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7
Mr. Maitland sat forward, clasped his hands between his knees. “Yes, I have something more to tell you. Turns out Arlan Burger, President Gilbert’s new chief of staff, has been one of Congressman Manvers’s best friends since their Loyola days back in the eighties. Manvers happened to tell Burger about his wife going to a séance to speak to her dead grandfather last night, and now Burger knows about her attempted kidnapping, too. Have the lab and forensics reported in yet?”
“Ben Raven told me they found the SUV with the exploded back tire, parked on a side street in Chevy Chase, not far from where the two men tried to take her. As of yet our FBI forensic team hasn’t reported finding anything useful in the SUV. It was stolen, as we thought. The lab just got back to me about the syringe. It was ketamine. It would have knocked her out almost immediately. They didn’t want to kill her, only take her fast, with little fuss. I’ve assigned Griffin to babysit Mrs. Manvers until we get a handle on motive, and the congressman plans to stay close to her.”
Mr. Maitland nodded. “It could be a kidnapping for ransom of a rich young wife, but a congressman’s wife? Oh yes, Burger told me the wife has a healthy bank account herself, thanks to a legacy from her grandfather, John Clarkson. So there’s money on both sides. You’re too young to remember John Clarkson. He was also a congressman, Clarkson from the Richmond area. He was quite a bigwig back in the day, had the nickname of Methodist, didn’t hang it up until after the turn of the century.”
“How did he die?”
“All I know for sure is he was in a coma for years before his body finally shut down only about a month ago. His funeral was very well attended.” Mr. Maitland sat forward. “Tell me about this medium last night.”
Savich said, “As I told you, Mrs. Manvers did tell me she went to a séance, but she went tight-lipped when I wanted to know more about it, and for no reason I can think of.”
Mr. Maitland said, “I know this business of talking to dead folks is claptrap, but still, I’d have liked to be a fly on the wall at that séance last night.”
“Actually, I would have, too,” Savich said.
“Tell me, how did Congressman Manvers react to the news of his wife’s attempted kidnapping?”
“He expressed shock, disbelief, and finally gratitude.” Savich grinned. “He promised never to bad-mouth the FBI again.”
Mr. Maitland laughed. “I don’t suppose it’s possible Manvers hired the kidnappers, despite his excellent plea for help on TV? I mean, did you see anything off between them?”
Savich shook his head. “No, only affection. He kept her very close throughout the retelling. Well, he is a politician, practiced in dissembling, but he seemed legitimately upset at what had happened.” He shrugged. “It’s early. Maybe I’m wrong about him. We’ll see. As I said, Griffin is keeping an eye on her and of course interrogating the household.” He rubbed his thumb over his chin. “My gut tells me her attempted kidnapping is connected to the séance last night, maybe even as a direct result. I’m wondering if I should talk to Rebekah Manvers again, urge her to tell me exactly what Zoltan had to say to her last night, or see Zoltan first?”
“I know you, you’ll see the medium first.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
Mr. Maitland gave Savich a fat smile. “I’m sure you’ll do both, boy-o. Chief of Staff Burger is counting on you.” He was pleased, Savich knew, to take the matter off his own hands and put it firmly in his.
Mr. Maitland rose. “Lots of moving parts here, Savich, maybe unrelated, who knows? Keep me informed.”
Savich watched his boss make his way through the unit, pausing here and there to touch base with the agents. He saw Mr. Maitland speak to Sherlock, who had just arrived, more than likely about the Beach Killer case she was working on with Ruth in Norfolk, Virginia. The Beach Killer was the moniker the media had tagged to the man who’d murdered several young women and left their bodies on the beach near the high tide mark, covering them in sand, with only their faces visible. Sherlock gave Savich a wave and started speaking with Ollie, no doubt to fill him in on the new information they’d brought back from the Norfolk police. They’d update him about the Norfolk case soon enough.
Savich turned to MAX. There were thousands of hits about Rebekah’s grandfather, Congressman John “Methodist” Clarkson from Clairemont, Virginia. Savich scrolled through them quickly until he found an odd news story and stopped. It was a story about Clarkson’s close friend Nate Elderby, a criminal defense attorney who’d drowned in 1995 while out fishing alone on Dawg Creek, the local fishing hole where the two men often spent lazy afternoons together. He read the rumors about how Nate had drowned—speculation about a marriage gone sour, bad feelings between the good friends. Police investigated and concluded Nate Elderby drank too many Buds, fell overboard, and drowned. The locals said Clarkson was usually with him, but he claimed he wasn’t that day. He was a powerful congressman, so surely he couldn’t have been involved, said the police, much less murdered his best friend. But it appeared the gossip didn’t go away. Savich sat back, his gut doing the rumba. Could this Nate Elderby, long dead, have anything to do with what was happening now?
Had Rebekah’s grandfather actually been with his best friend fishing that long-ago afternoon? Had they argued? What about? Had Clarkson slammed him on the head, dumped him out of the fishing boat, and swum back to shore? It was so many years ago, but murder always left a stain and survivors who might want revenge or to get back what was theirs. Was that the reason Rebekah didn’t want to talk? Did she know something about Elderby’s murder and fear he’d find out?
