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 her substantial bosom, murmuring her outrage and relief.
Veronica sat a bit apart from the family, and Guthrie sat on Venus’s other side, his hands dangling between his knees, looking like he wanted a drink. Alexander stood behind the sofa, at Venus’s back, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. Savich looked back and forth between father and son. Were one or both of you feeding Venus arsenic? But if so, why would you be so stupid as to be the only ones present?
Alexander looked up and stiffened. His handsome face hardened, he straightened to his full height and sneered. “So you’re finally here. Are you going to tell us what you’re going to do about this?”
Savich smiled. “Good evening, everyone. Venus, how are you feeling tonight?”
She looked relieved when she saw them and pulled away from Hildi. “I’ll survive, Dillon, but the Bentley’s going to be in the shop awhile.” She looked a bit pale but solid, like she’d weighed what had happened, tucked it away, and faced forward. She was wearing a lovely black silk blouse that flowed loose over black slacks, her French pedicure on display in her open-toe gold sandals. Amazing. Try to kill her and you get a fashion plate. She was a formidable woman.
Venus waved them forward. “I’m so glad you’re both here. If you want to speak to MacPherson, he’s in the kitchen having his dinner. Mr. Paul grilled him a porterhouse steak, MacPherson’s favorite, as a thank-you for his saving my old hide. Poor MacPherson—I’ll bet he’s having to listen to Mr. Paul complain about a team of federal techs coming into his kitchen to look for poison. Poison! He was quite incensed, but I don’t doubt he was relieved when they left. He assured me they wouldn’t have found anything.
“As you see, everyone is here, waiting for you. Everyone is eager to hear your ideas on who’s behind this. Now, please sit down. I expect everyone will gird their loins and cooperate.” Her words were bright and strong, but Savich saw the tension lurking in her eyes. He knew her well enough to see she was drawn tight as a bowstring after the wild shootout, and without knowing if anyone here was responsible. But she was playing the matriarch and, even more than that, the corporate executive, always in charge, always in control, even with her life on the line. Did the family resent her for being able to do that, or admire her strength? Or a bit of both?
Savich and Sherlock greeted every Rasmussen present, turning last to Alexander, who met them with his habitual sneer, and finally, Veronica, who gave them a wobbly smile. After they’d sat down on a love seat facing Venus and accepted coffee from Isabel, Venus cleared her throat to draw everyone’s attention and said in a firm, matter-of-fact voice, “I’ve explained to the family that your FBI lab has confirmed what I thought. Someone has been slowly poisoning me with arsenic over the past month. Apparently the poison wasn’t working fast enough, and so they launched the direct attack this afternoon. I survived only because MacPherson was a hero, nearly ran the attacker down with the Bentley.” Venus’s eyes glittered as she looked at each of them in turn. “I’m very thankful Dillon and Sherlock were still outside and actually caught the man.”
Alexander said, “Grandmother told us his name is Vincent Willig and he will survive.”
“Yes, he will,” Savich said.
“So, has he agreed to tell you who paid him to kill Grandmother?”
Venus said, “Not as yet, Alexander, but I have some ideas about that,” and she gave Savich a smile, her chin up.
Veronica leaned forward. “Yes, thank you both very much for catching that horrible man. Maybe now this nightmare will stop.”
Hildi said, “How can it stop, Veronica? This Willig criminal isn’t the one who was trying to poison Mother.”
Glynis looked up. “Mother and I could move in.”
“Yes, we could,” Hildi said, and once again hugged Venus. Venus managed to pull back enough to pat Hildi’s face. “You’re very kind, my dear, and you, too, Glynis, but no, that won’t be necessary. Veronica will protect me. She has for fifteen years.”
Veronica said to Savich, “I failed her this time, I know, but you can take this to the bank, Dillon. I will not let Venus out of my sight.”
Alexander flicked a piece of lint off his gray Italian cashmere blazer. “But we’re still left with a killer who won’t talk.”
Venus, well used to Alexander, said, “Not yet, true. Now, Dillon, we know his name is Vincent Willig. Tell me more about him.”
Savich set down his china cup. “He’s thirty-four years old, a lifelong criminal, until recently an inmate at Attica for attempted murder. We spoke to him, offered him a deal if he would tell us who hired him. I’d wager he’ll open up soon enough.” He watched their faces as he spoke, hoping for an unguarded expression. He saw nothing except a look of relief from Hildi, a look of disbelief from Alexander. As for Guthrie, he looked miserable. Worry for his mother? Or did he still want a drink? Both Glynis and Veronica looked frankly worried. All of which told him exactly nothing. He didn’t expect this to be easy. It could be none of them was involved. Maybe it was a business associate, someone covering up a crime, or who stood to profit. Venus had sent him a preliminary list that afternoon and he’d asked Dane to help Ruth start the process of checking everyone on the list, looking for financial motives.
Sherlock added, “We doubt Mr. Willig will want to be shipped back to prison for life. He knows that’s what will happen if he doesn’t tell us who hired him.”
Alexander said, “It’s possible this Willig has no idea who hired him. Or he could toss out any name he wanted to. Trust me, testimony from a convicted felon isn’t worth much in court.”