“Oh, dear, thank you. I need to know what happened to Sherman.”
“Please call me Max.”
“Yes, Max, but you must call me Isabelle.”
Now that that’s settled… Max thought, and she quickly swung into action. First, she needed to discuss the messy business of fees. Happily, they were of no consequence to Isabelle. Then she needed to prepare her client for what lay ahead. “Isabelle, it will take time. You must be patient. However, the fact that the Capitol police have yet to arrive at any conclusion may strangely be our first lead. Please let me know if they contact you.” Max noted an odd look on Isabelle’s face. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“There is something else that may be useful,” Isabelle said with obvious hesitation.
Max’s ears perked up, as she was about to delve into the weeds of her first case. Isabelle had her full attention.
“Sherman must have trusted you. Now I must do the same. The night of his death I discovered my cellphone was missing. I thought Sherman may have picked it up by mistake thinking it was his. So I tried calling him repeatedly but there was no answer. Then I remember him showing me how to use this Lookout Security program, so I was able to locate the phone.” Isabelle paused for a second. Clearly, she was uneasy. “It was at a location far from where my husband’s body was eventually found.”
“Where was the phone?”
“Lookout Security located it at a place called The Bachelor’s Mill.”
Max gulped. “Have you told anyone about this?”
“No one, until now.”
“Do you have a record of the calls that were made from the phone?”
Isabelle reached again into her handbag and grabbed a slip of paper. She explained that she had contacted her service provider, and they had given her a list of the calls that had been made the day her husband mistakenly took her phone. “There were four calls. I recognized the first two phone numbers; those were calls I made. But the other one is unfamiliar. Someone called that number twice.”
Max noted the numbers, along with the times they were placed. “I’ll follow up on these, but you’ll need to tell the police so they can trace the phone.”
All at once, Isabelle withdrew sheepishly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I followed the instructions on the Lookout Security site and deleted everything on the phone and then disabled it. I’m sorry, Max, but I thought Sherman had lost the phone, and I was trying to protect the data. I had no idea that hours later my husband would be found dead.”
“Isabelle, you need to tell the police exactly what you’ve told me, including erasing the data. But, for now, they don’t need to know about your husband’s letter, the photo album, or these phone numbers.” Max waved the slip of paper. “Give me a little time to investigate and if anything, of importance turns up, I’ll make sure the police are kept informed.” She reached across the coffee table and clasped Isabelle’s hands. “We’ll find out what happened to Sherman. I assure you.” Max could see the tension receding from Isabelle’s face. It was clear that she understood. At the same time, Max’s own energy was about to burst. It was time to get to work on her first case. She reassured her client once more and then politely escorted her to the door.
As Isabelle was about to walk out the front door and down the steps, Jax came bounding up past her, excusing himself along the way.
Chapter 8
A SIXTH SENSE
“Guess what!” Jax blurted out. “Senator Spark’s death is still being investigated. They haven’t closed the case yet! Max, your instincts were right on the mark!”
“Aren’t you going to ask me whom you just passed on the steps?”
“Didn’t you hear me? They must have evidence that Spark didn’t kill himself!”
Max stared back blankly.
“Okay! Who was it?”
“Our new client, Mrs. Isabelle Spark.”
That time Jax was the one to stare back, but with a shocked expression plastered on his face. Without saying a word, he walked over to the sofa and plunked himself down, unknowingly where the late senator’s wife had sat. “I’ll be damned! Noble warned me about your mystical occult-like qualities.”
Max flashed a huge smile and then joined him on the sofa. “Sorry, Jax, I broke our deal. But I had no choice under the circumstances.”
“Hey, it’s your name on the shingle. But why would the senator’s wife want you to take the case?” Jax was more than mildly curious as to the answer.
“She didn’t! The late senator left her a letter with instructions to seek me out in the case of his death from unnatural causes. I can only assume that he thought I was still at the SIA. Apparently, or should I say, fortunately, he didn’t get the memo. Hey, it must be my karma.”
“Okay, then why would the senator want you to take the case?”
“It might have something to do with what happened many years ago, while I was still at the CIA. I was in charge of an undercover sting operation to expose a group of arms smugglers who were using an escort service in Georgetown as a front. Lucky me, I got my hands on the appointment books.”
“The senator?” Jax eyebrows instantly shot upward.
Max grinned. It was widely known among the inner circle in Washington that the escort service in Georgetown was also a front for a pricey brothel. “We got the bad guys and brought down their operation. So I didn’t think it was necessary to smear the reputations of quite a few of our Washington elite, including notable judges and senators. Besides, the books were simply an accounting of their activities and had nothing to do with our case. Shortly thereafter, while attending a cocktail party, I received several whispered ‘thank yous’ in my ear. The senator was one of them. I surmised the madam with a heart of gold told her clientele that I had returned the books to her. I guess I made quite an impression.”
Jax, apparently fascinated with the story, remained unusually speechless.
“What do you think?” Max grilled, trying to jolt him back to the conversation at hand.
“You tell me. According to your own rules for taking a case: one, is your client believable? Two, can you get to the truth? And three, is it worth the risk?”
Max did not answer the questions, but handed the photo album to Jax. “The answers may be in here.” She also filled him in on the phone numbers and the mysterious deaths of two scientists. “So, with all we know thus far, what—do—you—think?” she repeated emphatically.
“Looks like we have our first case, Madam Detective!”
Max flashed him a wink and then checked her watch. It was 4:30 in the afternoon in France. “I’m gonna give Veunet’s wife a call to see what she can tell me about the accident.”
“What about the phone numbers from Isabelle’s phone? You want me to track them down?”
“No, I’ll give them a go.”
“Then I’ll take a whack at identifying the second scientist to see if there’s a connection between him and Claus Veunet.”
“Great! Would you also take a look at the photo album? I perused it while Isabelle was telling me her lost-phone story, but it appears to contain only family photos. I must be missing something. There has to be a clue among the photos that the senator wanted me to discover.”
“Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us!” Jax stood up with the album tucked under his arm and headed for his office.
Max sat back for a moment longer taking in her new space, a space she and Noble had discussed sharing. But in the end he convinced her that she needed to go it alone. Especially if they were going to give their new relationship a fair chance. She could not help but wonder at that moment where he was. She wished he would call. Normally, he would have been the first person with whom she would discuss a case. A stimulating exercise, bantering about the options, was something they both enjoyed. Now, she was doing it with Jax, her new associate. Enough!
Max stood up with the slip of paper Isabelle had given her and marched
into her office. But before calling France, she decided to check out the phone numbers, starting with the first two numbers Isabelle had identified as her own calls. They both checked out; one was to cancel a hair appointment, the other to confirm a dinner date with neighbors. The next two were oddly the same phone number with a 941 area code, but one call had been placed at 5:48 p.m. and the second call had been placed at 8:59 p.m. Both on the same day. The same day the senator’s body was found in the park.
Something doesn’t make sense. She sat tapping her fingers on the desk, trying to recall the night when she saw the flashing lights. Noble had just arrived. She was positive that when they walked to the park to see what was happening, it was sometime around 8:00 p.m. Noble’s unexpected visit was to take her to dinner. He would not have arrived at 9:00 p.m. “How can a corpse make a phone call?” she wondered aloud, and then assumed, “There’s only one way to find out.” Max took a deep breath and dialed the number starting with 941, placing a call to Sarasota, Florida. The phone rang continuously without anyone picking up. She tried several other times to no avail. “I’ll give it another try later,” she uttered, continuing to speak to the air. At the same time, she assumed that if the call was connected to Spark’s death, the phone had most likely been tossed.
Max then braced herself and called Veunet’s wife but had to leave a message. She made sure that she introduced herself as the former deputy director of the SIA, and that they were investigating the death of Senator Spark. Max intentionally stumbled over the word former and threw in the they, hoping the international connection would do its usual thing of cutting in and out. Satisfied with her message, she stuck her head into Jax’s office.
“No luck here. I had to leave a message with Veunet’s wife and there was no answer at the 941 number, the one in Sarasota.” She continued to lean against the doorway with a pensive stare.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but something’s bugging me. I’m gonna head over to the Capitol police station to have another talk with the chief.”
“Go ahead; I’ll hold the fort.”
Chapter 9
FRENCH CONNECTION
Max tapped the Uber app on her smartphone and prepared for the car’s arrival. Minutes later she was seated comfortably in the back seat on her way to the Capitol police headquarters. Normally it was a seven-minute drive, but now it was the dreaded traffic hour and the cars were bumper to bumper along Massachusetts Avenue. She checked her watch as the car inched along. Suddenly, her phone rang. The incoming phone number on her screen started with 33. The call was from France.
“Pull over, please. I’ll walk from here,” she instructed the driver.
Max stood at the corner of Fifth and C Street and took the call. “Mrs. Veunet?”
“Oui, yes, this is Antoinette Veunet. I just received your voice message. You said you were investigating Senator Spark’s death. I’m confused as to why you would call me.”
“First, my condolences for the death of your husband.”
“Merci.”
“Mrs. Veunet, Claus died a week before he was scheduled to testify at a committee hearing in Washington, DC It was co-chaired by Senator Spark.”
“Oui, but what does this have to with the Senator’s death?”
“I’m sorry to put you through this, but can you tell me what happened to Claus?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Mrs. Veunet?” Max heard her weeping from a continent away and waited for the widow to respond.
“Désolé. I’m sorry. It’s still painful, even though it’s been several months since Claus’ death. To answer your question, he died in a horrible climbing accident. He and another man named Ernst went climbing the day before. Then Ernst wanted to have the opportunity to climb Lou Passo, another climbing route, before he departed the following day to return to his home in Lucerne. So they went climbing again on that Sunday—but Claus never came home.” Antoinette began to weep again. “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“Again, I apologize for the intrusion, but how did you hear about the accident?”
“The police called me. They said another climber had reported seeing a body fall from the cliff. According to the police, one of the protection bolts dislodged, throwing him against the rocks.” She paused and then uttered, “The impact broke his neck. They said his rope had been cut, but speculated that Claus himself cut it, knowing he would not survive.”
“Mrs. Veunet—” Max was suddenly cut off from her question.
“Those bolts are inspected on a regular basis! I don’t believe it was freak accident!”
Max did not think so either, but tried again with her question, “What about the man named Ernst?”
“All I know is that he was an avid rock climber like Claus. They met a few days earlier at a conference they had attended.” Again Mrs. Veunet paused.
Max kept silent, imagining how difficult it must be for Antoinette to recount that day. But the questions were necessary. She had to push for answers. “Mrs. Veunet, please tell me about Ernst. Where was he at the time of the accident?”
Antoinette’s voice became faint. “I asked the same question. The police said there was no evidence to indicate that he was climbing with anyone else.” Her anger returned. “They said he was climbing alone!”
For the first time, Max heard doubt in her voice. “Do you believe that’s what happened?”
“He knows I didn’t like him climbing alone!” she blurted out. Then defeat laced her voice. “It’s possible he used Ernst as an excuse. But he’s never lied to me before—I don’t know what to think.”
“Excuse me, but I have a few more questions. Do you know a man by the name of Luca?”
“You mean Luca Doerfinger? He was a good friend of my husband, but I never met him personally.” Antoinette was particularly confused by the question, but continued. “They were classmates at École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne. Please, what does all of this have to do with Claus?”
“I believe Luca was killed in a car crash a few weeks after your husband’s death.”
“Oh mon Dieu! You think Claus’ accident is connected to Luca’s death?”
“Mrs. Veunet, I’m not sure what to think at this point,” Max admitted, but she was careful not to imply that Claus may have been murdered, even though she suspected that to be the case. Max also needed someone in a position of authority to get the necessary answers. Not wanting to torment the poor woman any further, she asked only a few more questions relating to Claus’ occupation. Max then assured Claus’ widow that she would be back in touch. But before ending the call, she stressed, “In the meantime, it would be prudent not to discuss this call with anyone, including the gendarmes, until I have gathered more information.”
It was clear that Mrs. Veunet understood.
Chapter 10
NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN
Max managed the rest of the distance by foot and hiked up Massachusetts Avenue to D Street in six minutes. After two minutes more of maneuvering through the narrow corridors of the Capitol police headquarters, she had finally arrived at the chief’s office.
“Hey, Max.”
“The chief in?”
“Yes, but please let me announce you this time.” The secretary stood up and stuck her head in the door of the chief’s office.
Max could barely hear the conversation but she certainly knew the subject matter.
Seconds later, the secretary turned around. “Enter at your own peril,” she joked, and then invited Max to go in.
“Hey, Ray.”
“What, Max? I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“What’s going on with the Senator Spark investigation? You lied to me and said the case was closed.”
“Max, stay out of it. It’s not your case.”
“Guess again! Isabelle Spark hired me to find out who killed her husband.” Her huge smile appeared to annoy the chief.
“I can’t believe you’re actually licensed to do whatever it is you do?”
“Check this out!” Max flashed her identification card. “I’m a gen-u-ine private detective in the District of Columbia.”
“You really left the agency to become a private dick—or is that a private jane?” The chief shook his head and then lightened up his tone. “My hats off to you, Max.”
“Thanks, but what about the senator?”
“It’s still ruled a suicide.”
“You don’t buy that? That’s why the case is still open. Let’s start with the time of death.”
“Max, you’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Never have. Time of death?”
“The coroner estimates between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m.”
“What type of gun?”
“A Luger P08 with a six-inch barrel.”
“That’s a semi-automatic and the six-inch barrel is military issue.” Max was getting an uneasy feeling. Something did not stack up. “An odd choice for suicide, I’d say.”
“Someone wanting to off himself isn’t usually picky.”
“Ballistics report?”
“We pulled out a nine-millimeter slug, but it shattered the bone, along with any evidence we could identify from the mangled bullet. Other than that the gun was clean, except, of course, for the senator’s fingerprints.”
“Gunshot residue?”
The chief winced.
“C’mon, that’s Forensics 101.”
“I’ll find out and get back to you.”
“Thank you! Now that wasn’t so hard. I’m going to like working with you on this case, Ray.”
“Hardy-har-har,” the chief countered. “Okay, Max, what do I get in return?”
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