Homicide in the House Page 18

  “It’s me. Did I wake you up?”

  “No, but you got up early this morning and it interrupted my sleep.”

  “Sorry. There’s a lot going on here. You know, such as a federal government shutdown and my boss being accused of murder. That kind of stuff.”

  “Are there new developments in the case?”

  I caught him up concerning Dan’s information about the unfortunate placement of Maeve’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.

  After a few minutes of silence, Doug said, “Kit, this doesn’t look good for your boss. Like I said earlier today, it might make sense for you to disengage.”

  “If she’s guilty, there’s nothing I can do about it. But what about the possibility she’s innocent? I might be her only hope.”

  “Even if you’re right, the real killer thinks he or she got away with it since so much suspicion has been focused on your boss. If you keep asking questions, you’ll become a liability to him or her.”

  “I’m always careful. The reason I’m calling is that tonight I need to have drinks with a guy who knows one of the suspects.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “His name is Trent Roscoe. Trevor knows him and put me in touch.” The less said, the better. Doug didn’t need to know the gory details.

  “Are you going by yourself?”

  Doug never asked questions about my social obligations on the Hill. He realized evening happy hours and receptions were part of working for Congress. Did he really know me so well that he guessed something was amiss?

  “I think so, but Meg is coming with me to his office to help with the interrogation.”

  He hesitated before replying, “Perhaps she can join you for drinks. Meg never turns down cocktails.”

  “That’s true, but she’s got this investigation she’s working on for her committee. She took off early last night to join us for Capitol Canine, remember?”

  “How could I forget? Clarence’s pizza escapade will be seared in my memory forever.”

  I giggled at the image of Clarence devouring the pepperoni. At least he’d enjoyed himself.

  “I’ll text you when I’m headed home. Talk to you later.”

  He said goodbye, and I hung up, thinking that I wished I could spend more time with Doug. When all of this nonsense was over, I’d have to focus on him. There was only so long a relationship could survive on autopilot.

  I gathered my belongings and headed to Dan’s office to tell him I was leaving. Then I reversed course and bolted. What was the point of informing Dan? I’d always considered him a lightweight, but he’d shown his true colors the past several days. Even if the police cleared Maeve of any wrongdoing, I knew one thing for certain: there was no way in hell I could continue to work for Dan. Any ounce of respect I’d had for him disappeared when he threw our boss under the bus.

  In less than five minutes, I was chugging through the Cannon Tunnel once again. This time, instead of veering to the right to enter the Capitol Visitor Center, I tacked left. This was the hinterland of the Capitol Building, known as the basement or “terrace” level. The ever-popular flag office was located around the corner, where members could obtain United States flags flown on the Capitol grounds for worthy constituents. Dan had asked me once to retrieve a flag on short notice so Maeve could provide it to a fellow veteran visiting Washington D.C.

  The dimly lit corridor resembled the abandoned basement of a dilapidated high school. There were no offices down here, just uninviting steel doors with room numbers etched above them. I was definitely in the right place for the various craftsman shops. The only other people occupying this part of the building were workmen sporting blue jumpsuits with the Architect of the Capitol insignia emblazoned on them.

  After traversing the corridor several times to no avail, I concluded the room number for the carpentry shop I’d unearthed on the Internet had ceased to exist. It was time for Plan B. Several Architect employees had come and gone through a particular double-door entryway. With any luck, it was the main point of access for one of the trade shops.

  I stood next to the door and waited. Sure enough, a man in a blue jumpsuit rounded the corner and reached for the handle. Before he could enter, I blocked the entrance.

  “Excuse me, sir. Can you help me with something?” I flashed the toothiest smile I could muster.

  My innocent victim was caught off guard. Not too many congressional staffers ambushed AOC craftsmen. Once he saw the staff identification badge around my neck, he relaxed. “What’s wrong, honey? Are you lost? The flag office is closed during the shutdown.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for the carpentry shop. Can you tell me where it is?”

  “Did something break in your office? If that’s the case, there’s a form you need to fill out online.”

  “No, that’s not it. I’m looking for the place where they make the Speaker’s gavels.”

  My friend narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “That’s a new one. Why do you need to know that?”

  Somehow I didn’t think telling him the unvarnished truth would get me far. “My boss has this guy she owes a favor. His kid is writing a research paper on the Speaker of the House and he wants to know more about the gavels. Since there’s nothing going on these days, she sent me down here to find the place where they’re made so I can take a photo for the little scholar.” I waved my iPhone at him.

  “Huh. Now congressmen are writing research papers for voters. They do everything but passing the bills to pay our salaries.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  He shrugged. “Tell you what. Wait outside here and I’ll see if my supervisor can come talk to you about the carpentry shop.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  I blew out a long breath. Lying had never been my strong suit, but lately, the deceptions rolled off my tongue smooth as butter.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and a heavyset, middle-aged guy in a blue uniform emerged. GENO was written in big block letters on the upper right corner of his shirt. He had bushy hair that stuck out from all sides, scrunched under a well-worn Architect of the Capitol baseball hat.

  He gave me a quick once-over. “Are you the lady who wants to know about the gavels?”

  “That’s me. My name is Kit and I appreciate your time.”

  “You’re in luck. We’re not supposed to be doing any work around here except what’s absolutely necessary to keep the Capitol operating. Due to the shutdown and all that political business.”

  “Thanks, Geno. Can you show me where you folks make the gavels?”

  Geno removed a stick of gum from his pocket, carefully unwrapped it, placed it in his mouth, and started chewing. “This is my replacement for cigarettes. Somehow, it’s not the same.”

  Like a true D.C. politico, Geno had avoided my question by changing the topic. But there was no way I’d give up that easily.

  “I bet it’s not nearly as satisfying. Are the gavels made inside this workshop?” I pointed toward the double door behind us.

  “Nah. It’s not here. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t show you inside our workshops for a million reasons. A nice lady like you might get hurt in a dangerous place. One misstep and bam!” He smacked his hands together. “You’ve lost a finger.”

  His ominous tone vaguely reminded me of my high school shop teacher and my subsequent fear of band saws. Maybe I didn’t need to see where the gavels were actually constructed.

  “I understand, Geno. But do your colleagues make the gavels somewhere in this building?”

  He blew a small bubble. “Sure, we do. Done it since the 1930s. At least we have photographs going back that far showing Architect craftsmen with the Speaker’s gavel.”

  Now I was getting somewhere. “I just have a few more questions. How many gavels do you make each year?”

  “No idea.”

  “Is it more than one at a time?”

  He laughed. “Of course. The Speaker needs more than one ga
vel. After all, sometimes they break, even though they’re made from lacquered maple these days.”

  Bingo. “Where do they go once you’ve completed your work?”

  “We hand them over to the parliamentarian’s office. They take possession so they can be used on the House floor. Where they get stored after that, I have no idea.”

  “Geno, you’ve been a real lifesaver.” I stuck my hand out for a friendly shake.

  He plopped another piece of gum in his mouth and chomped away. “No problem. All this interest in the Speaker’s gavel is pretty strange, though.”

  I whipped my head around. “What do you mean?”

  He leaned up against the dingy wall next to the door leading to the shop. “I’ve worked here for a little over twenty years and no one has ever asked me about the Speaker’s gavel. Today, you’re the second person with questions about it.”

  “Someone else asked about the gavel today?”

  “Yeah, that’s the funny thing. This morning, I had almost the same conversation with some guy.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “I don’t think he offered it. Said he was doing research on the Speaker’s gavel and wanted to know where it was made and where it was stored. That type of stuff.”

  Who could have been asking about the gavel? Was the murderer trying to cover his tracks? Gareth Pressler came to mind. “Geno, would you recognize the guy if you saw him again?”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think so. Today hasn’t been too busy, so his face is pretty clear in my mind.”

  “Give me a second.” I grabbed my iPhone from my purse and searched for a photo of Gareth Pressler online. Google Images didn’t fail me. There was a recent photograph of him on LinkedIn. I pulled it up on the screen and enlarged it for Geno.

  “Is this the guy you spoke with?”

  Geno took my phone and held it close to his eyes. He quickly replied, “Nope” and handed it back to me.

  Darn. Nothing was ever easy. “Are you sure? His name is Gareth and he works in the Capitol.”

  “I’ve seen this guy around. He’s some high yuckety-muck with the Sergeant’s office. He wasn’t asking about the gavel.”

  Geno seemed sure of himself. No point in pressing. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you. If you ever need anything, I’d be happy to help.”

  “Sure, you can do something for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Get those politicians to agree on a budget so me and my guys can get paid.”

  Not an unreasonable request. I waved goodbye to Geno and retraced my steps back through the long, bleak underground Capitol corridor.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I had time to kill before meeting Meg at Trent’s office for our evening escapade. Under normal conditions, returning to the office would have been an option. But I didn’t need another dose of Dan and his meltdown mentality. Instead, I found a seat in the basement of Cannon near the array of vending machines. Luckily, the machines were still fully operational. Junk food was typically verboten, but I’d had a rough day. After finding a few stray dollar bills in my purse, I settled in with a bottle of Diet Coke, a Hershey’s bar, and my iPhone. Sleuthing required sustenance, after all.

  Cyberspace engulfed me with a myriad of emails, e-alerts, and notices. A breakthrough wouldn’t happen tomorrow, yet the early signs of a favorable deal were emerging. If Maeve was going to have a chance to play a notable role in solving this crisis, her name would have to be cleared soon. Trains were starting to leave the station, and they wouldn’t return for wayward passengers. Time flew by and five o’clock quickly approached.

  I grabbed my iPhone and searched for a message from Trent. He’d confirmed our drinks and said it was fine to bring a friend to “talk shop first.” Now I had to program the Fake A Call app so it would ring during our conversation. Fifteen minutes would give us enough time to begin the chatter about security. At 5:20, my iPhone would buzz, I’d excuse myself, and commence my mission. A fast text to Meg confirmed she was still on board.

  After gathering my belongings, I navigated the Cannon Tunnel once again to reach the Capitol Building. The Mission Impossible theme might have been playing in the background—or at least I imagined it was.

  I pushed open the door at the Sergeant at Arms office and was greeted by no one. Not totally shocking, given the shutdown situation and the evening hour. The silence didn’t last long. Before I could whip out my phone to message Meg, Trent Roscoe appeared with a wide grin.

  “Kit, I’m so glad to see you again!”

  Trent rushed toward me with his arms outstretched. A handshake seemed perfectly acceptable, but Trent was not going to settle for a professional gesture. Instead, he gave me a quick hug and let his hand linger on the small of my back. He wore a dark gray suit with a deep violet buttoned shirt that hugged his broad chest. Light crinkles emerged when he smiled, yet the fine lines of age only enhanced his physical attractiveness. There was no denying it. Trent had classic good looks with a buff body to match. Pretending otherwise would be the equivalent of denying Meg’s fashion acumen or Clarence’s craving for pepperoni. Some things in life resembled mathematical certainties, and Trent Roscoe’s hotness qualified as such.

  Before I had a chance to reply, the door swung open and Meg entered the fray. Her arrival allowed me to move several steps away from Trent so I could escape the touch of his hand on my back. It wasn’t exactly unwanted. If I tolerated his touchy-feely gestures, where would the night lead us? The objective was to solve the murder, not cheat on Doug.

  Meg flashed a killer smile and offered her hand. “Trent Roscoe, I presume? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  He shook her hand politely. “Hope all of it’s good, ma’am.”

  “Of course! Don’t be silly. My name is Meg, and Kit told me about your security conversation the other day. You don’t mind if we can spend a few minutes chatting in your office about it?”

  Trent led us through the hallway. “We can chat all you’d like, if both of you can fit into my office.”

  We wedged ourselves into the tiny space across from Trent’s desk. I shoved Meg in first so an easy, graceful escape would be possible when my pretend phone call came in.

  Meg turned on her famous charm as we talked. She giggled at Trevor’s witticisms, touched his arm lightly, complimented him on his attire, and batted her long eyelashes. This was classic Meg flirtation behavior. Usually it didn’t bother me one bit. Even though I intended to avoid an awkward situation with Trent, her amorous overtures irked me. She knew he’d asked me out. Didn’t she respect any boundaries, even if my ulterior motive for accepting his invitation was investigatory rather than romantic?

  Amazingly enough, Trent reacted in an unusual fashion. More precisely, he didn’t react. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had been so impervious to Meg’s wiles. Instead, he glanced at me several times during the conversation, sending cute smiles my way.

  Mesmerized by his attentions, I bounced several inches out of my seat when my iPhone rang. Sure enough, the screen displayed “Dan” as my supposed caller.

  “Sorry, I need to answer this.” I held the phone slightly away from my ear so Trent and Meg could hear the conversation.

  “Where are you?” barked the voice on the line.

  “Um, visiting a friend.”

  “You didn’t even tell me you left the office.”

  Strange. How did Fake A Call know I’d left the office several hours ago?

  I kept up appearances and excused myself from the office. The voice on the line kept talking. “Are you abandoning me?”

  Something was wrong. I looked at my phone. The number looked familiar. Shoot. This wasn’t the fake phone call. It was actually my chief of staff.

  “Sorry, Dan. I didn’t realize it was you. I’m sort of busy right now.”

  “Busy? I find that hard to believe. I got off the phone with our boss. She wasn’t arrested today, but her lawyer thinks they could
issue a warrant tomorrow or the next day.”

  I was standing at the entrance of Gareth’s office. It was now or never if I wanted to inspect it. That required getting rid of Dan. “Hmm. Bad news. Listen, I have to run. I’m on the case. Don’t worry!”

  As I swiped the phone to end the call, I heard Dan’s voice. “Wait! Don’t hang up. I need to tell you something!”

  Too late. Right now, I needed to focus on snooping. I had five minutes max if I wanted to avoid getting caught.

  Pressler’s office was immaculate. Not even a paper clip was out of place. His desk was completely unadorned, except for a huge three-ring binder. Carefully, I cracked it open. The table of contents indicated the three-hundred-page document was nothing less than a sweeping plan to revamp security for the House of Representatives. A quick glance indicated that Pressler’s overhaul included changes to entrance and exit protocol, tourist access, computer security, surveillance, Capitol Hill police presence, and identification. There was no time to digest the details of the plan, but I saw enough to know that if these procedures were implemented, public access to Congress would drastically diminish. To add fuel to the fire, member and congressional staff’s freedom to roam the Capitol complex was headed for the chopping block. Access to certain locations would be determined on an “as needed” basis, whatever that meant.

  I’d seen enough. I closed the book and scanned the rest of his office. A computer rested on his desk, predictably locked. There was no way a guy like Gareth Pressler would leave his office with his email or files exposed. But in the far corner of the office, another monitor emitted flashes of light. I hustled over to it. It took me several seconds before I could figure out what I was looking at. It was a wide screen divided into four quadrants. People walked through the shots, ostensibly in real time. One video displayed the Cannon Tunnel. Others showed the rotunda and the cafeteria in Longworth. After several seconds, the screen changed. Entirely different segments of the House of Representatives buildings presented themselves. Gareth Pressler had a security monitor in his office that gave him a bird’s eye view of at least three Capitol Hill buildings.