Paulette said, “What are you hoping to find?”
“Luck,” said Detective Edwards.
He was drifting across the room like an art lover in the Louvre, slowly and methodically observing and absorbing everything. He stopped at the back wall in front of a framed photograph. There were no other paintings or photographs on any of the walls, but Paulette was too far away to see who was in it.
Detective Edwards said, “Your sister knew the vice president?”
“Is that who’s in the photo?”
“Yup,” said Edwards. “Looks to be in his office. Signed, too:
“Chloe was a White House intern. They assigned her to the vice president.”
He glanced around the shabby apartment. “What happened?”
“Chloe did something very stupid. Went out one night and partied till dawn, showed up at work the next morning still stinking of vodka and with a joint in her purse. Fired on the spot.”
“Drugs,” he said, as he jotted down his thought on a notepad. “Might explain what she was doing on the street alone last night. Might also explain why she got shot.”
Paulette didn’t argue. “May I see the photo?”
Edwards took it off the wall and brought it to her. Seeing Chloe in the proudest moment of her life brought on an unexpected wave of emotions-sadness, anger, a terrible sense of waste. There was guilt, as well. Not that she felt responsible for Chloe’s death. Her feelings stemmed from the simple fact that she and Chloe had been born seven years apart to different mothers and had never lived in the same house together. It was classic half-sister guilt-the knowledge that their father had always wanted “the girls” to be closer, the awkward feeling that she should have felt sadder than she did about the death of her father’s other daughter.
“Were you two close?” said Edwards.
The question only added to Paulette’s pain-and confusion. “I tried reaching out to her so many times. Chloe wanted help from no one. Her decision to work for the
“When was the last time you two saw each other?”
“We hadn’t spoken in months. Until she called last night.”
“What was that about?”
“Hard to say, exactly. It was totally unexpected. And she was very scattered. I feared she was on drugs again.”
“The toxicology report will answer that for us. What did the two of you talk about?”
“It was very bizarre. As best I can tell, Chloe was calling to tell me that she was working on a big story. To brag, I guess.”
“Brag?”
Paulette breathed a heavy sigh. “Chloe and I had a complicated relationship. I’m sure she knew that I was at the White House press party last night. It’s sad, but with everything that happened to her since the internship, the thought of me at the White House probably made her a little crazy. My guess is that she had something to drink-or worse-and then picked up the phone to tell me that while I was wasting my time drinking eggnog at some big-shot party, she was out getting the biggest story of the year.”
“Did she say what the story was about?”
“No. Honestly, I doubt there was even a story.”
He drifted in the direction of Chloe’s computer. It was on the loveseat next to an open bag of popcorn. The LCD screen was black, but when he moved the mouse, Paulette could see it brighten. For Paulette, it was an odd feeling-to think that the detective was now viewing the very same thing-possibly the last thing-that Chloe had looked at before going out and getting shot.
The photographer announced that he was finished, and Paulette stepped aside to let him out the door.
“Can I come in now?” she asked Edwards.
The detective was fixated on Chloe’s computer.
“Detective?” said Paulette.
He looked up. The crime scene investigators had finished with the carpet and had moved to the kitchen area.
“Come on over here,” said Edwards. “Take a look at this.”
Paulette ducked beneath the tape and crossed the room. Displayed on Chloe’s computer screen was the inbox to her e-mail, the typical collection of information: sender, date received, subject.
Edwards said, “Do you recognize any of these senders?”
Paulette took a closer look. There was the usual smattering of obvious spam-collectively, important messages for men with erectile dysfunction who needed to lose weight and borrow money fast. Paulette was only halfway down the list when another visitor knocked on the door frame.
“FBI,” the woman said with authority. “Step away from the computer.”
“What?” said Detective Edwards.
“Supervisory Special Agent Lloyd,” she said, as she stepped beneath the police tape and flashed a badge. Then he showed Edwards her papers. “We’re here to exercise a search warrant.”
“Since when does the FBI investigate homicides?” said Edwards.
“Could you step aside, please? I need the computer.”
Paulette watched the two law enforcement officers square their shoulders and stiffen their jaws, a sure sign of an ensuing state/federal jurisdictional squabble. The computer was obviously a significant piece of a larger puzzle that she hadn’t even begun to understand. Paulette studied the screen, but she couldn’t possibly commit Chloe’s inbox to memory. She snatched her iPhone from her purse and quickly snapped a photograph of the screen.
“What are you doing?” Agent Lloyd said sharply.
“Nothing,” said Paulette.
“Did you just take a photograph?”
“Gotta go. See ya.”
Paulette was under the tape and out the door faster than the FBI agent could say J. Edgar Hoover. She didn’t slow down until she was beyond the courtyard gate and outside on the sidewalk. A gust of cold wind nearly slammed her against her car, but it didn’t faze her. She stopped and pulled up the photograph on her iPhone. It was a little blurry, but the zoom made it legible.
More spam. A few messages looked legitimate, but nothing of moment-until she spotted the third one from the bottom. It had been delivered yesterday afternoon. The sender was unrecognizable, an apparently random selection of numbers and letters rather than a coherent screen name. The subject line was what caught her attention. It read more like the opening lines of a full message than a “re” line. In fact, it was too long to fit in the allocated space, so Chloe’s inbox had cut it off with an ellipsis:
Paulette felt chills, and it had nothing to do with the December cold front. Even ten minutes earlier, the message would not have hit her with this impact, but the FBI’s sudden interest in Chloe’s computer changed the picture entirely. Last night’s unexpected phone call-Chloe’s last words to Paulette, perhaps her last words ever spoken to anyone-had just taken a quantum leap in credibility.
It looked like Chloe had a meeting with a source.
She really was on to a story.
A big one.
Chapter 11
Jack exited the subway at Smithsonian Station and started walking along the National Mall toward the Capitol. He was following the instructions contained in his anonymous e-mail exactly. More important, he was doing it all under FBI surveillance.
“We see you,” said Andie, her voice transmitting through Jack’s tiny earpiece. “Move to the far left of the
