The wounded woman’s brow furrowed. “Now that you mention it, yes. But I’m sure Senator McClean had his reasons. Charlie always said his father never did anything without a reason.”
“But you weren’t privy to his reasons?” Dillan asked.
“Like I said, Charlie and I didn’t spend much time with his dad. In fact, tonight was only the third time I’d ever been to Senator McClean’s house.”
John McClean threw an impromptu party with his son, his son’s new fiancée, and half a dozen government officials plus their spouses, Julia mused.What’s the connection between all these players?
The investigator in her knew if she could find the answer to that question, she’d probably find the answer towhythe chef had tried his level best to permanently deprive them all of oxygen.
And on the subject of the chef…
“Were you introduced to Peter Sullivan?”
“Who?” Miss Meadows canted her head and frowned.
“The chef.”
“No.” The wounded woman grimaced. “The first time I saw him was when he stepped onto the patio and started spraying bullets.” Her frown deepened. “Why bullets?”
Julia blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he was a chef, right? If he wanted to kill us all, why didn’t he use the tools of his trade and poison our drinks and our food?”
It was a good question. One Julia had already contemplated. “In a situation like this, poison is risky. How could he be sure everyone ate and drank? And even if he somehowcouldensure that, he couldn’t be sure they’d imbibe enough of the poison to kill them. If a perp is hoping to make absolutely certain no one walks away unscathed, bullets are the best bet.”
“But I’m living proof even bullets aren’t a sure thing.”
Indeed you are,Julia thought. Aloud she said, “You were very lucky, Miss Meadows.”
She then spent the next ten minutes asking the usual questions and was a little disappointed with the answers she received. Eliza Meadows had no clue why she’d been invited to a spontaneous party peopled with Washington D.C. glitterati.
Or at least sheappearednot to know.
Julia never took anyone’s word at face value. She always made sure to confirm the stories she heard. And she had every intention to corroborate Miss Meadows’s statements because it might just be good luck, or it might mean something else entirely that the woman had survived when nearly everyone else at the party—including the shooter—hadn’t.
Nearlyeveryone else. There were two other survivors. And Julia needed to interview the one who wasn’t currently sprawled on an operating table.
Maybe the good senator could shine some light on why John McClean had called together that particular group, and why his personal chef—a man who’d been in his employ for three solid years—had suddenly turned on him and everyone in his vicinity.
After thanking Miss Meadows for her cooperation, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you think of anything else”—she stepped forward to hand over the card—“please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
It wasn’t the wide-eyed woman who took her information. It was Sergeant Rollins.
Again, a spark sizzled between them when their fingers briefly touched. And again, she blamed it on physics.
He’s got to be wearing wool socks or something.
Her gaze automatically pinged down to take in his biker boots. They were the steel-toed kind, big and black and clunky.
There’d been a time during her brief Goth era when those boots would have been enough to send her into a swoon. All they did now was make her eager to get herownboots upstairs and in front of Senator Chastain.
Dillan led the way, sliding through the slit in the curtains. She was halfway through herself when she felt a large, warm hand encircle her wrist.
She didn’t have to turn back to know who was touching her. The blood raging in her veins, primitive and strong, told her it was none other than Ol’ Blue Eyes himself.
She’d done her best to ignore it. And when she hadn’t been able to ignore it, she’d done her best to explain it away. But she prided herself on being honest. And that meant admitting the truth.
She was attracted to Sergeant Rollins.
