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’tmake 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 believeshe 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
“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’tmake 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 believeshe 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
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