CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (26 page)

FIFTEEN

             
"Senator, I'm sorry to bother you in your time of grief, but two FBI agents have arrived and are waiting in the foyer." Freddy stood in the doorway of George's study.

             
"The FBI?" With great deliberation, George put down his glass of single malt scotch. The steady motion gave him time to calm that instinctive reaction of horror. No one had seen him coerce Evelyn into taking the pills and chasing them down with booze, but it was possible someone had seen him help Evelyn down those stairs. . . .

             
But even if someone had, the FBI wouldn't follow up on the case. That would be the jurisdiction of the Austin police, and on George's forceful suggestion they'd done their investigation
quickly
and come up with exactly the right findings—Evelyn's death had been an accident, possibly suicide, caused by a dependence on tranquilizers and alcohol. "What do they want?"

             
"I questioned them, but they showed me their credentials and claimed they had to speak only with you." Freddy was dressed in black, as befitted a butler in a house in mourning for its mistress. He'd had to calm the maid who'd found Evelyn's body at the bottom of the stairs; she had thrown a shrieking fit that brought everyone running and provided George a great audience for his shock and anguish. Freddy proved his efficiency when he ordered the house draped with black crepe—excessive, yes, but it looked good to observers— organized an immediate funeral that had gone off with great success today, and screened the steady stream of visitors who came to express their condolences, allowing in only the most distinguished as well as those likely to be impressed by George's profound grief.

             
Yes, in these last couple of days, Freddy had truly proved his worth.

             
Yet it was Sunday afternoon, and George had not heard one word from Kate Montgomery. The other reporters had dropped by, but not Kate. And when he'd gently asked Linda Nguyen if Kate would arrive soon, she stared at him with those fierce black Asian eyes and said, "I don't know, Senator. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not on Kate watch this week."

             
That skinny bitch would never get another quote from him.

             
Still, maybe Kate was out of town. If she didn't know about his travails, she couldn't offer her condolences.              

             
"Senator?" Freddy said. "I did try and send them away, but they were quite insistent."

             
"The FBI agents. Yes. Of course I'll see them. Just . . . stall them. Give me a minute to tidy myself." George waited until Freddy left, then buttoned his shirt, rolled down his sleeves, retied his tie, shrugged into his jacket. He always found it best to present a powerful facade to any agency whose members might otherwise forget his importance.

             
Freddy tapped on the door, then opened it, and as the two FBI agents entered, he admonished, "Senator Oberlin suffered the loss of his wife in a tragic accident only two days ago. Please be brief."

             
"We know."

             
"We'll get right to the point."

             
At the sound of their high, gentle voices, George could scarcely believe his luck. The FBI had sent not one, but
two
female agents. They were both young—of course,
there weren't that many females in the FBI, they hadn't been welcome for very long—
and no matter how much the ladies tried to harden their hearts, he was sure they couldn't help but sympathize with so recent a widower.

             
But why the hell were they here? What
were
they after?

             
The taller, less attractive girl offered her hand and her credentials. "I'm Agent Rhonda de Lascaux, and this is Agent Johanna Umansky."

             
The petite, bouncing blonde held out her credentials, too.

             
As he shook hands, he looked over their badges. He'd seen a few in his time, and these looked genuine, right down to the bad photos.

             
"I believe you know Mr. Howell in the Austin office," Johanna said. "Silvester Howell sent us."

             
"Please sit down." George waved them toward chairs before his desk.

             
"We're sorry to disturb you at such a difficult time," the plain one said, "but we have a report we need to clear."

             
"Yes, of course, whatever needs to be done, but . . . I can't imagine . . . but of course, I'm tired, not sleeping well . . . what can I do for you?" He thought he did a good imitation of a bereaved and bewildered husband. So he was surprised when the women nodded without expression and without expressing their condolences.

             
What a couple of bitches.

             
He seated himself in the desk chair, using the power of his position to impress them.

             
Johanna flipped open a Palm Pilot, consulted it, then flipped it closed. "Senator Oberlin, do you know a Mrs. Cunningham of Hobart, Texas?"

             
He tensed, sat forward. What had Gloria Cunningham done now?

             
"I did know her, and her husband, too. Years ago, I worked with her on my church board." He tried to act interested, but distant, as if her name meant little to him. "Has something happened to her?"

             
"She died." The little blonde pronounced the news of Gloria's demise without a qualm. "Of cancer."

             
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, while his brain buzzed with speculation.

             
Gloria never knew anything, never showed a sign of wanting to look beyond the obvious. Never indicated anything other than an undying fury toward Bennet and Lana Prescott and their kids. The minister and his family had been poorer than Gloria, but even though Gloria's husband was a doctor, the Prescotts had been more important in the community. She'd never forgiven them for that. Worse, her daughter Melissa had never been as talented as Hope Prescott, and Melissa had suffered the position of second fiddle with ill grace. Gloria had been thrilled when the Prescotts disappeared, and she'd watched with tight-lipped satisfaction as the family was broken apart and the children sent away.

             
She sure had never asked what happened to them. So why were FBI agents informing him of her death?

             
"She was sixty at the time of her death, at M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston."
Rhonda consulted her Palm Pilot, too.
"Before she died, she wished to make a confession, which she did—to her minister and then to the police. That confession concerns you, Senator Oberlin." Rhonda pointedly looked over the rims of her glasses. "Would you know what that was about?"

             
"No. I'm sorry." He spread out his hands and with pleasure noted they were steady. "While I visit Hobart periodically—it is my district, and I keep a home there—I'm afraid we didn't have—that is, my wife and I—didn't have much in common with the Cunninghams." George liked the way he included Evelyn in the conversation, as if he still couldn't believe she was dead.

             
"Mrs. Cunningham claims that, twenty-three years ago, after your minister and his wife were killed"—
Johanna glanced at her Palm Pilot
—"a Mr. and Mrs.

Prescott, you organized a situation that thwarted the assignment of their chil
dren to one family, choosing instead to separate them."

             
"Why would I have had anything to do with the placement of those children?" Folding his hands on his desk, he leaned forward and radiated indignation. "I had barely started my run for the Texas Senate, and, contrary to popular belief, it's a grueling ordeal to get elected. I believe someone else handled the adoptions." He rubbed his forehead as if he couldn't quite remember. "Some pastor from a church outside of town . . . a Pastor John Wagner? Wilson? No, it was Wright. Pastor Wright."

             
Johanna used her stylus to record the information.

             
"Where is Pastor Wright now?" Rhonda asked.

             
"I have no idea. I'll tell you, I talked to the pastor about the Prescott kids, put the situation in his capable hands, and left town to campaign." Which was such a lie, because Pastor Wright's name may have appeared on any official documents, but he never existed as anything other than a name. It was George who had made damned good and sure those kids were scattered like dust on the wind. Somehow he'd known they would cause him trouble.

             
It was a good thing he was about to bring Givens Industries tumbling to the ground, because if Hope Prescott Givens heard about Mrs. Cunningham and her inconvenient repentance and confession, she would never let up until . . . she met the same fate as her parents.

             
"So you maintain there's no validity to Mrs. Cunningham's assertion?" Johanna asked.

             
"None whatsoever." He was safe in making the claim. There weren't that many people in Hobart who had known what was going on, he'd made sure of that. And many of those people who'd known weren't alive today. He'd made sure of that, too.

             
Yes, some of the congregation had tried to stick their noses in to find out what was happening with the Prescotts and their children, but they'd been of no consequence. Poor parishioners, most of them, easily controlled with a threat or a bribe. One way or another, he'd shut them down, and, by the time he was done, he'd held Hobart and its population in his hand. "Why are you investigating an adoption from so many years ago? Do you always pay this much attention to the ravings of an obviously very sick woman?"

             
"We pay attention to whatever the federal government instructs us to pay attention to. So, yes."
Rhonda recorded a note into her Palm Pilot.
"Senator Oberlin, Mrs. Cunningham told us she suspected, foul play in the burning of the county courthouse, and since important city, state, and federal documents were destroyed and the fire was listed as suspicious, we listened to her accusations with interest."

             
"The fire was listed as suspicious?" It most certainly hadn't been. He'd made sure of that. "I understood it was faulty wiring in the attic."

             
Both Rhonda and Johanna lifted their interested gazes to his at the same time.

At once he saw
his mistake. He should have pretended ignorance of the fire and its cause.

             
"Is there anything else?" he asked crisply. "Anything that Mrs. Cunningham said that actually incriminated me for anything, or is this all speculation?"

             
In unison, both women shut their Palm Pilots.

             
They came to their feet.

             
"We're sorry to have disturbed you, Senator," Rhonda said.

             
He stood also, feeling relaxed and a little expansive. "Not a problem. I know you have to do your duty." He herded them toward the door.

             
"Actually, Mrs. Cunningham's story is so fantastic, we probably wouldn't have come to you." Johanna stopped at the door.

             
"Except for the strange coincidence." Rhonda smiled sweetly at him.

             
"The strange coincidence?" he asked.

             
"Come on, Rhonda, we don't want to disturb Senator Oberlin with this." Johanna tugged at Rhonda's arm.

             
"We got an anonymous report of a dreadful similarity to the manner in which Mrs. Oberlin died." Rhonda's brow knit in perplexity. "A tragic similarity, really."

             
At the words
anonymous report
, a chill ran up George's spine. "I don't understand."

             
"It's the kind of thing that makes law enforcement officials sit up and take notice," Rhonda explained. "You see, Senator, it's unusual for anyone ever to fall down the stairs and break her neck, and it's happened twice in your home while you were in the vicinity. Once in Hobart. Once in Austin. A strange coincidence. A dreadful similarity. Don't you agree, Senator?"

             
Freddy showed the FBI agents out.

             
From the study, he heard the crash of porcelain. It appeared Senator Oberlin had lost his vaunted control on his temper. How dreadful. It appeared that the pressure was beginning to take its toll.

             
Freddy Griswald smiled.