And Sean. He was the image of his father, dark eyes and dark hair, a rich olive complexion. She looked down at her white hands, wondered what part of her he had. Sean. She liked the sound, the feel of his name, but when she pushed, there was the white door, again closed. Did he have a middle name?
Savich rose. “Ms. Bexholt? I’m Agent Savich and this is Agent Sherlock.” He handed her their creds. Sherlock rose to stand beside him.
Nikki pretended to study the creds, but she’d have known very well who these two were even if Jasmine hadn’t told her. She’d seen Agent Savich on TV enough, and Agent Sherlock—everyone knew who she was. She returned the creds, stuck out her hand, shook theirs. “Do come into my office. Paul, please go home now.”
A tall, middle-aged man with a sharp goatee nodded, smiled at Sherlock. He moved quickly to open the door for his boss, then quietly closed it after they’d all filed inside.
Should she gush over Agent Sherlock? Paul probably already had. She wanted to, but she had to remember she was the one near the top of the food chain at Bexholt, not someone they’d expect to bow and scrape.
She said, “I know you’re here to speak to me about a member of my accounting department, Eleanor Corbitt. I understand she was killed last night. We at Bexholt are all greatly disturbed and saddened. We all want to know what you’re doing to find out who killed her, but I’m not certain I understand why you, the FBI, are here. Isn’t the FBI only involved with federal crimes?”
Savich studied this woman while she spoke—smoothly, calmly, in charge. She was tall, fit, and dressed in black, her hair nearly as black as her suit, pulled up high on the back of her head in a sort of twist, held by a pearl-encrusted comb. The style suited her. She had a strong, arrogant face, an expressive face. Expressive? Why had he thought that? Because there was something that worried her, profoundly. Her hands were restless, her fingers tapping on the desktop, obviously a longtime habit. As if she realized what she was doing and he’d noticed, Nikki quickly motioned them to the chairs facing her desk.
She sat down, clasped her hands in her lap. Such a ridiculous habit, the finger tapping, one she’d seemed to develop overnight after the first time she saw her father hit her mother in the stomach with his fist when Nikki was eight years old. She’d started tapping her fingers after that, if she didn’t pay attention, no matter the time or place. She cleared her throat. “So, what can I do for you, Agent Savich? Agent Sherlock?”
Sherlock gave Bexholt her patented sunny smile, so much a part of her it was second nature. “We understand you and Ms. Corbitt lunched together on several occasions, that she visited your office a number of times. She was obviously closer to you than any other employee in the accounting department. She was your friend. We would like you to tell us about her.”
Nikki froze. How did they know that? Jasmine wouldn’t have said anything. She and Ellie had always been discreet, bordering on paranoid, yet people had noticed and people had talked. She wanted their names, and when she found out, they’d pay.
She said, her voice trembling a bit, as if on the verge of tears, “Of course I knew Ellie. She was a friend, but not really a close friend. What I mean is she was an employee in our accounting department and she did some work for me on a couple of special projects. I did find her very nice and competent. I will miss her, as will all her co-workers.”
“Did you ever visit her home?”
“I remember when she bought a condo last year and was very excited about it, showed photos all over the office, but no, I never visited her. The couple of times we had a business lunch was in a little pizza place just up the road from the Bexholt campus. I’m sorry, but I really don’t know about her life, you know, her outside interests, or who her close friends were.” Nikki rose. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Savich didn’t move, said easily, “We find it interesting and a bit too coincidental that two Bexholt employees—Eleanor Corbitt and Jasmine Palumbo—are both connected to Justice Cummings, the CIA analyst who was thrown