Dead to the Last Drop (40 page)

“Use what, exactly?” I asked. “I know there’s a scandal here, something that makes the President look bad. But I still don’t know the specifics.”

“They cut me loose,” Bernie said. Though his voice was calm, I could see the cold rage in his gaze. “Right after the Casablanca bombings, my people at the CIA wanted an investigation. They wanted
confirmation
of my death. Or proof of life. But President Parker, then Senator Parker, worked behind the scenes with his crony at the State Department to kill
the investigation. He was in love with Beth Noland by then, I’m sure of it. And he wanted me out of the picture. So he got his friend to testify that it would be a diplomatic disaster with the country of Morocco if they went looking for me. As a result, I was cut loose, declared dead.”

Bernie swiped his hand across his throat. “These e-mails make it clear enough. The future President of the United States ended me.”

“No wonder the administration tried to keep this secret,” Quinn said. “A lot of military families would not be too keen on reelecting a President who left a man behind . . .”

Bernie nodded at Quinn’s observation. Then, oddly, his craggy face split into a smile.

Now, I’d seen Bernie smile before. But never like this. It wasn’t a fatherly smile, or a charming one, or even one that conveyed amusement.

It was the kind of smile that revealed who he really was—a ruthless, canny chess player who had finally found the strategic move for checkmate.

“
This
is how we’re going to help Abby,” he said.

I leaned forward. “How?”

He rubbed his hands together. “For this strategy to work, we need to wait until the world knows Abby is missing. Once the announcement is made, the White House won’t be able to tell their version of the truth. They’ll have to provide real answers to a curious press. Where did Abby go? Why did she run away? Who was she with?”

Bernie unplugged the flash drive and held it up.

“With
this
little piece of history, I can make things very difficult for the First Lady unless she does what I ask. And all I want is for her to stop making Abby’s choices for her. I want her to give Abby the freedom to make her own choices. And if she doesn’t, I will go public and ruin her husband.”

I exchanged a glance with Mike. “Do you think it will work?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Quinn. “It’s brilliant.”

“Thanks,” said Bernie. “The moment Abby’s disappearance goes public, I’ll place the call to the First Lady myself.”

Quinn grunted. “As a fellow divorcé, I’m sure you’re dying to make
that
call. But remember, the White House controls the FBI, the Secret Service, and the CIA. How are you going to bring in the authorities without losing control of the situation?”

“I know a way,” I said. “Agent Sharon Cage knows Abby’s story and she’s become sympathetic to Abby’s feelings for Stan.”

“But how do we bring her here without bringing an FBI SWAT team down on our heads, too?”

It was my turn to display a chess master’s smile. “Code. I can send Sharon Cage a text in a code only she’ll understand. It’s a phrase we privately shared. She’ll remember, and I guarantee she’ll figure it out.”

Bernie looked skeptical. “What’s to stop her from alerting the FBI?”

“Embarrassment. Sharon was the head of Abby’s security detail. Hours after Abby went missing, she was relieved of her duties. I witnessed it myself.”

Madame frowned. “That poor girl. It’s so unjust.”

“But good for us,” I said. “With Cage on the outs with the FBI and the Oval Office, she’ll check things out for herself before sounding an alarm based on a coded message. When she arrives, Bernie can explain everything the way he explained it to us. With the press out front, Sharon Cage can be the one who brings Abby and Stan out of the mansion. A happy ending for everyone.”

“That’s wonderful,” Madame said. “The woman will look like a hero.”

I smiled, recalling my talk with Sharon in front of those ruby slippers. “Believe me, if anyone can get Abby and Stan safely over that rainbow, it’s the agent from Kansas.”

O
ne Hundred Nine

T
HERE was a celebration in the dining room once the young lovers’ dilemma was finally solved. Luther cooked up a quick snack, and Abby and Stan joined us at the table.

It was Bernie who noticed that Quinn and I weren’t feeling the joy.

“What’s the problem?” he asked. “Can I help?”

Quinn informed him that I was still wanted for the murder of Jeevan Varma, and that I was also the prime suspect in the poisoning of Helen Trainer.

“That’s unacceptable!” Bernie said. He was fuming. “Who would do that to such a lovely woman? You know, Abby told me all about Helen, how supportive and helpful she’s been. Personally, I found the woman very charming . . . and I was hoping we’d meet again.”

I began to pace. “I just can’t understand how she was poisoned . . . I filled her cup from the communal coffee urn myself. Everyone else drank the coffee from that urn, including me. And Helen’s cup was empty when I filled it—”

“But it had Helen’s name on it,” Bernie pointed out. “The poisoner must have used a residue, something invisible when it dries. An eyedropper could have been used to deposit the toxin on the bottom of the cup. When the hot coffee went in, the residue dissolved and contaminated the drink.”

“That’s possible?” Madame said, amazed.

“It’s simple tradecraft,” Bernie replied. “It worked for me.”

We all stared at him.

He shrugged. “I poisoned a sadistic Moroccan guard using strychnine I distilled from the rat poison scattered around the prison. I put it in his
teacup. He didn’t die from it. But the residue was enough to send him to the hospital. And he never came back to torture us prisoners again.”

I stared at this man who, just two days ago, I thought of as a genteel jazz critic who could give my ex-husband lessons in sensitivity.
Maybe not.

“Well,” I said, “at least Helen recovered.”

“From what I remember about the Smithsonian party,” said Bernie, “too much champagne is what saved her life.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. It’s called the Rasputin effect.”

Madame blinked. “The Russian mystic?”

“As the story goes, a group of Russian nobles, threatened by Rasputin’s political sway with the czar, invited him to dinner. They plied him with wine and poison-laced pastries. But because he got very drunk, the poison didn’t kill him.”

“Why is that?”

“Excessive alcohol can cause a temporary condition of malabsorption, in which the stomach can’t digest certain nutrients. So the poison doesn’t enter the system fast enough to overwhelm it.”

“That’s interesting,” Quinn said. “But let’s get back to the part about Helen’s cup sitting in plain sight for the entire party. A defense lawyer could argue access by any number of people, which creates reasonable doubt for Clare.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather deliver the guilty party,” I said. “And I think I know who’s behind it—Katerina Lacey. The strategy is sickeningly clever. Helen is poisoned and it looks like I did it. Two rival birds taken out with one deadly cup.”

Bernie leaned forward. “Tell me everything you know about this Katerina person and why you think she hurt Helen . . .”

Quinn joined me in explaining the many faces of Katerina Lacey—politically appointed acting director of a Justice Department task force and sometime advisor to the First Lady.

“For years she’s been advancing her career with ‘fruit of the poisoned tree’ evidence,” Quinn continued. “I’ve been running my own investigation on her past in Baltimore—with the help of a detective there. Here in Washington, I’ve been helping her run stings with shady evidence that I strongly suspect was gathered illegally.”

“You suspect,” said Bernie, “but do you have any proof?”

“Only a theory and a small stack of police reports on lost, stolen, and returned mobile phones from the subjects of her Justice Department prosecutions.”

“Where does Helen fit into all this?”

I jumped in. “Helen was a key witness to events surrounding the murder of a State Department employee, a man named Jeevan Varma who was trying to sell that flash drive to the highest bidder. We have reason to believe Katerina was involved in Mr. Varma’s murder. We don’t know if she was helping him with his blackmailing plan or trying to stop him, but we know she had access to the White House—where Helen’s printouts of those e-mails were stolen. Helen even told me Katerina asked her about her meeting with Mr. Varma. How could she know if she wasn’t involved? And, of course, Katerina was at the party the night Helen was poisoned.”

“But who do you think poisoned Helen’s coffee?” Madame asked. “Katerina herself or an accomplice?”

I faced Bernie. “Would members of the Secret Service know about residue poisoning?”

He nodded. “It’s something they have to watch for.”

“Then if Katerina didn’t do it, she could have had someone else do it for her: Agent Sharpe, who I saw her flirting with on Saturday night. Or her assistant, Lidia.” I snapped my fingers. “That girl actually made a crack about her boss liking ‘men with guns.’ Agent Sharpe certainly fits that profile.”

“Does this woman just bend the law or is she truly corrupt? How dirty is Katerina Lacey?” Bernie asked.

“Very,” said Quinn.

“And in more ways than one,” I added. “Much to the delight of the men she pulls into her web. She’s been trying to pull Mike in for some time.”

Quinn shrugged. “As it happens, I’m allergic to female spiders.”

“But who knows who else Katerina has seduced? We need to learn the identity of her accomplice, too.”

Bernie turned to Quinn. “Do you have any physical evidence against her?”

“This.” Quinn displayed Varma’s cloned phone and explained how it came into his hands. “Not much of a connection. But it’s a brick we can build on.”

“Let’s not forget Danica,” I added. “She’s looking for a hit on that security camera footage. If she gets one, then I have an idea that might catch Katerina in her own web.”

“Your ideas have been good so far,” said Quinn.

“Actually, it’s half Stan’s idea. We had a talk once about beating bullies with strategy instead of force. How’s this for a strategy?”

I laid out the whole gambit, including the roles Quinn, Danica, and I would play. When I finished, Bernie nodded his approval.

“Out of curiosity, Clare, where did the
other
half of that idea come from?”

“Simple geography.”

“How’s that?”

“Katerina’s luxury apartment building is in Maryland. According to the map, it’s not far from Wisconsin Avenue, which means we can take Wisconsin all the way up to her home.”

“So?”

“So do you know what Wisconsin was before it became a tony shopping district or a rolling road for Georgetown’s tobacco port?”

“Haven’t got a clue.”

“An ancient
buffalo
trail.”

Quinn laughed so loud I was worried the FBI might hear, but he wouldn’t stop. The man was positively gleeful at the prospect of buffaloing his awful boss.

“You really do have a mind for tradecraft, Clare. If you ever want to lecture at Langley, give me a shout.”

“Thanks, but from now on, the only CIA people I want to deal with are the ones in chef jackets.”

Quinn clapped his hands.

“Okay, we’ve got a plan. All we need is an arrest warrant and a bouquet of flowers.”

O
ne Hundred Ten

M
IKE Quinn waited until the elevator doors closed. Alone in the silent, carpeted hall, he counted the doors until he reached 6D.

Five minutes
, Mike told himself.
That’s all the time I need. Keep her off-balance for five minutes. And make nice, even if it makes you sick.

He knocked, waited, knocked again. Finally the door opened.

Katerina Lacey frowned in surprise. Her hair was sleep mussed and her slender frame was wrapped in a silk robe. Without makeup her face looked pale as a specter.

“Michael? What are you doing here?”

He put on the wounded-boyfriend pout. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Of course, but I thought you were in New York with your kids.”

“It was time to come back. I found myself needing some . . .
adult
company.”

“But this is so . . . unexpected.”

He sensed her wariness.
Don’t push
, he thought
.

“I know it’s late. But I was anxious for an update. And I wanted to hear it in person. From you.”

“You should have called me,” she gently chided, noticing the flowers. “I would have been ready . . .”

“I couldn’t call. My son was playing
Dragon Whisperer
and broke my smartphone. I’m going to need a new one.”

Katerina lingered at the threshold. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to read him.

She isn’t sure she should invite me in. But she has to . . . or we’re sunk.

He took a step back. “Look, I can see I’m intruding. I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here so late. I should go.”

It was the longest five seconds in his life, and then Katerina reached out and curled her fingers around his.

“No. It’s all right. Come in,” she said, leading him by the hand.

Katerina Lacey lived in a luxury apartment building in suburban Maryland, just thirty minutes from the White House. The emphasis was on luxury, with a sunken living room, a wall of windows, and a balcony view. But for a personal space, Mike could see it had no character. It felt as cold and impersonal as a hotel lobby.

“How did you get past the security desk?” Katerina asked.

“I told the night guard the truth,” he replied smoothly. “I couldn’t wait to see you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Honestly, I think the bouquet did it. The guy must be a sucker for romance—of course, flashing my federal ID helped, too.”

Katerina drew her index finger down his cheek. He fought to keep from shuddering. Then she took the flowers and moved away to find a vase. As she went to the bar to fill it, he gritted his teeth and glanced at his watch.