Chapter 9

CHAPTER9

“Iwas wondering when you’d show up,” the police detective who had interviewed him and Marin two nights before remarked when Griffin entered the lobby of the Dupont.

Griffin extended his hand to the white-haired gentleman. “Detective Bill Gerkens, this is Special Agent Leslie Morgan of the FBI.” He gestured to Leslie.

Detective Gerkens shook Leslie’s hand. “I wasn’t aware this was a federal case.”

“I’m not here in a formal capacity. Yet,” Leslie explained. “Today, I’m just tagging along with Agent Keller.”

“Can you fill me in on what happened here?” An unfamiliar tension had gripped Griffin as soon as Leslie mentioned Marin tripping over a dead body. He chocked the feeling up to the hangover because he was working hard at keeping Marin strictly in the suspect category.

The detective looked at him speculatively. “I would have thought you’d already heard the whole story from your friend the pastry chef by now.”

Griffin rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I haven’t spoken to Mar—Chef Chevalier.”

“Huh.” Detective Gerkens scratched his head. “Watching you two the other night, I figured you’d be the first person she called. She mentioned that you were the last one to leave the penthouse late last night.”

Griffin could feel Leslie’s eyes on him, but he ignored her. “We shared an Uber back from the White House.”

“Huh,” the detective repeated before, thankfully, recounting the events of the morning.

“Any idea how long the guy was dead before the chef stumbled upon him?” Griffin asked when the detective had finished.

“The ME estimates about twenty minutes.”

Jesus.Marin could have walked in on the murder. And been killed in the process. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“That’s assuming the chef didn’t kill him herself and hang out there for twenty minutes,” Leslie theorized.

Both men stared at her. The detective’s face was inquisitive. Based on Leslie’s tight mouth, Griffin’s expression was likely hard.

“Don’t look at me like that. The woman is a chef. Presumably, she’s skilled with a knife,” she argued. “She could have raced back upstairs, pulled the alarm and then come back down again. Faking the whole thing about finding him.”

“Then she’s a talented actress as well as a chef,” Detective Gerkens maintained.

“Why would she do that?” Griffin wondered. “What would be the motive? Why kill someone and then pull the damn fire alarm? Why not sneak out? It makes no sense. And why is everyone assuming that Marin set off the alarm? Surely someone else had access to the penthouse.” His pulse raced to keep up with his train of thought. “Like one of the maintenance workers, for instance.”

Detective Gerkens’s face was grim. “His keys weren’t on him. We combed the boiler room and all the stairwells, but no luck.”

Griffin scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned. A young man dressed in a Marvel Comics T-shirt and shorts with a police badge hanging from around his neck, strolled up to them.

“Bad news, Detective. The hard drive housing the surveillance cameras was completely erased.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Detective Gerkens murmured.

“Except there’s good news,” the guy added. “This security firm always backs up everything onto their cloud.”

“So why aren’t you downloading that video for me right now then, Kevin?” Detective Gerkens demanded to know.

“Well that’s the hitch; the security firm requires permission from the property owners before they can release any video. The owners are traveling out of the country. It may take a day. Or two.”

“We don’t have a day—or two,” Griffin said through clenched teeth.

“I’ll see if I can scare up a judge who’ll give us a warrant,” Detective Gerkens offered. “It’s a holiday, so it won’t be quick. In the meantime, Kevin, you get your butt to that security firm’s office and have a seat there until we hear from either the building owner or the judge.”

Kevin gave the detective a sheepish nod before sprinting out of the lobby. Griffin glanced around the crowded room, finally noticing all the somber people milling about.

Detective Gerkens followed his gaze. “With two employee deaths in less than twenty-four hours, the tenants are a little spooked,” he pointed out.

“Two?” Leslie looked from one man to the other.

“The weekend doorman died of a heart attack yesterday evening,” the detective explained.

“And how sure are we that it was an actual heart attack?” she asked.

Griffin’s pulse sped up again. Damn it. He’d forgotten about Arnold. Could Leslie be right that both deaths are connected? But how? And why? At least Marin had been at the White House when the doorman suffered his fatal heart attack. Leslie’s theory about Marin pulling the fire alarm as a distraction while she murdered Seth seemed a little out there. Even if Griffin did like Marin as the art thief, he couldn’t see her as a murderer.

Or was it that he just didn’t want to believe he’d misjudged her, especially since, the night before, he’d had his mouth and hands all over her?

“Perhaps you two should stop playing games with me and tell me what’s going on,” Detective Gerkens demanded.

Griffin exchanged a glance with Leslie.

“This may be part of an ongoing international investigation,” Leslie revealed. “Any more than that, we’re not at liberty to divulge at this time. But we will need the doorman’s body.”

“That’s going to pretty much take me all through Easter dinner to arrange,” the detective grumbled.

Leslie turned on the charm. “I don’t want you to miss dinner with your family. If you run into a problem, call this number.” She handed the detective her business card. “Sometimes a little push from the FBI is all that’s needed.”

Detective Gerkens nodded grudgingly. “I’ll let you know when we get access to the security video.”

Griffin and Leslie turned for the door.

“Agent Keller.” The detective’s voice stopped them. “I’ve been doing this a long time. If the chef had a hand in this, I’ll turn in my badge.”

Leslie was quiet throughout the cab ride down Massachusetts Avenue to Fourth Street. She exited the cab, but instead of heading inside the FBI field office, she marched down F Street. Griffin fell into step beside her. They both paused for a moment in front of the National Law Enforcement Officers’ Memorial. Griffin silently remembered colleagues who gave their lives for the job. Leslie was likely doing the same.

Turning abruptly, Leslie then headed into the historic red-bricked building that housed the National Building Museum. Griffin followed, figuring if she didn’t want him around, she would have bitten off his head already. She sat down on one of the iron benches that dotted the perimeter of the building’s ornate great hall. Griffin strolled through the café, picking up two coffees before joining her on the bench.

They watched as a toddler raced over to the giant fountain in the center of the hall only to have his father scoop him up steps before the child reached the gurgling water. The boy’s happy squeal echoed throughout the fifteen-story high gallery.

“This is my favorite place in this city,” Leslie said before taking a sip of coffee.

Griffin took a good look at the massive room. Eight towering Corinthian columns supported the building’s vaulted roof. Small, Doric columns surrounded the atrium like soldiers standing at attention. The floor featured a stunning design of terra cotta tiles. Before today, he’d never been inside this building; but he had to agree, the light and airiness of the space was relaxing. Settling back against the bench, he took a pull from his coffee.

“They hold the most amazing inaugural balls here. Daniel took me to one six years ago. It was an incredible night.”

Leslie tilted her head back and closed her eyes. Griffin wondered where this little trip down memory lane would end up. But he’d been around enough women to know not to ask.

“He proposed that same night. It was perfect.” A long moment later, her eyes snapped open. “And then it wasn’t. He wanted a trophy wife to help his law career along and further his political aspirations.” Her laugh rang a bit hollow. “Can you imagine? Me sitting by quietly while he had a scintillating career?”

There wasn’t a right answer to that one, so Griffin kept his mouth shut.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what my point is, Griff.”

He arched an eyebrow in response.

“Daniel saw in me what he wanted to see. It happens. Lots of people do that.” She looked over at Griffin. “Perhaps you’re seeing something you want to see, too. In the pastry chef.”

It took everything Griffin had within him to remain seated. No doubt she’d brought him to this tranquil place so he wouldn’t explode. “I’m not ‘seeing’ anything in the pastry chef besides the fact that she’s a suspect.” He practically growled the bold face lie.

She sighed heavily. “You forget I know you. Intimately. Every time someone mentions her, your face changes. You’re attracted to her.”

Griffin quickly schooled his features to be impassive. “You’re way off base here, Agent Morgan.”

“Mmm,” she said. “One of us is definitely ‘off base here.’ And for the sake of this case, I hope it is me.”

Her cell phone rang before Griffin could get another protest in. She stood up to take the call while he sat and fumed, the calm of the open-air atrium suddenly chafing at him. Leslie’s accusation is bogus. Yeah, he’d screwed up and kissed Marin. But that wasn’t happening again. He could still keep this case in perspective.

“That was Eric. He found something of interest in the curator’s email cloud.”

Griffin shoved to his feet and followed her out of the building and around the corner to the FBI field office.

“From the looks of his email, the curator was a fan of the White House pastry chef,” Eric announced when they arrived.

Griffin ignored Leslie’s I-told-you-so look. “What makes you say that?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“She must be an art enthusiast,” Eric continued. “They exchanged multiple emails on the subject over the past months.”

“The guy was the curator of the White House,” Griffin argued. “Not surprising his emails discuss artwork.”

“Yeah, much better that than them talking about kinky sex,” Leslie said.

Griffin did glare at her this time. She shrugged.

Eric pulled up one of the emails. Griffin’s gut clenched when he saw that the subject was about the very same Cezanne painting he discovered last week rolled up in a truck in New Jersey.

Leslie leaned in over Eric’s shoulder. “Interesting.”

Her word was a lot tamer than the ones ricocheting around inside Griffin’s head. The email contained two paragraphs on the history of the painting, including an estimate of the piece’s overall worth.

Damn it.

“Yeah, but that’s not why I called you.” Eric pulled up another email. “I don’t think the curator is part of our counterfeit ring. It looks like he was getting suspicious about one of the pieces. He sent this to a colleague at the Smithsonian.”

They both scanned the email.

“That painting doesn’t look like one of the ones you found in the truck,” Leslie said.

“It wasn’t.” Griffin shook his head in frustration. “That’s a Jackson Pollack. From the Map Room. The admiral’s team will have to discreetly check that one out right away. Do we know who received the email?”

“Yeah, but the recipient hasn’t actually received it yet,” Eric explained. “The curator sent it ten days ago. But he got back an out-of-office reply. Apparently, his friend at the Smithsonian is in Italy through the end of next week.”

“Well at least that eliminates one potential suspect. The curator was concerned enough about the Pollack being a forgery to contact a colleague.” Leslie paced the small conference room as she theorized. “He probably mentioned his suspicions to someone else, too. It would have to be another person knowledgeable about art. And if that person is part of the counterfeit ring, that’s what likely got our curator killed. Now we just need to find out who he might have mentioned his theory to.”

Eric’s fingers tapped rapidly on his computer keyboard. “I’ll do a keyword search through all of his sent emails.”

Griffin knew where Leslie was headed with her theory. Hell, a kindergartener could follow Leslie’s reasoning. She suspected Marin and she wasn’t going to let it alone. True, if the curator thought enough of Marin’s expertise in art, he’d likely confide in her about the Pollack. But it was circumstantial, at best. Unfortunately, Griffin’s gut told him were Marin any other suspect, he wouldn’t dismiss an email as evidence of her involvement.

Eric’s search seemed to take hours instead of a few minutes. Leslie continued pacing while Griffin stared out the window, his conscience chastising him for lusting after a potential thief and murderer.

“There’s nothing here,” Eric finally declared.

Leslie raised an eyebrow at Griffin’s quick exhale of breath, but she thankfully kept her opinions to himself.

“Okay,” she said. “Then what about the rest of the curator’s staff? He might have said something to one of the two of them. Have you questioned anyone there yet, Griff?”

Griffin shook his head. “We decided to let the police handle those interviews. We don’t want to tip them off that we know about the forgeries just in case someone in that office is involved.”

“I’ll go over the notes from the detectives in Virginia, but you might need to start feeling them out,” she said.

“I’ll have a chat with the sous chef first,” Griffin added, glad that the focus had shifted off Marin—for the time being, at least. He headed out to find Diego Ruiz.