“We told his oncologist we didn’t want to hear about the odds. Pete didn’t believe in them anyway. But…” Debra bit her lip and looked out the bay window. The glass was split into panes by mullions. And the raindrops drifted and collided into one another, leaving wide, watery trails in their wake. “But he’d been losing weight lately. And when he wasn’t at work, he was sleeping a lot,” she finished hoarsely.
So Peter had been nearing his end, Julia silently mused before continuing to ask the pertinent questions.
Had Mr. Sullivan ever had any problems with his boss, Senator McClean? Had Mr. Sullivan mentioned anything about buying the weapon he’d used in the massacre? Had Mr. Sullivan seemed out of sorts before leaving for the McClean residence that morning?
Debra’s answers to all were no.
Which left Julie wondering,Is she right? Is there nothing more to this case than a dying man on heaps of medication losing his shit?
It was a possibility. But it felt too pat.
Four members of Congress were dead. If Senator Chastain hadn’t survived, it would’ve been five. And anytime government officials were involved, she had to suspect political motivation.
“I know Pete was worried about what we’d do for money if he ever—” Debra swallowed. “If he ever succumbed to the cancer. He didn’t have life insurance. And after he was diagnosed, no one would insure him.”
“Is it possible Senator McClean had written your husband into his will? I mean, Peter’s post to you mentioned it was the only way for him to make sure you and your boys were taken care of. Is there money coming your way?”
Debra blinked myopically. Her head shake was resolute. “No way. Pete and the senator weren’t that close. I mean…Peterespectedthe senator. He always said John McClean was a statesman and not a politician, an old-school guy who took the job because he actually wanted to make this country better as opposed to taking the job for its power and prestige. But Pete didn’t exactlylikethe senator. He said the man was hard-assed and uncompromising. So it’s not like they were sharing brandies after dinner or smoking cigars together.”
“Then what do you suppose your husband meant by it was the only way to make sure you and your boys were taken care of?”
“I have no idea.” Debra covered her face with her hands as her shoulders shook with fresh sobs. “Oh, Pete.”
Julia knew a dead end when she saw one. Debra Sullivan had no clue why her husband had done what he’d done. She’d had no indication that he was planning anything. She had nothing further to offer the investigation.
At least not right now.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sullivan.” Julia slid her business card across the coffee table. “If you can think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Debra blinked at her uncomprehendingly and Julia understood. The woman still hadn’t accepted the reality of her husband’s death. And if shecouldaccept that reality, it meant he’d perpetrated an act of such evil that she couldn’t believe anyone would offer her condolences.
Julia had seen it a dozen times on the faces of the family and friends of offenders. Her soft, squishy heart made her add, “You’re going to be put through hell in the coming weeks and months. I hate that for you and your boys. But remember, there’s no such thing as guilt by association. At least not in circumstances like this.Youhaven’t done anything wrong.”
Debra’s chin trembled. But before Julia could pull out two more preemptive tissues, her phone blared to life.
Because the noise at a crime scene was usually at stadium concert levels, she’d turned the volume on the device up as high as it would go. She’d since forgotten to turn it down and the doublebrrrring-brrrringwas loud enough to wake the dead.
It was certainly loud enough to wake the two Sullivan boys who’d managed to remain asleep and tucked up safe in their beds while their mother had been given the awful news of what their father had done.
“Sorry. God, I’msosorry.” Julia immediately thumbed on the device, and then winced when she heard little feet hitting the floor above her. Not three seconds later, one of the Sullivan boys called from the top of the stairs. “Momma? Who’s here?”
SorryJulia mouthed again.
Debra didn’t respond. She simply rubbed the wetness from her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, stood from the sofa, and headed for the staircase.
“Nice work,” Dillan whispered from the side of his mouth.
“Me?” she hissed and shot him a poisonous glance. “You have the bedside manner of an executioner.”
He gave her another indifferent shrug—it seemed to be his standard reaction to most things she said. And she rolled her eyes before saying into the phone, “This is Agent O’Toole. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Agent O’Toole, this is Nurse Benson at Northwestern Memorial. You told me to call you if there was a change in Mr. Chastain’s status.”
“Yes?” Julia motioned for Dillan to get up and head toward the door. “How is he? Is he awake?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead, Agent O’Toole.”
Julia, who was in lockstep behind Dillan, stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
