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Authors: Catherine Coulter
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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 indecades, 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 teenagerswere 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
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 teenagerswere 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
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