TailSpin (27 page)

“No, Congresswoman, not at all,” Sherlock said, running over her smoothly, her voice nearly an octave higher, but it was difficult even with all Sherlock’s experience. “May we be seated?”

“What? Well, yes, all right. But I don’t have much time, as I told you.”

She sat down herself and stared at them from across the expanse of her dark leather-surfaced partners desk.

Sherlock said, “We’re here to speak with you about Dr. MacLean’s claim that you murdered your husband. Surely you remember, Congresswoman—under hypnosis you said you hired someone to murder your husband at a truck stop outside Atlanta?”

Congresswoman McManus jumped to her feet. Savich saw she did indeed have beautiful breasts, as Timothy had said. The lovely silk wraparound dress showcased them quite nicely. She was shaking, he saw, her face remarkably flushed—with rage? Fear?

“That is ridiculous nonsense! I want you to leave now. Do you hear me? I don’t have to put up with this!”

Savich raised a hand. “A moment more, Congresswoman. I realize you can’t begin to understand why Dr. MacLean told us about this, so let me explain. Dr. MacLean has been diagnosed with frontal lobe dementia, a pernicious disease that makes him say inappropriate, even extraordinarily damaging, things—in your case, breaking patient confidentiality—all without meaning to, all without malicious intent.” He paused a beat. “Perhaps you know there have been other attempts on Dr. MacLean’s life? That his office records were burned?”

McManus’s voice was deep and vibrant, and shook with passion. “You’re here to accuse me of having my husband murdered? That is monstrous nonsense, monstrous. His death, his murder, it was a horrible thing to have happen; my children were devastated. I loved my husband.

“You said Dr. MacLean claims I told him I killed my own husband? And now you say he’s demented? And he didn’t tell his patients that he was
demented
? I detest that man, he’s an untrustworthy little
shite
. I abandoned him as an incompetent, but he was more, so much more.”

“If he was only incompetent, Congresswoman, why would you think of suing him?”

That stopped her, but only for an instant. She planted large graceful hands on her desktop. “You listen to me, both of you. I was legitimately elected to the House of Representatives of the United States of America. Do you understand? I am a member of Congress. We do not kill. It simply is not done. All right, I will admit I chanced to hear that MacLean had said some horrible things about me. But that means nothing, do you hear me?”

Sherlock said, “Ah, but you hadn’t yet been elected to Congress when your husband was killed.”

McManus threw her head back and her voice vibrated low and hard now, but she looked only at Savich. “I did not kill my husband. I did not hire anyone to kill my husband. I am not trying to kill Dr. MacLean. I have not hired anyone to kill Dr. MacLean.” Her palms smacked hard on the desktop, and she looked up at them, her eyes hot, sharp as glass. “He is a charlatan and a liar. He has slurred my good name, he has obviously told people I supposedly confessed murder to him. It’s more than appalling! It’s slander and malpractice. What else has he made up, and about whom?”

Sherlock raised her hand. “Congresswoman McManus, let me tell you something you obviously do not know. You may not remember Dr. MacLean hypnotizing you and eliciting such a story from you, but know that no confession made under hypnosis would stand up in court, even if it were recorded. The lawyers could tear it down in a matter of moments, if, that is, the judge even allowed it. So you see, there’s no reason to deny being hypnotized by Dr. MacLean.”

There was stony silence.
Well, that didn’t work,
Sherlock thought.

Savich pulled out his small notebook and settled back in his chair. He asked pleasantly, “So you know nothing about rigging a bomb and putting it on the Cessna you knew Dr. MacLean would be flying in?”

“I know nothing about that! Nothing about the attempts on Dr. MacLean’s miserable life! How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

Savich said, more steel in his voice now, “Would you please tell us your whereabouts on May eighteenth at about three o’clock in the afternoon? That was the afternoon Dr. MacLean was nearly run down by a dark sedan here in Washington.”

She didn’t spew this time. She became quiet and still. Her lips were moving, as if she were whispering a mantra, or ritual words, to get herself back in control. She said, slowly and precisely, spacing her words as if explaining something to an idiot, “I am calling my lawyer. I cannot imagine what you think you’re doing bursting in on a representative in the Congress of the United States of America and conducting yourself in such a manner. I will have both of your jobs for harassing me. If necessary, I will ensure that your supervisors are fired, as well. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock said calmly, “Congresswoman McManus, can you begin to imagine what would happen to your public career if what Dr. MacLean is saying gets out? Just a whiff of it?”

“Now you have the gall to threaten me? You want to ruin me by spreading malicious gossip?”

“No, ma’am, we would not do that. But you know as well as we do that an allegation of that nature, even a mention of it behind someone’s hand, could snowball and ruin you quite effectively.”

Savich raised a hand before she could speak. “We don’t know what the truth is about these matters, ma’am, but we felt it our duty to inform you of these allegations.”

The door opened and Nicole Merril stepped in.

Obviously McManus had pressed a call button.

“Please see these people out, Nicole.” She rose slowly, stared at them both with cold assassin eyes. “If you wish to speak to me again, you may not. You will speak only with my lawyer. Nicole will give you her name. If any of this absurd conversation leaks to the media, I will come after you personally. Good day.”

After Savich fired up his Porsche, he turned to Sherlock. She saw he was grinning like a loon.

“That was more fun than outshooting you at the firing range. I guess that does it for our popularity with her at this point. You think she’s running scared? Or is she planning our destruction?”

Sherlock said, “Oh, we got her all stirred up, that’s for sure. And yes, she’s scared. I could feel the tension pouring off her.” Sherlock leaned her head back against the Porsche’s soft-as-sin leather seat, closed her eyes.

Savich said as he turned into traffic, “Let’s have some lunch, then pay a visit to Pierre Barbeau and his charming wife. I think we’re on a roll.” He nodded to the agent parked down the street. “I wish we could tap her phone. But at least we’ll know if she meets up with somebody.”

Sherlock smiled when the wind tore through her hair as the Porsche swerved gracefully around a big honking SUV.

THIRTY-FIVE

S
herlock said, “Remember how Sean was whooping and hollering, grabbed our hands and pulled us ’round and ’round that maypole at DuPont Circle?” Savich shot her a grin as he passed the circle and smoothly turned right off New Hampshire Avenue NW onto Eiger Street.

She was still smiling when they drove by the very ritzy modern condo building where the Barbeaus lived. “I guess I was expecting another huge Georgian set back in a beautiful yard. Although now that I think about it, is it possible their being French makes a difference?”

Savich laughed as he parked the Porsche a half block down, not far from one of the South American embassies. He gave Sherlock a grin, leaned over and kissed her. “You taste like the cheddar cheese from your taco.” He lightly rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. He then ran his fingers through her tangled hair, his fault, she’d told him long ago, whenever she rode with him in the Porsche.

He sat back to admire his handiwork. She said, “You sure no one can tell I was riding in a convertible at wind-tunnel speeds?”

“Nah,” he said, “you’re perfect.”

They looked over the immaculate grounds, at the blooming flowers planted in heavy ceramic pots and wooden flower boxes lining the walkways, everything swept and clean, the grass meticulously mowed. The sun was bright overhead and it seemed to Sherlock that the petunias and purple rhododendron were stretching up to reach it. She thought her deep red rhododendron at home was more brilliant.

“Maybe there’s something to having someone do all the work for you. Everything’s got a high shine.”

Savich shook his head. “I like to sweat over my own lawn mower.”

“A doorman, now isn’t that uptown? And he’s even wearing a spiffy uniform. I believe those are Green Bay’s colors.”

“The French National Police can’t cover much of this expense,” Savich said. “Lucky for him that his income is nicely subsidized by the large number of euros in Mrs. Barbeau’s bank accounts.”

“Her family is big into train construction and maintenance throughout Europe,” Sherlock said, as they walked up the flagstone walkway to the glass-fronted building. “At least we know Pierre Barbeau didn’t work today. You think he’s lying low?”

“Maybe. I heard he and his wife haven’t been seen much. They’re still torn up about their son’s death,” Savich said.

The doorman glittered in his green-and-gold uniform. He was startled, clearly, when Savich showed him their FBI creds, but he recovered quickly. “You wish to see the Barbeaus?”

“Yes, please give them a buzz,” Sherlock said. “We know they’re both home.”

When they stepped out of the elevator on the ninth and top floor, it was onto pristine gold-white marble. The Barbeaus’ condo occupied half of the floor.

On the second ring of the doorbell, they heard the sharp click of heels. A young woman, her complexion swarthy as a pirate’s, and wearing, of all things, a classic French maid’s black-and-white uniform, opened the door. She was a bit out of breath.

“
Oui?
May I help you?”

As she stepped forward, Sherlock wondered if the maid was the real French deal, or if she was amusing herself. Sherlock pulled out her ID. “I’m sure the doorman called up. As you see, we are FBI. We would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Barbeau.”

The young woman turned quickly and disappeared through an arched doorway to the left. She immediately came back, heels loud and sharp on the marble floor, her face flushed. She apologized for leaving them in the entryway, and showed them into the starkly modern, entirely white living room. Savich hated white on white, but the view of all the historic residences through the floor-to-ceiling windows was very nice indeed. He saw his Porsche hugging the curb, boxed in now by a Beemer and a Mercedes, royalty, to his mind, surrounded by minions.

A good five minutes passed before Pierre Barbeau and his wife, Estelle, appeared in the doorway, both wearing casual chic, which for her meant tight designer jeans, a jeweled belt, and a silk blouse, and for Pierre, a short-sleeved golf shirt, black pants, and Italian loafers. He was holding a Diet Coke. Mrs. Barbeau looked like a thoroughbred—thin, sharp bones, the angle of her head arrogant, her chin high, and she stood straight and tall. She knew her own worth, Savich thought, and her opinion of her own worth was very high indeed. He looked more closely and saw the pain in her dark eyes, the new lines etched around her mouth. How fragile she looked in her expensive clothes. There was no doubt in his mind the woman was hurting.

Pierre Barbeau looked exhausted, like he was slowly bleeding, the life draining out of him. His black eyes were sunken and shadowed, his flesh loose on his face. There was no way this man could have planned and executed an escape for his son, not with his ravaged face and dead eyes. Pierre Barbeau looked like an old man who no longer cared about anything. He said as he paused in the doorway, “Tommy from downstairs told us two FBI agents were here. I do not understand. What would the FBI want to speak to us about?” Neither he nor Mrs. Barbeau appeared to want names or a handshake, which was fine by Savich.

Savich said pleasantly, “I believe you are both acquainted with Dr. Timothy MacLean?” He didn’t move from where he and Sherlock stood by a corner window that looked back toward DuPont Circle over the roofs of a dozen historic buildings.

Because Pierre Barbeau’s face was already stark with misery, Savich saw only a small change at the mention of MacLean’s name. He looked like he wanted to spit in contempt, but wasn’t able to dial it up. He sneered instead. As for Mrs. Barbeau, there was instant dagger-cold viciousness in her eyes, her hatred for Timothy instantly overcoming her grief. Savich didn’t want to, but he knew he should fan that hatred if he wanted to find out the truth as quickly as possible. They walked slowly into the living room and sat together on a white sofa, Pierre still clutching the Diet Coke. Savich and Sherlock sat opposite them.

Pierre Barbeau squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, but not to the same arrogant height as his wife’s, and kept his sneer in place. He said, his voice low, an old man’s tremor sliding through it, “Dr. MacLean? Well, yes, both my wife and I have known Timothy and Molly for many years now, but in reality who can you ever really know?” He shrugged. “Oh, we were friends, shared meals, talked about our families, our children . . .” He swallowed, and his hand trembled when he brought up the Coke can to rub his cheek. To wipe away tears he knew could roll down his face any moment? “We knew their children, they knew Jean David.”

If Sherlock closed her eyes and only heard him speak, she’d have thought he sounded very sexy with that lovely accent, not so heavy that he sounded like a cartoon to an American ear. But looking at him, she saw a man utterly beaten down, like Atlas, holding the weight of the world, but ready to drop it.

“Yes, we are acquaintances,” Estelle said, her accent more pronounced. “Most everyone in our circle is acquainted with him. I will instruct Lissy to bring us coffee.”

“We’re fine, Mrs. Barbeau,” Savich said. He watched them exchange a look, then move closer together—protection from more bad news?