to let us in.”
“He might.”
“Where do we go from there?”
“We warn him that we’ll be happy to go to a judge and get a subpoena. He’s not going to want that—that will be too close for comfort.”
“Will his wife be there?”
He looked over at her, grinning. “Hey, I talk to the dead. I’m not a mind reader. I’m assuming his wife will be here, but I have no idea. If they’re leaving tomorrow, she may be packing.”
“If she’s going with him.”
“It’s all if until we get there!” He added, “Call Angela. Let’s see if she can find us anything helpful about his address.”
“Just—call Angela?” Stacey asked him, aware her tone was a bit on the skeptical side.
“Yep.”
“She doesn’t mind?”
“She’s incredible. What she can’t get to, she has someone else working on almost instantly. But this is the driving pursuit in our offices right now.”
He was right: Angela answered when Stacey dialed. She quickly identified herself, though she knew her ID would have popped up on Angela’s phone. Stacey told her that she and Keenan were nearly at Congressman Smith’s home and asked if she could give them any info on the house and anyone else who was living there.
Angela informed them Colin Smith and his wife were in a row of historic townhomes that were now condos, with a large unit on the ground floor. The room above was owned by a diplomat who was assigned to the Middle East for the next several months.
“So, they’re alone at the house,” Keenan said thoughtfully.
“What does that mean?” Stacey asked.
“Probably nothing. But it’s good to know going in,” he said and then spoke loudly for the phone. “Angie, do they have live-in help?”
“They do. Anika Hans, from the Netherlands. She’s in the States on a student visa,” Angela told them.
“Here’s hoping she’s not at school,” Keenan said.
He parked, grateful to have found parking on the street. The building that housed the congressman’s DC dwelling was a colonial structure with grand columns. So close to the White House and the Capitol Building, it had received tender care throughout the years. It—and the other houses in the row—had most probably been built in the 1830s, after the War of 1812 and the burning of the area.
“Wonder if Dolly Madison ever came here for tea,” he said, surveying the building as he stepped out of the car.
“Well, we can wander back to Lafayette Square and ask our spectral friends if they know,” Stacey said dryly. “We should do that, anyway—see if your ancestor Bram noted anything the night that Jess Marlborough was killed.”
“Not a bad idea.”
They headed up a tile path to the front door. Signs on the little picket fence in front and on the lawn warned them that the house was protected by video surveillance.
The same signs sat in front of every house on the block.
There could be video surveillance of the congressman’s comings and goings, thought Stacey.
Keenan rang the bell. The door opened, and they saw a young blonde woman.
“Anika?” Keenan asked.
She immediately looked confused.
“You have the food?” she asked. There was a slight accent in her words. “Two of you—to deliver Chinese?”
She had to be the student/maid, Anika.
“No, no, I’m sorry,” Keenan said, producing his badge as he moved forward to step in.
The young woman instinctively stepped back; it was natural to give a man as large as Keenan space. Stacey seized the opportunity and followed him in.
“We’re FBI agents. We need to speak with Congressman Smith,” he said.
Stacey smiled at the girl.
“Oh! Oh!” Anika said, dismayed, stepping back farther.
They were in the house; they’d made it this far.
“Could you inform the congressman that we’re here?” Stacey asked politely.
“I... Oh, he doesn’t like me letting people in. I...um... Why are you here? Shouldn’t you have made an appointment or something?” Anika asked.
They didn’t have to answer. A woman of forty-five or fifty, slim and fit, with platinum hair coiffed in a soft bouffant around her features, came hurrying in from a doorway to the left.
“Anika, dear, is that the food?”
She stopped short. Stacey figured she had to be the long-suffering but stand-by-your-man—especially if he’s a congressman—Sandra Smith. She seemed to be in casual mode, dressed in gray sweats that still fit her attractively, and thus the call out for Chinese delivery.
She stood dead-still, staring at them, her eyes narrowing. “And who might you be?” she asked.
“We’re FBI, Mrs. Smith,” Keenan said. “We spoke with your husband earlier; I’m afraid we just have a few more questions to clear up some discrepancies.”
“Discrepancies?”
“Yes,