Fletcher was received—which was the only term for it, a butler was escorting him to a drawing room, for heaven’s sake—in the Leighton home with a minimum of fuss, considering. The butler’s name was Davis, and he offered Fletcher a cup of coffee, which Fletcher accepted with alacrity, just so he could see the china service. He was perverse that way. Money didn’t bother him: some people had it, some didn’t, and he knew quite well that just because you had a fat bank account, it didn’t mean things were going to be easier, or better, or happier, or nicer. Quite the contrary, actually.
The Leightons’ D.C. home was on Capitol Hill, tucked in behind Union Station, two townhouses side by side that had the walls between the two kicked down to eliminate the shotgun architectural style and allow for some wider, larger rooms. It had four stories and was tastefully decorated in neutral colors and dark walnut floors. Fresh flowers provided splashes of color, plus several paintings in modern, abstract style. Fletcher parked himself in front of one of these, a monstrosity that covered nearly a full wall of the room, and started taking apart the brushstrokes while he waited.
Gretchen Leighton arrived in the room before the coffee.
She was a beautiful Nordic blonde, cool, composed, athletic. She wore black pants and a sheer black blouse with a Chanel jacket over top, and jet-black pearls around her neck. She was wearing glasses, chunky tortoise frames that Fletcher didn’t recall ever seeing her in before. She was often photographed with her husband, and Fletcher had gone through two pages of photos on Google to familiarize himself with their relationship. By all visual accounts, they were close, happy and, on the surface, stable in their marriage.
She approached with a hand out. “Detective Fletcher? I’m Gretchen Leighton.”
She shook his hand briefly. Hers was smooth and soft and manicured. Exactly what you’d expect from the moneyed wife of a congressman.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Leighton.”
“Call me Gretchen, and thank you. It’s been a terrible couple of days. Shall we?”
She pointed toward the grouping of chairs, two soft leather Ekornes chairs and a tan suede sofa. He took one of the chairs, she chose the sofa. Davis arrived with the coffee, and they busied themselves with the service. The cups were Limoges—Fletcher knew more about china than he’d ever wanted to because of his ex-wife’s obsessions with the stuff. When they were first married, she would take him on all-day outings to flea markets and antique stores looking for pieces to fill out her grandmother’s four sets that had been broken up and sold off during the Second World War. He could tell the manufacturer of most any bone china, thanks to Felicia. It was a skill he rarely got to use, unless he was running a homicide investigation with the affluent set.
Bizarre, the things you pick up in life.
Once their coffees were doctored to their satisfaction, Gretchen sat back on the sofa, her cup expertly balanced on her knee, and said, “So, Detective. Have you determined who murdered my husband?”
“You think he was murdered?”
“You don’t?”
“The medical examiner felt he had a massive asthma attack.”
“Brought about by his exposure to some sort of neurotoxin in the Metro station. It makes sense that he’d have a problem, his lungs were so ravaged by the disease. I understand it takes several hours for the symptoms to manifest, so it fits. Whomever released the toxin into the air is responsible for my husband’s death.”
“On the surface, absolutely. And if more people were dead, I wouldn’t be here in this capacity. But only three passed away, and that’s a cause for concern. We won’t know for sure if they died from the abrin until the toxicology reports are back, and that could take a while.”
Gretchen looked stricken. “You need more to make it work for you? My God, what kind of man are you?”
“A careful one, Mrs. Leighton.” Fletcher set his cup on the side table. “Of the three people who died yesterday, two have already been tied together. I need to ask, did your husband know a woman named Loa Ledbetter?”
The merest flicker of an eyelid.
“I’m not familiar with that name outside of the reports on the news about her death. It’s tragic, just like Peter, and that poor boy.”
“And Marc Conlon, as well? You’ve never heard of him?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
“This is a company town, Mrs. Leighton. A lot of the kids intern on the Hill. I didn’t know if perhaps he’d been one of your husband’s staffers.”
“Not that I’m aware of. You’ll have to talk to Glenn Temple, he’ll know for sure. But surely he would have said something yesterday when you interviewed him.”
“He didn’t, but I’m going to speak with him again, so I can double-check. May I ask you a personal question?”
“Aren’t you already?”
Fletcher inclined his head briefly. Best not roil the beast until he had to.
“More personal than we’ve been discussing, ma’am. Your husband shaved his body. That’s not something a wife can easily miss. Can you tell me why?”
The laugh was genuine, sudden, and surprised both of them.
“Oh, I imagine that must have caused a great deal of astonishment, didn’t it? Peter is a swimmer. He got in the habit in college, when he was competitive. He felt it made him faster in the water, all the boys did it. A fraction of a second could actually make a difference in those races.”