Flowerbed of State (38 page)

“You’re sure about this?” Turner asked. He pulled the sedan to a cockeyed stop in front of the hotel.

Lillian had said that Richard had the most to benefit from Pauline’s death. Wallace had dedicated his life to protecting his employer. He’d said it himself. That chilly morning after spending the night in a car watching my apartment he’d said that he’d do anything for Richard.
Anything
.

“I’m sure Wallace is the one,” I said. “He has to be.”

“I hope so.” Turner blasted through the revolving door and charged up to the front desk.

I had to hike my gown’s ruined skirt to catch up to him.

“Secret Service,” Turner said and flashed a badge. “I need you to get me into Wallace Clegg’s room.”

The heavyset clerk took one look at Turner with his imposing CAT uniform with three fresh bullet holes in the chest and then ran his eyes over me, with my hair in tangles and my dress muddy and torn. “Does this have something to do with that lady who shot at the President this evening?” the clerk asked, paling at the thought.

“I can’t say”—Turner paused a millisecond to read the clerk’s name tag—“Frank.”

“Do you have the authority to do this?” I whispered.

Turner shushed me and turned back to the clerk.

Frank typed something into his keyboard. “He’s in an adjoining room to the penthouse suite. Let me get a keycard.”

With Frank leading the way, we rode the elevator to the top floor, where there were three doors. “It’s this one,” Frank said.

Turner pulled out his gun and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

“Open it,” he told Frank.

Beads of sweat formed on the clerk’s brow as he swiped the card in the door and jumped back.

Turner held up his arm, indicating that Frank and I should stay back before he pushed the door open. Frank stayed in the hallway where Turner had indicated. I tried to wait with him, but I felt too anxious. I needed to see for myself if Wallace had fled.

He hadn’t.

I followed Turner into the hotel suite. In the room just beyond the suite’s foyer, we found Wallace sprawled facedown across a king-sized bed. Holding my breath, I watched as Turner pressed two fingers to Richard’s personal assistant’s throat.

Turner didn’t have to say anything. I could tell just by looking at him. Wallace was dead.

 

“IT’S OVER,” DETECTIVE HERNANDEZ ASSURED
us as we stood in the hotel lobby swarming with uniformed policemen.

Everyone kept telling me that. That it was over. So why didn’t I feel better?

The police had found a note. Wallace, wracked with guilt over killing Pauline, had taken his own life.

Supposedly
.

“I don’t know why you can’t accept it, Casey.” Hernandez clicked his pen shut and slid his notebook into his blazer’s inside pocket. For him the case was over. He leaned against the lobby’s marble wall and watched as the coroner wheeled Wallace’s body out to the waiting van. “We found an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the bedside table along with three empty minibottles of vodka and the note. He clearly died of an overdose.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle, hugging myself. “I know.”

Richard had confirmed that Wallace had been acting troubled, drinking too much and forgetting things. “I should have done more,” I’d overheard him telling Agent Cooper in the hallway outside Wallace’s room. “I can’t say I’m surprised this happened. I could tell he was getting in over his head. God, I should have done more.”

“It’s late.” Turner appeared at my side and directed my shoulders toward the hotel’s revolving door. “The car’s still parked outside. Let me take you home.”

“What about Senator Pendergast?” I asked with a jaw-cracking yawn as I let myself be led away. There was no reason to stay at the hotel. Richard refused to even look at me. And Wallace, he was dead.

“What about the senator?” Turner opened the sedan’s door for me.

“The banking legislation is supposed to come out of committee on Tuesday, and the senator has the power to get a majority of votes on her side to get the bill passed. Don’t you see what that means? If the killer wants to stop the bill, he’ll strike either tomorrow or Monday.” How could I have forgotten? “Monday is the White House Easter Egg Roll. Senator Pendergast is planning to be there. That’ll probably be the only time she’ll be making a public appearance before Tuesday’s hearing.”

“You’re forgetting something important, Casey.”

“What’s that?” I leaned my head against the passenger-side window’s cool glass and closed my eyes.

“Wallace is dead and Joanna is in jail. It’s over.”

“Is it?”

“According to Agent Cooper, now that Joanna knows Wallace killed himself, she’s started talking up a storm.” Turner’s voice sounded like a faraway voice in a dream. “She’s explained that Wallace was jealous of Pauline’s relationship with Brooks Keller—just as you’d suspected. Joanna was out of her head with jealousy, too. Pauline had practically stolen her lover out of Joanna’s own bed and then had ruined her career and her life. That’s a pretty strong motive for murder.”

“Don’t forget that Joanna embezzled from BLK Investments,” I added sleepily.

“That’s an even stronger motive, then.”

“It’s a nice story. Jealousy breeds murder. Too bad it’s not true.” More asleep than awake, I yawned. “That’s not why Wallace killed Pauline, you know. It wasn’t about a lover’s spat. It was about what she’d saved on her laptop and how it would fuel the banking reform legislation.”

“But, Casey, all her reports were downloaded to the mainframe. No data was lost.”

“Hmm . . . She could have held something back. Everyone I talked to told me how ambitious and power hungry Pauline seemed. What if she was trying to leverage something with Wallace or even with Richard, but it backfired? Whatever she had on that laptop got her killed.”

“Still, Wallace is dead.”

“Yes, he’s dead. Richard won’t have Wallace to run his errands or buy his gifts, like this lovely gown I’ve ruined.”

“What are you saying?”

“No CEO handles mundane tasks. That’s why they have personal assistants and whatnot.” I yawned again. “Goodness, I’m tired. Are we almost home?”

“We’re parked outside your front door.”

I opened my eyes and was surprised to see my apartment’s familiar mahogany door. “Do you know what time Wallace died?” I wondered if Wallace was already dead when Richard picked me up driving his new car.

“I don’t know. No one will until the autopsy results come back. Why?”

“I don’t know.” I was too tired to think straight, much less hope to make any sense.

Turner walked me to the door and waited while I unlocked and pushed open the door.

“Will I see you at the Easter Egg Roll?” I asked.

“Are you kidding me? I don’t have any desire to babysit thousands of screaming kids on Monday. I made sure I had the day off.”

“Meaning you’ve been on a babysitting assignment ever since you met me, and you’ve had enough?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It sure sounded that way.” I hated the shrill tone in my voice.

“Don’t worry, Casey.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Joanna is in custody. Wallace is dead. Nothing is going to happen to the senator . . . or to you. Go to bed. Get a good night’s sleep. You’re safe now.”

Was I?

I didn’t feel safe.

M
ONDAY morning rolled in along with a thick white mist that hugged the White House’s South Lawn. I sipped my mug of coffee and watched workers dressed in blue jumpsuits carry displays, folding tables, and chairs to their designated spots for the Easter Egg Roll. As they moved silently through the haze, they’d intermittently disappear and reappear.

In a few hours, the southeast gate would open to admit the first group of ticketholders.

From my first day at the White House, I’d looked forward to the Easter Egg Roll with great enthusiasm. I loved Easter with its brightly colored hard-boiled eggs, chocolate bunnies covered in golden foil, marshmallow chicks, and the scent of spring flowers in the air.

Trays of English pea and romaine lettuce seedlings we’d grown in the greenhouses had been carried to the bottom of the South Lawn to the gardening display under a green tent. Gordon had dubbed them our presidential crop, since we’d purchased the seeds from Thomas Jefferson’s kitchen garden at Monticello.

Excitement should have been thrumming through my veins. Today had promised to be a treat, the cherry on top of the proverbial cake. But Saturday’s tragedy hung heavy on my mind.

According to the local news reports and tidbits I could get out of Cooper and Hernandez, Brooks had been airlifted to a hospital in New York City and was expected to make a full recovery. Senator Pendergast had been discharged from the hospital early Sunday morning and had spent the day taking her grandchildren to church services and to a picnic on the National Mall.

Although she’d been out in the open and vulnerable for hours, no one had attacked or threatened her. And Joanna continued talking, despite her lawyer’s warnings to keep quiet.

Wallace had approached Joanna a week ago to discuss their mutual enemy, Pauline. Nothing had come out of that initial meeting, but Wallace continued to call Joanna. He constantly reminded her how Pauline and Brooks had ruined her.

According to her, she had nothing to do with Pauline’s murder, but she’d immediately suspected Wallace. He kept calling and reminding Joanna how Brooks and Pauline had hurt her. He told her that she should do something about it. He pushed and pushed until Joanna’s anger had grown to a point that she couldn’t stand it any longer. Suddenly, revenge was worth more to her than her own life. That’s when she agreed to meet with Wallace. He gave her the gun and told her about the charity dinner.

If her purpose that night was to shoot the President, Senator Pendergast, or even me, Joanna wouldn’t say. Her confession, while not complete, should have been enough for me. With Joanna’s arrest and Wallace’s death, the nightmare truly appeared to be over.

Turner believed it.

Detective Hernandez had been adamant about it.

So had Alyssa. She couldn’t understand why I’d asked her to drive me to work this morning. I seemed to be the only one still nervously searching every unfamiliar face for signs of danger.

According to everyone I’d talked to and everything I’d read, Pauline had been killed because she’d visited too many men’s beds. Why Wallace also stole her laptop and what he’d done with it, we’d probably never know.

Even Lorenzo had accepted that explanation with quiet dignity.

So why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I find peace knowing that justice had prevailed?

I causally sipped my coffee—decaf, since my nerves were already jumpy enough—and wished I felt as relaxed as I pretended to be. Perhaps by the end of the day, things would start to feel normal again.

A blurry figure emerged from the mists and shadows with a gait I recognized immediately.

“Jack Turner, what are you doing here on your day off?”

Dressed in his black CAT uniform complete with the large assault rifle slung over his shoulder and a menacing pistol jutting out from a black leather leg holster, Turner headed straight toward me. My heart sped at the sight of him. I’m sure it was because of his guns.

“After this weekend, I volunteered for duty in case I was needed,” he said with a shrug that ended with him wincing.

“Always good to be needed,” I said, wondering just how badly his chest had bruised after Saturday night’s shooting. “If I’d known you’d be here, I would have brought you a mug of gourmet coffee.”

“Why?” He glanced around him with a dramatic flair. “Don’t tell me you’ve latched on to another intrigue. You know I can’t be bribed.”

“I think I’ve had enough intrigue to last me a lifetime. From now on, I’m going to leave the sleuthing to my paperback heroines.” Why was I smiling at him?

Thank goodness he smiled back. “I’m glad to hear it. It’ll save me some sleepless nights. But that’s not why I’m looking for you.” Turner reached into a pocket of his flak jacket and pulled out the bottle of pepper spray I’d left with Fredrick at the gate.

“What are you doing with that? Please don’t tell me I’m being banned from even leaving it at the gate. You know I need it when I walk to and from work.”

“Nothing’s changed. You can still leave the bottle at the gate.”

“Then what’s going on? Did something happen?”

“No, nothing’s happened.”

“Then what’s this about? Aren’t you afraid I might pepper spray the First Dog or the President?” I joked to cover up my confusion.

He pressed the bottle into my hand and curled my fingers around it. “I want you to keep the pepper spray on you and . . . just . . . just be careful.”

“Be careful? Why?”