Insidious (7 page)

Ben said, “I will. Thank the powers above I know how to bribe her.” He grinned. “I’ll wash her hair for her in the shower. She really likes that. Always works.”

Ten minutes later Sherlock and Savich walked out of the hospital lobby to the crowded parking lot.

Savich leaned down, gave her a quick kiss. “I wonder if Ben scrubs her scalp. You really like that.”

“Oh my, yes.”

“Actually, I’ll bet Ben throws in a lot of things.” He cupped her face in his palms, arched a dark eyebrow. “Speaking of showers, you threatened Willig with a bar of soap?”

She gave him a big grin. “Pretty cool visual, don’t you think? A pity it didn’t shake him loose.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Willig himself executed another inmate in that manner.” They were getting into the Porsche when Savich’s cell blasted out Lynyrd Skynyrd’s
Free Bird.
It was Dr. Amick at the forensics lab. Savich listened, thanked him and punched off. “There was arsenic in her blood. They’re still running the tests on her hair to see how long it’s been building up in her system, but I won’t be surprised if the poisoning started three weeks ago, that first time she was ill. So Venus was right.”

Sherlock blew out a breath. “You never doubted her, and neither did I.”

Savich said, “Some of his forensics team is still at the house. He wanted to examine Venus himself, but she insisted on her own doctor, Dr. Filbert, who cleared her after the medics left. She’s still at home.”

“I don’t understand, Dillon,” Sherlock said as the Porsche sped up through a yellow light. “A hit man—no other way to describe Willig—comes right to Venus’s house—in broad daylight—to kill her? It doesn’t
make sense to me. How do you go from administering small doses of arsenic, enough to maybe still get away with killing an old lady without drawing attention, to an open assassination attempt? At her home, putting it all over the news? Alerting the cops? Is someone getting desperate?”

Savich nodded. “I’m thinking maybe Willig was only there to case out the place, and saw a prime chance to get it done.”

“And he failed big-time,” Sherlock said. “Or maybe,” she continued, “someone is afraid that something that’s now covered up will come uncovered if Venus isn’t dead. And another thing. Let’s say it was Alexander, or maybe even Guthrie, since they ate with her on all three occasions. How could they, or any other Rasmussen for that matter, find someone like Willig?”

“I don’t doubt Alexander could find a hit man hiding in a monastery.”

“Okay, having known Alexander over the years, I’ll agree with that. Don’t forget he’s sly, manipulative, insulting—”

“All true, plus I imagine he’s got a lot of contacts, not only in Washington, but in New York. As for the rest of the Rasmussens finding someone like Willig, you know as well as I do that the Rasmussen money could buy almost anything.”

Sherlock said, “Also, one of Venus’s staff could have managed it. And there’s Veronica. Understandable that Venus didn’t want her around today when she met with us, but she and Veronica are close; she spends most of her time with Venus, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, for fifteen years now. They’re so close Venus might even forget to mention her as a person of interest here. We need to check Venus’s will and trusts she’s made to her staff as well as to the family, look into each of their finances. We need to see who desperately needs money—not in five years, but immediately, right this minute.

“And there’s Rob, of course, the long-lost grandson. I don’t believe
she suspects him, but every other Rasmussen finger will be pointing at him. No wonder Venus wants to protect him.”

“What about that accountant, Zapp, who was with her that first time at the Ambassador Club?”

“Ruth ran a check on him, couldn’t find anything. She told me he had a solid alibi for the second and third times Venus was poisoned.”

“You know what I think? It’s all too neat, too tidy. Everything points to either Guthrie or Alexander.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s like someone is handing us the answer on a silver platter.

“Dillon, whoever is behind this had to know Venus would figure it out and call the cops, or us, so he was ready with Willig. Immediately.”

Savich’s phone sang out
Free Bird
again. It was Alexander Rasmussen—speak of the devil—at the mansion with Venus, playing the man in charge, demanding to know what the FBI was doing to protect his grandmother, wanting to know how a shooting like that could have happened and in the middle of the day. Savich held his temper, there was no use goading Alexander, not yet. He, his father, Guthrie, his aunt, Hildi; and her daughter, Glynis, were all at the house, gathered around the matriarch, probably fussing over her, driving her a bit mad, knowing Venus. Still it was good the family had come together, good for her and good for the investigation. He wondered if they’d yet gotten to the stage of accusing one another. Savich made a date to meet them all at the house that evening and made no comment when Alexander said he was hiring private security since the FBI couldn’t seem to protect her.

He punched off. “Alexander, playing lord of the manor. We’ll see the lot of them this evening. Let’s stop at Willig’s apartment, give it a look over. He’s not in a great neighborhood; it’s near the warehouse district.” When he turned the Porsche onto West Elmstead Street, they entered a neighborhood that hadn’t seen any federal aid in
decades, if ever. It was slowly collapsing in on itself, overgrown with weeds surrounding low-rent buildings, some of the yards littered with abandoned cars. Savich stopped the Porsche in front of a building that should have been boarded up years ago. “He’s on the third floor.”

They saw three teenagers gaping at the Porsche and a half dozen older men and women sitting on the stoops, paying them no attention at all. Savich stopped on the steps and yelled out, “Anyone touches my ride gets five years in lockup. We’re cops.” He shifted his jacket to the side and let everyone get a look at the Glock, clipped to his belt. “I really like my ride.”

They climbed stained creaking stairs, grateful there was enough light to see where to put their feet. On the third floor, they turned down a dark corridor, past an old man smoking marijuana in an open doorway, staring at them, uncaring and silent. Sherlock hoped that in his mind, he was someplace else, someplace nicer. Willig’s door was locked, but Sherlock had her pick set with her. They were inside Willig’s nest in under a minute.

It was one room with a single filthy window covered with thumbtacked newspaper, an ancient bathroom at its far end. There was a small fridge and a hot plate on the floor with empty pizza boxes piled up next to it, a single mattress and nothing else. They found two thousand dollars stuffed into the mattress, about the only place to look. When they left, the old man was still sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, humming and pulling bits of paper from his lip.

Sherlock knelt next to him, gave him her sunny smile. “Have you seen the man who lives in that apartment, sir? Or has anyone come by looking for him?”

The man stared right through her, his eyes vacant. He continued humming under his breath until Sherlock stood up and followed Savich out of the building.

They were glad to see the Porsche hadn’t been touched. The teenagers
were gone, and everyone else sat exactly where they’d been. It was eerily quiet.

“Two thousand dollars—that isn’t very much for murdering someone, even as a down payment,” Sherlock said as Savich drove back to the Hoover Building. “He either stashed the rest of it, maybe buried it, or Willig really is an idiot.”

Savich flipped from station to station on the radio, listening to what the news had to say about the attempted murder of Venus Rasmussen, the CEO and chairman of the board of Rasmussen Industries. Her age—eighty-six—seemed to be the biggest news, as if it was astonishing someone would try to murder an old lady who could die at any time. He was glad to hear there was no comment from any of the family, and no formal statement yet from Metro. Savich knew the FBI’s role would leak out soon enough and the tabloids would flock to the story with screaming headlines,
FAMILY MEMBER OR BUSINESS RIVAL
?

Yet again, he wondered how was it done?
Evil always finds a way
, he remembered his father saying.

10

RASMUSSEN MANSION

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY EVENING

At eight thirty that evening, Savich and Sherlock showed their creds to the single Metro police officer still on duty in front of the Rasmussen mansion. They saw the bright yellow crime scene tape still blocked the driveway. Behind it stood the stately black Bentley, its shattered glass scattered over the driveway, gleaming like diamond shards under the moonlight. The last of the news crews had left, thankfully, at least for the night.

When Isabel showed them into the living room, they saw a tableau of the entire Rasmussen family huddled around Venus, except for Glynis, who sat quietly opposite the sofa in a delicate Louis XVI chair, seemingly fascinated by her designer shoes. Only Hildi was in motion, hugging her mother tightly, nearly burying her in her substantial bosom, murmuring her outrage and relief.

Veronica sat a bit apart from the family, and Guthrie sat on Venus’s other side, his hands dangling between his knees, looking like he wanted a drink. Alexander stood behind the sofa, at Venus’s back, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. Savich looked back and forth between father and son.
Were one or both of you feeding Venus arsenic? But if so, why would you be so stupid as to be the only ones present?

Alexander looked up and stiffened. His handsome face hardened, he straightened to his full height and sneered. “So you’re finally here. Are you going to tell us what you’re going to do about this?”

Savich smiled. “Good evening, everyone. Venus, how are you feeling tonight?”

She looked relieved when she saw them and pulled away from Hildi. “I’ll survive, Dillon, but the Bentley’s going to be in the shop awhile.” She looked a bit pale but solid, like she’d weighed what had happened, tucked it away, and faced forward. She was wearing a lovely black silk blouse that flowed loose over black slacks, her French pedicure on display in her open-toe gold sandals. Amazing. Try to kill her and you get a fashion plate. She was a formidable woman.

Venus waved them forward. “I’m so glad you’re both here. If you want to speak to MacPherson, he’s in the kitchen having his dinner. Mr. Paul grilled him a porterhouse steak, MacPherson’s favorite, as a thank-you for his saving my old hide. Poor MacPherson—I’ll bet he’s having to listen to Mr. Paul complain about a team of federal techs coming into his kitchen to look for poison. Poison! He was quite incensed, but I don’t doubt he was relieved when they left. He assured me they wouldn’t have found anything.

“As you see, everyone is here, waiting for you. Everyone is eager to hear your ideas on who’s behind this. Now, please sit down. I expect everyone will gird their loins and cooperate.” Her words were bright and strong, but Savich saw the tension lurking in her eyes. He knew her well enough to see she was drawn tight as a bowstring after the wild shootout, and without knowing if anyone here was responsible. But she was playing the matriarch and, even more than that, the corporate executive, always in charge, always in control, even with her life on the line. Did the family resent her for being able to do that, or admire her strength? Or a bit of both?

Savich and Sherlock greeted every Rasmussen present, turning
last to Alexander, who met them with his habitual sneer, and finally, Veronica, who gave them a wobbly smile. After they’d sat down on a love seat facing Venus and accepted coffee from Isabel, Venus cleared her throat to draw everyone’s attention and said in a firm, matter-of-fact voice, “I’ve explained to the family that your FBI lab has confirmed what I thought. Someone has been slowly poisoning me with arsenic over the past month. Apparently the poison wasn’t working fast enough, and so they launched the direct attack this afternoon. I survived only because MacPherson was a hero, nearly ran the attacker down with the Bentley.” Venus’s eyes glittered as she looked at each of them in turn. “I’m very thankful Dillon and Sherlock were still outside and actually caught the man.”

Alexander said, “Grandmother told us his name is Vincent Willig and he will survive.”

“Yes, he will,” Savich said.

“So, has he agreed to tell you who paid him to kill Grandmother?”

Venus said, “Not as yet, Alexander, but I have some ideas about that,” and she gave Savich a smile, her chin up.

Veronica leaned forward. “Yes, thank you both very much for catching that horrible man. Maybe now this nightmare will stop.”

Hildi said, “How can it stop, Veronica? This Willig criminal isn’t the one who was trying to poison Mother.”

Glynis looked up. “Mother and I could move in.”

“Yes, we could,” Hildi said, and once again hugged Venus. Venus managed to pull back enough to pat Hildi’s face. “You’re very kind, my dear, and you, too, Glynis, but no, that won’t be necessary. Veronica will protect me. She has for fifteen years.”

Veronica said to Savich, “I failed her this time, I know, but you can take this to the bank, Dillon. I will not let Venus out of my sight.”

Alexander flicked a piece of lint off his gray Italian cashmere blazer. “But we’re still left with a killer who won’t talk.”

Venus, well used to Alexander, said, “Not yet, true. Now, Dillon, we know his name is Vincent Willig. Tell me more about him.”

Savich set down his china cup. “He’s thirty-four years old, a lifelong criminal, until recently an inmate at Attica for attempted murder. We spoke to him, offered him a deal if he would tell us who hired him. I’d wager he’ll open up soon enough.” He watched their faces as he spoke, hoping for an unguarded expression. He saw nothing except a look of relief from Hildi, a look of disbelief from Alexander. As for Guthrie, he looked miserable. Worry for his mother? Or did he still want a drink? Both Glynis and Veronica looked frankly worried. All of which told him exactly nothing. He didn’t expect this to be easy. It could be none of them was involved. Maybe it was a business associate, someone covering up a crime, or who stood to profit. Venus had sent him a preliminary list that afternoon and he’d asked Dane to help Ruth start the process of checking everyone on the list, looking for financial motives.