She was up and out of the chair before his lips closed. She walked with purpose away from his desk, neither looking right nor left, just focused on the door. Fletcher glanced around the bullpen, saw Bianco walking toward the conference room, her view of the door to the hall obscured. Providence.
Sam was gone, out the door, and when no alarm bells went off, Fletcher knew he’d just made the right decision. He could cover for at least an hour before Bianco figured things out, and that might just give Sam enough time to get some of the answers he needed to set his mind at ease.
He sent a note to Armstrong, a heads-up, just in case. And then he pulled the file to him and looked at the DNA again. Such a coincidence, the congressman managing to get himself dead just as the FBI found out he was a serial killer.
Something wasn’t right here. And he was going to figure out what that was, no matter what it cost him.
Chapter 20
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sam was a city block away from the JTTF before she let herself take a full breath. She’d been careful to go in the opposite direction from the Au Bon Pain so she wouldn’t stumble into Inez. Every step she took she expected an arm to land on her shoulder, grabbing and pulling her back to the JTTF offices, where she’d be stuck in a cell this time—they didn’t take kindly to suspects, or witnesses, or whatever role she was supposed to be playing for them, walking out of their custody unmolested.
But she didn’t perceive any immediate threats to her freedom, so she kept walking.
D.C. had recovered from the attack the day before. People streamed through the streets; the Metro was still closed, so they were forced to drive and taxi and walk to their destinations. There was still a large law enforcement presence, but the overwhelming mood was one of cautious optimism. They’d been attacked, and only three had died. It wasn’t cause for celebration, but it was a testament to the American way—you might be able to punch us, but you rarely knock us down, and never knock us out.
Summer in D.C. was a kaleidoscope of colors: flowers and trees thick with blooms, dresses in bold pinks and purples and yellows and greens, men in lightweight linen suits, even some seersucker. Nothing screamed hot weather to Sam like seersucker. She tucked herself behind a particularly portly man who not only wore a lightweight suit, but sported a hat and cane besides, and headed directly four blocks west to K Street, where she found Ledbetter’s office building with no difficulty.
She ducked inside the revolving doors, waiting a minute by the wall to see if anyone was following her. She felt rather ridiculous; she wasn’t used to not being able to use the power of her office to gain information. Sneaking around like this was insane. When she was growing up, and she’d ask her mother for advice about something she thought was questionable, her mom always told her, “Well, Sam, if you have to ask, then it’s probably the wrong thing to do.” That’s how she felt right now. Sneaking around like she had something to hide, when all she was doing was trying to help.
She tried to make sense of everything that was happening while she caught her breath.
A terrorist attack with an unknown substance. Xander running off to track down the owners of a survivalist website. Fletcher being asked to investigate the congressman as a serial killer. A teenage boy who talked publicly of an apocalyptic event. She couldn’t see what an anthropologist market researcher had to do with any of that.
But that’s why she was here, to try and pull the pieces together for Fletcher. To help him out from under the thumb of this Bianco character. Sam didn’t know if the woman was trustworthy, or out to cover her own ass. Whether the sweetness was an act belying a bitchy cream center, or her real disposition. She leaned toward the former, but only time would tell.
She glanced at the board that listed which office was where, and saw Ledbetter was on the sixth floor. Sam picked another office on the sixth, that of an OB/GYN, and went to the front desk, got in the line to move through the building’s security. She watched the three people in front of her as they signed in: the security guard didn’t ask any of them for ID. When Sam’s turn came, she altered her name, wrote Sarah Jackson on the sheet, and the doctor’s name. The guard didn’t blink an eye, just issued her a pass and motioned her through the turnstile.
Obviously no one at the JTTF thought Loa Ledbetter’s death was anything but a horrible accident, or they had already checked her out and didn’t find anything of consequence; otherwise, they might have had a tighter lock on the security in her building. That was lucky.
The elevator was inlaid marble and dark walnut, very elegant, and Sam got the impression that perhaps Ledbetter had been doing all right in the business department.