Whiplash (32 page)

Savich gave them a chance to jump in, but all he got were another couple of shrugs. He said, "All right, then, so you weren't worried that your dad was in any danger. I would like to know what you and Benson think about what happened to Vice President Valenti."

Aiden sat forward. "Ben and I talked about this while we were waiting for you. We've always known Uncle Alex to be a really good driver. Back before he won his first election to the House of Representatives, he and dad were drinking at our house to his last hurrah-and then he flew to France and drove in Le Mans. Dad said Uncle Alex could have tried his hand at racing professionally."

Benson picked it up. "Yeah, he was a great driver once upon a time. But hey, Valenti's getting up there, he must have pushed the Brabus faster around that curve than he could handle. We all saw what that tree did to the car."

"Your father told me on the phone that he doesn't believe it was an accident," Savich said. "He's scared and he's angry. He believes the car was rigged." He stopped, waited.

"What?" Aiden asked blankly. "You're saying someone wanted to
murder
Vice President Valenti? That doesn't make any sense. Why would you murder the Vice President of the United States? I mean, they don't do anything, for God's sake. Is that really what you think happened?"

Savich rose, splayed his palms on the conference table, looked at each man in turn, both older than he was but not yet grown men. He strongly doubted they ever would be. He said, "The FBI is examining what remains of the car carefully. We hope to know for certain what happened. Until then, I would appreciate your not adding to any speculation.

"The fact is, very few people knew your father was going to lend the Brabus to Alex Valenti, so the vice president is not the likely target.

"So, tell me, who, other than yourselves, do you think might benefit from your father's death?"

Benson Hoffman laughed. "Other than us? Not more than a thousand people, I imagine. As I said, he's a politician."

Aiden didn't disagree, just tried to look pained.

GEORGETOWN

Friday evening

Savich played basketball with Sean until he nearly fell asleep waiting his turn for a free throw. Savich lightly wiped a damp washcloth over his face, put him into his Transformer pajamas, tucked him into bed, kissed him, and turned out the lights. He stood a moment in the doorway, looking toward his son's bed with its blue dinosaur quilt. The dim light coming through the bedroom window outlined his small body, and Savich wondered again, had David Hoffman looked at his sleeping boys and felt his heart swell?

He was making himself a cup of tea while working on MAX in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. Because he was a cop, before he opened the door he called out, "Who is it?"

It was Jimmy Maitland, and he looked harried and tired, near the end of his rope.

"No coffee for you, sir," he said, and steered his boss to the sofa. Maitland nearly tripped over Astro, just emerging from beneath a big easy chair.

Maitland leaned down and picked him up, settled him on his leg, and to Astro's delight, he began lightly rubbing his ears. He let out a big sigh. "The Valenti case is going to be a monster. I've spent all evening with the forensics team looking at what's left of the steering linkage. It was pretty cleverly done, a small charge tied in to the speedometer. They're still looking for traceable components.

"I'm glad you're with us here on this, Savich, even if Sherlock is still up in Connecticut. You've done a good job already with that, caught Schiffer Hartwin cold with that planned Culovort
shortage. They'll probably end up paying out a year's profit. Dice said chances are after they pay the fine, it's back to business as usual, like all the drug companies."

Savich looked down at his clasped hands between his knees. "It's the murderer I want."

"I don't blame you. It's better to have hope about something you can control, right?"

Savich nodded. "Give me a murderer over a drug company any day. I have to say it's all coming together. Sherlock's got the bit between her teeth. You know Sherlock, nothing's going to stop her."

Maitland smiled, then fell silent. Astro gave a little bark and Maitland rubbed his ears again.

Savich eyed his boss, waited. "Tell me," he said.

"I guess you haven't watched TV tonight?"

Savich shook his head. "After an early dinner, I played basketball with Sean until I put him to bed. I was working on MAX. What's happened now?"

"Remember we were hoping for some time before the press got wind the VP was involved in more than a simple crash? Well, that's not going to happen. They're already putting together Dana Frobisher's death and Valenti's crash as possible attempts on Senator David Hoffman's life. They're quoting 'a knowledgeable source.'"

"No big surprise. It was just a matter of time. Any idea who the 'source' is?"

Maitland stopped petting Astro. Astro gave a pitiable low moan and he started up again. "I was thinking someone in Hoffman's office, but I personally spoke to Corliss Rydle, his senior aide, and she swore she's continuing to avoid reporters and cameras. I asked her about the midnight visitor to Senator Hoffman, and she lowered her eyes to her shoes, embarrassed for her boss, I'd say. It was pretty clear she doesn't believe any of it, claimed no one knew a thing about that and never would, at least from her. She had no idea who had leaked to the media, but it'll come out eventually, it always does.

"So far, I'm thinking the media won't pick up on the woo-woo part of this deal anytime soon." He began to pet Astro faster. "I don't like how this might turn out, Savich. The vice president is clinging to life, but the doctors at Washington Memorial are still shaking their heads. The talking heads on TV have already got a short list for the new vice president. What did Hoffman's sons have to say?"

"They were surprised by the accident because Valenti was nearly a pro as a driver. When I suggested their father might have been the target, they bought right in on it, claimed there were a thousand people who might wish him harm, this after Benson had insulted his father, called him names, and whined until I wanted to kick him under the table."

"I'd just as soon not meet them, thank you very much," Maitland said.

Savich offered Mr. Maitland a cup of tea, but he turned it down. Astro was now splayed on his belly, four paws extended, while Maitland's hand swept over his back. Savich drank his own tea, and swung his leg thoughtfully. "I imagine the director has made a report to the president."

Maitland nodded. "Director Mueller called me, said no one wants to believe this leak about Senator Hoffman being the possible target-it's unverifiable, way out there, like some of those TV shows. He's not about to tell President Holley about Hoffman's dead wife visiting him, and communicating with you. And who knows? Just maybe Frobisher's poisoning and Valenti's crash have nothing to do with Senator Hoffman."

"You don't believe that for a second," Savich said.

"Well, no, of course not. As you'd expect, President Holley is saying he wants us to shake every tree for hunkered-down terrorists, but he knows the truth about the accident, knows it's highly unlikely a terrorist could even have gotten to the car. He also knows there's not a prayer of keeping it quiet for much longer, and wants it all resolved two hours ago. Mr. Mueller said he'd rarely seen the president so angry. He also asked Mr. Mueller a very good question: Who would want to assassinate the vice president of the United States?

Savich said, "So, yet again, it comes back to Hoffman."

Maitland nodded. "The problem is, Hoffman's been around awhile, so it's no surprise Dane has already turned up a great many people you might call enemies. Before Hoffman was elected to Congress, he was a high-powered Wall Street lawyer, involved with the SEC's regulation of the investment industry. Talk about cutthroat. And there's lots of family money-that says it all.

"It's slow going. No one specific to grab onto, yet. Oh yeah, I got a call from a Gabe Hilliard, claimed he was a close personal friend of Hoffman's, wanted to know when we were going to get this resolved."

"I met him. Senator Hoffman plays golf with him every week. His son is going to marry Corliss Rydle."

"Small world," Maitland said. Astro yipped when Maitland bent toward Savich, nearly crushing him. "Sorry, dog. Any luck with Hoffman's wife?"

"No, unfortunately. I did try a second time, but I couldn't get through. It would have been so nice if she'd just spit it all out that first time, but Ollie came into my office, like I told you, and she disappeared. I don't know why she can't get through to me any longer. Maybe there are time limits on this sort of communication, I simply don't know. There've been no more manifestations outside the senator's bedroom window either. It's like she's just-gone."

"So you got a piece of her story at least. Like you, I just wish she'd give us a name, and save us a whole lot of misery. My nightmare scenario," Maitland continued, "is Hoffman meeting with the president and there's another attempt to kill him." He picked up a sleeping boneless Astro in one big palm, gently laid him on a bright teal-blue sofa pillow, and rose. He started pacing and talking nonstop, thinking aloud, "You've got to speak to Hoffman again, and we've already got Dane and his crew eating and sleeping this thing. There's got to be someone in Hoffman's background we can tie in. Maybe it's a revenge thing, from long ago, you know that old saw-revenge is a dish best served cold? Yeah, that could be possible."

Savich said, "You know what I always come back to? How was it no one in the kitchen saw anyone put arsenic in the shrimp at the Foggy Bottom Grill? It means someone who works in the kitchen is lying, and that someone had to be paid off. But as you know, every employee at the Foggy Bottom Grill has been questioned, and in-depth background checks haven't turned up anything yet. And I'm sure Dane's been trying to run down who had access to the Brabus. The small charge you described that blew out the steering was a sophisticated piece of equipment, and installing it wasn't easy. It was intricate work and would have taken some time."

Maitland said, "Senator Hoffman's driver, Morey Hughes, claims no one ever got close to the Brabus. He even took a lie detector, turned out clean as a whistle. Morey rolled his eyes and said, 'That car costs more than I'll make in a lifetime. Do you think I'd let anyone near it? No sir, that Brabus is guarded closer than Clinton's black book.'"

Savich looked down into his now empty teacup, at the mess of tea leaves at the bottom. He'd always enjoyed staring at the leaves and making out various shapes. He saw, oddly enough, what looked like a magician in a black top hat waving a wand.

Maitland said, "Have all the Foggy Bottom Grill employees had lie detector tests as well?"

"Not all, but we've scheduled them. No one's refused and demanded a lawyer."

"Let me know the results. Then I want to hear you've got it figured out."

"You'll be the first. Go home, sir, get some sleep."

Savich knew it often came down to clearing out his mind. It was a matter of believing that all the facts one needed were there, waiting to be put together properly, not all that different from a picture puzzle.

After Mr. Maitland left, Savich checked on Sean, who was sleeping so deeply a clap of thunder probably wouldn't have disturbed his dreams. Then he returned to the living room and settled down, only to have his cell phone belt out Elton John. When he slipped the cell back into his pocket, he leaned his head back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought about nothing at all. And what came immediately to his mind was Dane's call.

One of the Foggy Bottom Grill sous chefs, Emilio Gasparini, who'd been passed over in the first wave of lie detector tests because he'd said he'd been sick in bed with the flu, didn't show up for his rescheduled test. Dane's gut had started to salsa when he discovered Emilio hadn't shown up for his shift at the Foggy Bottom Grill either. Dane told Savich he'd bet his new kayak they'd find a drug problem or maybe gambling debts if they dug deeper. Emilio hadn't prepared the senator's shrimp that day, but he'd had access, and anyway, it didn't matter, because all the other Foggy Bottom Grill employees had passed their lie detector tests with flying colors.

Emilio was long gone. His apartment manager cursed when he found out Emilio had skipped on two months' rent.

Dane was worried Emilio might be dead, murdered by whoever had put him up to this. And the individual responsible for all this suffering, whoever he or she was, was still shrouded in mystery.

Savich let the questions drift through his mind. Whenever he hit a brick wall, he simply backed up and let his brain drift. He kept coming back to Aiden and Benson Hoffman, to what they'd said, and he wondered if the answers were there, in their own words.

Before he fell into bed, he read the transcript of their interview. Then he cleared his mind, called to Nikki, who didn't come.

Nothing came to him that night, neither ghost nor inspiration.

WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Saturday morning

Savich walked head down into the hospital, hoping no one from the media would notice him. He heard Jumbo Hardy of
The
Washington Post
call out his name, but he didn't react, just kept walking. A Secret Service agent stood at the bank of elevators, first in a long line of agents on the way to the vice president. He showed the agent his creds and took the sole elevator that stopped on the third floor. He said nothing to the dozen family members and friends stuffed in the waiting room. He walked into the ICU, creds out, and stopped. Half of the ICU was given over to the vice president. Savich had expected there to be protection, but there were six Secret Service personnel stationed outside of Vice President Valenti's room, eyeing every person who came within twelve feet of them. It seemed a bit of overkill, maybe partly for show.