“Will do.”
* * *
LOTELLO WALKED OUT THROUGH the lobby to the rotunda, looking for Ayres. Before Lotello could figure out who was who, a perfectly groomed man in an expensive dark pinstripe suit came bustling up to him. “Are you in charge here?”
Opening his wallet, Lotello responded, “Detective Frank Lotello, Metropolitan D.C. police. Can I help you, Mr….?”
“Ayres, James Ayres, Senator Wells’s chief of staff. What happened here?”
“Sorry for your loss, Mr. Ayres, but you’ve been here longer than I have this morning. Not much information I can share with you yet. Are you usually at the senator’s home at this time of day?”
Ayres seemed taken aback. Exactly the effect Lotello had intended. “No, of course not.” Pausing, he added, “The senator’s driver arrived to pick her up earlier this morning. She didn’t show. He and the security guard went to her unit and found her body. He called me. I came as quickly as I could. Isn’t there anything you can tell me?”
“Aside from the fact that Senator Wells is dead, no. I’m afraid not. Why don’t you tell me where the senator was supposed to be this morning? And where she was supposed to be last night?”
“She left her office last night a little after seven. Her driver brought her home. Then went home himself. No idea what plans she had for the evening. She was supposed to be at the WSOC hearings this morning. That’s the Senate Wall Street Oversight Committee.”
“Her driver? That’s Robert Grant?”
“Right.”
“How long did Grant work for the senator? How well do you know him?”
“About four months. I met him when he started working for her. Seems like a nice enough guy. He cleared the government security check okay.”
“How is it you know Grant went home last night after he dropped off the senator?”
Ayres thought about that for a moment. “I guess I don’t. I just assumed it.”
“Assumptions aren’t very helpful, Mr. Ayres. Especially ones you keep to yourself. Do you know anyone who might have wanted Senator Wells out of the way?”
“No, but she is on the Wall Street Oversight Committee. They deal with lots of inflammatory issues concerning the economy. There’s no shortage of kooks out there. But I don’t recall any serious threats against her.”
“Okay, Mr. Ayres. Thanks. You can be on your way. I’ll speak to Mr. Grant. We may or may not release a statement later this morning. I’ll be in touch.”
Lotello watched Ayres turn around and leave. Ayres didn’t seem to like being told what to do.
* * *
LOTELLO WALKED BACK TO the townhouse and found Barnet. “Why don’t you finish up here? I’ll see you back at the station.”
* * *
LOTELLO WALKED OUTSIDE THE townhouse grounds, stretched, looked around the exterior of the complex once more, and headed back to his car. He was surprised to see one of the local beat reporters, Rachel Santana, already at the scene. Santana wasn’t a bad looker, Lotello thought, if you liked the ostentatious, over-the-top look: heels too high, skirt too short, top too tight, too much makeup, too much cleavage protruding from her obvious push-up bra. “Hey, Rachel, what brings you out here so early?”
“Missing your pretty face, Frank. You know, when the boys and I have nothing better to do, we just start following you around. Figure sooner or later something interesting will pop.”
“Yeah, right.” Especially since I’ve been on leave doing nothing. “Suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to ask you for a more serious answer?”
“Well, maybe. Any chance you might have something for me?”
“Well, maybe. Or not.”
“C’mon, Frank, give me something. I will tell you I got an anonymous voicemail message earlier this morning saying Wells was caught without her panties one too many times, that it would be worth my while to stop by her place. Couldn’t pass that up. So what gives, Frank?”
“Nothing yet. Hey, Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“You still have that voicemail message?”
“Not sure, Frank. Guess I could check.”
“I can get a search warrant for it. Anonymous calls aren’t protected.”
“No point, Frank. You know how I am with technology. All thumbs. Voicemail’s probably long gone.”
“Never learn, do you, Rachel? See you around.”
“Right, Frank.”
Frank drove off, mired in thought. Okay, that’s two surprising telephone calls this morning. One to Metro and one to Santana. Who made these calls? And why?
CHAPTER 5
Friday, February 6, 10:00 a.m.
FIRST CAME ANGER. THEN anger turned to rage. Then rage led to confusion. He was becoming more and more confused. It was all becoming more and more confusing. He had not always been this way. Things had not always been this way. But I will prevail. I must prevail.
* * *
THERE SHE SAT, ONE week earlier, frightened, miserable, and all alone, in the lobby of the psychiatric ward of that local Washington, D.C., hospital. Paige Rogers Norman wondered how all of this could have happened so quickly, in the blink of an eye one might say.
Blink once. There was Paige, with husband, Cliff, and their young son, Ryan. It was early 2008. They were on top of the world, happily married for twelve years, the owners of a highly successful local electronics business they had toiled together for more than a decade to build. Paige had retired from the business and was in charge of all family matters, including Ryan and their beautiful Georgetown home. Originally an engineer, Cliff continued to run the business and was in the midst of merger negotiations to sell their company to a large national electronics chain. They both looked forward to more family time together, and hopefully an addition or two to the Norman family.
Blink again. It was late 2008. The economy had come crashing down around them. At first, it was just a problem for others, not for the Normans. Until the merger discussions collapsed. The Norman business was hanging on, but the buyer had lost its financing.
Blink again. It was early 2010. The economy began taking its toll on the Norman business too. Just slowly at first.
Blink once more. It was the middle of 2011. The toll on the Norman business was now much more severe. The company’s accounts were drying up. Cliff was forced to lay off employees who were like family to him. And to Paige as well.
Another blink. Early 2012. The Norman business failed altogether. Then the low teaser rate on their home mortgage expired. The post-teaser rate raised the monthly mortgage payments beyond anything the Normans could afford. Making matters worse, the value of their home fell below the amount of their mortgage, making a sale all but impossible.
Blink again. It was fall 2012. The country had a new president, but that didn’t stop the bank from foreclosing on the Norman home. They were now living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, depleting what little savings remained while Cliff looked for a job to sustain their family. His efforts proved unsuccessful. There were no jobs to be had.
When it seemed like nothing more could go wrong for them, something else did go wrong. Terribly wrong. Ryan had become ill. They had found a tumor. It was malignant and considered inoperable. It was also extremely aggressive. Ryan’s only chance was a prohibitively expensive new course of treatment. The Normans had a health care policy, one of the few remnants left over from their failed company, but the insurer said the procedure was “experimental” and would not cover it.
Cliff had no family to help. Paige had only her parents, retired in Flagstaff, Arizona, barely making ends meet. Frantic, Cliff went to New York and tried to meet with senior executives of the insurance company, but they were in the midst of a weeklong corporate “retreat” at some fancy island golf and polo resort. And unavailable. His messages went unreturned. Conventional treatment proved inadequate.
Ryan died barely one month later, in early December 2012.
In just a few blinks, Paige and Cliff had aged a life
time. No longer on top of the world, they were now buried beneath it. Paige and Cliff were hardly functioning, or even speaking.
Cliff all but died with Ryan. Paige would watch Cliff go off in the morning without a word, not returning until late at night, again completely silent and withdrawn.
Still grieving the loss of Ryan, Paige worried more and more about Cliff. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. He had nothing to say, except on rare occasions when he barely muttered to himself. Paige begged Cliff to let her take him for medical help. He just quietly stared back at her.
Then, one night, in mid-December 2012, Cliff didn’t come home. Not that night. Not the next day. Not anytime thereafter. Paige went to the authorities. Initially, apart from registering him as a missing person, and going through a few superficial investigatory motions, they said there was nothing further that they could do. Which was exactly what they further did: nothing.
Weeks went by. Nothing changed. Paige finally decided there was nothing more she could do. Heartbroken, she gave the authorities a forwarding address and reluctantly went to live with her parents in Arizona.
One more blink. In January 2013 D.C. authorities contacted Paige. So did a Washington Post reporter by the name of Rachel Santana. Cliff had finally turned up, on the steps of the Capitol building. Physically disheveled and emotionally distraught. Ranting at the top of his lungs: “It’s all your fault! You did it! You killed Ryan! Now I’m going to get you!”
Building security officers detained the agitated man and summoned the police. Someone also alerted Santana, who managed to make it to the Capitol steps ahead of the police. Cliff was committed to a local psychiatric facility, and the authorities contacted Paige. She returned overnight to D.C., but Cliff was completely unresponsive. After expiration of the short mandatory confinement procedures under applicable law, the hospital was forced to release him. He vanished all over again.
* * *
ON THE SAME DAY Cliff was released, a short story appeared on one of the back pages of The Washington Post under the headline:
LOCAL MAN TRAGICALLY LOSES FAMILY, IS ARRESTED
Anger turned to rage. Rage turned to confusion. He read the words again. And thought to himself: It’s all your fault. You did it. You killed Ryan. Now I’m going to get you. Was that me? Am I crazy? But I will prevail. Either way. I must prevail.
CHAPTER 6
Friday, February 6, 2:15 p.m.
A LITTLE AFTER THE noon crowd, Lotello and Barnet met at Tia Maria’s, their favorite local eatery. Sitting at their regular Friday table, they washed down the weekly cocido special with a couple of cold ones.
For Lotello, that meant Corona Light. While departmental rules prohibited drinking alcohol on the job, Lotello’s culinary rules required that cocido be consumed only with Mexican beer. Lotello’s rules prevailed, although he strictly limited himself to two bottles. Barnet was incorruptible. He stuck to club soda.
“You know the department rules. I won’t be able to cover for you if someone reports you.”
“You worry too much, J,” Lotello rationalized weakly. “Two Corona Lights is hardly worth classifying as alcohol.”
They discussed their new case. Although Wells was a U.S. senator, Lotello speculated that it would likely be at least another day, maybe longer because of the weekend, before the coroner would have any useful information for them. “Besides, what happened to Wells was not rocket science,” Lotello said. But, why? What was the motive? A relationship gone sour? Or something less obvious? Made to look like a relationship gone sour?”
From Wells’s chief of staff and driver, Ayres and Grant, they already had a rough window during which the attack could have taken place. But without pinning down the time any further, the present window wasn’t going to be of any real value. “The scene was simply too clean,” Lotello observed, “to suggest much chance of any prints or DNA. Or anything else from the coroner that will prove particularly useful. Unless we get lucky, the coroner simply isn’t going to be of much help.”
What continued to bother Lotello most of all were the two unexplained telephone calls. One to the Metro police station; the other to the journalist, Santana. Only the killer himself would likely have known so quickly what had happened. “Why in the world,” Lotello wondered out loud, “would the killer have wanted to draw any attention to the crime?”
“Beats me,” Barnet replied. “I Googled the senator. Even before her husband’s death, there were rumors that she was quite a player. Maybe we’ll turn up some jealous ex, or someone else who didn’t care for her loose morals. We need her home and office computers. Ayres may insist on our getting a subpoena. He was not very cooperative.”
“Don’t worry about Ayres. Odds are he’s harmless. Just a little full of himself. Not to mention understandably on edge over what happened to his boss.”
Lotello did not feel very optimistic. “Wells was a public figure. We’re not likely to find anything all that helpful to us on her computers. But we have to check. What I’m more interested in is any calendar or little black book she might have kept. Think about it: If she was playing around, she had to have a private calendar of some sort. Most likely not on her computer. For any Tom, Dick, or Harry to stumble across.”
Barnet nodded. “I checked the townhouse for a little black book this morning. No luck. I asked Ayres. He said he wasn’t aware of any.”
Lotello wasn’t having any part of that. “She had to have one. Either Ayres has it and didn’t want to give it up for some reason or her killer took it when he snuffed her. We’ll have to sweat Ayres further about this. Leave that with me.
“I have some family things I have to do this afternoon with the kids. In the meantime, see what you can find on Wells’s computers. I’ll see you in the morning unless something comes up sooner.”
As Frank headed out, the two early-morning telephone calls continued to nag at him. Something more here than meets the eye, Beth. No reason for a scorned lover to have made those calls. I have a bad feeling about this. What about you, Beth? What do you think?
CHAPTER 7
Friday, February 6, 4:00 p.m.
DR. JODY DIMARCO, DEPUTY Secretary of the Treasury for Oversight, had suffered through a long, tiresome week. Hers was a thankless job under the best of circumstances. In the past year, however, with the economy as bad as it was, it had become much worse. Repeatedly being called on the carpet in front of an increasingly aggressive Congress grandstanding for the media was frustrating. As far as DiMarco was concerned, this was a lot of pots calling the kettle black. Adding insult to injury, the real kettle here was DiMarco’s predecessor from the prior administration. DiMarco was still teaching classes and writing her latest book when the economy tanked in 2008.
DiMarco and her devoted husband of twenty-five years, Lawrence DiMarco, were both professors at Harvard Business School when she was asked to join the new administration. From the time of her doctoral thesis on why the financial markets needed to be free of governmental influence, DiMarco had been a champion of hands-off government. The new administration—anything but hands-off—had reached out to DiMarco as a token demonstration of its supposed commitment to open-minded bipartisanship. And maybe as well because the DiMarcos actually paid their taxes.
Truth be told, DiMarco was beginning to have some misgivings about the lack of congressional oversight. Her new position presented an opportunity to rethink her earlier hands-off position.
This morning, however, took the cake. Expecting to be dragged over the coals once again, DiMarco had spent hours preparing for the latest WSOC hearing. She was there, on time, ready to go. Without any notice, Chairman Wells was a no-show. The hearing had to be postponed until next week. What an ass, failing to show up without any explanation. Probably out gallivanting around last night until all hours. Now hung over in bed somewhere.
DiMarco did not care for Wells, not professionally and certainly not personally. She thought Wells was nothing but a typical two-faced politician, lo
oking for scapegoats for Washington’s lack of control of the Wall Street predators who had all but caused the collapse of the economy. DiMarco also thought Wells was a classless embarrassment to her office, but she would never say such a thing out loud. DiMarco was a proper lady, even if Wells was not.
Courtesy of The Financial Times of London, her husband, Lawrence, was at an international conference in London, delivering a paper on the proper role of government in collapsed and recovering financial markets. After her tough week, DiMarco was looking forward to dinner and a quiet evening at home by herself, and a long, relaxing bubble bath.
Her take-out sushi dinner was nice. The steaming bubble bath was even nicer. DiMarco was luxuriating in the water when the telephone rang. “Hello?”
“Hello, dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine, hon, just soaking in the tub. What about you? How are things in London? Pretty late there, isn’t it?”
“Just back from dinner with some of the other speakers. We did it up a bit, a few too many ales, I’m afraid. Not much time to sleep before I have to clean up and head out to Heathrow. I’ll catch a good nap on the flight home. Go back to your soak. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Think of something fun we can do together on Sunday.”
“Will do. Safe flight. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
* * *
“MUST BE MY LUCKY day,” the man thought to himself as he returned the gun and suppressor to his shoulder bag and quietly set it on the floor. Only seconds after DiMarco had hung up the phone, the man came up behind her and grabbed her firmly by the throat. She barely managed to get out an exclamatory “What …?” before he pushed her down under the soapy water. It was the last question she ever almost asked. “Next time, do your job,” he said to no one in particular. “I had to pay. Now you have to pay too!”
After she had gone limp, he pulled her out of the water, carried her into the adjoining bedroom, and dropped her down on the bed, face up. He retrieved his bag from the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. He opened it and withdrew his … utensils.
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