“The detail weren’t here, in the office?”
“Not at his time of death. In the building, yes. More than likely. They were scheduled to go out with him at two. The congressman had a meeting this afternoon at the University Club. He was scheduled to speak to the Daughters of the American Revolution, of all things.”
Fletcher appreciated the irony—speaking to a group whose membership could trace their lineage to the first attempts of the country to gain their freedom on the day the most important city in the world was attacked by terrorists was rich.
Temple tapped a pencil on the clean desktop. “Do they know what the attack was comprised of? What the agent was?”
“We don’t know yet,” Fletcher replied. “What about the rest of it?”
Temple glanced at him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
He gave Fletcher a pointed look. “Trust me. I don’t know.”
“Mr. Temple. We’re both grown-ups here. I have no intention of using the information to demean or embarrass the congressman’s legacy. You saw the text. The language seemed...purposefully inflammatory. Has the congressman been harassed lately?”
He shook his head, finally showing some interest in the situation. No, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been disinterested before. He was under control. Very much under control.
“Peter Leighton is an American patriot. He served his country honorably in the service, came home and decided to continue his selflessness in this thankless job. He is the greatest man I know.”
Fletcher sat back in his chair and took a sip of his Scotch. “You know, I’ve been a cop in D.C. for eighteen years. I’ve seen a lot of shit. It is not my job to be judge or jury. Your boss had a reputation in the very quiet corners of this town, and you can’t expect me to believe that, as his number-one guy, you aren’t aware of that.”
There it is. Right over the plate.
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Come on. You want to tell me what this is all about? Who might have sent something like this? Who did the congressman piss off?”
Temple swiveled the computer screen around to face Fletcher.
“Who hasn’t he pissed off? My God, we get five thousand emails a day, and I’d say a solid ninety percent are upset about something. Take, take, take, blame, blame, blame. That’s all these people know.”
“Mr. Temple. Please. I’m talking about something a little more private than constituents with a burning desire for a new road.”
Temple shook his head but wouldn’t meet Fletcher’s eye.
“Truly, don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There are rumors...”
Temple laughed. “This is D.C., Detective. If there isn’t a rumor about you, you’re doing something wrong.”
*
It was a good story, as far as stories went. Temple looked like a hero, he’d done everything he could think of to save his boss. The interviews with the three other staffers corroborated his story. Either they were all telling the truth, or they had decided on the story before Fletcher got there.
Not a single one was willing to breathe a bad word against their boss.
This was going nowhere, fast.
Fletcher got a crime scene tech to come to the office and take exclusionary fingerprint samples. That took fifteen minutes, and while it was going on, Temple arranged for the service detail who’d been with the congressman this morning to meet them in the office. Fletcher dismissed Temple and talked to them—a man and a woman, Mac and Sally—grizzled old hats who’d been assigned to the congressman for several months. Nothing in the routine this morning was different from any other day. They didn’t know where his briefcase was. Neither were feeling ill. Both were going for stoic, but Fletcher could see they were genuinely distressed over the news.
He pushed them on the rumors, too, but they clammed up. He took their statements, assured them he’d let them know what was happening, and let them leave, feeling vaguely uneasy.
They gave him a list of the people who’d been in the office over the past few days, and this morning. The official congressional photographer would send over the photos from the morning’s meet and greet. Otherwise, it seemed there was nothing here.
Someone was lying to him. He just didn’t know who. Or why.
Chapter 9
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sam waited for Fletcher in Nocek’s office, watching the late-breaking news story that had finally leaked its way into the media. The anchors looked shaken; even though they’d known for at least an hour, the media had kindly waited for the wife to land in D.C. and get to her husband’s side before they broke the news.