“Mrs. Spark, please, our time is limited,” the guard urged.
It had become increasingly obvious to Isabelle that the guard was bored with her assigned detail. She promptly hoisted the gym bag over her left shoulder and grasped the sizeable picture frame under her right arm. “I’m ready,” she announced and followed the guard out of her husband’s office, never looking back.
Isabelle sat on the floor of their living room, teary-eyed as she sipped a glass of wine. For the good part of an hour her eyes fixated on the gym bag that contained all the belongings she was allowed to take away. Suddenly, she cried, “Thirty years on the Hill and this is all I have to show for Sherman’s sacrifices! Damn them!” She slammed her wine glass down on the coffee table, spilling droplets on the mahogany surface. Standing back up, she walked over to the family portrait that had been leaning against the overstuffed chair and stared down at it. Seconds later, she collapsed back onto the floor and sobbed uncontrollably. While succumbing to moments of despair, she caught herself fondling a large gouge in the left hand corner of the frame. “It must be in perfect condition for his funeral!” she shrieked, reviving her anger.
Chapter 7
CLIENT CALL
Ford Investigations had been in business for one week. Still, each time Max approached her townhouse, she would glance up and proudly view the shingle hanging outside the front door. Today was no exception. It still seemed surreal to her that she was operating on her own and without all the resources the government had to offer. Noble was right. I need to play by a different set of rules, she thought as she closed the front door behind her.
Buzz came the blaring sound of the intercom. Startled, she abruptly turned around and looked through the peephole. Standing on the stoop was a middle-aged, smartly dressed woman holding a sizeable leather-bound book. Max opened the door.
“Maxine Ford?”
“Yes, may I help you?” Max asked, thinking it odd that this woman would address her by her formal name. No one calls me Maxine.
“I’m Isabelle Spark.”
Max felt her heart flutter as she controlled her composure. “Please come in,” she invited, and then offered her a seat on one of the sofas in the reception area.
But before either of them had a chance to sit down, the senator’s wife spoke.
“Notwithstanding the questionable police reports, I believe my husband did not commit suicide! The police have dropped the ball. I’m positive he was murdered!” Isabelle’s voice was strong and unwavering as though the matter was indisputable. She took her seat.
Max sat across from her on the other sofa with the glass coffee table in between them.
“How can you be sure it wasn’t suicide?”
“I know my husband! It’s not in his character to contemplate suicide under any circumstances!” She placed the leather-bound book on the table and spoke with more calm. “I went to the Russell Senate Office Building to collect his belongings. The guard at the front desk resisted at first, not wanting to grant me access to Sherman’s office. He said the case was still under investigation and his office had been sealed. That’s not only odd, but totally inconsistent with the case being closed.”
“Excuse me,” Max interrupted. “I was also under the same impression that the case was closed.”
“You can imagine my surprise. But the guard stepped aside and had a lengthy conversation with someone on the phone. Apparently the person acquiesced, except I had to be escorted and watched the entire time.” Her indignant tone returned. “I wasn’t allowed to take anything with his handwriting. The entire fiasco was humiliating and thoughtless.”
“Very interesting,” Max said, while thinking that son of a bitch, as she recalled her last visit to the Capitol police chief. “Please continue, Mrs. Spark,” she urged.
“One of the items I took is a framed oil painting. It’s our family portrait that my husband had hanging on the wall. He would often say that no matter how difficult the task became he’d always have his family with him.”
Max detected a slight quiver in her voice. “Do you need a moment?”
“No, dear, I’m fine. Thank you.” She cleared her throat and then continued. “I want to display that portrait at Sherman’s celebration-of-life ceremony. I want him to know that his family will always be there for him.” Isabelle finally caved in and began to sob.
Max gave her the time she needed to regain her composure.
“Please excuse me. This is very difficult.” Isabelle recovered from her brief emotional spell and explained, “The corner of the frame was damaged, and it was essential that it be repaired before the funeral.” She immediately reached inside her handbag and retrieved a letter. As she steadied her hand, she passed the sheet of paper to Max. “This letter was found taped to the back of the canvas as it was being reframed.”
Max’s instincts told her that the frame was most likely damaged by the senator intentionally, knowing that his wife was a perfectionist and would have had it fixed. As usual, she discounted the possibility of a coincidence. Excitedly, she unfolded the letter and read the words in silence, all the while sensing that the senator’s wife was studying her face. She tried to remain expressionless. The first few lines were obviously Spark’s personal declaration of love for his family and for Isabelle. Max quickly skipped to the next paragraph. Her name was scrawled in the very first sentence. She was stunned to read: Should anything happen to me, deliver the family photo album to Maxine Ford. It took Max a moment to absorb the statement, even after rereading it several times. Then she moved to the next sentence. Tell her about Claus. The rest of the letter was clearly personal. Max slowly folded the paper and returned it to Isabelle. The dumbfounded expression on her face must have telegraphed.
“I’m as confused as you must be as to why Sherman would want me to tell you about Claus—or what it has to do with his death.” Isabelle went on to describe that six months earlier, a scientist by the name of Claus Veunet was scheduled to testify at her husband’s committee hearing and that apparently Veunet died in a climbing accident a week before. “Sherman didn’t give me any specifics about the man or about his testimony, other than to say it was pretty hush-hush. As a rule, he never talked about the investigations being conducted by his various c
ommittees, nor did I ask. But I sensed that day, something was really bothering him. Now, I have to wonder about another mysterious incident.” Isabelle paused to collect her thoughts.
“Please continue.” Max was eager for her to move it along.
Isabelle cleared her throat and then explained, “It happened several weeks later. Again, it was one morning at breakfast while Sherman was reading the morning newspaper. Without warning, he knocked over his coffee cup. I was surprised because he just stood up and left the room. It was so unlike him. But when I went to clean up the spilled mess, I noticed the newspaper was open to an article. It was about a scientist who had died in a fatal car crash.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“The print was badly smudged from the coffee, but I could make out the first name. It was Luca. I think the last name started with D-U-E or D-O-E. It was too difficult to read. I do remember, however, the article stated he was Swiss. That’s all I can recall.”
Max sat back a moment to consider the significance of Isabelle’s story.
Isabelle gave her the time to cogitate. Then she reached over to pick up the leather-bound book she had set down on the coffee table and handed it to Max. “This is the photo album Sherman wanted me to give you. He might have left a clue in there somewhere, but honestly, it’s only family vacation photos.” She clasped her hands in her lap and looked directly at Max. “Please find my husband’s killer.”
Max and Jax had agreed that before accepting any new clients, they would first run through the case together. Problem was, Max could never resist her dominant instincts. She would break their self-imposed deal before she ever left the starting gate. However, there was one thing she would insist upon—a pledge from the client. “Mrs. Spark, as I advise all my clients, I will get to the truth—but it may not be what you prefer. You must be prepared to accept the outcome.” Max paused, waiting for some sign of tacit agreement, but none came. Then she said the words her new client was waiting to hear. “I will take your case.”
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