I cleared my throat. Meg gave me a sidelong glance and then asked sheepishly, “Would you like to try it?”
“Thank you.” After stuffing a sizable helping into my mouth, I understood why Meg had been reluctant to share. The combination of banana, vanilla, walnuts, and caramel could only be described as a dessert lover’s nirvana.
I pointed to the few remaining bites. “You need to try it, Doug. It’s amazing.”
Wrinkling his nose, Doug answered, “Smells a little too strong for my taste.” Then he added, “Maybe Jordan can serve it in his new restaurant.”
Meg nodded enthusiastically. “One of us should tell him!”
I licked the remnants of caramel from the corner of my mouth. “I doubt he’ll be taking my calls after tonight. Meg, back to what you found out about the financing for the project … that sounds like motive to me.”
Meg took the final bite and pushed the empty dish toward the edge of the bar. “You got it. That’s exactly what I thought. According to my source at the party, Jordan had pitched the idea to several venture capitalists but none of them had bitten yet.” She grinned. “His pun, not mine.”
Doug generously placed his credit card on top of the bill. Meg tried to offer him cash, but he refused. Never mind that Doug never had to worry about finances, thanks to his old-money family and trust fund. Chivalry wasn’t dead, at least at the Green Pig Bistro. After our bartender took his credit card, Doug remarked, “If Jack hadn’t died, Jordan’s restaurant might never have come to fruition.”
We gathered our coats to prepare for the frigid weather. Meg donned her vintage floppy cloche hat, leather gloves, and matching silk blend scarf. Only Meg managed to coordinate her winter accessories in addition to her outfit. My gloves were mismatched and my scarf had a tear, mostly likely because Clarence had mistaken it for a pull toy. I’d lost my hat a few months earlier when winter first reared its ugly head. Meg and I qualified as the contemporary female version of The Odd Couple.
After arranging her cute bob underneath the designer hat, Meg answered, “That’s the general consensus. It would explain why Jordan isn’t too broken up over Jack’s death.”
We walked Meg to the subway stop and said our farewells. She gave me a quick hug and motioned with her right hand to call her. When she saw my blank stare, she mouthed the name, “Trent Roscoe.”
I placed a hand over my mouth so Doug wouldn’t ask what was funny. In response to my reaction, Meg pointed a finger at me with a knowing look. “I want the scoop tomorrow,” she whispered.
I jogged to catch up with Doug, who was speed-walking determinedly toward our condo building. The cold weather was one of his few motivations to move quickly. I knew better than to begin a conversation when he was fixed on seeking warmth so I waited until we were inside the refuge of our condo.
Due to the craziness of the afternoon, there had been no time to update Doug on the murder investigation. Before we settled on the couch, he poured us each a small glass of tawny port. A rare indulgence, a twenty-year-old dessert wine remained one of the most reliable ways to warm up on a cold winter’s night. This particular selection, opaque and richly dark, had a full-bodied chocolaty velvet taste, a perfect ending to a day filled with trials and tribulations.
As Doug sipped his drink and sighed in contentment, I updated him on the case. With one notable exception, I spared no details, recounting the impromptu breakfast chat with Detective O’Halloran, my research mission at the Library of Congress, lunch with Judy Talent, the unfortunate conversation with Dan, the meeting at the Sergeant at Arms office, and then Hill Rat’s breaking news.
Naturally I glossed over the meeting with Trent Roscoe, underplaying his looks and sexy vibe.
Doug mostly listened, offering brief congratulations when I mentioned what the librarian had found for me about the gavels. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’re not going to like what I have to say about this.”
Now it was my turn to take a generous sip of port. “Go ahead. I’d like to hear your reaction.”
“I know there are clues pointing to a setup of your boss. Something tells me we’re missing the obvious. Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?”
Bic and Gillette constituted the extent of my knowledge on razors. Rather than profess total ignorance, I shook my head.
“It’s a principle from a fourteenth-century English philosopher. There’s a lot of math behind it, but the general idea is the hypothesis with the fewest assumptions is often correct. Unnecessary complications should be shaved away because the simplest explanation is often the right one. Get it?”
Living with a professor had its ups and down. Lectures about the relationship between philosophy and razors counted as a negative. Nonetheless, I responded affably, “Keep going. What’s your point?”
There was that eye roll again. This time, it was exasperation, not pure annoyance. “I was trying to break it gently to you. Maeve Dixon had the motive, means, and opportunity to kill Jack Drysdale. It’s the simplest explanation of the crime.”
Anger and despair welled up inside me. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or cry. Trying to keep my voice calm, I asked, “How could you say that my boss is a murderer?”
He tried to put his arm around me, but I moved toward the edge of the couch, out of reach. He seemed surprised at the rejection of his affection. “Kit, what’s wrong? You asked me what I thought of the situation and I told you.”
“I’m glad you weren’t the head of the United States Capitol Hill Police last summer when Senator Langsford was murdered. Don’t you remember? I was the prime suspect in that investigation because it was the easiest explanation.”
Doug pursed his lips. “No, this situation is different. You were the obvious suspect because you discovered Langsford. You had no motive. That’s not the same as what you’re dealing with now.”
He had a point, yet it still irked me that he thought Maeve was a murderer. “What am I supposed to do? Dan may be insane, but he’s right on one account. If she’s convicted, our careers are finished.” I took another sip of port. “Besides that, I’ll be emotionally scarred if it turns out I worked for a murderer.”
“You should take the approach I’ve counseled all along. Don’t get involved. Dan can’t fire you, and if Maeve is found guilty, it won’t matter because you’ll be unemployed. Just stay out of it and be careful around her.”
I realized I was gaping and shut my mouth. “You think Maeve could try to kill me?”
“Listen, I don’t know. I’m trying to bring some logic to the table. All these other explanations seem convoluted to me. If you really don’t think she did it, there is one way to prove she’s innocent.”
“Okay, Mr. Razor, or whatever you called it. How do I prove that she’s not the murderer?”
Doug placed his drink on the coffee table and leaned toward me. “It’s quite easy. Come up with an explanation with fewer assumptions than the scenario I offered. Once you’re able to come up with that version of events, you’ve got your killer.”
Another negative to living with a professor: his reasoning is always dead on. No pun intended, of course.
Chapter Seventeen
Repeated blares of the Sherwood Forest trumpet interrupted my peaceful sleep. I really needed to change my text message alert, which often elicited a Pavlovian response that involved throwing my phone across the room.
This time, I resisted the conditioned response and forced open an eye to identify the early-bird texter. Our bedroom was still pitch black. The glare from the smartphone forced me to squint until I could adjust to the unwelcome intrusion of concentrated light. One minute after six a.m. The last time pre-dawn text messages started flying, my boss discovered a dead body and became a prime murder suspect. This couldn’t be good. Was it Maeve, in trouble again? Or Dan, perhaps sending me a threatening message about the fragility of my job if I didn’t solve Jack’s murder in the next fifteen minutes?
It was neither. It was Trevor.
/> Breakfast at seven at Pete’s?
Was he insane? Pete’s Diner, a Capitol Hill favorite, was situated one block from the Metro station and two blocks from my office in Cannon. No one appreciated a calorie-laden meal more than I (well, maybe Meg) but even the tasty coziness of Pete’s couldn’t lure me out before daybreak in the middle of winter.
Too early. How about 8?
The three dots flashed as Trevor typed his response.
Late for me. OK.
The Pentagon crowd started their days notoriously early. Trevor must have adjusted to those hours after becoming a defense lobbyist last summer. I mentally scratched off that option as a future career move.
Both Clarence and Doug snored softly. As much as I wanted to drift back to sleep, the likelihood of that happening was the same as the government shutdown ending today. Roughly nil. Sighing, I threw off the covers and quietly closed the door behind me.
At least getting up before my alarm meant there was ample time for a custom-made coffee drink. I opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. A bag of Italian espresso beans hid behind a box of takeout Thai. I’d bought these a week ago and never had the chance to try them. After tearing open the bag and inhaling the heady aroma, I emptied a cup of beans into our grinder and chose the appropriate setting. The aroma grew stronger as the espresso brewed. Maybe Clarence’s obsession with pizza was understandable. The smell of pepperoni had the same effect on him as coffee did on me in the morning. I poured two dark shots into the steamed milk, added a spoonful of sugar, and headed to the couch to enjoy my java masterpiece.
I still had a few minutes before I had to get ready for the day. Under normal circumstances, catching up on the news about the shutdown would make sense. My current situation was anything but normal. Although Dan, with his hostile approach to his chief of staff duties the past few days, had exhibited all the charm of Jabba the Hutt, he was correct about one thing. Coming up with a workable deal on the shutdown meant squat if the police charged Maeve with Jack’s homicide. While I hated to admit it, Dan had a point. Finding the real killer, or at least identifying a plausible suspect, was the task at hand.
To that end, I grabbed an old notebook and jotted down the facts thus far. Writing down what I knew about the case helped organize my thoughts. Doug’s reasoning from last night was hard to ignore. Reluctantly, I listed Maeve as a suspect, along with Judy Talent, Gareth Pressler, and Jordan Macintyre. Upon reviewing my conversations with each of them, I confirmed Doug’s rational conclusions. Each person had a good motive, but the hard evidence against Maeve was more substantial than the other three. Of course, there was another person to consider, but his/her status as a suspect posed even greater complications. Hill Rat had a terrific motive for wanting Jack dead. If Jack had gone through with his plan to reveal Hill Rat’s true identity, the blog would be finished. No doubt Hill Rat was a great suspect. But without knowing his (assuming Jack was right) true identity, I was just Don Quixote, tilting at windmills.
What was my next step? I had a legislative directors’ meeting at ten this morning. Despite the urgency to solve Jack’s murder, I couldn’t completely neglect my official duties. Besides attending that convo, nothing else warranted my immediate attention. What else could I do proactively? I turned back a few pages in my notebook.
The murder weapon remained the one piece of physical evidence that warranted further investigation. Maeve’s status as the prime suspect wouldn’t change as long as Detective O’Halloran believed her access to the gavel placed her in the most advantageous circumstances to commit the crime. My trip to the Library of Congress had raised the possibility that multiple gavels existed, but I needed to know more. Instinct told me another trip to visit the helpful librarian would arouse unwanted suspicion about my obsession with the Speaker’s gavel. I’d have to figure out another way to dig up more information on the murder weapon. Since that tidbit about the crime hadn’t made its way into the press yet, hopefully my sleuthing could fly under the radar.
A cursory check of the iPhone confirmed it was time to proceed with my morning duties. I showered and dressed, escorted Clarence outside for an abbreviated walk in the cold February air, greeted Doug as he awoke from his slumber, and shuttled out the door to face the lonely commute.
Pete’s Diner was an anachronism on Capitol Hill, a surviving tribute to an earlier era when trendy restaurants operated by celebrity chefs didn’t dominate the culinary scene. The luncheon menu offered a few unusual Asian selections and novel vegetarian options. Otherwise, Pete’s was a greasy spoon frequently patronized by old-school pols who gladly eschewed the yuppie eateries of Pennsylvania Avenue.
I pulled open the door and scanned the two rows of seating. Trevor was seated at the booth farthest from the door. Ensconced in his newspaper, he raised a hand to indicate his presence without looking up to actually acknowledge my arrival. I hurried inside, sat down opposite him, and shrugged out of my winter coat.
“What are you reading?”
Trevor raised a finger to silence me.
“Please wait a moment, Kit. I’m nearly finished with a fascinating article about the threat of asteroids traveling near Earth.”
I pressed my lips together to suppress the snarky retort that almost burst from my mouth. Trevor had summoned me to breakfast, after all. I didn’t haul myself here to watch him read science fiction.
Clearing my throat, I motioned to the waitress for hot coffee. She obliged immediately. Although a no-frills establishment, Pete’s prided itself on prompt service. Many of its Hill patrons only had a few minutes to enjoy their meal.
“Know what you want?” she asked.
I didn’t need to study the menu. “Chocolate chip pancakes, thank you.”
The waitress turned her attention to Trevor, who was still reading. “What about you?”
Trevor glanced up. He must have seen the irritated expression on her face because he promptly folded up the newspaper and placed it on top of his coat. “I’ll have an egg white omelet with peppers and mushrooms and two slices of rye toast. No butter or hash browns, please.” He handed her the plastic-covered menu and smiled.
To my surprise, she returned the grin. “Sure, Mr. Trevor. Coming right up.”
My eyes widened. “How does the waitress know you?”
Trevor arranged his paper napkin neatly on his lap. “I often come here before spending a long day on the Hill.” He adjusted his glasses, smoothed his suit jacket, and tilted his head toward the grill area. “I find it comforting.”
“You never fail to surprise me, Trevor.”
“No doubt. What else might be in store?”
“I’ll just have to wait to find out. I like Pete’s, too, but why did you ask me here for breakfast?”
Our meals arrived, along with a refill of hot coffee. I grabbed the bottle of Log Cabin syrup on the table and drenched my three pancakes.
Trevor cast a disapproving glance at my meal. “How will you enjoy the pancakes underneath that mountain of syrup?”
I deserved the comment but that still didn’t make it less insulting. Leave it to Trevor to aggravate me in less than ten minutes. “If possible, I’d like to eat my pancakes without judgment. Now can you tell me why you asked me to join you this morning? I hope it wasn’t to criticize my choice in breakfast foods.”
“Certainly not. That’s simply an added benefit. I wanted to learn the status of your informal investigation concerning the murder of Jack Drysdale.”
I dipped my pancake in a pool of syrup. I would have liked a few more squirts, but I couldn’t bear another smart remark from Trevor. “I wish I had more to report, like the name of the actual killer. Jack had a lot of enemies, and I can’t seem to narrow down the list of suspects.” I briefly recounted yesterday’s interactions and the relevant details.
Trevor took a bite of his dry toast and chewed slowly. He wiped his mouth neatly before speaking. “You need more opportunities to question the suspects. You’ve only scratched the su
rface, I’m afraid.”
“I agree, Trevor, but I’m running out of time. Detective O’Halloran is under pressure to solve this murder as soon as possible, and my boss fits the bill.”
“What is your plan for today?”
“I thought I might try to learn more about the murder weapon.”
Trevor perked up. “Which is?”
I forgot the gavel hadn’t been included in the media accounts of the murder. I told him about my trip to the Library of Congress and the discovery about multiple gavels.
I could never finish an entire serving of chocolate chip pancakes at Pete’s. The pancakes weren’t huge but the syrupy sweetness mixed with the chocolate got me every time. At least the sugar and caffeine overload guaranteed I wouldn’t fall asleep anytime soon. I pushed my plate away to indicate I couldn’t ingest another bite.
Trevor listened intently. “Why not track the gavels to their point of origin? Then you can find out if they still make more than just one or two for a Speaker.”
“Good idea, but for all I know, those gavels are made halfway across the country.”
Trevor wrinkled his nose. “Doubtful. The Architect of the Capitol is responsible for the maintenance and construction of all congressional buildings. That includes the tradecrafts necessary for daily operations. This doesn’t seem like something the Speaker of the House would outsource.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
Trevor waved his hand dismissively. “I acquire information using two different methods.” He signaled with one finger, and then two fingers for emphasis as he spoke. “First, I read voraciously. Second, I ask good questions.” He peered over his glasses. “If you continue to engage in these investigations, you may want to engage in both activities.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Trevor. I’d still need to figure out where those gavels are made, even if it’s within the Capitol complex.”
The bill came, and we both threw down money for our meals plus a generous tip. Fortunately, stinginess was not one of Trevor’s many off-putting personality traits. While I gathered my coat to prepare for the ten-minute walk to my office in the frigid weather, he surprised me by saying, “Don’t go yet. Let me try to find an answer to your question.”
Homicide in the House Page 14