“No, just my observation.”
“Did you know she was working the dinner?”
“I assumed she was on assignment when she used the name, Ellis. Her last name is Modine.”
Andy Blake observed him. “The waiting room—you struck her supervisor. That isn’t the action of a man who doesn’t have a relationship with someone.”
“He made a derogatory remark about Cassie. I was defending her honor.”
“Derogatory?”
“Greg Wilds and I have known each other for about fifteen years. We have philosophical differences. He can be vulgar. He implied I only cared about her being hurt because I hadn’t had relations with her.”
“Is that true?” The furious expression on Ian’s face provoked the detective to hold up his hand in a stop signal. “And bringing in Dr. Hunter Montgomery?”
Ian leaned back in his chair. “What do you want to know? Montgomery is the best trauma doc around. He saved my brother when he was wounded overseas. Six years ago, I met Cassie when she lectured at the National Gallery. I bumped into her again at the Paulsen home four days ago.” Blake’s pupils dilated, and Ian filed the reaction away. “On Tuesday night, we shared a meal. Last night, I asked Cassie out again. She seemed conflicted. We planned to discuss things today before her work debrief. End of story.”
Blake allowed a quiet pause. “Hmm. According to Senator Bynum, there was quite a bit of chemistry between you two. Mr. Ames acted jealously.”
“Are you insinuating Sebastian Ames was jealous of me and chose to try to kill Cassie? I assume you saw the crime scene. That was an awful lot of rage. And if that’s so, what did she mean by ‘Cassiopeia is dead’?”
Andy Blake furrowed his brows and rose to his feet. “Right now, it seems a fair assumption. I’m not clear about what she meant. Her colleague said she spoke to you about wanting her chance. What do you think she meant by that?”
“As you said, I’m not clear about what she meant.”
Andy handed Ian his business card. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chase. I’m sitting down with Mrs. Monique Chase this afternoon. Please, if you remember anything else about last evening, call.”
After Blake left, Ian hit a button on the phone. “I need to know any ties between Sebastian Ames and Cassie Modine. Also, get me background on Detective Andrew Blake, Metro PD.”
* * *
Late on Thursday evening, Martin and Julian keyed into Cassie’s Georgetown townhouse. The place was ransacked. Filling from her overstuffed chair and couch floated up with the draft from outside. The end tables were overturned, lamps broken. The glass coffee table was shattered. Books were torn apart—their pages strewn across the room. Pink rose petals and, shattered crystal was mashed into the carpet. The artwork was slashed and yanked from the walls. Picture frames were trampled, photographs ripped to pieces, memories destroyed.
The designer kitchen was a disaster zone. All the cabinets were emptied, dishes and glassware smashed. The drawers were ripped from their tracks and dumped. Spoiled food covered the floor.
Both men drew their guns and used hand signals to communicate while sweeping through the home. Finding the place empty, they began a detailed secondary room-by-room search for clues. Across the mirror of the master bathroom, the word “WHORE” was written in peach lipstick. Cassie’s lingerie and clothing were cut apart, the heels broken off her shoes. There was no sign of any jewelry. A set of nudes on the walls were slit across the throat of each female form.
The closet was emptied. Two cedar boards lay against the back wall, revealing a small, recessed space—empty except for a newborn’s blue hat caught on a rough corner edge.
“Looks like something more was here,” Martin said, placing the hat in his pocket.
Her queen-sized ebony sleigh bed was left undisturbed in the middle of the chaos. A dozen black roses were fanned across the pillows with a plain white card attached. With gloved hands, Julian opened it. “Happy Anniversary, baby. Sorry I missed you.”
Martin moved through the home again, shooting pictures of each room. When he was done, he notified Kieran while Julian dialed 911.
As they waited for the police, the doorknob twisted. Taking quick cover, both men drew their weapons as two men dressed in suits entered. Julian counted down from three with his fingers. At three, they placed the intruders into sleeper holds.
With the two unconscious men on the floor, Martin took their pictures and scanned their fingerprints while Julian searched their pockets. “Son of a bitch. They’re FBI.”
Martin shrugged. “Oops. We have the keys.” He dangled them off his pinkie.
“We were protecting the place from further destruction,” Julian stated a common police report line.
The agents awoke timed with the arrival of the local police. After some testosterone-charged exchanges, a call to the police department duty chief, a call to the FBI supervisor, and a call to Tate Webster, they settled down and cooperated.
Tate, in his role as the operations chief for the DC branch, advised them to say the minimum and leave the scene as soon as possible. Tate notified Kieran and dispatched other personnel to keep the scene secure.
* * *
