Whiplash - Catherine Coulter [104]
One of the Foggy Bottom Grill sous chefs, Emilio Gasparini, who'd been passed over in the first wave of lie detector tests because he'd said he'd been sick in bed with the flu, didn't show up for his rescheduled test. Dane's gut had started to salsa when he discovered Emilio hadn't shown up for his shift at the Foggy Bottom Grill either. Dane told Savich he'd bet his new kayak they'd find a drug problem or maybe gambling debts if they dug deeper. Emilio hadn't prepared the senator's shrimp that day, but he'd had access, and anyway, it didn't matter, because all the other Foggy Bottom Grill employees had passed their lie detector tests with flying colors.
Emilio was long gone. His apartment manager cursed when he found out Emilio had skipped on two months' rent.
Dane was worried Emilio might be dead, murdered by whoever had put him up to this. And the individual responsible for all this suffering, whoever he or she was, was still shrouded in mystery.
Savich let the questions drift through his mind. Whenever he hit a brick wall, he simply backed up and let his brain drift. He kept coming back to Aiden and Benson Hoffman, to what they'd said, and he wondered if the answers were there, in their own words.
Before he fell into bed, he read the transcript of their interview. Then he cleared his mind, called to Nikki, who didn't come.
Nothing came to him that night, neither ghost nor inspiration.
50
WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Saturday morning
Savich walked head down into the hospital, hoping no one from the media would notice him. He heard Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post call out his name, but he didn't react, just kept walking. A Secret Service agent stood at the bank of elevators, first in a long line of agents on the way to the vice president. He showed the agent his creds and took the sole elevator that stopped on the third floor. He said nothing to the dozen family members and friends stuffed in the waiting room. He walked into the ICU, creds out, and stopped. Half of the ICU was given over to the vice president. Savich had expected there to be protection, but there were six Secret Service personnel stationed outside of Vice President Valenti's room, eyeing every person who came within twelve feet of them. It seemed a bit of overkill, maybe partly for show.
He spotted Secret Service Agent Alma Stone and pulled out his creds, flashing each guard as he passed.
"Alma, you've got yourself a fortress here."
"You got that right, Dillon. I was told you were coming to speak to Vice President Valenti. I'll tell you, he's barely conscious, but he wants to talk to you, insisted to his doctors when they dared to disagree. Those are two of his physicians now. These guys don't ever crack a smile, so don't worry about it."
She introduced him to two very serious-faced older men in white coats and scrubs, turned, and quietly opened the glass door.
The two doctors followed Savich into a private cubicle with curtained glass walls, quiet except for the sounds of the machines that kept Valenti tethered to life. There were only chairs and the bed in the room, no flowers, no cards, and enough equipment to launch a rocket, all of it beeping or whirring or humming in random rhythms.
A man and a woman stood by the window, arms crossed over their chests until Savich came in, and they straightened, their hands going closer to their sides, and their weapons.
Savich waited for Alma to nod her okay to the other agents. Then she patted his arm and left the small room. Savich looked hard at the two doctors who stationed themselves at the foot of the bed, giving them silent notice not to interfere, and walked to stand next to Valenti.
Valenti looked ten years older, his handsome hawk's face waxy gray, his eyelids bruised, oxygen tubes in his nose, one of his legs in a cast. He was fastened to several IVs, including one in his neck. His breathing was slow, but not all that labored, which was a relief to Savich.
Alex Valenti