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57
Nikki walked swiftly down the hall to her office, stopped when she saw a man and a woman talking to each other in low voices, her admin seated only six feet away. The Feds. She would have to be careful. Jasmine had already been spooked by these two, best not to underestimate them. What were they saying to each other?
Savich said, “Mom said Sean talked her into pizza for dinner, pepperoni, of course.”
“That’s his favorite?”
“Well, it’s your favorite and so that’s his favorite, too.”
“What’s yours, Dillon?”
“I’m a vegetarian, so it’s always Vegetable Delight for me, but Sean’s a carnivore like you.”
He was a vegetarian. Sherlock hadn’t noticed what he’d eaten, even at Jenny’s Café.
And Sean. He was the image of his father, dark eyes and dark hair, a rich olive complexion. She looked down at her white hands, wondered what part of her he had. Sean. She liked the sound, the feel of his name, but when she pushed, there was the white door, again closed. Did he have a middle name?
Savich rose. “Ms. Bexholt? I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock.” He handed her their creds. Sherlock rose to stand beside him.
Nikki pretended to study the creds, but she’d have known very well who these two were even if Jasmine hadn’t told her. She’d seen Agent Savich on TV enough, and Agent Sherlock—everyone knew who she was. She returned the creds, stuck out her hand, shook theirs. “Do come into my office. Paul, please go home now.”
A tall, middle-aged man with a sharp goatee nodded, smiled at Sherlock. He moved quickly to open the door for his boss, then quietly closed it after they’d all filed inside.
Should she gush over Agent Sherlock? Paul probably already had. She wanted to, but she had to remember she was the one near the top of the food chain at Bexholt, not someone they’d expect to bow and scrape.
She said, “I know you’re here to speak to me about a member of my accounting department, Eleanor Corbitt. I understand she was killed last night. We at Bexholt are all greatly disturbed and saddened. We all want to know what you’re doing to find out who killed her, but I’m not certain I understand why you, the FBI, are here. Isn’t the FBI only involved with federal crimes?”
Savich studied this woman while she spoke—smoothly, calmly, in charge. She was tall, fit, and dressed in black, her hair nearly as black as her suit, pulled up high on the back of her head in a sort of twist, held by a pearl-encrusted comb. The style suited her. She had a strong, arrogant face, an expressive face. Expressive? Why had he thought that? Because there was something that worried her, profoundly. Her hands were restless, her fingers tapping on the desktop, obviously a longtime habit. As if she realized what she was doing and he’d noticed, Nikki quickly motioned them to the chairs facing her desk.
She sat down, clasped her hands in her lap. Such a ridiculous habit, the finger tapping, one she’d seemed to develop overnight after the first time she saw her father hit her mother in the stomach with his fist when Nikki was eight years old. She’d started tapping her fingers after that, if she didn’t pay attention, no matter the time or place. She cleared her throat. “So, what can I do for you, Agent Savich? Agent Sherlock?”
Sherlock gave Bexholt her patented sunny smile, so much a part of her it was second nature. “We understand you and Ms. Corbitt lunched together on several occasions, that she visited your office a number of times. She was obviously closer to you than any other employee in the accounting department. She was your friend. We would like you to tell us about her.”
Nikki froze. How did they know that? Jasmine wouldn’t have said anything. She and Ellie had always been discreet, bordering on paranoid, yet people had noticed and people had talked. She wanted their names, and when she found out, they’d pay.
She said, her voice trembling a bit, as if on the verge of tears, “Of course I knew Ellie. She was a friend, but not really a close friend. What I mean is she was an employee in our accounting department and she did some work for me on a couple of special projects. I did find her very nice and competent. I will miss her, as will all her co-workers.”
“Did you ever visit her home?”
“I remember when she bought a condo last year and was very excited about it, showed photos all over the office, but no, I never visited her. The couple of times we had a business lunch was in a little pizza place just up the road from the Bexholt campus. I’m sorry, but I really don’t know about her life, you know, her outside interests, or who her close friends were.” Nikki rose. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Savich didn’t move, said easily, “We find it interesting and a bit too coincidental that two Bexholt employees—Eleanor Corbitt and Jasmine Palumbo—are both connected to Justice Cummings, the CIA analyst who was thrown over the hood of Agent Sherlock’s car on Tuesday. Of course you know it was Ms. Palumbo who caused the accident. We believe Ms. Palumbo spotted Cummings, and was trying to catch him, which means, of course, that’s why the accident happened. Chasing him distracted her and she struck Agent Sherlock’s car.
“As for Eleanor Corbitt, she appears to have specifically targeted Justice Cummings. She came on to him, invited him for coffee after work, but she never showed up. She even used a false name—Christy Blake. And now she’s dead, murdered. You know both of these women, Ms. Bexholt. Tell us what they were doing.”
Nikki sat back down, giving her time to think. Even after Jasmine had warned her about their sudden attacks, she had still underestimated these two. Jasmine had screwed up big time, true enough, but Nikki had believed there’d be no connection made. How had they found out about Ellie setting up Cummings? And using that fake name, the name of her married sister? Inviting him for coffee? Not showing up? Evidently Cummings had told someone and that someone had told the FBI. But who had Cummings told? Get it together, they’re fishing, nothing more. She managed a concerned expression. “It does seem like a coincidence, as you say, and to me as well, Agents, but I believe that’s all it is—a coincidence. I can’t imagine why Eleanor Corbitt would even be at Langley, much less want to go out with a CIA employee, namely Justice Cummings. I mean, she didn’t even like men. I can’t imagine who would tell you such a thing. And Ms. Palumbo wanting to chase him down? That makes no sense to me.” Shut up, shut up. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
Gotcha. Savich hadn’t said a word about Langley.
Sherlock said, “Do you believe Eleanor Corbitt was gay, Ms. Bexholt?”
She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, defensive, but she managed to look at them dead-on. “I really don’t know about her sexual preferences, nor do I listen to office gossip. I remember she mentioned once her ex-husband was a worthless jerk and he’d burned her out on men. It was simply my impression she didn’t date. Other than that, I don’t know.” She shrugged.
Sherlock continued, “What if I were to tell you that it was Justice Cummings himself who told us Eleanor Corbitt—Christy Blake—was the woman he was supposed to meet at the Blaze Café?”
Nikki felt her heart seize, then laughed. “So you’ve watched old Perry Mason shows. I remember my dad laughing, saying the ‘what if’ lure was exactly what Mason said to witnesses to trip them up. Sorry, Agent Sherlock. No one even knows if this man is still alive—” She realized what had popped out of her mouth and froze.
Another slip. Savich smiled at her. “So you know Cummings worked at Langley and he was CIA, and you know he’s missing. That’s a lot that you know, Ms. Bexholt.”
