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Detective Gerkens nodded grudgingly. “I’ll let you know when we get access to the security video.”
Griffin and Leslie turned for the door.
“Agent Keller.” The detective’s voice stopped them. “I’ve been doing this a long time. If the chef had a hand in this, I’ll turn in my badge.”
Leslie was quiet throughout the cab ride down Massachusetts Avenue to Fourth Street. She exited the cab, but instead of heading inside the FBI field office, she marched down F Street. Griffin fell into step beside her. They both paused for a moment in front of the National Law Enforcement Officers’ Memorial. Griffin silently remembered colleagues who gave their lives for the job. Leslie was likely doing the same.
Turning abruptly, Leslie then headed into the historic red-bricked building that housed the National Building Museum. Griffin followed, figuring if she didn’t want him around, she would have bitten off his head already. She sat down on one of the iron benches that dotted the perimeter of the building’s ornate great hall. Griffin strolled through the café, picking up two coffees before joining her on the bench.
They watched as a toddler raced over to the giant fountain in the center of the hall only to have his father scoop him up steps before the child reached the gurgling water. The boy’s happy squeal echoed throughout the fifteen-story high gallery.
“This is my favorite place in this city,” Leslie said before taking a sip of coffee.
Griffin took a good look at the massive room. Eight towering Corinthian columns supported the building’s vaulted roof. Small, Doric columns surrounded the atrium like soldiers standing at attention. The floor featured a stunning design of terra cotta tiles. Before today, he’d never been inside this building; but he had to agree, the light and airiness of the space was relaxing. Settling back against the bench, he took a pull from his coffee.
“They hold the most amazing inaugural balls here. Daniel took me to one six years ago. It was an incredible night.”
Leslie tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Griffin wondered where this little trip down memory lane would end up. But he’d been around enough women to know not to ask.
“He proposed that same night. It was perfect.” A long moment later, her eyes snapped open. “And then it wasn’t. He wanted a trophy wife to help his law career along and further his political aspirations.” Her laugh rang a bit hollow. “Can you imagine? Me sitting by quietly while he had a scintillating career?”
There wasn’t a right answer to that one, so Griffin kept his mouth shut.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what my point is, Griff.”
He arched an eyebrow in response.
“Daniel saw in me what he wanted to see. It happens. Lots of people do that.” She looked over at Griffin. “Perhaps you’re seeing something you want to see, too. In the pastry chef.”
It took everything Griffin had within him to remain seated. No doubt she’d brought him to this tranquil place so he wouldn’t explode. “I’m not ‘seeing’ anything in the pastry chef besides the fact that she’s a suspect.” He practically growled the bold face lie.
She sighed heavily. “You forget I know you. Intimately. Every time someone mentions her, your face changes. You’re attracted to her.”
Griffin quickly schooled his features to be impassive. “You’re way off base here, Agent Morgan.”
“Mmm,” she said. “One of us is definitely ‘off base here.’ And for the sake of this case, I hope it is me.”
Her cell phone rang before Griffin could get another protest in. She stood up to take the call while he sat and fumed, the calm of the open-air atrium suddenly chafing at him.Leslie’s accusation is bogus.Yeah, he’d screwed up and kissed Marin. But that wasn’t happening again. He could still keep this case in perspective.
“That was Eric. He found something of interest in the curator’s email cloud.”
Griffin shoved to his feet and followed her out of the building and around the corner to the FBI field office.
“From the looks of his email, the curator was a fan of the White House pastry chef,” Eric announced when they arrived.
Griffin ignored Leslie’sI-told-you-solook. “What makes you say that?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.
“She must be an art enthusiast,” Eric continued. “They exchanged multiple emails on the subject over the past months.”
“The guy was the curator of the White House,” Griffin argued. “Not surprising his emails discuss artwork.”
“Yeah, much better that than them talking about kinky sex,” Leslie said.
Griffin did glare at her this time. She shrugged.
Eric pulled up one of the emails. Griffin’s gut clenched when he saw that the subject was about the very same Cezanne painting he discovered last week rolled up in a truck in New Jersey.
Leslie leaned in over Eric’s shoulder. “Interesting.”
