Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (7 page)

Savich home
Georgetown

Tuesday night

G
abriella watched Sean downstairs while Savich washed Sherlock’s arm, applied antiseptic cream thickly over the thin red gash, and covered it with a wide adhesive bandage. It had taken only ten minutes, but when they were back in the kitchen, ready to start dinner with Sean, he was too excited to sit because of a
big
problem at school that Gabriella couldn’t help him with. This last part he told them in a whisper, believing Gabriella couldn’t hear him, though of course she could. Turned out a girl had hit Sean in the shoulder because Sean had beaten her in an Inspector Milo Bork on Planet Tubor computer game. Marty from next door, whom Sean considered his future wife, had jumped on the girl’s back and pulled her hair. Sean said, “Sammy didn’t hit me hard. I mean, I get mad if someone beats me, too, but I suck it up like you told me to. Now Sammy and Marty are mad at each other and mad at me. It’s not fair.”

Ten minutes later, after Sean had called Marty and Marty had
called Samantha, and all the respective parents were happy again, all was well in the kingdom.

Sherlock grabbed Sean up when he handed Dillon’s cell back to him and kissed him all over his face before tossing him to his father, who squeezed him until he squeaked, laughing like a loon while Astro barked and jumped manically at Savich’s legs. Her arm didn’t hurt at all. Finally, the eggplant came out of the oven and they sat down for dinner.

Later that evening, once Savich had sung two country-and-western songs for Sean, three verses each, and Sean was down for the count, Sherlock took Savich’s hand and led him to their bedroom.

They sat side by side on their bed, Sherlock looking straight ahead. “It started two days ago. I didn’t tell you because it was so stupid, really, not much of anything, only something a little out of the ordinary.”

“What, exactly, do you mean by ‘not much of anything’? Apparently it wasn’t that because a guy tried to kill you today.” He kept his voice low and calm, hard even though hours had passed since they’d gotten home. He kept looking at her arm, remembering his gut-wrenching fear when she’d been shot in San Francisco. It brought it all back, made it seem like yesterday.

When she only stared at him, he said, “I’m not going to throw a fit like Sammy did with Sean’s computer game. Sweetheart, come on, tell me what you mean.”

She said, “Okay. I was in Chad’s Market, for heaven’s sake, two afternoons ago buying some vegetables. You know that feeling you get that someone is looking at you, checking you out? Well, that’s what I felt. I was deciding between two heads of lettuce when I
knew to my gut that someone was staring at me. I looked around at the dozen or so people in my immediate vicinity but didn’t see anyone paying any particular attention to me. I mean, the guy behind the meat counter sometimes flirts with me, called me the hot lady with the badge once, but he wasn’t even around. I forgot about it.

“Yesterday, when I was at the Olive’s Baby Boutique over on M Street buying a present for Lily’s baby, I felt the same thing again—eyes on me. It spooked me this time, and I turned around fast to see who it was. There were four mothers, three of them carrying babies, and one older gentleman inspecting a blue baby blanket. I didn’t see anyone else. Then I looked out the big front glass window and saw a shoulder moving out of sight. I ran out of the store, but whoever the shoulder belonged to was gone. I assumed I was overreacting, Dillon. To be honest, though, I was ready to tell you I might have a budding stalker on my hands.”

“And you didn’t tell me about this budding stalker yesterday because?”

“Because after what happened in San Francisco, I knew you’d lock me in a closet to keep me safe and only let me out to go to the bathroom. I needed time to weigh things out in my mind, Dillon, and decide whether it was worthwhile to worry you about it.”

“It’s definitely a closet for you now, and guards outside the door who’ll have Uzis all around.” She felt his fingers lace through hers. She looked down at their hands. “I was going to tell you over tacos at lunch, but Davis started telling about how he was going out with Natalie Black to that function this evening, and I decided not to push it, to wait until tonight. Big mistake.

“What I don’t understand is why this person gave up staring at me and decided on a drive-by on a motorcycle. That doesn’t sound
like a stalker to me. It’s too soon for that kind of escalation. I mean, two days of watching, then kill me?”

He hugged her close. “No, not a stalker, but he was casing you out for a hit, and it was a clumsy one at that, so he’s not a professional. It’s obvious he had to be hanging around the Hoover Building today, watching for you, following you. You never noticed anyone while you were driving?”

“No. But you know, I was thinking about Lily and Simon and how it’s so great Ethan was born healthy and how over-the-moon both of them are—and how your sister deserves happiness. I wasn’t concentrating on anyone possibly tailing me. I mean, why would I?”

“He was at the grocery store, then outside that baby store. We’ve got to figure out what changed between yesterday and today to make him go after you. And in a busy spot with lots of people around.”

“Maybe he was waiting for a chance, and today was his first opportunity. He must have followed me from the service station, thought I was an easy target and thought,
Wowee, rev up the cycle, cruise right up to her, shoot her down.
”

He pressed his face against her hair, breathing in slowly, getting control of himself. He said against her ear, “So who have you pissed off lately?”

She spurted out a laugh, pulled back in his arms. “Well, there’s Alex Benedict, Esquire, isn’t there? That smarmy lawyer has been threatening me he’d have my job for harassing his thug client, Tommy Cohen.”

“I can’t see either Teflon Tommy or his lawyer calling for a hit on you. Bad for business. And they wouldn’t have hired a bozo like the guy who shot at you today.”

Sherlock leaned into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “I was sort of joking. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I can’t come up with anyone, Dillon. If you want the truth, that’s depressing. I mean, I’ve been a special agent for a good amount of time and yet I don’t have anyone in my past who hates me so much they’d go out of their way to put me down. There’s only Marlin Jones, and that was a long time ago. You’d think I could at least come up with a couple of enemies.”

He laughed at her outrage.

“I really thought we’d get a good description from the Thompson couple who were right there close up when the guy jumped off that Kawasaki after I shot out his tire.” She sighed again. “I was sure they’d be able to give us at least a flash of something about the man while he ran past them. How could they say they didn’t see him? How’s that possible?”

“They’re both nearing ninety, Sherlock. One has macular degeneration and the other is swimming in cataracts. They’re really a nice old couple,” he added, “and they wanted to help, but the fact is I don’t even think the Thompsons even realized you were shot at, from what they said.”

“I wish I’d gotten a better look at him myself. I’ve been going over what I saw of him all evening, and there’s nothing more. Like I told the officers, he was on the tall side and kind of thin. A really nice camel wool coat, khakis, and boots. I couldn’t tell his age because he was wearing sunglasses and had his head all bundled up. That’s all I’ve got.” She sighed again. “Well, the forensics team might find some fingerprints on the motorcycle or DNA, if the gods are smiling on us. With any luck, he’ll be in the database.”

“We’ll check the street cameras outside the Hoover Building, and any along Prospect Street near the service station. If you’re
right, and it was an old Colt M1917, but I doubt he bought the gun on the street. I wonder how he got hold of such an old weapon.”

“He probably didn’t know how to buy a throwaway. Maybe it belonged to his grandfather. Hey, where are you going?”

Savich turned to look down at her. He saw the slight bulge of the bandage beneath her nightgown sleeve and felt a spurt of fear. “I was going to put a brighter lightbulb in the closet so you won’t strain your eyes reading when I lock you in.”

Secretary of state’s home
Caldicott Road, Washington, D.C.

Tuesday night

I
t appeared to Davis that Arliss Goddard Abbott’s second husband was a booze hound, but then he supposed he’d have to consider that Brooxey Wallingford, of the Philadelphia mainline Wallingfords, could support one or two third-world countries. Davis thought the elder Wallingford seniors must have hated him to pin such a ridiculous name on him. He’d obviously drunk one too many shots of Glenfiddich that evening and was ogling the women, particularly Natalie, that or her diamonds, Davis wasn’t sure which. He and the secretary of state, who’d kept her own name, had been married less than a year, Natalie had told him, and said only, “He was always nice and charming the half-dozen times I was with him socially. He was a prince at their wedding.” She looked from Arliss to Wallingford, sighed. “I wonder if Arliss knew he was such a drinker before they got married.”

Cynical to the bone, Davis said, “It may be a huge mitigating factor that he and his family are almost as rich as Bill Gates.”

Natalie shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, it’s none of my business.”

When they reached Arliss Abbott in the receiving line, she cheek-kissed Natalie and gave Davis a cool smile and a firm handshake. She was a tall, elegant woman in her long black designer gown, similar in age and as beautifully presented as Natalie. She was, Davis thought, the undisputed queen of her kingdom. It was odd though, that Natalie seemed to radiate warmth and interest, whereas Abbott gave off an “I’m in charge and don’t you forget it” vibe
.
Maybe, he thought, she had learned to project that image on the job, but he doubted it. He rather thought she’d learned it in the cradle. He saw her give a nearly imperceptible nod to one of her aides. Davis watched the young man discreetly lead second husband Wallingford away, with some practiced excuse, no doubt. What would the aide do? Put him in his jammies and tuck him in bed?

He felt her powerful intelligence focus on him. “Natalie tells me you’re a special agent with the FBI. I understand you work for Dillon Savich, and everyone is impressed with him, the president included.”

Maybe Davis was impressive by extension? “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and left it at that.

“However did you hook up with Natalie?”

Hook up?
Well, she was sitting in a smoky bar over on K Street, drinking alone, and I
—“Natalie tells it better than I do, ma’am. I guess you could say I protect her from unwanted attention.” Davis kept his eyes firmly on her face, not about to see if Mr. Brooxey Wallingford was still in sight. It was Madame Secretary of State Abbott who snuck a look toward the door her aide and her husband were currently negotiating, Brooxey swaying a bit, the aide speaking to him quietly.

Natalie said, “Arliss, I’ll tell you about it later. Oh, yes, Perry told me she’s coming with Day.”

Arliss Abbott placed a beautifully manicured white hand on Natalie’s arm and moved in close, her voice pitched low. “We need to talk. I don’t think in my office, it would invite speculation. Some afternoon we can both get away?”

Natalie kept her voice steady. “Of course. We need to discuss this—situation.” She drew a deep breath, her head very close to the secretary’s. “I need to hear your advice about what I should do.”

Arliss Abbott nodded, beamed a practiced, smooth smile at Davis, and turned to greet a plump older woman with a smoker’s wrinkled face, a congresswoman from Connecticut, Natalie whispered to him.

Natalie moved gracefully from one small conversation group to another, all in all about thirty A-list men and women, as jeweled up and beautifully turned out as she was. Davis noticed when Natalie neared, conversation stopped for half a second, all eyes focused on her, until the guests remembered their manners and responded as naturally as they could to her greeting. Davis kept a bland smile planted on his face. He was sure they were burning to know what the secretary of state had said to her and what they were planning. He wondered if she would still be ambassador if the two women hadn’t been best friends since college, along with the president of the United States. Davis had a feeling that despite that fact, this roomful of politicians would bet their galoshes that Natalie would end up thrown under the bus.

Davis stood a little behind her, aware of everyone who came near her. Of course, information was the currency in Washington, and everyone wanted a big chunk, but they weren’t rude enough or honest enough to ask Natalie directly. She smiled and nodded,
ignored the covert stares, and her voice was cultured and beautifully pitched, but she wasn’t saying what they really wanted to hear. She deflected supportive comments about the events in England with great skill and charm—
events
—as if that was the only polite word for a man’s death and Natalie’s attempted murder. If her laughter was a bit thin at times, no one let on that they wondered why, but of course they did. She continued from one group to another and neither her conversation nor her expression revealed that her reputation, and her life, in fact, was in the balance.

She always carefully introduced him whenever she came into a new group, referring to him only as her “friend.” She’d been right about how he’d be perceived. He’d never considered what it would be like to be a boy toy. It was a novel experience, particularly since he was the youngest person at this fancy party, except for a couple twentysomething trophy wives. He was given sideways looks by some of the men, who apparently wondered what he had going for him. The women were assessing him, too, in a different way, maybe wondering if he was good in bed. But always, everyone’s gaze returned to Natalie, the poor beleaguered woman they seemed to think would be cut loose long before the midterm elections.

He might have known there would be talk about football, too, an easy subject for Natalie and everyone else. From a congressman he learned Perry had rocked the football world that very day with the actual facts about the Tim Tebow rumors flying around.

And then, speak of the devil, Biker Babe waltzed in, not in a black leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, but in a long shimmery dark green gown that left her tanned shoulders bare. Where’d she get that tan? Her thick brownish-red hair was loose, pulled back with gold clips, a mess of lazy curls falling to below her shoulders.
Black dangly earrings nearly touched those very nice shoulders. He realized she was as tall as her mother, those skinny-heeled stilts shooting her up to nearly six feet. Perry was on the arm of a man he assumed was Day Abbott, the secretary of state’s son. He was about Davis’s own age and looked quite the bruiser, like he might have played football in college. He was thick through the chest and shoulders, fit and toned, with a strong, stubborn jaw and dark eyes that never left Perry’s face. His look wasn’t brotherly. It was odd, but Davis knew on the spot he and Day Abbott wouldn’t ever be best buds watching a hockey game, sharing a beer. He saw Perry give him a little finger wave, her eyebrow arched in question.

Evidently, her mother hadn’t told her he would be her bodyguard tonight.

Natalie lightly touched his arm as an older gentleman quickly walked up to her and embraced her without much enthusiasm. “Davis, this is my half-brother, Milton Hinton Holmes.” Now, that was an impressive handle. “Milton is one of the senators of the General Court—in Massachusetts the General Court is made up of the Senate and the House of Representatives.”

Milt didn’t shake his hand, merely gave him a patrician nod and ignored him. Davis said, all bonhomie, “General Court? I’ve never heard of that before.”

Milt said, civil but cold, his Boston accent pronounced, “No one has. The name is a holdover from Colonial times. It’s what we call our state legislature.”

Milt had scarlet-red hair, threaded through with white. He was a distinguished-looking sixtysomething gentleman who looked reasonably fit, with no saggy jowls, probably because of some nice pull-up face work he’d had done. He spoke quietly to Natalie, giving her troubled looks. Was he concerned about the propriety
of Natalie bringing Davis with her tonight? He thought it might be so, because Old Milt was looking at him with seamed lips and well-bred contempt. It was, he thought, the inevitable lot of the boy toy.

They were directed toward a dining room across the hall that held three large circular tables for ten guests each, set with silver and white table linens that sparkled under special lighting that made the guests’ diamonds glitter as well. Davis held Natalie’s chair for her and sat down in the chair to her right. A massive-bosomed matron wearing more diamonds than Natalie sat on her left. She was the wife of the big muckety Natalie had just met, no doubt a large contributor to the party coffers. The husband was fulsome, filled every small moment of silence with great enthusiasm, and spent too much time looking at Natalie. The wife was quiet, content, Davis supposed, to let the massive quantities of diamonds she wore speak for her. Perry sat across from them. To her left was a four-star from the Joint Chiefs who didn’t seem all that happy to be there, and on her right sat Day Abbott. But when the four-star suddenly realized who Perry was, everything changed. He took over the conversation entirely, talking mostly about the Patriots, the general’s favorite team. Day Abbott slugged down a straight whiskey and looked like he was used to this and didn’t particularly like it.

When Natalie’s salad was served, Davis discreetly exchanged plates. The same with her dinner plate that held a finely cut filet mignon and potatoes whipped up so high they looked sprayed in place. And there were dainty little lemon tarts that followed for dessert, only enough to tease the taste buds. If anyone noticed what he’d done with the plates, no one said anything. Davis’s feeling was that no one had noticed, either because they were too
self-absorbed or he was good at it. When he looked up from a bite of a lemon tart, he saw Perry’s head was cocked at him. He grinned at her.

After dinner, Madame Secretary rose, tapped her goblet with her fork, and announced to the group that she had a surprise. They were going to enjoy an hour of dancing—to work off all the calories from dinner, she said, earning a few laughs and a couple of male groans. And so the group walked back into the large living room, where a small dance band had settled on a dais at the far end, all the furniture moved out of the way. A slow, easy dance song, one Davis hadn’t heard before, started up, and most of the guests stepped out onto the floor. Davis danced the first number with Natalie, and spent the next few minutes watching everyone around her watching her, or them. What did they expect? Coitus in the middle of the dance floor?

When the song came to an end, the speaker of the House, Herbert McGuffen, lightly touched her arm to get her attention and asked her to dance. Tall enough to carry off his weight, and looking as arrogant as a French aristocrat, the speaker wore a very finely made rug that blended well with his own light-colored hair. Davis was sure no one had ever said a word about it. The speaker seemed to be arguing with her about something, very discreetly, of course, but Davis was paying attention. Natalie shook her head at him, and he didn’t seem to like her reply. Her half-brother, Milt, was on the spot when the song finished, and she smiled at the speaker, added a light laugh, and traded partners. For a moment her eyes followed the speaker of the House, who didn’t appear to be at all happy. What would her half-brother have to say? Then it was Davis’s turn again.

“Trying to pump you for information?”

She laughed. “Yes, both of them are very good at it. But I’m the master. Davis, it was close tonight, but we nearly got him. He’s here and he’s close.”

“I took a call a couple minutes ago. The black truck belongs to a Mrs. Betty Steffens, of Nantuck, Maryland, reported stolen early this morning right out of her garage. We’ll go over it for fingerprints, but I doubt there’ll be any. What’s that song? I mean, it isn’t hot and fast like the Sex Pistols.”

Natalie laughed. “Nope, it’s soft and flowy, from ancient times. You’ve never heard it?”

“No, but then again, it’s easy to dance to, I don’t have to concentrate and can keep my eyes on all the desperate characters around us. Why was the speaker of the House upset with you?”

“You saw that? You’re good, Davis. Let’s say he’s not happy with a stand the president’s taken on a particular trade bill that affects his district. Despite the current situation, he knows I’m close to the president and he wanted me to help him change his mind, which I refused to do.” She shrugged. “He’ll get over it, since he’s got to know it’s going to be a no-go without the president’s backing. I think his biggest wish, though, is that I’ll be resigning to keep the party safe.”

She smiled up at him. “Any symptoms of poisoning?”