instant. Then it was lights out. I didn't understand it, but I knew it wasn't an accident, even while it was happening.'
Savich was bursting with more questions, but he realized Valenti was fading. He leaned close to the vice president's face and said quietly, 'Rest now, sir. I will see you again, and count on it, I will find an answer for you.' He nodded to the physicians and the Secret Service agents and left the room. Secret Service Agent Alma Stone was soon beside him, escorting him to the door of the ICU.
'You're on your own from here, Dillon. Do you know we caught a media yahoo up here early this morning? No idea how he managed to slip through this far, and he refused to tell us, babbled about the freedom of the press.'
'Keep him safe, Alma.'
'You can count on that. Give my love to Sherlock and Sean.'
'If you need me for anything, Alma, I'll be down the hall speaking to Mrs. Valenti.'
51
MILLSTONE, CONNECTICUT
The Glenis Springs Country Club boasted a bitch of a course, club golfers were heard to remark fondly. Even though the clubhouse hadn't been updated since 1981, the course was buffed and polished and improved upon every year.
Sherlock bypassed the red stone and glass clubhouse and walked down a stone path, past the pro shop, toward the first tee. In the distance she saw a half-dozen tennis courts, all of them in use. It was a beautiful day, in the mid-sixties, and she hoped Mick Haggarty was giving tennis lessons on one of the courts. Surely Jane Ann Royal would not be here with Mick, not with her husband brutally murdered in her laundry room early yesterday morning. Surprise was usually a good thing.
She was frankly surprised she didn't find Mick Haggarty. She checked in at the pro shop and learned he had an appointment at the Royal house. Go figure that.
She called Bowie and Erin, en route to see Dr. Kender in New Haven, and told them she was off to Jane Ann's house.
She pulled into the driveway and parked behind two forensic vans, both FBI. Forensic teams were still working inside the house. She was just about to ask if the techs had found anything useful when her cell played 'Some Enchanted Evening.' She smiled because Dillon had programmed it in right before he'd returned to Washington.
'Sherlock.'
'It's me.'
'Hi, you, what's going on down there?'
'I'm out near Leesburg. They found Emilio Gasparini, the Foggy Bottom sous chef, dead in his car at the bottom of a ditch. The Virginia cop who found him saw the APB and called us. He says it looks like an accident, but you can bet Astro's collar it isn't.'
'I'd make that bet. One more piece of the puzzle, Dillon. Our murderer is running scared. I don't want you being a hot dog, all right? I want you to be careful, you promise?'
'My middle name, sweetheart.'
'Which word?'
He laughed. 'No one's tried to gun me down lately. Now, tell me this, Sherlock, how could anyone have messed with Senator Hoffman's Brabus without Hoffman's driver, Morey Hughes, knowing about it?'
'How much time would it require?'
'I asked the guys who reassembled what's left of the device. They said someone experienced at it could install it in maybe twenty minutes of intense concentration.'
'Morey's coffee break?'
'Could be, since Morey also does other things for the senator besides driving him and taking care of his cars, so it's not like he camps out in the garage. But he's still there most of the time. His other tasks-like delivering to FedEx, dropping off papers to another lawmaker's residence or office, getting take-out for a staff meeting-it's always different stuff, so anyone watching for a set routine would be out of luck.'
'So our murderer already had the skill to both assemble and install a pretty high-tech device, or he's bright and learned how?'
'Or our murderer hired someone to put it together.'
'Yes, that's what I'm thinking, too. We've put out feelers for someone here in D.C. or close by who would fit the bill. Demolition background, maybe. I'm also thinking the person would simply have to watch and wait until Morey Hughes left the Hoffman house, slip into the garage and install it, hope he wasn't spotted.'
'That's a lot of risk,' Sherlock said slowly. 'Whoever did it would have to be really committed, or extraordinarily well paid.'
'Yeah, and that keeps bringing me back to Senator Hoffman's sons.'
'You really think they have the answer to this mess?'
'Sounds strange, I know. I guess they could be just a distraction.'
'No, if that's your gut, I'd take it to the bank. You're trying too hard, Dillon. How many times have you read the interview transcript?'
'Three, four times.'
'Don't read it again. In fact, try not to think about it, just let it simmer. I know you, you'll sit bolt upright in the middle of the night tonight and there it'll be, the answer, crystal clear.' Sherlock could see his thoughtful expression, and smiled.
She said, 'Speaking of distractions, I'm beginning to think there are plenty of them around up here in Connecticut. I'm off to Millstone again to see if I can't find Jane Ann Royal. I'm here at her house and her Audi isn't in the garage, so I'm thinking she's with her tennis pro. I'm going to drive to Millstone, that's where Mick Haggarty lives. I want to see the two of them together. I could be wrong, I mean, Jane Ann could have friends right here in Stone Bridge, but I have this feeling…' She paused, then added, 'We'll see. Later I'll be hooking up with Bowie and Erin.'
'You be careful, you hear?'
'You can count on it. I've got that enchanted evening coming up, right? And I don't mean pizza with Sean, either. How about Sunday night? Maybe we can get this all ironed out today.'
'Sounds good to me.' And he laughed.
Sherlock was grinning when she readjusted her mirror a bit, waved to the crime scene techs, and pulled out of the Royal driveway.
She called Agent Dolores Cliff, got Mick Haggarty's address, and drove back to Millstone.
52
BISMARK ROAD, TWO MILES WEST OF LEESBURG, VIRGINIA
Savich and Dane stood beside the stretcher two paramedics were preparing to shove into the back of the coroner's van. Savich unzipped the green bag.
Emilio Gasparini looked like he was asleep, as if he could open his eyes at any minute, smile at them, and ask if they'd like one of his special omelets. But he wouldn't be opening his eyes. He'd never wake up again. Sous chef Emilio Gasparini was Cordon Bleua€“trained, and only thirty-four years old. He had dark hair and an olive complexion. He was born in Florence, both his parents chefs. There'd been no infusions of money into his bank accounts, no signs of sudden affluence, like new clothes in his closet, a new car, nothing. So that meant the money
