Best Laid Plans (4 page)

“No bag. He said he was flying in for this meeting and flying out tonight. He didn’t even have a briefcase.” The driver paused. “He made a call. Left a message for someone.”

“Do you know what he said?”

“I didn’t want to pry. It sounded personal. I heard him say, ‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’ But that’s all.”

*   *   *

Lucy and Barry approached room 115 as the crime scene techs were telling Julie she could take the body.

“There’s not much we’re going to get from here,” one of them said. “We bagged the vodka and cups, the wallet, printed the door, nightstand, bathroom knobs, dresser. But we’re getting dozens of prints. We’ll bag up the bedding if you need it.”

“Better to be thorough,” Barry told them.

Lucy concurred. If this was a suspicious death like Julie thought, they had to treat it as such from the beginning. There was no going back to collect evidence after the fact, especially in a place like this.

“Did you find a cell phone?” Barry asked.

They hadn’t and they’d conducted a thorough search. There was nothing in his pockets. His wallet had three receipts tucked away, two from today and one from yesterday, all from Dallas businesses. Barry asked for copies to be emailed to him as soon as they were processed, but he also wrote down the names and addresses from the receipts. There were no flight stubs in his pockets or wallet, and no return ticket. Not unusual if he used a mobile boarding pass. Barry stepped out of the room to take a call.

Lucy watched as Julie and her crew zipped up the body bag, then she followed them to the coroner’s van where they loaded the body and slammed the door shut. Julie turned to Lucy. “I’m cutting into the guy at eight
A.M.
sharp. Come if you want.” She climbed into the van and waved good-bye.

Lucy didn’t see Barry, so she watched the crime scene techs finish bagging potential evidence. They chatted among themselves while they worked. She’d been where they were. She’d collected evidence and processed scenes. It was methodical and organized, and the routine soothed her.

Harper Worthington had been in Dallas until last night, when he’d flown in late, apparently to have sex with an underage prostitute. Worthington lived in San Antonio, his business was in San Antonio; why would he come to his hometown for sex when it would have been easier for him to find a no-name motel in Dallas?

And Julie was right about the money—Worthington could afford a much nicer place, and considering he’d paid hundreds of dollars for the flight, why not fork over a hundred bucks for a halfway decent dive? There were motels and hotels closer to the airport. This made no sense. Except that it was anonymous. But if he wanted to remain anonymous, why stand out by giving the taxi driver two hundred dollars to return?

Barry approached her. “Let’s go.”

“We should talk to the manager.”

“I did.”

She glanced up at him. “I would have joined you.”

“It was routine. And you’re better with these lab rats than I am.”

“I used to be one,” she said. “What did he say?”

“Nothing that helps.”

She mentally counted to ten so she didn’t snap at her partner. “How did Worthington pay for the room?”

“He didn’t. Manager didn’t even see him. I got a basic description of the girl, but the taxi driver had more detail. Not much to go on, but maybe Mancini has a photo for him to ID.”

“Prostitutes don’t pay for the room. And if he didn’t recognize her, she wasn’t a regular.”

“These kinds of places thrive on anonymity. I pressed, he couldn’t give me anything.”

“If she’s in the system, we’ll ID her,” Lucy said. “There were prints on the vodka bottle and his wallet.”

“We need to notify his widow before the press gets wind of this,” Barry said.

Lucy looked at her watch. It was just after six in the morning. “Julie Peters said I could assist with the autopsy, if you want me to head over there.”

“Let Peters do her job, you do yours,” Barry said. “Meet me at FBI headquarters. I’ll brief Juan and then we’ll go to Worthington’s house. So far, SAPD has kept everything quiet, but considering we have a couple witnesses, the crime scene techs, and a half dozen cops, I suspect the press is going to be circling like vultures before noon. I don’t want the congresswoman hearing about her husband’s death, or the circumstances, from anyone but us.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Harper and Adeline Worthington lived on a large ranch twenty minutes northwest of town, where working ranches were interspersed among gentleman farms and horse property. Even the smaller tracts of land had to be at least ten acres, Lucy thought. Worthington’s property didn’t have cattle, but a large barn could be seen in the distance, surrounded by an empty corral.

Barry turned off the two-lane road and drove a hundred yards to a gate. He identified himself and a moment later the metal gate silently slid open. The system wouldn’t keep out anyone determined. Two signs proclaimed that the land was monitored 24/7 by hidden cameras. They weren’t that well hidden—Lucy spotted several at the gate and along the fence.

A wide expanse of grass separated the sprawling two-story ranch-style house from the perimeter, and towering, neatly trimmed ash trees lined the drive, providing shade and decoration. Though the house was large with a Spanish flair, it wasn’t ostentatious.

“The legislature is in session,” Lucy said. “Why is Congresswoman Worthington in town?”

“Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington,” he said. “She hyphenates her maiden name. You should know that. As far as being home, she made a promise during her first campaign to return to the district on weekends.”

Lucy hadn’t immersed herself in local politics, and had only read a bit about the congresswoman while waiting for Barry to brief their boss. She’d been elected during a special election seven years ago when the sitting congressman had died while in office, a year after she’d married Harper Worthington. If the media could be believed, this upcoming election was going to be her most hard fought, as her opponent was a military veteran and the district had a sizeable veteran population in addition to displaced civilian employees from military base closures over the past twenty years. Yet she seemed popular and had built a broad coalition, according to the local newspaper’s editorial board. They’d written an op-ed when they endorsed her in the first election that opined she was intelligent (graduating cum laude from a prestigious Texas university), successful (running her own real estate development business for two decades), had a popular father (a former six-term mayor), and had married into an old-time, well-respected Texas family (the Worthingtons).

She was Worthington’s second wife—she’d married him eight years ago and had no children of her own. Worthington had one daughter from his first marriage, which had ended when his wife died from cancer when his daughter was only five. Now Jolene was twenty-nine and worked for her father at HWI headquarters.

“The spouse is always a suspect in a suspicious death,” Lucy commented.

“This is a different situation. Worthington was supposed to be in Dallas.”

“I wasn’t implying she was guilty of anything, only that married men who use prostitutes tend to be repeat customers, and I’d think a wife would pick up on something like that.”

“I may ask her that, but a suspicious death doesn’t always mean foul play. We’re not here to interrogate the congresswoman. Understood?”

“I wasn’t intending to, I just thought—”

“I’m lead, so follow my lead.”

Was Barry always such an arrogant jerk or was he this way because he was being forced to work with her? Had Juan said anything to Barry about her record?

Although Juan wouldn’t have had to tell him anything. What had happened in Hidalgo and with their colleague Ryan Quiroz was no big secret. Everyone on her squad knew she’d disobeyed orders. Maybe they also suspected that she’d gone to Mexico in breach of a dozen different federal and international laws, but no one—not even Ryan—had said anything to her. Juan knew—not officially or unofficially, but he knew.

Which was why he didn’t trust her.

Her head ached. The tension in her office was adding to her insomnia.

Lucy followed Barry to the door, which opened as soon as they knocked. The Hispanic male was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie. Conservative and almost formal.

Barry showed his badge. “Special Agents Barry Crawford and Lucy Kincaid to see Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington.”

He nodded formally. “I’m Joseph Contreras, her personal assistant. May I tell her what this is regarding?”

“We need to speak with her directly. It’s about her husband.”

Again, he nodded, then led them into a vaulted foyer with beautiful Spanish tile floors and a large glass chandelier towering above them. Far more opulent than Lucy had expected and didn’t fit in with the Tex-Mex decorations—a large wood-inlayed Texas star on one wall with the Texas flag and the American flag framed on either side.

“Wait here, please. You may have a seat.” He gestured toward a long antique bench that Lucy recognized as a restored pew.
What a neat idea
, she thought.

Neither she nor Barry sat, but he studied the house, ignoring her. She’d started off on the wrong foot with him this morning—Barry was a by-the-book FBI agent with a solid record. He’d been in the Violent Crimes Squad in Los Angeles prior to 9/11; when VCMO had been drastically cut back, he’d been assigned to the elite Counterterrorism Squad in New York City. He’d transferred to San Antonio and back into Violent Crimes three years ago. It seemed like an odd move after such a high-profile assignment. If she knew Barry better, she would ask him more about his history and why he changed squads. While it was common for FBI agents to move around to different field offices—particularly after their rookie years—it wasn’t as common for an agent to change specialties.

Contreras returned and said, “The congresswoman will be happy to meet you in her home office. She has a full schedule, so I need to ask that you keep this as brief as possible.”

He led them down a large, wide hall past large, wide rooms with large, wide—and masculine—furniture. The residence felt like a man’s house, and Lucy wondered if Worthington had lived here before he married Adeline.

Adeline’s office was across from a spacious library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her office was smaller in scale, but no less grand. Here there was definitely a feminine touch—the floors were a pale cream, the walls a delicate-print wallpaper, and the furniture a light, intricately carved wood. A wall of windows looked out into a vast rose garden.

The congresswoman rose from her leather desk chair and walked over to them on four-inch heels. She was still shorter than Lucy, who wore low-heeled ankle boots. “I’m Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington. It’s a mouthful, I know, so I insist you call me Adeline.”

Barry and Lucy both shook her extended hand, and Barry handed her a business card. “FBI Special Agent Barry Crawford, and this is Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. May we sit?”

“Of course.” She motioned to a couch and two chairs. Above the couch was a detailed oil painting of a battle Lucy was unfamiliar with. It included a Texas flag and pre–Civil War clothing.

Congresswoman Adeline Reyes-Worthington was an attractive, petite Latina dressed in a crisp, tailored business suit and soft pink silk blouse. She was in her forties and had the air of a businesswoman used to being in charge and getting things done.

“May I ask Joseph to bring coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you,” Barry said. “We’re here on official business. We regret to inform you that your husband, Harper Worthington, was found dead this morning.”

She blinked several times. “Harper?”

“We are sorry for your loss. We won’t keep you long, as I know this is a difficult time.”

She shook her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I spoke to Harper last night, before I left for a charity dinner. He was fine.” Her bottom lip quivered just a bit, and her voice cracked as she asked, “Was there an accident?”

“I need to be blunt with you. Though the FBI will do everything to ensure that no details of Mr. Worthington’s death are released publicly, because you’re a public official, there may be unscrupulous reporters digging around.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She turned to Lucy, confusion in her dark eyes. “How did he die? It was an accident, right? It had to be an accident.”

Lucy didn’t say anything, deferring to Barry.

“The Bexar County Medical Examiner’s office is performing the autopsy, and we hope to have answers shortly,” Barry said, “but you should know that his body was found at the White Knight Motel in downtown San Antonio.”

She sighed in relief, though her eyes were still confused and wary. “It’s not Harper. There has been a huge mistake. Harper is in Dallas on business. He won’t be home until tomorrow morning. And he would never go to a motel.”

“We have confirmed that the deceased is Mr. Worthington. He flew into San Antonio last night, arriving at approximately ten thirty
P.M.
He took a taxi from the airport to the motel, and had a return flight scheduled at one thirty-five
A.M.
He never made the return flight.”