The Path of Silence (35 page)

My vest was in my car trunk. I was coming to pick my friend Joe’s brain, show him the formulae. It didn’t occur to me to dress up in armor.

“Jazz, Mrs. Tavalho? I pushed away his hands.

“They’re all right. The moment I listened to your message I thought of my family. Mattis and Ken took your housekeeper to Hopkins. I’ve been here long enough to hear that Joe was grandstanding. He was bluffing. I don’t think Mrs. Tavalho’s been implanted with a chest-bomb but they’ll check her out at the hospital. Jazz is with Courtney—at home.”

He must have seen on my face what flashed through my head because he chuckled and said, “It was either to leave her with Agent Gould or bring her along.”

“Well, in that case it’s all right,” I murmured. “Let’s call it in.”

“What for? We’re already in the morgue.”

Chapter 44

“J
oe has set up a funeral home in Washington that also has as part of its business function an escort service?” Bourke asked, incredulous. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

He hadn’t but I wasn’t going to stress him out even more today.

Agents Gould and Mattis returned to Washington to deal with the Randolph Funeral Emporium. It was an upscale, bold new venture that sprang up in our capital city just about two months ago. The escort part of the business was bizarre—but also enterprising and clever. Prominent people were more inclined to plan their funerals. What could be more natural than visiting a funeral home with those intentions? The newspapers would never suspect that a Senator visited a funeral home to contract an escort service and sought sex in the back of a limo with black-tinted windows. A hearse-limo was shrouded in the same respect and sanctity that applied to death. Even a tabloid photographer might balk at “desecrating” a carriage intended for the deceased with his obscene curiosity. I’m sure that’s how Joe would have reasoned. After all, he was the keeper of the dead.

And if the Senator made frequent visits to Randolph’s Funeral Emporium, these would be explained as planning follow-ups, making changes to his initial funeral arrangements.

Bourke kept shaking his head, murmuring, “Not Joe. I can’t believe it. Not Joe. Why?”

“Money,” I said. Quigley played a role in Joe’s walk over to the dark side but I didn’t want to go into details. If Quigley had enthusiastically endorsed Joe’s futuristic toxin and his state-of-the-art implants, the medical examiner still might have gone ahead with his explosive, cold scheme. He would have shaken Quigley’s hand with a deadpan expression and accepted awards for his marvelous invention—then done an about-face and continued serving Blank. He was a doctor to the dead. One title made him a healer, the other—a killer.

“How long did you say Joe’s been implicated in this scheme?” I heard Bourke ask and unfocused from my reflections.

“Ever since I’ve known him, sir,” I said. “He was that good at his jobs—both of them.”

“So are you,” Bourke said. “When did you figure it out?”

I didn’t want to lie but I also didn’t want Bourke to backpedal on his compliment.

“When I ran out of suspects, Joe ran out of scapegoats. That’s when he called me,” I said.

“Weston said something odd to me the other day,” Bourke said, changing the subject. “He said I should have a chat with you about your career. He thinks you’d make a damn good lawyer and that the Bureau could use a good legal counsel. Can you afford to go back to school?”

I smiled in an answer. I really didn’t want to stress him out more today.

“I’ll think about it, sir,” I promised. “Now, I just want to go home, sit down with my daughter and draw a family tree that’s filled with living people—not ghosts.”

The End

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