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44
WASHINGTON, D.C.
HOOVER BUILDING
FRIDAY MORNING
Goldy, Mr. Maitland’s longtime bulldog gatekeeper, told Savich and Sherlock, “He’s near to erupting. Go on in, see if you can calm him down. If you need the fire extinguisher, holler.”
Maitland rose and kicked his desk when they walked in. “These blank-brained secretive CIA yahoos don’t return my calls.” He slammed a folder down on his desk. “No more frigging phone tag that doesn’t lead anywhere. We’re going to go see Claire Farriger. She’s an assistant director for analysis. The title is longer, but you get the gist. Besserman is Justice Cummings’s group chief, Farriger is Besserman’s boss.” He stopped, gave a worried look at Sherlock. His face softened. “Sherlock, there’s no need for you to come with us. Perhaps you’d be better off going home, getting some rest?”
“Sir, would you normally suggest resting to me?”
He looked embarrassed, shook his head. “Well, no. I’d be afraid you’d hurt me. Sorry, Sherlock, I guess I’m tripping all over myself because you’re hurt”—he ran his hands through his hair—“and I’m making things worse.”
Sherlock patted his arm, something she’d never done before. He blinked down at her, smiled.
“Sir, what makes things worse is doing nothing and thinking and worrying and feeling sorry for myself because when I’m alone I’m a tabula rasa. I don’t even know what I would normally be thinking about. I want to be of use. I’d very much like to visit the CIA.”
Maitland shot a look at Savich, who nodded.
“All right, I’d appreciate your perspective, Sherlock.”
Savich told his boss what he’d learned about Eleanor Corbitt from Ben Raven. “—So we have two Bexholt employees, both at the scene of Sherlock’s accident, one now dead, murdered. Corbitt was in the Bexholt accounting department. The woman who struck Sherlock, Jasmine Palumbo, is in their security engineering division, a supervisor. Does the CIA know about Corbitt’s murder? How could they, unless they have a spy in Metro?”
“Who knows? I’ll bet there are CIA spies over at that pizza joint on Bentley Street where FBI agents hang out. But all right, it’s possible we know something they don’t, yet,” Maitland said, and rubbed his big hands together.
Savich said, “Before we go to Langley and possibly get blindsided, Sherlock and I should pay a visit to Bexholt, see if we can’t find out how these two women tie together with Justice Cummings.”
“Hmmm. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get more ammunition. Okay, yes, go to Bexholt, find out what in blue blazes is going on there. I want to be armed with everything possible before we storm the CIA.” Maitland checked his watch. “And, of course, it would be nice if we could find Justice Cummings.”
At the elevator, Sherlock said, “Does he usually kick his desk?”
“Maybe. It could be this is only the first time we’ve caught him doing it.”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly as she punched the elevator button, “Everything seems unsolvable right now, but I suspect it’ll all be simple once we figure it out. Most things are.”
He marveled, wondered if she realized it was something she’d said many times in the past. What was more, she was usually right. He lifted his hand to touch the bouncing curls, and froze. She was humming a country-western song he’d written for her years before, about a man finding his mate at long last at the dollar slots.
He said, “I think you first heard that song at the Bonhomie Club. It’s a nightclub run by an incredible woman, Ms. Lily. I sing country-western music there a couple of times a month. My friend James Quinlan, another FBI agent, plays the sax, makes it weep. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
He shut up at the helpless look on her face. He’d told her that morning that his boss, Mr. Maitland, had a fine brain and he didn’t meddle. Savich had assured her she liked him, and his four linebacker-size sons. And his wife, June. And then he’d stopped cold—if she didn’t know Mr. Maitland, how could she possibly know June Maitland? She didn’t even know her own son. She remained too scared to see Sean, still too scared Sean would realize something was wrong. Her fear warred with her guilt.
So he talked to her about everything else—their cases, their vacations, memories they’d made together as a family. His Sean stories made her laugh, but he knew they amused her from a sort of distance. There was no emotional punch to remember. Except for the guilt.
He helped her into the Porsche, handed her his phone. “Remember I told you Mr. Maitland doesn’t meddle? But this time is different. He told me his gut is doing the rumba, he knows this could be something big.” He scrolled down in his photos. “This is a photo of Jasmine Palumbo and recordings of everything Ben gathered for us, including her interview when they took her in after she hit your Volvo. We’re going to surprise Ms. Palumbo. I checked and she’s there.”
It took them only an hour to get to Coverton, Maryland, with Sherlock asking questions about the information Ben Raven had given them. She said, “When I look at her photo, I think she looks familiar. I think I must have seen her face just before she hit my car—a Volvo?”
“Yes. It makes sense you saw her face before she struck you. Why not?” He patted her hand. “I can’t wait to see her face when she lays eyes on you.”
Jasmine Palumbo stared off into space, ignoring the piles of work on her computer screen, primarily the schedules and assignments for Bexholt staff for the security installation at the Kentington Hotel. It was a top-drawer contract for top-drawer clients. The Bexholt Group would be providing communications security for a series of private negotiations between staff of the Federal Reserve and the European Central Bank, starting on Monday. She smiled as she rubbed her arm through the sling. Not broken, they said, but it still throbbed, and her smile quickly fell away. She didn’t want to take any more pain meds, they fuzzed her brain. What were the odds it would all come down to an accident? What wretched luck she would drive into that intersection and into an FBI agent’s car just as Justice Cummings shot out of that alley and went flying over the agent’s hood. There was still no sign of that pissant idiot. Was he holed up somewhere? Dead behind a dumpster on K Street? No, she knew he was out there somewhere, injured but still a threat.
She sighed, rubbed her arm again. She’d had the formal Bexholt Group plans printed up for her scheduled meeting with Nikki and Nathan Bexholt, brother and sister, Nathan, COO, and Nikki, VP of the Bexholt Group their father had founded, including how the Bexholt people would interface with hotel security and with the Central Bankers’ own security teams. What a joy that would be. She knew Nathan Bexholt was smart, savvy, and driven, and could barely tolerate his sister, Nikki. Not that the feelings weren’t mutual. Nikki was officially in charge of the operation, and he would try to find holes in her plans to look superior, so Jasmine knew everything set out had to be perfect. If all went well, Nathan would never know what the real plans were, what they were really going to do in the meeting room.
Jasmine looked up when her door unexpectedly opened, and there stood a tall, good-looking hunk duded up in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie, giving her a dead-man’s stare. Where was Glynn, her assistant, who guarded her door like a mother bear? She gave the man a quick study. He looked tough and professional, made her wonder what he’d look like stripped down. In the next moment, she saw a woman standing just behind him—tall, slender, curly red hair—Jasmine jumped out of her chair. “You’re Agent Sherlock!” She came around her desk at a run and stopped in front of Sherlock. “You’re here and you’re all right. I’m so sorry I hit you, I didn’t see you. No excuse, but I’m so sorry.”
“Ms. Palumbo,” the man said in a dark sexy voice, a nice addition to the package. Jasmine looked away from the woman staring at her curiously.
