Bodily Harm (32 page)

“When did this happen?”

“Just a few days ago. The police just called to advise me.”

“The police?” Seeley stopped blotting the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Why did the police call you?”

“I’m not certain. They said that with an unattended death they have to follow through . . .”

“On what?”

“I don’t know. They’re reasonably certain it was an accident.”

“Reasonably certain?”

“That’s what they said.”

Seeley sat back, hands in her lap, no doubt contemplating Payne’s bizarre behavior during the past weeks, his insistence that LeRoy return the file, and now the police were asking him questions.

“I know that the two of you were close; I didn’t want you to read about it in the paper or be shocked when the police called you.”

“Me? Why would the police call me?”

“I’m sure it’s just routine. They wanted the names of Anne’s family and friends. Had you seen her recently?”

“Just the other . . .” Seeley caught herself. “No. Not recently.”

“So you didn’t note any bizarre behavior?”

“Bizarre behavior?”

“Anne didn’t say she was alarmed by . . . anything?”

Seeley shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

“She didn’t discuss anything about her report with you?”

Seeley shook her head, more emphatic. “No. I don’t know anything about it. Just that you didn’t have the funding. I mean . . . she told me that, but nothing specific. No.”

Payne nodded. “Well, I know this must come as a horrible shock. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and try to relax. I’ll be letting everyone here know when I learn the details about the service.”

Seeley nodded and stood from her chair, making her way to the door, this time without hesitation.

“Oh, and Peggy.” Seeley turned. “You don’t happen to know if Anne still had a copy of her report, do you?”

Seeley shook her head, pulled open the door, and walked out, closing it behind her.

Payne waited a beat, then took out his cell phone and punched the numbers as he walked to the plate glass windows that overlooked the front entrance to the building and the employee parking lot. “She’s on her way down now,” he said. Within minutes Seeley burst out the front door in a fast walk, nearly jogging. “That’s her,” Payne said. “Light blue sweater.”

DAVID SLOANE SAT in the passenger seat, speaking into his cell phone. “I see her.”

Seeley fumbled in her purse, first for her keys, then for her cell phone. She dropped her purse in the process, nearly stumbled over it, and retrieved it before climbing into a green Subaru Outback. She had the phone pressed to her ear as she maneuvered from the parking space, the car coming to a jarring stop just inches before hitting the car parked in the space kitty-corner to it. She pulled forward, nearly clipping the bumper of another car, and sped from the parking lot.

Jenkins and Sloane followed her at a safe distance, hopeful that Payne had scared Seeley sufficiently that she would seek help, or at least let whoever she was working with know what had happened to Anne LeRoy. According to Payne, Seeley had every reason to be afraid of him. He had been acting bizarre ever since his
return from China, prone to emotional bursts and obsessive about getting LeRoy to return the copy of the report she had downloaded. He said that making Seeley believe that the police were asking him questions, and therefore that he was a suspect, would not be difficult and should be sufficient to put her over the edge. Sloane hoped he was right.

Seeley drove northwest on River Road past homes and shopping malls, Sloane charting her on a map and trying to decipher where she might be going. He figured she might head home, but if so, it would not be for a while. The homes in this area were large and spread out. It was unlikely Seeley owned one on a government salary. She turned west on Falls Road, and the landscape did not change much: large homes and lots of lush acreage. In between the groves of trees Sloane saw swimming pools and private tennis courts.

“Any idea yet where she’s going?” Jenkins asked just as Seeley came to a
T
in the road and turned right. Jenkins slowed.

“Why? You think she’s worried someone’s following her?” He repositioned the map in his lap and traced his finger along MacArthur Boulevard.

“Doesn’t give any indication,” Jenkins said, turning right and following.

The scenery became more rural, trees on both sides of the two-lane road. Sloane could no longer see any houses between the foliage. “The road ends,” he said. “She’s going to Great Falls Park.”

“How far?”

“Maybe a mile.”

“Any turnoffs between here and there?”

“Not that appear on the map. You can slow down.”

Jenkins checked his rearview mirror. With no one behind him, he slowed considerably. In the distance they watched Seeley turn right.

“That’s the park,” Sloane said. “She’s meeting someone.”

Before the roundabout to the entrance to the park Jenkins stopped. “Get out. Take your cell phone with you.”

Sloane exited the car wearing sunglasses and slipped on a Washington, D.C., tourist’s ball cap. He walked the road to a paved footpath as Jenkins turned right and followed Seeley’s car into a parking lot. A moment later his cell phone rang. He pressed his earpiece to answer.

“She’s getting out of the car. Headed in your direction.”

Sloane continued down the path to a visitor’s center and plucked an information pamphlet from a plastic container near a window. He positioned himself near the Potomac River, which ran parallel to the footpath. It still being tourist season, Sloane stepped closer to a group, hoping to blend in. People milled about the grounds and stood on a footbridge overlooking the blue-green tinted water. It was warm out. Most wore shorts and tank tops and carried cameras.

After several minutes he spotted Seeley walking down the path toward him and held up his cell phone, as if to take a picture of the water. “I got her,” he said.

Seeley walked briskly past the visitor’s center and continued down the footpath. Still considering his pamphlet, which included the trails along the Potomac, Sloane followed at a safe distance and watched Seeley use a footbridge to cross over the river to a path on the other side, continuing south. The rush of the water became more pronounced as it funneled over a series of steep jagged rocks and through a narrowing gorge. Tourists passed Sloane on the path, walking in the opposite direction.

“You there?” Jenkins asked.

“I’m here,” Sloane said, talking over the rush of the water. “She’s still walking.”

“I think we have a winner,” Jenkins said. “Silver Mercedes
with government-issued plates just pulled into the parking lot. Driver looks to be talking on a cell phone.”

Sloane looked up as Seeley stopped and reached into her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and pressed it to her ear.

“She’s getting a call,” he confirmed.

Jenkins described the person getting out of the car as Sloane watched Seeley turn right at a fork in the path. When he reached the fork he saw that the path led to a second footbridge overlooking a spot where the water cascaded over a short falls. Sloane went straight, then left the road for a less worn, unpaved footpath through the trees that emerged downriver and provided a view of the footbridge on which Seeley stood waiting.

Ten minutes later Seeley’s contact arrived. They stood on the bridge talking as Sloane pretended to take photographs of the falls with his cell phone. They spoke for less than fifteen minutes. Seeley’s contact left first, leaving her alone on the bridge. Sloane followed the trail back to the walking path and hurried over to the fork in the road, turning toward the bridge where Seeley remained standing, looking out over the brown water and falls.

Sloane removed his sunglasses and his hat as he approached. “Peggy Seeley?”

Seeley’s head snapped in his direction. Her eyes registered fear. For a moment Sloane worried that she might scream.

“I’m David Sloane,” he said, offering her his business card. “I’m the attorney in the article you gave to Anne LeRoy.” Seeley’s facial expression softened from concern to confusion. “Anne called me. We were supposed to meet the other night. I know what happened.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sloane said.

Seeley’s eyes narrowed.

“Things are not what they appear to be, Peggy, but you need to trust that what I’m about to tell you is the truth, because your life is now in danger.”

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

ALBERT PAYNE KEPT one eye on the road while trying to read the directions he had downloaded from the Internet. Large oaks lined the streets, but the sidewalks and gutters were pristine; not a single leaf dared to have fallen. A lifelong resident of Bethesda, Payne knew that John Roll McLean, the former owner and publisher of the
Washington Post
, had built a railway to link the outlying areas to Washington, D.C., and named one of those train depots after himself. McLean probably never imagined the impressive roll call of residents who would someday live in the multi-million-dollar homes built on wooded lots with manicured lawns and gardens. Just eleven miles from Washington, D.C., McLean’s residents included diplomats, members of Congress, and high-ranking government officials, as well as executives of the three
Fortune
500 companies that maintained corporate headquarters nearby.

Payne slowed, confirmed the address, and turned just past a six-foot brick post adorned with an ornate light fixture. The driveway inclined and veered to the left, the lawn outlined by subtle Japanese garden lamps, and proceeded past the front entrance to a three-story, Colonial-style brick home with three white dormer windows protruding from the roof and leaded-glass windows. He parked in an area to the side of the home and took a moment to compose himself before stepping from the car. At the front door he pushed the illuminated doorbell and didn’t wait long before a teenage boy in a T-shirt and baggy shorts answered.

“Hi. Is your—”

“Albert?”

Joe Wallace approached from down a hall, eyebrows knitted together. The boy stepped to the side and disappeared. Dressed in an Indiana basketball T-shirt and sweatpants, Wallace looked as if he was about to leave for a workout.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home,” Payne said.

“You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Wallace stepped aside and welcomed Payne into a marbled entry with an ornate crystal chandelier. Payne smelled chocolate—as when his daughter baked double fudge brownies—and heard the chatter of a baseball game from a television in another room.

Wallace led Payne to a room just to the right of the front door adorned in white—white carpeting, two white sofas and a matching chair, white drapes. The only color in the room was a black baby grand piano near the bay window and a vase of flowers atop it. Wallace started to sit.

“Is there someplace more private?” Payne asked.

Wallace’s brow furrowed, but he asked no questions, leading Payne through two sliding wooden doors to a library with a desk and built-in bookshelves. Wallace slid the doors closed behind them and offered Payne one of two high-back leather chairs opposite the desk. He sat in the adjacent chair and pulled the chain on a lamp between them, the bulb’s wattage muted by a leather shade.

“You look terrible,” Wallace said. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Anne LeRoy is dead.”

“Who? Albert, calm down and start over.”

“She worked in my office. She was preparing a report on the use of powerful magnets in consumer goods, children’s toys, and their potential danger. She’s dead. Someone killed her.”

Wallace frowned and looked at Payne as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Slow down, Albert, I’m not following you. Are you talking about the report you recently gave me for the hearing? I just read it.”

“The report I gave you is not her report.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I changed it.”

Wallace leaned forward into the light. “What?”

Payne opened his briefcase and handed Wallace a multiple-page document. “This is Anne’s actual report.”

Wallace took it and sat back, flipping through the pages. After several minutes his fingers stopped, and he sat staring at the books on the shelves, lips pressed tight.

“I’m sorry,” Payne said.

“Why would you do this? Why would you give me a bogus report?”

“The report on the factories in China complying with U.S. regulations is also false.”

For a moment Wallace did not speak. He stood and paced the Oriental throw rug. “Why would you do this?”

“I had to.”

“Had to?” Wallace stopped and faced him. “Why would you
have
to do this?”

For the next several minutes Payne explained what had happened in China and about the man and his demands. “And now Anne LeRoy is dead. He electrocuted her in her bathtub.”

“That sounds like an accident.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“There’s a lawyer pursuing this named David Sloane. He’s filed a lawsuit in Seattle against Kendall Toys for the deaths of two children who swallowed magnets from a Kendall toy. The
Post
ran
an article and Anne saw it and called him. He was supposed to meet with her, but this man beat him to her.”

“How would this man know about her report?”

“Someone had to tell him about it.”

“Who? Who else knew about the report?”

“Anne had a friend at the agency, Peggy Seeley. She knew about it, but it can’t be her. It has to be someone with power, someone who could also be sure I was included on that trip to China.”

“Triplett wanted you to go,” Wallace said. “He was insistent.”

“So did Maggie Powers. It has to be one of them. They must have promised Seeley something, a promotion to keep them apprised of what my department was doing.”

Wallace took a deep breath. “So you don’t know who this man is working for?”

“Not for certain, no, but if I had to guess, I’d guess Maggie Powers.”

“Why her and not Triplett?”

Payne handed Wallace a copy of the
Washington Post
article on Sloane. As Wallace read, Payne continued. “Maggie Powers worked for the Toy Manufacturer’s Association, and Kendall is in financial trouble. They need this new toy to hit big to stay afloat. A report like Anne’s would kill the project. Under the circumstances we would have to initiate an enforcement action and delay production. And if the attorney is right, the toy won’t pass an inspection. It’s a danger to kids.”