Let Justice Descend. Lisa Black

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      The safe might have been custom built to fit the cabinet, as it cleared the six-by-three-foot interior by millimeters. The logo read PATRIOT SAFE COMPANY, and though it had an oversized combination dial and a heavy handle, it seemed much too shiny to have come with the house.

      “That is interesting,” Riley said.

      “Nothing strange about having a safe, though,” Jack said. “There’s no one here most of the time. Anyone could look up her schedule online and know the house would be empty.”

      His partner said, “But in the bathroom? Why not behind the picture of some ancestor in the living room like it’s supposed to be?”

      “Did you watch a lot of Scooby-Doo when you were a kid?” Maggie asked.

      “Why do you think I became a cop? Besides, what’s she got to keep in a safe? There’s barely any personal property around. I doubt we’ll find her mother’s pearls on the top shelf.”

      Jack ignored these asides. “The search warrant covers this, right?”

      “Don’t touch it!” Maggie said. “Let me process for prints first . . . though I doubt I’ll get anything. Why people make safes with a textured finish when that’s the one place you’re really going to want a fingerprint to show—” she grumbled, but the men had already turned away. Raised voices could be heard outside, and Riley crossed the bedroom to look out the window.

      “What is it?” Jack asked.

      Riley turned to say, “I think it’s Kelly.”

      * * *

      Kelly Henessey turned out to be a slender woman in her late twenties in carefully conservative slacks; athletic shoes carefully designed to look like dress shoes; and short, swingy hair carefully designed to look as if it had been cut with a pair of garden shears. “I’m Diane’s chief of staff. I handle her schedule, delegate the tasks she needs done, do research, fend off lobbyists, and issue press releases. Basically every single thing she does in a day, I either start it or finish it.” She paused in her agitated pacing along the flagstones—the detectives weren’t ready to let her into the house, even though the killer most likely never went inside and they weren’t sure what clues they were even looking for, anyway. But Kelly Henessey didn’t seem to care or even notice the dead leaves crunching under her feet. “I’m sorry, that sounds really egotistical. I don’t mean that I was, like, the power behind the throne or anything . . . Basically I’m a secretary-slash-gofer, but that’s what I’m supposed to be, and it was well worth it to work with Diane. I’m learning everything from her. Learned.” She paused long enough to face them, her eyes blank and uncomprehending. “Is she really dead?”

      “I’m afraid so,” Riley said.

      Jack studied the woman, blocking the front door and keeping a close eye on her travels. He didn’t want her near where the wires had been, though all the evidence had been removed and Maggie had done all she could with the screen door. They had left Maggie upstairs, working on the safe, but he doubted she would find anything. The entire house had been locked up tight, so if Diane Cragin had been killed for the contents of her safe, and if those contents had since been removed, it had been done by someone who had access to the house, had the combination to the safe, and knew exactly what they were looking for.

      Perhaps someone, he thought, like Kelly Henessey. He watched her eyes to see if they would flicker to the outlet, the kegerator, the stoop where the metal plate had lain. Nothing.

      “But she was fine last night! Fine,” the woman repeated, and began the restless movements again, as if physically circling around to the truth she didn’t feel ready to reach. “Did she go to the hospital? Why didn’t anyone call me?”

      “Did Ms. Cragin have any health issues?” Riley asked. Kelly seemed to assume, as most people would, that the death had been natural, and they saw no reason to enlighten her.

      “No! Not that I knew of, anyway, and I made her doctor’s appointments. She didn’t always eat right, of course—way too much high-fructose corn syrup—and she drank alcohol now and then—and she didn’t exercise, per se . . . but seriously she must have logged twenty thousand steps a day. I gave her a Fitbit for her birthday to find out.” She shook off this memory and asked, “What was it? Heart attack? Stroke?”

      “We’re not exactly sure yet. But you say her health was good?”

      “Yes, but . . . she was in her sixties.” Which to a woman Kelly’s age must have seemed ready for a rest home. “She was fine last night. A bundle of energy, just like every single day I’ve known her.”

      “Tell us about yesterday,” Riley said in his avuncular way, notebook already in hand. “How long had Diane been in town?”

      The answers came promptly and firmly. “Since Friday night. Day before yesterday.”

      “And you came with her?”

      “Yes, a Delta flight, Dulles to Hopkins.”

      “Do you live here?”

      “No! I mean, not in this house—and not in Cleveland, no. I have a brownstone in DC. When we’re here I stay at the Marriott. I’m from Cincinnati, originally,” she added, as if that might help her standing among them.

      “Can you walk me through Diane’s schedule yesterday?”

      She didn’t hesitate, either in speech or step, continuing to move as she spoke, brushing the leaves aside as if she were angry at them. “Eight a.m. breakfast with the Capital Management unit at city Hall. Nine-thirty visit to RNC—”

      “RNC?”

      “Republican National Committee HQ. Because the election is Tuesday—and don’t ask me what the hell we’re going to do now!”

      This thought so upset her that it took a gentle prod from Riley to get her thoughts back on the timetable.

      “We were supposed to visit the river site at ten, but Carlyle cancelled, so we rescheduled for today, even though it’s Sunday. We . . . we were supposed to be there at eight this morning, but she didn’t show up. The ribbon cutting is at ten! I’m going to have to call—”

      “You weren’t going to pick her up?” Riley interrupted.

      “She likes to drive herself. She’s not pretentious that way . . . ‘not one of those old-money Republicans,’ she always says. Of course, Devin follows her.”

      Riley’s eyebrows swept up, and a severe tone crept into his voice, speaking on behalf of taxpayers everywhere: “Does it really save any money to have the Service guys in a separate car?”

      “No, but driving around and sleeping is the only quiet time she gets.”

      Jack stood, arms crossed, watching her as she spoke. Thoroughly discombobulated but not devastated—and that seemed appropriate. Diane Cragin had been her boss, not her mother, so it didn’t seem odd to him that her thoughts already turned toward replacing candidates rather than abject grief. Even if she hadn’t quite moved the woman into the past tense.

      And the pacing had slowed. Now Kelly stayed on one flagstone, feet planted as if the grass had become moving water and she must СКАЧАТЬ