"Dana?"
She opened her eyes, tried to concentrate, but she couldn't quite focus. She realized she couldn't seem to swallow, and she started to hear her own breath in her throat. She rubbed her palms over her neck, working the muscles, but everything seemed to be backing up inside her, not just her precious breath, but something black and rancid and vile. She tried to scream with the sudden terror of what was happening, something she couldn't begin to understand, but nothing came out of her mouth. She fell over onto the floor, vomit heaving out of her mouth. In another moment, she went into violent convulsions. She heard the shouts of those around her, felt hands touching her, and she saw Senator Hoffman's face over hers, a pale blur, and she heard him say over and over, "Tell me what's wrong, Dana. Talk to me. Tell me what to do."
What to do? Her stomach was ripping apart and he wanted her to tell him what to do? He was shaking her shoulders, still speaking, but now it didn't matter because her mind spasmed with horrible, unspeakable pain and then something inside her brain seemed to pop, and she didn't know she was convulsing anymore, or that foam was billowing out of her mouth.
Her heart stopped at exactly one-thirty p.m.
25
Wednesday afternoon
Savich stepped out of the black FBI Bell helicopter at exactly five p.m. Special Agent Dane Carver waved him toward his Jeep. As Dane pulled out of Andrews Air Force Base, he said, "Everything's still in an uproar. The body of the lobbyist who was poisoned at the Foggy Bottom Grill is already with Dr. Branicki at Quantico. The paramedics who showed up a few minutes after she died said it looked like arsenic to them. We already know they were right. Of course, they've closed the place down and it's all over the news."
Savich said, "Where is Senator Hoffman?"
"Back at his home in Chevy Chase, with Mr. Maitland. He's shaken, as you can imagine. Look, Savich, Mr. Maitland told us you'd been working with Hoffman, that you told him his wife was trying to warn him-do you think the poison was meant for him? That Dana Frobisher was poisoned by mistake?"
Savich looked out the Jeep window at the sun baking the sidewalks, radiating enough heat to make you sweat just looking. Here it was mid-September and nearly ninety degrees. There were still tourists wandering around, families with tired children in tow. Wasn't school back in session? He remembered Dane's question. "To swallow a bullet meant for someone else, to die because of a mistake. That's tough, Dane."
Dane turned onto K Street. He spotted staffers thick on the ground, off for the day, heading for the local bars, maybe for home. He pulled the Jeep into a parking slot in the underground garage at the Hoover building.
Dane said, "According to Senator Hoffman, she'd had only a few bites of the salad, but she'd really plowed into the fried shrimp. I guess the poison was probably in the batter coating the shrimp. It's all being analyzed as we speak."
They walked through security, took an elevator to the fifth floor, and walked down the impossibly wide hall to the CAU, Savich's Criminal Apprehension Unit.
Ollie Hamish, Savich's second in command, was speaking to Ruth Warnecki, gesticulating as he always did. Agent Cooper McKnight, only three months in the unit, stood close, listening intently. Shirley, their unit assistant, sat on Dane's desk, chewing on an apple, listening as well.
Everyone turned when Savich and Dane walked into the large room. Ollie called out, "Mr. Maitland just phoned. Arsenic poison was all over the shrimp, in the batter, and she ate five of the six shrimp they served her. That's why she died so quickly. He said it wasn't elemental arsenic, but an arsenic compound-arsenic trioxide, to be exact. Get this-arsenic trioxide is approximately five hundred times more toxic than elemental arsenic. A lethal dose of pure arsenic in adults is about a hundred milligrams. The woman ate about four hundred milligrams of the arsenic trioxide. Dr. Branicki said she'd have died from just one shrimp.
"It literally exploded her system. She was dead within minutes, maybe less. The senator is in shock.
"Ruth here personally interviewed the waiter. Tell him, Ruth."
Ruth Warnecki said, "Mr. Graves is a twenty-year veteran waiter at the Foggy Bottom Grill. He told me the senator always orders the fried shrimp every week when he comes in. This time he didn't. Mr. Graves said he was surprised, but the senator told him, laughing, that his waistline was begging for only a salad today, and Mr. Graves recommended a small Cobb salad. He remembers the senator told his companion about how great the fried shrimp was, and she ordered it.
"When he brought their plates, Mr. Graves said he accidentally placed the shrimp plate in front of the senator, only to be reminded that Ms. Frobisher had ordered it. He said he remembered thinking that it was a forgivable mistake on his part, since he was used to serving it to the senator, and usually it was the ladies who ordered small salads."
Savich said, "Okay. Ruth, I'd really like to speak to Mr. Graves myself."
Ollie gave him a big grin. "Ruth and I figured you would. He's in the conference room with Lucy."
When Savich walked down the hall into the conference room, he saw Agent Lucy Carlisle sitting beside an older man who was squeezing the life out of a Coke can. He was long in the torso, thin as a plasma TV, and was trying to grow a beard that had, so far, produced only patches of hair on his chin and cheeks. Lucy looked up, smiled at Savich. "Ollie said you'd be here in twelve minutes. Ruth said ten. She was right." She turned. "Mr. Graves, this is Special Agent Dillon Savich, my boss. He'd like to speak to you."
Mr. Graves raised tired eyes to Savich. Savich saw his right eye twitch. He'd finally crushed the Coke can, and now he was tapping it up and down on the tabletop. The man was a mess.
Savich sat across from him. "Mr. Graves, I appreciate your waiting for me." He shook the man's hand, wishing he could calm him. "I'm Agent Dillon Savich. Now, I know this must be very difficult for you, a huge shock. I know you've probably told what happened at least a half-dozen times by now, but I hope you would tell me. Please go slowly, all right?"
". . . When I first saw it, the shrimp plate was under the warming lights, the table number and order tucked beneath it. The Cobb salad sat beside it, not under the warming lights. You never put salads under the warming lights." Mr. Graves blinked, cleared his throat. "I took both plates to Senator Hoffman's table and automatically put the fried shrimp plate in front of Senator Hoffman. He laughed, told me not today, he had to lose an inch, but the lady was fit as a fiddle and so it was for her enjoyment today. I was embarrassed, I'll admit it. To make a mistake like that with Senator Hoffman, but as I said, he only laughed, wasn't put out or anything, not that he ever is. He's been coming to the Foggy Bottom Grill for maybe ten years now, once a week, like clockwork, and he always orders that shrimp plate-" He looked at Savich and his eye twitched again. "That poor woman, it was horrible, Agent Savich. One of the busboys pulled my arm, and I looked up to see her holding her throat. I remember thinking she looked more confused than anything, like she didn't know what was happening to her. It was so fast, it's hard to remember, but then she toppled off her chair and onto the floor and she was vomiting and writhing and then she just seemed to freeze. White foam was pouring out of her mouth, I can see it so clearly, that white foam just gushing out of her mouth, so much of it, then she lay there perfectly still, and I just knew she was dead.