I shivered and wanted her to get on with it. “What did you mean when you said that the First Lady was a target?”
“It all revolves around Zendy.” She bit the insides of her cheeks and I could tell she was weighing how much to share. “Volkov needs the money from the sale of the company, right?”
I shrugged.
“It’s in the news. No secret there. His legal troubles are no secret either. The other thing that’s only slightly more confidential is that the company can’t be sold unless all four of the heirs vote unanimously to sell it.”
I knew that much. This girl wasn’t going to make it big in the media unless she could come up with something hotter than that.
“Who did Nick Volkov supposedly kill?” I asked.
“You don’t know?”
I saw my capital dropping fast in her estimation. I shook my head.
“Mrs. Campbell’s father.”
That took me aback.
She frowned. “You really don’t have any information, do you?”
“And you think Mrs. Campbell is a target because…”
“With her father dead, she’s the only person standing in the way of the sale of Zendy Industries,” Kirsten said with exasperation. “I’m connecting the dots here. I think when Volkov killed Mrs. Campbell’s father, he assumed she’d be ready to just sign everything away.”
I decided not to remind her that in America people are innocent till proven guilty. That wouldn’t have stopped this girl’s cascade of information. By the way her breaths spun out into the night in short, agitated spurts, I could tell she was so tightly wound up with this story that the truth wouldn’t stop her now. “But if you’re right,” I said, “and Volkov is arrested, then the danger’s gone, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But I have to convince someone he’s guilty.”
“What else do you know?” I asked.
She twisted her mouth. “You’re getting more out of me than I’m getting out of you.”
“Maybe that’s because there’s no story here.” I started for my front door again, not acknowledging any of the questions she shouted to my back. I waved without turning, and called, “Good night!”
CHAPTER 19
“WHAT’S GOING ON OUT THERE, OLLIE?” JAMES asked when I made it through the building’s front doors. Tonight Stanley was with him. The two of them wore nearly identical looks of concern.
I waved away James’s inquiry. “Just more of the same. Everyone wants secrets spilled, but why they think I have them is beyond me.”
Stanley had been resting his hip against the desk. Now he shifted his weight. “You ask anybody about those neutrals?” he asked.
James perked up immediately. “What are you talking about?”
Again I tried to dismiss his concerns. “Just a theory we discussed. About the… you know… electrocution.” I addressed Stanley. “I asked three people already. The acting chief electrician and two of his assistants. None of them is interested in what I have to say.”
Stanley fisted the desk, making James jump. “Damn it, they should. The more I think about it, the more I believe that’s what got your friend. And if I’m right, it could still cause trouble. You got to get somebody to listen before another person gets fried.”
His words shook me more than I cared to admit. What if something else did happen… if Curly, Vince, or Manny were electrocuted and I could have prevented it? How would I feel then?
I knew the answer. I couldn’t live with myself. Despite the fact that I’d done my best to warn them, I realized I needed to push harder. And pushing was something I was good at.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “The guys I talked to think I’m just butting my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’ll be sure to let the fellow in charge know that I talked with you.” I smiled at Stanley. “I’ll let him know that a real electrician is behind my questions.”
Mollified, Stanley eased back to leaning. “I don’t need no credit, y’understand, but if you think it’ll make them listen, you do that, Ollie.”
IN MY APARTMENT, AND COMFORTABLY READY to relax, I turned on the television, hoping for some mention of Volkov, especially after Kirsten Zarzycki’s claims. My first choice was, naturally, her station, WJLA. Nothing. Nothing at all. I switched to CNN, then switched away again when no mention of Volkov, nor of Mrs. Campbell, hit the airwaves. If indeed this Kirsten was right, then news of this nature would have been splattered everywhere. Hers was an explosive allegation, and definitely too hot to let simmer.
After a half hour of channel surfing, I realized the rookie reporter had apparently gotten her signals crossed somewhere along the line. I tried searching the Internet, but found nothing there either.
As I got myself together for the next day and prioritized my tasks, I removed my splint and flexed my fingers. Felt good to have the freedom of movement. Better yet, I’d be able to really dive into food tasks in the kitchen tomorrow. I sorely missed the hands-on work I was used to.
Tomorrow was Monday, the last day the White House would be closed to the public before the big holiday unveiling on Tuesday. I set my alarm for a little earlier than usual, snuggled under my covers, and wished I could talk to Tom.
MOST MORNINGS, I WOKE TO MUSIC, BUT THE fifteen-minute lead time I’d built in the night before set my wake-up to smack in the middle of a news report. A voice like dark chocolate roused me from deep slumber. I missed the first few words, but twisted my head toward the voice when I heard him intone: “It is not known whether Ms. Zarzycki knew her attacker. Police are canvassing the area, looking for clues to this shocking murder. They have no suspects in custody but are asking witnesses in the area to step forward if they have any information to help find her killer.” The announcer continued with a hotline number to call.
I shook my head. This couldn’t be right. I must have misunderstood the name.
Staring at my clock radio, I waited for the story to repeat. But all I got was weather and traffic.
Heading into the living room, I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream. That all the events from recent days were conspiring to play with my mind. But my bedroom floor was cold to my bare feet. The apartment was chilly, and I could see the dawn of a new day outside my balcony window. Dreams were not usually so rich with such sensory stimuli. As my TV came alive I searched the room, hoping for some out-of-place vision, some signal that this was not real.
Instead, the two on-air personalities at WJLA were speaking disconsolately into the camera. One male, one female. I didn’t know these commentators well enough to know their names, but the elegant black woman spoke for both. “Our hopes and prayers go out to Kirsten’s family tonight. Although she’d just joined us here at WJLA, she was part of our family, and she will be missed.” The woman’s lips tight, she glanced to her co-anchor.
He took the cue. “Anyone with any information should call the number you see on your screen.”
I dropped back into my sofa, curling my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. I continued to stare at the TV, even after they shifted away and cut to commercial. What the hell was going on?
With a beseeching glance at my clock, I willed the hours to speed by so that I could talk with Tom. But he wouldn’t be here till Wednesday. Two long days away.
I changed the channel repeatedly until I caught the story again elsewhere. I got a few more details each time. I kept trying, looking for more, but soon I realized I had as much as I could get. There just wasn’t much information out there. Not yet.
Dropping my knees, I held my head in my hands and tried to make sense of it all.
Kirsten was dead. Attacked at home, in her apartment, she’d been shot in the head. This could be a random act of violence, I told myself. But I didn’t believe that for a minute. She’d talked about Nick Volkov being responsible for Mrs. Campbell’s father’s death. Kirsten was dead, and yet the information she claimed to have was nowhere to be found on the news.