Divine Justice (13 page)

"She signed off on it this morning," Matthew replied. "Marilyn has arranged a funeral service the day after tomorrow. I want you all there. And be alert. They're expecting quite a crowd."

"I take it you haven't found Porter Sampson's car?"

"The RCMP is searching the river, near where we found Monty's car."

Would Winkler's killer be stupid enough to use the same dumping grounds?

"We've got this under wraps for now," Matthew said. "Try to keep it that way, Ben. The last thing we need is the media to get their claws into these cases. They'll make mincemeat out of the CFBI for not protecting these MPs."

"I won't say a word."

As Ben approached the driveway of 501 Linden Terrace, he let out a muffled curse.

Someone's let the cat out of the bag.

Porter Sampson's driveway was buzzing with activity. The paparazzi had caught the scent of a story, and like a pack of mangy wolves, they weren't about to let go of their prey.

"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered.

He lowered the window and flashed his badge at a couple of burly police detectives. They quickly pushed back the crowd, allowing him through. Stepping out of the SUV, he gritted his teeth in frustration.

"Okay, people! There's nothing to see here!"

That didn't stop the rapid flashing of cameras in the slimy palms of trigger-happy photographers. A dozen questions were fired at him, shot from the mouths of news-hungry reporters.

"What exactly is the nature of your business here?"

"Are you a friend of the deceased?"

"Do you know Mrs. Sampson intimately?"

Ben smoothed his Armani jacket, suddenly wishing he'd changed into something less ostentatious. He set his mouth in a firm line and moved with purpose toward the front porch.

An
Ebonic
woman opened the door before he had time to knock. She resembled a slightly older, rounder version of Oprah Winfrey. Not that he ever watched the TV icon's show or anything.

"Are you the CFBI agent?" she asked timidly.

"Yes, I am, ma'am. Agent Benjamin Roberts. You're Lorraine Sampson, I presume?"

"Come inside, please" she said. "Before those vultures have you on the front page of the Ottawa Sun."

He stepped inside the L-shaped bungalow. The sweet scent of baking wafted toward him. His stomach grumbled as Lorraine led him into the living room.

"I bake when I'm stressed," she said in a quiet voice.

He didn't even try to smile. "I eat."

Lorraine's eyes watered and her hands shook as she motioned for him to sit. "Are you here to give me bad news?"

"We have no news yet."

"No news is good news, I guess."

A soft
ding
came from the kitchen.

"Cookies are ready," she said, standing slowly. "I'll be right back."

A moment later he heard quiet sobs coming from the kitchen. This was always the hardest part of his job. Dealing with secondary victims of crime, the survivors. The ones who had to somehow learn to cope with their grief and move on with their lives.

Padded footsteps announced Lorraine Sampson's return.

"Here we go." She gave him a brave smile, but her swollen eyes betrayed her. She placed a plate of warm brownies―their edges slightly burnt―on the table. Then she handed him a mug of coffee. "I added some cream," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry I forgot to ask you. That's how Porter takes it. I could get you a fresh cup if―"

He took a sip. "It's just the way I like it."

The little white lie wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Don't you want to take your gloves off?" she asked.

"Cold hands," he replied.

Lorraine nodded. "Warm heart."

She settled into a colonial style armchair and slid her hands down the carved oak armrests, as if it were her only connection to the real world.

"Porter carved this chair himself," she murmured, staring off into space. "It was his gift to me on our last anniversary. We've been married forty-five years."

"You must have been kids when you married."

"We were high school sweethearts, Porter and I. He was on the track team, a long distance runner. I was just clumsy. The first time I met him I tripped and he caught me." She chuckled. "He always says I fell for him, literally."

Ben leaned forward. "I have some questions for you, Mrs. Sampson. I know the police probably asked you the same things, but people often remember more when some time has passed."

Lorraine clasped her plump hands in her lap and waited expectantly while he activated the voice recorder on his data-com. He set the device in the center of the coffee table.

"Interview with Lorraine Sampson, wife of Porter Sampson, politician. Mrs. Sampson, can you tell me when you last saw your husband?"

"Two nights ago."

"And where was he?"

"Porter was in his study, like he usually is after supper."

"What was he doing?"

"Going over the federal government's budget. He's always bringing work home with him."

"Do you have any idea what was in those files?"

Lorraine shook her head. "I'm not much into politics, to be truthful. Never did understand it all. Porter usually keeps to himself about these things. All I can say is that I always see him with files in his hands. Beige ones, blue ones, red ones. Sometimes he gets real riled up reading them."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the other night I heard him muttering and cursing away. When I walked in, he was cramming a folder into the wall safe."

"Was this the same night? The last time you saw him?"

"Yes."

"Can you show me his study?"

The woman stood reluctantly. "It's at the far end of the house. Porter likes his privacy. I'm not sure I should―"

"I need to see it, Mrs. Sampson." he said gently. "I might notice something that'll help us find your husband."

Lorraine sighed heavily. "Of course. It's right this way."

The bungalow was an older style, brick fireplace, two bedrooms. Someone, probably Sampson, had added on an attachment that stretched into the backyard. It made up the lower part of the L-shape. Two French doors led into a spacious study.

When Ben stepped inside, the first thing he thought was that the room screamed
expensive
and
powerful
. The walls were painted forest green. Every piece of furniture was mahogany, polished to a gleaming shine.

He inhaled deeply. The room even smelled rich.

"Obsession," Lorraine said.

"Excuse me?"

"What you're smelling. Obsession Cologne for men. You could say Porter is a bit obsessed with it." A small smile struggled to the surface. "I always tease him, tell him he smells like he bathed in it. He spends most of his time in this office."

"It speaks a lot to his personality, this room. Organized, proud of his success and of his family." He indicated the family photographs on the wall. They'd been taken in various locations, mostly holidays from their carefree, relaxed expressions.

When Lorraine spoke, her voice was tinged with something primal. Fear. "It's hard not to wonder if I'll never see him in here again." She choked back a sob. "I can't imagine where he is, Agent Roberts. He's never disappeared like this before. Do you think he's been kidnapped?"

"Let's not borrow trouble," he said. "There could be a logical explanation for his disappearance."
Although I don't know what that could be.

Lorraine tried to smile. "You're right. I should be patient."

He wandered into the middle of Porter Sampson's office and carefully surveyed the room. A mammoth executive desk was paired with a high-backed leather chair. Items on the desk were carefully lined up, everything in its place.

A CD player sat on a shelf behind the chair, the remote control centered in front of it and a handful of assorted CDs stacked to the left. Ben glanced at the top CD. Looked like one of those new age albums―probably his wife's.

To the left of the shelf were a small office fridge and a humidor. He was tempted to explore the latter. It had been years since he'd savored an expensive cigar. Or even smelled one.

Solid mahogany bookshelves lined two walls. On one shelf was a collection of framed photographs. One in particular caught Ben's eye. A photo of Porter Sampson and two younger men in their twenties dressed in army fatigues.

"Denzel and Terrence," Lorraine said proudly. "Our sons. They're on tour in Afghanistan."

"Twins?" Ben asked.

"A year apart actually, but everyone thinks they're identical twins." She took the photo from him and gently set it back on the shelf. "I haven't called them yet. It's better to wait until I know for sure what's happened to their father. They don't need any distractions over there."

Another shelf was filled with dozens of books, mainly fiction. Authors included Bowen, Crichton, Gross, King, Koontz, Mofina and Patterson, all arranged in alphabetical order by title. Below them was an assortment of legal tomes, shelved alphabetically as well.

Ben's brow furrowed.
Someone suffers from OCD.

"Your husband has an interesting collection," he said.

Lorraine Sampson snorted. "He treated these bookcases as if they were made of gold. Always filing the books and binders just so. God forbid if he found one out of place."

"So everything here looks as it should?"

Scanning the shelves, she frowned. "Hmm…that's strange."

"What is?"

The woman ran her hand lightly over the top of a row of legal binders. "There's one missing."

"Are you sure?"

"I dust these shelves every day, Agent Roberts. I think I'd know if a binder was missing." She nudged a red binder and pointed to the empty space beside it. "There's usually a blue one right here."

Ben removed his gloves and examined a binder. It contained mostly legal mumbo-jumbo. He pulled out the next binder. It was much the same. Maybe Natassia could make sense of them later, after an evidence team picked them up.

He'd hoped to get a vision, but he didn't sense a thing.

He picked up the red binder. It was dated 2011 and contained notes on the year's federal budget and prospective bill proposals. The missing binder must hold similar paperwork for the current year.

His pulse quickened. "Do you know what's in the blue binder?"

Lorraine shook her head. "Like I said, Porter's been keeping to himself these days. I never read these anyway. Never wanted to." She released a sad sigh. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"Can you tell me if anything else is missing or not where it should be?"

Lorraine opened a desk drawer. Her fingers skimmed across the contents and she picked up something small and round. "Porter's one-year coin."

"For…?

"My husband is an alcoholic, Agent Roberts."

When she handed him the coin, his psychometric senses immediately kicked in. He could feel Porter Sampson's struggle with alcoholism, his intense shame and his eventual relief. Sampson was proud of his accomplishment.

Lorraine smiled. "He's been sober for over a year, God bless him."

"You mentioned a wall safe," he said.

Lorraine pointed to a four-foot mirror in a leafy brass frame. "Behind that."

He examined the mirror. It was hinged to the wall for easy access to the safe behind it. He swung it open, exposing a Brinks wall safe, an older model with a touch screen access panel set for a seven-digit combination.

He touched the safe with bare hands.

Not one flash. Damn.

"Do you know the code, Mrs. Sampson?"