J.T. Ellison - Edge of Black

She hung up. Okay. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

He went back to the intern sitting at the front desk. She was a timorous thing, eyes wide and staring, probably wondering what she was going to do next. Most likely be sent back home to Indiana, if she’d been from Leighton’s district. If she were local, she might be reassigned, or be out of luck entirely. When he said, “Excuse me,” she jumped a mile.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to have to insist on seeing the chief of staff immediately.”

“I’m sorry, sir. They’re in a meeting, and they said they weren’t to be disturbed. For anyone. He told me that you need to wait outside.”

Fletcher gave her his most charming smile. “You go in there and let him know he has one minute to open the doors or I’ll kick them in.”

Her rabbit eyes grew wide and she made a beeline for the doors. Fletcher didn’t wait, he followed right behind her, and when she opened the door, he touched her on the shoulder.

“Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”

“But, but...” Fletcher left her stammering in the doorway and stepped through into the congressman’s office. He didn’t make a habit of interrupting meetings—he had no right to do so—but there were exigent circumstances at play.

A thin man with precisely cut brown hair and a pristine gray pin-striped suit was sitting behind the desk, with three people, less well dressed, facing him—two men and a woman. If Fletcher hadn’t known the congressman was dead, he would have assumed the man behind the desk held the power. Which, in many ways, he did.

All four were staring at him now, but it was Pinstripe that Fletcher locked on to. His coolly appraising eyes swiveled to Fletcher, to the open door and the desperate intern, then back to Fletcher. Without moving, he said, “That’s fine, Becky. We don’t need you anymore today. Why don’t you head home. Someone will be in touch about tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, and beat a hasty retreat, pulling the door closed behind her.

Silence. Fletcher cleared his throat and opened his badge case, flashed them his gold. “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been waiting quite a while, and I have other places to be. Detective Darren Fletcher, Metro homicide.”

Pinstripe didn’t move. “Glenn Temple. I’m the congressman’s chief of staff. It is an unfortunate day.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Fletcher said automatically, a phrase he’d uttered too many times.

“Thank you. What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’m investigating your boss’s death. I need to know everything that happened today.”

Temple flicked his hand at the three staffers. “Sperry, get the datebook for the detective. Allison, you and David are dismissed. I’ll be in touch later.”

Fletcher needed to get the upper hand here, and fast. “I’d actually appreciate all of you sticking around. I’m going to have to interview each of you individually.”

Three sets of eyes looked to Temple for approval. There was no question who was running this little fiefdom. All of Fletcher’s nerves were singing; something was wrong with this picture. It wouldn’t have been the first time a group met to practice their stories, making sure they had all the details straight.

“Why don’t we start with you, Mr. Temple?”

A pause, just a few breaths, and Temple nodded. “That’s fine.”

The three underlings stood and melted away, out the door, silent as the grave.

Fletcher helped himself to a seat.

“Mr. Temple, can you give me an idea of what’s happening here?”

Temple got up and went to the small wet bar in the corner of the spacious office, dropped a few ice cubes in a glass, poured in a clear amber liquid from a crystal decanter.

“Just some damage control. The congressman has enemies. Drink?”

“Scotch, if you have it.” A disarming answer. A by-the-book cop would never drink on duty. It was meant to show Temple Fletcher was a good sport. That this talk was man-to-man. Trust could be built in the strangest ways. And it had been a seriously shit day. He needed a drink.

Fletcher accepted the crystal lowball and took a sip. “Mmm. Macallan 25?”

Temple gave the first hint of a smile. “You know your Scotch.”

“Occupational hazard. You say the congressman has enemies. Any of them crazy enough to want to kill him?”

Temple resumed his spot behind his boss’s desk. “You think he was murdered?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know what to think. One minute he was fine. The next, he was down on the floor, choking to death.”

“You witnessed his collapse?”

“The end of it, yes. He arrived this morning at eight, like he always does. We had the morning staff meeting. He was upbeat, cheery. The vote on the new appropriations bill is tomorrow, and he felt like it was a done deal. The last vote before recess, and trust me, these guys have earned a rest. Without him, without the promises he’s made, the deals he’s guaranteed, that bill has no chance of passing. I’ve spent the day trying to shore up our votes, but it’s not going to happen. Months of work, down the drain. We’re fucked.”

Temple tossed back half of his glass.

Fletcher was again reminded of why he hated politics and politicians. Cold-blooded bastards, the lot of them.

“So after staff, we watched the news about the attacks for about ten minutes, then had a few meet and greets, the usual stuff, people in from Indiana who want to bend his ear, get their picture taken. He had five minutes with each of them, then a coffee down in the dining room with Windsor Mann, the head of Ways and Means. He came back to the office a little ruffled, but Mann always pisses him off. They have to pretend to be friends in front of the cameras, but they don’t like each other much. He came back to the office, had just hung up his jacket and shut the door for some quiet time when Becky heard a commotion and knocked. He didn’t answer so she came and found me. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes, but when I got the door open, he was down. He has asthma, I don’t know if that’s part of the record yet. It looked like he was having a really bad asthma attack. He didn’t like to let people know, thought it made him look weak.”

“How’d he make it into the service?”

“Oh, this was something he picked up in the first Gulf War. Bunch of them came home with lung damage. His manifested as asthma. Pretty severe, too, and stress didn’t help things.”

“So you entered the office, saw he was down, and then what?”

“I searched his jacket pocket, thinking I’d get his inhaler, but it wasn’t there. Then I saw it on the floor next to him. I picked it up and handed it to him. He could barely hold on to it. We got it in his mouth and I pressed the trigger, but it didn’t seem to help. His eyes were rolling into the back of his head, and he was turning blue. He kept an EpiPen in his briefcase, but his briefcase wasn’t in the office. I looked everywhere. He’d stopped breathing by that point, so I started CPR and yelled for someone to call nine-one-one.”

“Where’s the inhaler?”

“I have no idea. The EMTs probably took it.” He looked to the ceiling and shut his eyes. “I should have called earlier. If I had...”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think that would have made a difference. The autopsy has been completed, and the attack was quite severe.”

Temple didn’t say anything, just maintained his position with his face aimed at the ceiling, like he was trying to hold back tears from spilling down his cheeks.

“Did the congressman take the Metro this morning?”

Temple sniffed once, hard, then faced Fletcher again. “He takes it every morning. Part of his job, he says, to be with the people, be a part of the populace. Of course, he has security on him, and he only rides it one stop, from Eastern Market to Capitol South. You know. Kisses his wife goodbye, hops on the subway. It makes him feel normal, like a regular guy. Joe six-pack, he liked to say. So yes, he was on the subway today.”