He looked into those dark eyes, saw both guilt and knowledge. He knew she’d done it. She’d thought about it carefully, gone through a dozen pros and cons, a dozen scenarios, then planned it meticulously, probably scared the spit out of the guy she hired to kill Mr. McManus.
He’d really like to have seen her with Timothy in the room, but of course there was no way she would have agreed to such an arrangement. If she was the one who tried to kill MacLean and indeed killed his tennis partner, Arthur Dolan, did she somehow manage to get out of Washington unnoticed and make the attempts herself, or did she hire someone like she did with her husband?
“Congresswoman,” he said, striding forward, his hand out, giving her an engaging smile. “Thank you for seeing us.”
McManus shook their hands, gave them both a quick up-and-down look, offered them water, which they both refused, and said, “Agents. Let me say, this is unexpected. Nicole said you are from the FBI?”
“That’s right, ma’am.” Sherlock gave her a sunny smile. “We would appreciate your speaking to us, Congresswoman, about Dr. Timothy MacLean.”
McManus was shaking her head as she looked down at the Rolex on her wrist. “I don’t understand what this is about. I mean, what about Dr. MacLean? Look, I have no plans to sue him, so what are you doing here? I don’t have any time right now, there’s always a meeting, and I must go . . .”
Guilt and knowledge—Savich saw both again. She knew what MacLean had said about her—she’d just admitted to a motive. She was already flustered, talking all over the lot. He had to keep her off-balance. “This won’t take long,” he said, and his dark eyes became cold and flat. His voice went lower. “It’s to your benefit, we believe, Congresswoman McManus.”
“How could a visit from the FBI be to my benefit? How could anything about Dr. MacLean be to my benefit? I scarcely know the man.”
“I suppose you weren’t aware that someone brought down his plane? A bomb?”
“What’s that? A bomb? No, of course not. It’s regrettable, to be sure. Was it a terrorist act, do you think?” Her voice sharpened, the honey Southern accent became markedly clipped, and she slapped her open palms on the desktop. “Are you here because you believe I’m not tough enough on terrorism? Are you here because you don’t believe I’m a patriot? Do you believe I don’t love my country? Do you believe—”
“No, Congresswoman, not at all,” Sherlock said, running over her smoothly, her voice nearly an octave higher, but it was difficult even with all Sherlock’s experience. “May we be seated?”
“What? Well, yes, all right. But I don’t have much time, as I told you.”
She sat down herself and stared at them from across the expanse of her dark leather-surfaced partners desk.
Sherlock said, “We’re here to speak with you about Dr. MacLean’s claim that you murdered your husband. Surely you remember, Congresswoman—under hypnosis you said you hired someone to murder your husband at a truck stop outside Atlanta?”
Congresswoman McManus jumped to her feet. Savich saw she did indeed have beautiful breasts, as Timothy had said. The lovely silk wraparound dress showcased them quite nicely. She was shaking, he saw, her face remarkably flushed—with rage? Fear?
“That is ridiculous nonsense! I want you to leave now. Do you hear me? I don’t have to put up with this!”
Savich raised a hand. “A moment more, Congresswoman. I realize you can’t begin to understand why Dr. MacLean told us about this, so let me explain. Dr. MacLean has been diagnosed with frontal lobe dementia, a pernicious disease that makes him say inappropriate, even extraordinarily damaging, things—in your case, breaking patient confidentiality—all without meaning to, all without malicious intent.” He paused a beat. “Perhaps you know there have been other attempts on Dr. MacLean’s life? That his office records were burned?”
McManus’s voice was deep and vibrant, and shook with passion. “You’re here to accuse me of having my husband murdered? That is monstrous nonsense, monstrous. His death, his murder, it was a horrible thing to have happen; my children were devastated. I loved my husband.
“You said Dr. MacLean claims I told him I killed my own husband? And now you say he’s demented? And he didn’t tell his patients that he was demented? I detest that man, he’s an untrustworthy little shite. I abandoned him as an incompetent, but he was more, so much more.”
“If he was only incompetent, Congresswoman, why would you think of suing him?”
That stopped her, but only for an instant. She planted large graceful hands on her desktop. “You listen to me, both of you. I was legitimately elected to the House of Representatives of the United States of America. Do you understand? I am a member of Congress. We do not kill. It simply is not done. All right, I will admit I chanced to hear that MacLean had said some horrible things about me. But that means nothing, do you hear me?”
Sherlock said, “Ah, but you hadn’t yet been elected to Congress when your husband was killed.”
McManus threw her head back and her voice vibrated low and hard now, but she looked only at Savich. “I did not kill my husband. I did not hire anyone to kill my husband. I am not trying to kill Dr. MacLean. I have not hired anyone to kill Dr. MacLean.” Her palms smacked hard on the desktop, and she looked up at them, her eyes hot, sharp as glass. “He is a charlatan and a liar. He has slurred my good name, he has obviously told people I supposedly confessed murder to him. It’s more than appalling! It’s slander and malpractice. What else has he made up, and about whom?”
Sherlock raised her hand. “Congresswoman McManus, let me tell you something you obviously do not know. You may not remember Dr. MacLean hypnotizing you and eliciting such a story from you, but know that no confession made under hypnosis would stand up in court, even if it were recorded. The lawyers could tear it down in a matter of moments, if, that is, the judge even allowed it. So you see, there’s no reason to deny being hypnotized by Dr. MacLean.”
There was stony silence. Well, that didn’t work, Sherlock thought.
Savich pulled out his small notebook and settled back in his chair. He asked pleasantly, “So you know nothing about rigging a bomb and putting it on the Cessna you knew Dr. MacLean would be flying in?”