“Was there ever anything strange about her trips?”
Loa laughed. “There was never anything normal. We dined with heads of state and footmen alike. My mother was fascinated by people—everything about them turned her crank, from the littlest bit of perfume to their shoes and cars and horses and goats. She wanted to know everything. She was damn good at her job, which was basically to ask a few well-placed questions and let people spill their guts. Then she’d hurry us home so she could write everything up while it was still fresh in her head. I’m sure you already know she was the preeminent ethnographic researcher in the field. There wasn’t a soul who wouldn’t open up to her. Five minutes with someone and she’d know their lineage, their wives’ names, how many children they had, what sort of donkey they owned, whether they liked sweets, what their favorite dish was, whether they’d had an affair, or a miscarriage. She was astounding.”
“And yet you two were on the outs. Why?”
Her mouth formed a thin line. “I’d rather not get into that.”
Fletcher leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands on his belly. Unassuming. Friendly.
“Loa, please understand. All I’m trying to do here is find out who killed your mother.”
Her eyes flashed. “She was on the Metro. She went through Foggy Bottom every day. Whoever set off the abrin killed her.”
“We think it may be more than that. She taught one of the victims, Marc Conlon. He was a student of hers at American last semester. And we think she may have known the congressman who died, as well. Are you familiar with Peter Leighton?”
“Well, yes. Of course. He’s been all over the news. It’s almost as if he was the only one who died. Every once in a while they’ll throw in a statistic, say three dead, but they never even mention their names.”
As was often the case.
“But did you know him before the attack? Was he friends with your mother?”
“Not that I’m aware of. She was pretty apolitical. She had to be, to be able to get along with everyone.”
Dead end. Either she was lying through her teeth, or there wasn’t an open connection there.
“Do you know anyone that might want to hurt your mother?”
“My mother and I hadn’t talked in quite some time, Detective. I am very, very sorry that she is dead, and that I will never be able to tell her how much I loved her, despite the fact that she made me crazy. But I was no longer a part of her life, so no, I really don’t.”
A sad speech. He thought she was being genuine, too. A shame, really. He made a mental note to call his own mother; it had been too long since he’d spent time with her.
“You inherit everything. Twenty million is a lot of money.”
“Yes, it is. And I’ll be setting up a charitable organization in her name with that money, and making sure her company continues to run. I won’t be benefitting from it personally, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She had all the answers. Fletcher decided to rattle her cage. “All right. Tell me about your time in Colorado, with the Mountain Blue and Gray.”
The change that came over her features was remarkable. One minute a soft, grieving child, the next a battle-scarred soldier. She stood up, looking like she was going to run from the room.
“We’re finished here.”
“Loa. Please. Sit down. We already know a great deal about your time there. That you had a boyfriend, and you ran away with him. That you were gone for two years. I just need to know how that pertains to your mother. I think you’ve already assessed that we don’t think this was merely an attack on the Metro, but a targeted assassination. We are drawing parallels between the three victims, and your mother is at the core of our investigation.”
She didn’t sit, but she didn’t bolt, either.
“Please, Loa, sit back down. I understand that it might be a difficult thing to relive. I promise that nothing you tell me will go any further than my investigative team. But if we’re going to find who murdered your mother, we need to know the whole truth about her life. And you were a very important part of her life.”
“So important that she couldn’t even give me my own name. She had to give me hers.”
The bitterness was finally coming out, along with a smattering of tears.
“You have her name, which is heavy enough, but forevermore you’re going to be associated with her, mistaken for her. All because you share her name. So why don’t you tell me about that. I assume your running away was an attempt at some real autonomy? What were you, thirteen?”
She sat back down at the table, but still looked like she was ready to bolt.
“Nearly fourteen. Just shy of my birthday.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a very silly thing to say, but I thought I was in love. And I was sadly mistaken.”
Chapter 42
Dillon, Colorado