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“How about dinner tonight?” His sudden, unplanned invitation was an excuse to get more information out of her. Nothing more. At least that was what he was telling himself.
“This is likely the only break I’ll get today,” she said, ruefully.
“I could go out to get something and bring it back to the House,” Griffin volunteered. “You have to eat.”
“I guess that would be okay.” Her smile was bright again. “Thank you.”
“It’s a date,” he said, causing her to blush once more.
Marin began walking backward away from him. “I have to get back up there. I’ll see you later.” She turned on her heel and briskly walked along the path until she disappeared into the Palm Room.
Griffin took a few minutes to compose his thoughts. Ben had been correct. Griffin just needed to rely on his legendary calm. The closer he got to Marin, the closer he was to breaking open this case. And if that meant leading her on, it was all just part of the job. The ends justified the means. Besides, he had to eat, too.
* * *
“Your curator died of asphyxiation,” one of the Virginia homicide detectives announced.
Griffin tried to hide his disappointment as the detective’s partner slid the admiral a sheet of paper that likely detailed the medical examiner’s succinct ruling as to cause of death. It would be hard to prove Wes hadn’t committed suicide with asphyxiation to blame.
“Can we say for sure it was suicide?” Director Worcester echoed Griffin’s thoughts.
“Actually,” the admiral said as he perused the report, “Wes’s death was asphyxiation by murder.” He slid the sheet of paper over to the director.
“Damn,” Director Worcester said before handing the sheet over to Griffin.
He quickly scanned the medical examiner’s findings. Wes had died from a lethal dose of succinylcholine, a common drug used in anesthesia that causes muscle paralysis. The curator was asphyxiated before the rope was put around his neck. It would not have been a swift or painless death. Griffin cringed. As murders went, this one was particularly inhumane and despicable. He wondered what the poor man had done to deserve such torture.
“Without a heads-up from you guys here in the White House, the ME wouldn’t have been looking for an injection site,” one of the detectives explained. “Sux doesn’t leave a metabolite trace in the bloodstream. Your colleague was paralyzed within seconds, unable to draw breath for several minutes before his heart stopped beating. An ugly way to die.”
The men sitting around the table in the historic Map Room were solemn for a long moment.
“Forensics didn’t turn up anything at the scene?” Griffin asked, still holding out hope for a lead.
Both detectives shook their heads. “We canvased neighbors, but no one saw anything. In a wealthy neighborhood like that, there are lots of home security cameras. We combed through every one where the curator’s house was in the frame. Nothing jumped out but a paper boy.” He pulled a photo out of a folder and passed it over to Griffin. The picture was grainy, but it showed a person on a bicycle with a large sack over his shoulder. A dark hooded rain jacket was pulled over his head, the brim of a baseball cap peeking out.
“I didn’t know papers were delivered by bike any longer,” Griffin commented.
“Not too many folks get a printed paper these days.” The detective shrugged. “Old-school delivery for old-school people.”
“Bottom line,” the other detective put in, “we’re coming up empty at every turn. Whoever killed your curator knew how to stage the scene and inflict ligature marks so that it looked like a routine suicide.”
Griffin’s adrenalin shot up another level as he exchanged a look with Director Worcester.
“We’re looking for a professional assassin here,” the director said.
“Yeah,” the homicide detective agreed. “And I was hoping you guys might have some leads since we don’t see too much of that in the suburbs of northern Virginia.”
“Gentlemen, I think it might be time we check in with our friends at the FBI,” the admiral announced.
* * *
Arnold loved working as the doorman at the Dupont, but never more so than on spring evenings like the current one. He propped the door open and stood in his red uniform, adorned with its sharp gold braids and epaulets, watching the happy tourists parade past after a long day spent wandering the monuments. When a sleepy young girl riding on her father’s shoulders dropped her stuffed rabbit, Arnold bent down to retrieve it, tipping his hat to the child as he handed it back to her.
“Thanks, mister,” the girl called out.
“You have a good evening,” Arnold responded.
Raised voices in the lobby drew his attention and Arnold marched inside.
