Insidious (FBI Thriller 20)

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.