Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (13 page)

Screw it
.

Keeping the hack away from the embassy could only be a good thing. She decided to leave both arrangements just the way they were. If Tate misbehaved, Ingrid would have the perfect excuse to terminate their little ‘arrangement’ and hopefully the debt she owed the journalist could be written off.

She tapped the woman’s details into her phone and screwed up Jennifer’s note. For some reason Jennifer liked communicating on paper when Ingrid wasn’t at her desk. Maybe she thought an actual physical message was less likely to be ignored.

Maybe she was right.

Judging by the lack of coats and bags on and around Jennifer and Isaac’s desks, Ingrid figured they’d both left for the night. Which meant she had all the time she needed to investigate the Barbara Highsmith case without interruption. She dialed Detective Trooe’s number.

“Detective Trooe, how can I help?”

“Detective, hi. This is Special Agent Skyberg, I wonder, do you have time to speak to me about the Highsmith case?”

“I just finished my shift.”

“Oh, I see.” She couldn’t mask her disappointment. “I can call back tomorrow.”

“No—I meant you got as much time as you need. Nothing to rush home for except a leftover pizza and a couple cans of beer. They sure ain’t going anywhere. You spoken to the girlfriend yet?”

“I left her a message.”

“Keep trying. She’ll get back to you eventually, I’m sure.”

Ingrid settled back into her seat. “I’m guessing, given the high profile nature of the victim, you investigated who she might have crossed so badly they wanted her dead?”

“Sure. I looked into who she put away when she was a District Attorney. Then narrowed it down to anyone who had been released from jail. Then reduced the list again, to those matching even a vague description of Wyatt.”

“And?”

“No one of interest fitted the bill. Just when I thought I’d gotten a little closer, I’d discover the ex-con had died, or was built like a quarterback, or couldn’t string two sentences together. You gotta remember, Wyatt was civilized and charming enough to get himself a job as a maitre d’.”

“So you found no likely candidates at all from Highsmith’s past?”

“No one she put away. So then I moved on to her new profession as a congresswoman. Again—lots of potential enemies in politics. I just wasn’t prepared for how many. She had a lot of fights during her time in Congress. Just a little too outspoken to stay the course. It’s incredible she ever got re-elected. Folk are real conservative here in Georgia, even the Democrats.”

“She was elected for the first time in November 2006, is that right?”

“Re-elected 2008, then lost in November 2010.”

“And the people she fought with? Did she make any of them mad enough to want to plan her murder?”

“Plenty mighta wanted to strangle her right there in the House, but nobody who’d bear a grudge so strong they’d actually do anything about it.”

“So pretty much all your leads came to nothing?”

“It’s heartbreaking. We put in so many man-hours. And came up with diddly.”

It didn’t give Ingrid much hope she’d find a potential enemy lurking in Highsmith’s past. She let out a sigh. Trooe must have heard her.

“It ain’t all bad. There’s one little thing you might find interesting.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I got another call coming in, give me a second to get rid of them.”

Ingrid had been doodling thoughtlessly on a notepad as she listened to the detective. She glanced down at the page to discover she’d drawn a cube with lots of arrows pointing toward it. The inside of the cube was empty. It reflected the conversation she was having pretty accurately. She tore out the page and threw it in the trash.

“Sorry about that. My ex-wife,” Trooe said. “Doesn’t do to ignore her.” He sucked in a breath. “Where were we?”

“Something I might find interesting.”

“Sure. Well, maybe not that interesting. But anyhow, back in 2008, the congresswoman had a pretty close call with the Grim Reaper. Same deal—she ate something she shouldn’t.”

“Peanuts?”

“Yep—but she had one of those pen whatchamacallits she stuck into her leg and came back from the brink.”

“You think she was deliberately poisoned then too?”

“Who knows? Her people hushed it right up at the time—Georgia being the peanut state and all. Didn’t want the voters finding out she was violently allergic to one of the state’s biggest exports. I only know about it because I got talking to an agent who was on her security detail at the time. You know how it is—one cop to another—strictly off the record.”

“But if an attempt was made on her life at the time, shouldn’t it have been investigated? The Bureau should have gotten involved.”

“They did. Your people were very discreet about it. They just put it down to an unfortunate accident. Someone at the restaurant got fired. And before you ask, yes I did follow up on that. It was an assistant chef. Who was a woman.”

“Must have been very frustrating for you.”

“The case is still open. I go back to it once in a while, on my own time. Occasionally the ex-congresswoman’s family kicks up a stink and then I’ll get permission from the boss to dedicate some proper resources to it. But I guess if our man doesn’t wanna be found he’s just gonna stay hidden.”

21

Ingrid hung up and looked down at the pad on her desk. This time the arrows were inside the cube pointing out. She tore off the page of scribblings and wrote a note on a fresh page to remind herself to follow up what Barbara Highsmith’s legal specialism had been before she became District Attorney. But right now she had a restaurant manager to track down.

It was easier than she expected. Darryl Wyatt’s ex-girlfriend picked up almost immediately. Ingrid quickly introduced herself.

And the woman hung up.

Ingrid called back and the voicemail kicked in straightaway. She left another message, imploring the woman to call her back. Without more information about Darryl Wyatt, Ingrid felt her investigation would go nowhere at all.

As she sat at her desk, staring at her phone, willing it to ring, Ingrid felt the first pang of hunger. She checked the time—it was ten minutes after eight. She wondered if the kitchen would still be open. There were plenty of personnel in the building, and would be right through the night. Surely someone on duty would be able to fix her a sandwich? She quickly made her way to the cafeteria, her hunger growing with every step, her cell phone gripped tightly in her hand. If Wyatt’s ex-girlfriend did call back, Ingrid sure as hell didn’t want to miss her.

When she arrived, Ingrid discovered the cafeteria in darkness. She’d half expected to see a group of drivers or counter-terror agents huddling around a corner table discussing the latest ballgame over a cup of drip. Or maybe playing a came of cards. The lights flickered on as she stepped over the threshold. She called toward the kitchen, on the other side of the counter. “Hey! Anyone home? Hello?”

No welcoming greeting called back to her. As she approached the counter she could see the coffee machine was lifeless, the glass jug that seemed permanently full during the day, empty and upside down. For a moment she thought she heard movement from within the kitchen. She called out again. Again there was no reply. Maybe she could fix herself a sandwich. She slipped behind the counter and pushed at the door that led into the kitchen. It was locked. Her fantasy of freshly-seared tuna salad on wholewheat dissolved in an instant. Instead, she headed for the vending machine and got herself a Snickers bar. Just as she was tucking it into a pocket, her phone started to vibrate. It was an out of area number. She answered and gave her name.

“Sorry I hung up before,” the woman on the other end told her. “I guess I panicked.”

“That’s quite all right, Miss Townsend. This call must be costing you a fortune, shall I call you back?”

“It’s OK—has he killed again?” She swallowed. “Only if he has, I’m not sure I want to know about it.”

“What makes you think that?” Ingrid would have expected the woman’s first question to have been, “have you found him?”

“I… I guess… I wasn’t totally surprised when it happened the first time.”

Ingrid hurried around the tables and out of the cafeteria. She took the stairs back to her office. Now she had Bella Townsend on the line, she didn’t want to risk losing the connection due to bad reception in the elevator.

“It’d be really helpful for me if you could explain why you felt that way.”

“Where do I begin?”

“How about we start when you first met Mr Wyatt?”

“Or whatever his goddamn name is.” Townsend took a noisy breath. “You know he only got that job because of me?”

“There’s absolutely no way you should blame yourself.”

“I’m just so mad I let myself be sucked in like that.”

“How did you meet him?”

“You want the whole, drawn out story?”

“I’d like to know everything I can about Wyatt, you’re the only person who knew him well.”

“I’m not sure I really knew him at all. But I can certainly tell you how we met. He was a customer at the restaurant. I helped him get to his table—his leg was in a splint, he was on crutches. I felt sorry for the guy. Not only had he busted his leg, but his date didn’t turn up.” There was the noisy breath again. “There he was all dejected and stoic, trying to make a joke out of a bad situation. He told me it was a blind date. ‘She must have taken one look at me and run!’ he said. He was kinda cute. Handsome even. I guess he charmed me. When he spoke to me it was as if I was the only person in the room. That never happens to me.” She fell silent. Ingrid could hear her breathing at the other end of the echoey line. “With hindsight I realize that the whole thing was an act. He wanted me to feel sorry for him. His ankle probably wasn’t even sprained, he probably never even had a date. What a pushover I must have seemed.”

“You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Ingrid got back to the office, she threw the slightly melted Snickers bar onto her desk and sank down onto her chair.

“Tell me about it. So, anyway, long story a little shorter, we started dating.”

“How long before he got the job as maitre d’?”

“Clifford, the previous maitre d’, left unexpectedly just a couple weeks after I first met Darryl.”

“Can you give me Clifford’s last name?” Ingrid grabbed her notebook.

“Sure, it’s… Quigley. Why?”

“Do you know what happened to make him leave so suddenly?”

“He just upped and left.”

“Without an explanation?”

“We got a postcard from him from Hawaii, saying he needed a break.”

“Was he a postcard kinda guy?”

“Actually no—it wasn’t Cliff’s style at all. I was surprised when we received it… Wait a minute… are you investigating Cliff’s disappearance or something?”

“The detectives who investigated the case at the time didn’t talk to you about Mr Quigley?”

“They never even asked me about Clifford. Jesus, you don’t really think—”

“I’m sure Clifford’s just fine. I’m just covering all the bases.” Ingrid made a note to follow up. A name like Clifford Quigley had to be pretty straightforward to track down. “Was Darryl Wyatt good at his job?”

“He was a complete professional. When we first started dating, I thought his charm was dedicated to me. What a joke! He could turn it on like a kitchen faucet. The female patrons loved him. Some of the male ones too. Barbara Highsmith was particularly enamored.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Is this relevant to your investigation?”

“Humor me, if it’s not too intrusive.”

There was a long pause. “I was jealous as hell at first. But he still came home with me at the end of a shift. So I got over myself.”

“You don’t think he was seeing anyone else?”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I’m sorry to be so blunt, but we are talking about a murderer.”

“It’s kinda hard reliving my own stupidity.”

“You weren’t stupid. He was manipulative. In a sense, there was nothing you could do. He’s an expert at getting what he wants.”

“Well he didn’t get everything he asked for.”

“He didn’t?”

“He wanted keys to my apartment. I told him no way. I wasn’t going down that road again.”

“Did you visit him in his apartment?”

“No—I thought at the time that he was ashamed of it, like maybe it was in a bad neighborhood. I felt for the guy. Now I realize he just didn’t want anyone to know his address.”

“Do you think he was seeing anyone else?”

“I don’t know. I guess now I know what he was capable of, I suppose it’s possible. Why do you want to know?”

“Just trying to build up a picture of the guy. Detective Trooe has sent me the photograph you took of Wyatt. Is it a good likeness?”

“I guess. He didn’t always have the beard. He could grow one real fast. I preferred it when he shaved. He was a good looking guy. Well-groomed too. Always spent a lot of time on his appearance. Which is why he never stayed over, I guess—didn’t want me to see what he looked like first thing in the morning. How vain is that? I used to tease him about it.”

“Did he share the joke with you?”

“He hated me even mentioning it. I soon learned not to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Darryl had… an underdeveloped sense of humor. He wasn’t very good at laughing at himself. Whenever I tried to tease him about it, he’d get really angry with me.”

“Violent?”

“You’ve spoken to Detective Trooe?”

“He said Wyatt hit you a few times.”

“More than a few. But he always said it was my fault. Like I’d driven him to it. After a while, I started to believe him.” She let out a sigh. “I know what you’re thinking… if it was so bad, why not end it?”

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort. Wyatt was manipulating you. He knew exactly what he was doing.” She flipped over to a fresh page in her notebook. “While you were together, did Wyatt ever talk about his family?”

“He didn’t like to. Every time I tried, he’d change the subject. I just supposed he’d had a big fight with them at some point and lost contact.”

“And what about his friends?”

“He wasn’t local. His friends were all back home.”