Barry said, “Ask him if Worthington had a bag with him when he picked him up at the airport.”
She did, mentally hitting herself that she hadn’t thought of it.
“No bag. He said he was flying in for this meeting and flying out tonight. He didn’t even have a briefcase.” The driver paused. “He made a call. Left a message for someone.”
“Do you know what he said?”
“I didn’t want to pry. It sounded personal. I heard him say, ‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’ But that’s all.”
* * *
Lucy and Barry approached room 115 as the crime scene techs were telling Julie she could take the body.
“There’s not much we’re going to get from here,” one of them said. “We bagged the vodka and cups, the wallet, printed the door, nightstand, bathroom knobs, dresser. But we’re getting dozens of prints. We’ll bag up the bedding if you need it.”
“Better to be thorough,” Barry told them.
Lucy concurred. If this was a suspicious death like Julie thought, they had to treat it as such from the beginning. There was no going back to collect evidence after the fact, especially in a place like this.
“Did you find a cell phone?” Barry asked.
They hadn’t and they’d conducted a thorough search. There was nothing in his pockets. His wallet had three receipts tucked away, two from today and one from yesterday, all from Dallas businesses. Barry asked for copies to be emailed to him as soon as they were processed, but he also wrote down the names and addresses from the receipts. There were no flight stubs in his pockets or wallet, and no return ticket. Not unusual if he used a mobile boarding pass. Barry stepped out of the room to take a call.
Lucy watched as Julie and her crew zipped up the body bag, then she followed them to the coroner’s van where they loaded the body and slammed the door shut. Julie turned to Lucy. “I’m cutting into the guy at eight A.M. sharp. Come if you want.” She climbed into the van and waved good-bye.
Lucy didn’t see Barry, so she watched the crime scene techs finish bagging potential evidence. They chatted among themselves while they worked. She’d been where they were. She’d collected evidence and processed scenes. It was methodical and organized, and the routine soothed her.
Harper Worthington had been in Dallas until last night, when he’d flown in late, apparently to have sex with an underage prostitute. Worthington lived in San Antonio, his business was in San Antonio; why would he come to his hometown for sex when it would have been easier for him to find a no-name motel in Dallas?
And Julie was right about the money—Worthington could afford a much nicer place, and considering he’d paid hundreds of dollars for the flight, why not fork over a hundred bucks for a halfway decent dive? There were motels and hotels closer to the airport. This made no sense. Except that it was anonymous. But if he wanted to remain anonymous, why stand out by giving the taxi driver two hundred dollars to return?
Barry approached her. “Let’s go.”
“We should talk to the manager.”
“I did.”
She glanced up at him. “I would have joined you.”
“It was routine. And you’re better with these lab rats than I am.”
“I used to be one,” she said. “What did he say?”
“Nothing that helps.”
She mentally counted to ten so she didn’t snap at her partner. “How did Worthington pay for the room?”
“He didn’t. Manager didn’t even see him. I got a basic description of the girl, but the taxi driver had more detail. Not much to go on, but maybe Mancini has a photo for him to ID.”
“Prostitutes don’t pay for the room. And if he didn’t recognize her, she wasn’t a regular.”
“These kinds of places thrive on anonymity. I pressed, he couldn’t give me anything.”
“If she’s in the system, we’ll ID her,” Lucy said. “There were prints on the vodka bottle and his wallet.”
“We need to notify his widow before the press gets wind of this,” Barry said.
Lucy looked at her watch. It was just after six in the morning. “Julie Peters said I could assist with the autopsy, if you want me to head over there.”
“Let Peters do her job, you do yours,” Barry said. “Meet me at FBI headquarters. I’ll brief Juan and then we’ll go to Worthington’s house. So far, SAPD has kept everything quiet, but considering we have a couple witnesses, the crime scene techs, and a half dozen cops, I suspect the press is going to be circling like vultures before noon. I don’t want the congresswoman hearing about her husband’s death, or the circumstances, from anyone but us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Harper and Adeline Worthington lived on a large ranch twenty minutes northwest of town, where working ranches were interspersed among gentleman farms and horse property. Even the smaller tracts of land had to be at least ten acres, Lucy thought. Worthington’s property didn’t have cattle, but a large barn could be seen in the distance, surrounded by an empty corral.
Barry turned off the two-lane road and drove a hundred yards to a gate. He identified himself and a moment later the metal gate silently slid open. The system wouldn’t keep out anyone determined. Two signs proclaimed that the land was monitored 24/7 by hidden cameras. They weren’t that well hidden—Lucy spotted several at the gate and along the fence.
A wide expanse of grass separated the sprawling two-story ranch-style house from the perimeter, and towering, neatly trimmed ash trees lined the drive, providing shade and decoration. Though the house was large with a Spanish flair, it wasn’t ostentatious.
“The legislature is in session,” Lucy said. “Why is Congresswoman Worthington in town?”
“Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington,” he said. “She hyphenates her maiden name. You should know that. As far as being home, she made a promise during her first campaign to return to the district on weekends.”
Lucy hadn’t immersed herself in local politics, and had only read a bit about the congresswoman while waiting for Barry to brief their boss. She’d been elected during a special election seven years ago when the sitting congressman had died while in office, a year after she’d married Harper Worthington. If the media could be believed, this upcoming election was going to be her most hard fought, as her opponent was a military veteran and the district had a sizeable veteran population in addition to displaced civilian employees from military base closures over the past twenty years. Yet she seemed popular and had built a broad coalition, according to the local newspaper’s editorial board. They’d written an op-ed when they endorsed her in the first election that opined she was intelligent (graduating cum laude from a prestigious Texas university), successful (running her own real estate development business for two decades), had a popular father (a former six-term mayor), and had married into an old-time, well-respected Texas family (the Worthingtons).
She was Worthington’s second wife—she’d married him eight years ago and had no children of her own. Worthington had one daughter from his first marriage, which had ended when his wife died from cancer when his daughter was only five. Now Jolene was twenty-nine and worked for her father at HWI headquarters.
“The spouse is always a suspect in a suspicious death,” Lucy commented.
“This is a different situation. Worthington was supposed to be in Dallas.”
“I wasn’t implying she was guilty of anything, only that married men who use prostitutes tend to be repeat customers, and I’d think a wife would pick up on something like that.”
“I may ask her that, but a suspicious death doesn’t always mean foul play. We’re not here to interrogate the congresswoman. Understood?”
“I wasn’t intending to, I just thought—”
“I’m lead, so follow my lead.”
Was Barry always such an arrogant jerk or was he this way because he was being forced to work with her? Had Juan said anything to Barry about her record?
Although Juan wouldn’t have had to tell him anything. W
hat had happened in Hidalgo and with their colleague Ryan Quiroz was no big secret. Everyone on her squad knew she’d disobeyed orders. Maybe they also suspected that she’d gone to Mexico in breach of a dozen different federal and international laws, but no one—not even Ryan—had said anything to her. Juan knew—not officially or unofficially, but he knew.
Which was why he didn’t trust her.
Her head ached. The tension in her office was adding to her insomnia.
Lucy followed Barry to the door, which opened as soon as they knocked. The Hispanic male was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie. Conservative and almost formal.
Barry showed his badge. “Special Agents Barry Crawford and Lucy Kincaid to see Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington.”
He nodded formally. “I’m Joseph Contreras, her personal assistant. May I tell her what this is regarding?”
“We need to speak with her directly. It’s about her husband.”
Again, he nodded, then led them into a vaulted foyer with beautiful Spanish tile floors and a large glass chandelier towering above them. Far more opulent than Lucy had expected and didn’t fit in with the Tex-Mex decorations—a large wood-inlayed Texas star on one wall with the Texas flag and the American flag framed on either side.
“Wait here, please. You may have a seat.” He gestured toward a long antique bench that Lucy recognized as a restored pew. What a neat idea, she thought.
Neither she nor Barry sat, but he studied the house, ignoring her. She’d started off on the wrong foot with him this morning—Barry was a by-the-book FBI agent with a solid record. He’d been in the Violent Crimes Squad in Los Angeles prior to 9/11; when VCMO had been drastically cut back, he’d been assigned to the elite Counterterrorism Squad in New York City. He’d transferred to San Antonio and back into Violent Crimes three years ago. It seemed like an odd move after such a high-profile assignment. If she knew Barry better, she would ask him more about his history and why he changed squads. While it was common for FBI agents to move around to different field offices—particularly after their rookie years—it wasn’t as common for an agent to change specialties.
Contreras returned and said, “The congresswoman will be happy to meet you in her home office. She has a full schedule, so I need to ask that you keep this as brief as possible.”
He led them down a large, wide hall past large, wide rooms with large, wide—and masculine—furniture. The residence felt like a man’s house, and Lucy wondered if Worthington had lived here before he married Adeline.
Adeline’s office was across from a spacious library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her office was smaller in scale, but no less grand. Here there was definitely a feminine touch—the floors were a pale cream, the walls a delicate-print wallpaper, and the furniture a light, intricately carved wood. A wall of windows looked out into a vast rose garden.
The congresswoman rose from her leather desk chair and walked over to them on four-inch heels. She was still shorter than Lucy, who wore low-heeled ankle boots. “I’m Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington. It’s a mouthful, I know, so I insist you call me Adeline.”
Barry and Lucy both shook her extended hand, and Barry handed her a business card. “FBI Special Agent Barry Crawford, and this is Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. May we sit?”
“Of course.” She motioned to a couch and two chairs. Above the couch was a detailed oil painting of a battle Lucy was unfamiliar with. It included a Texas flag and pre–Civil War clothing.
Congresswoman Adeline Reyes-Worthington was an attractive, petite Latina dressed in a crisp, tailored business suit and soft pink silk blouse. She was in her forties and had the air of a businesswoman used to being in charge and getting things done.
“May I ask Joseph to bring coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you,” Barry said. “We’re here on official business. We regret to inform you that your husband, Harper Worthington, was found dead this morning.”
She blinked several times. “Harper?”
“We are sorry for your loss. We won’t keep you long, as I know this is a difficult time.”
She shook her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I spoke to Harper last night, before I left for a charity dinner. He was fine.” Her bottom lip quivered just a bit, and her voice cracked as she asked, “Was there an accident?”
“I need to be blunt with you. Though the FBI will do everything to ensure that no details of Mr. Worthington’s death are released publicly, because you’re a public official, there may be unscrupulous reporters digging around.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She turned to Lucy, confusion in her dark eyes. “How did he die? It was an accident, right? It had to be an accident.”
Lucy didn’t say anything, deferring to Barry.
“The Bexar County Medical Examiner’s office is performing the autopsy, and we hope to have answers shortly,” Barry said, “but you should know that his body was found at the White Knight Motel in downtown San Antonio.”
She sighed in relief, though her eyes were still confused and wary. “It’s not Harper. There has been a huge mistake. Harper is in Dallas on business. He won’t be home until tomorrow morning. And he would never go to a motel.”
“We have confirmed that the deceased is Mr. Worthington. He flew into San Antonio last night, arriving at approximately ten thirty P.M. He took a taxi from the airport to the motel, and had a return flight scheduled at one thirty-five A.M. He never made the return flight.”
Adeline didn’t say anything. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her jaw quivered, and her left hand fumbled with the simple pearl necklace around her neck, as if touching it would stop the shaking.
Barry asked, “Were you aware that he was flying into town last night?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head.
“When did you last speak to him?”
“Five thirty last night.” Her voice was a whisper and she cleared her throat. “He was on his way to a business dinner, and I was on my way to the charity event.”
“Do you know who he was dining with?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t talk about business.”
Barry waited until Adeline was looking at him, then said, “An eyewitness saw a blonde woman who appeared to be a prostitute at the motel with your husband. Are you aware if your husband habitually used prostitutes?”
Lucy winced at the indelicacy of Barry’s question.
Adeline shook her head emphatically. “Harper? Absolutely not.”
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, Adeline,” Barry said, his voice a bit softer, “but Mr. Worthington’s body was found in a compromising position and I don’t want you to hear about it from the media. We’re working closely with the crime scene investigators and the coroner to determine exactly what happened, but it’s important that we know everything about your husband’s medical conditions. Did he have a heart condition?”
Adeline didn’t say anything. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying. She stared at first Barry, then Lucy, and then stood up. “I—I need a minute. Just two minutes. Please.”
Barry stood, so Lucy followed. “Of course, take all the time you need.”
Adeline walked briskly from the room.
Barry immediately got on his phone. Lucy felt compassion for the woman, who had to learn about her husband’s perversion from two FBI agents. It had certainly thrown her, but Adeline seemed to have a spine of steel underneath the Southern charm.
Lucy looked around the room, trying to get a better feel for Adeline Reyes-Worthington.
Her office was immaculate, her desk devoid of clutter. A dainty straight-back chair sat directly on the plush carpet. There was no mat or impressions in the carpet, suggesting that she didn’t spend much time working at this desk. No phone, no charger for the computer, and only one slender drawer in the desk. The decorative bookshelves contained a vast collection of leather-bound hardcover books and fancy knick-knacks.
Lucy had the distinct impression that Adeline didn’t work in this office, that she used it only to meet with people who came to her home. It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but the elected officials who Lucy had known when she lived in D.C. often worked from a home office.
She heard Barry wrap up his conversation. It was clear he was speaking to someone at headquarters, but she couldn’t tell who it was from his end.
Adeline walked back into the room five minutes after she’d left. Her eyes were red and her mascara looked a bit smudged. “I called Jolene. She’s in Dallas—she was supposed to have breakfast with her father, but he didn’t show. She’s been calling his cell phone and the hotel…” Her voice trailed off. “I had to tell her. I don’t want her hearing about it on the news, and she was getting a bit frantic. I hope that’s okay.”
Without waiting for them to answer, Adeline continued, “Jolene and Harper were very close.”
If someone told her over the phone that one of her parents was dead, Lucy would be extremely upset. It seemed very impersonal. It was why law enforcement, whenever possible, did death notifications in person. To make sure the person hearing the news had someone to stay with them. Adeline might have been Harper Worthington’s wife, but Jolene was his only child.
“What did you tell Jolene?” Lucy asked.
Barry gave Lucy a sharp look, but Lucy kept her eyes on Adeline.
“I—I just said that Harper was found dead of a heart attack in San Antonio. I didn’t tell her about the motel, or anything else. Oh, God, I’m going to have to tell her, aren’t I? She worships her father. This is going to break her heart.” She brushed away moisture under her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
“We didn’t say he died of a heart attack,” Lucy said.
“You asked if he had heart problems. I assumed.” Adeline sat back down. So did Barry, but Lucy stood next to the sofa and asked, “And did he have heart problems? We’ll get a copy of his medical records, but if you can give us the information now, it’ll speed up our investigation.”
“I—no, he didn’t, though he’d seen his doctor last month and had been acting a bit melancholy. I thought perhaps a midlife crisis. Harper was always so grounded, so down-to-earth, I can’t imagine…” Her voice trailed off and she looked at her manicured hands. “But that would explain the prostitute, wouldn’t it?”
Best Laid Plans Page 3