“We will.” Savich turned to Griffin. “Let’s show Mr. Rasmussen to the elevator.”
“You know, Savich, both my dad and Alexander wrote me off years ago—Alexander ever since I stole his new Mustang and took it for a spin. A pity I wrecked it.”
“You were thirteen, Rob,” Savich said, as the group of four walked together down the wild hallway.
“And a spoiled little idiot. I remember Alexander had just turned eighteen, the Mustang was his graduation present from Father. A fine car, that Mustang. Then after I nearly killed that guy in the bar fight, Alexander wanted me sent away forever.”
Sherlock knew all about the bar fight, but she wanted to hear what he would say about it. “What happened?”
“I hate to own up to it, even now, but I was treating my girlfriend like dirt because I was drunk and I’d heard she cheated on me, and this older guy—around twenty-five—took exception. We got into it and I hurt him, ended up in jail. Then my girlfriend hauled off and whacked me in the jaw. I was lucky, she didn’t break it, even though I deserved it.
“Venus arranged the army option, she has friends everywhere who’ve helped me out more than once.”
“There were other times?” Sherlock asked.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I did a bit of shoplifting when I was a kid, a bit of pot when I was in high school, some speeding, well, okay, a couple of DUIs when I was old enough to know better. But beating up that guy, that was the biggie. His name is Billy Cronin, he’s married and has three kids, lives up in Philly. I, ah, check on him every couple of years.”
When they reached the elevator, Savich pushed the button. The doors opened almost immediately and out stepped Agent Hammersmith’s sister, Delsey Freestone, singing a twangy western song Savich didn’t recognize, thought she’d probably written it herself. Two agents on the elevator stood behind her, obviously enjoying themselves.
She broke off, mid-verse, turning to the agents behind her. “I’ll catch you guys later, thanks. Dillon! How nice to see you. I’m here to take Griffin to lunch. Hi, Sherlock.” She stopped cold, blinked at Rob. “Who are you?”
Griffin laughed behind Savich. “Delsey, what’s that song you’re singing?”
Delsey sang a couple of bars, never taking her eyes off Rob Rasmussen. “I call it ‘Lamebrain at the Hoedown,’ classic country and western, all the way down to the twang and the head in the toilet the morning after. I’m hoping you’ll sing it at the Bonhommie Club, Dillon.”
Savich saw that Rob stood staring back at Delsey, his eyes a bit unfocused, looking shell-shocked. Tell me this isn’t happening. Savich didn’t want to, but he had no choice. “Delsey, this is Rob Rasmussen.”
Delsey looked up at him, and slowly, she smiled. “Have you had lunch yet?”
Rob shook his head, ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. “Well, no, and I’m starved. But what about your brother?”
“Who? Oh, Griffin, I’ll bet he’s going to take Savich and Sherlock to lunch, right, Griffin?”
Griffin looked from Rob Rasmussen to his sister. He was no match for her blazing smile. “Sure, Dels, right.”
“Let’s go see what we can find,” Rob said, and offered Delsey his arm. “Savich, Sherlock, please keep me in the loop. Please find out who’s doing this. Agent Hammersmith, it was very nice to meet you.” He gave Savich a little salute. “See you tonight.”
Savich watched the elevator doors close behind Rob and Delsey, neither of them speaking, only smiling at each other like loons. “Well, Griffin, it looks like you’ve been kissed off.”
Sherlock shook her head. “Let’s just hope Rob has nothing to do with the attempts on his grandmother’s life.”
22
* * *
Half an hour later, Agent Ruth Noble stuck her head into Savich’s office. “I brought Alexander Rasmussen up, put him in the interview room. Ah, Dillon, he’s not a happy camper. Not that he wasn’t civil when I fetched him from downstairs, but he’s pissed off at your demanding he come here to our house. Said he was a very busy man and this was nonsense. Can I sit in?”
Savich swallowed the last bite of his veggie wrap. “Sure, come on.”
Savich, Sherlock, and Ruth walked back into the interview room recently vacated by Alexander’s brother, Rob.
“Alexander,” Savich said as he walked in, closing the door behind him. “Thank you for coming. You’ve met Agent Noble.”
Alexander stood up from his chair. “You insisted I come.” He didn’t spare either Ruth or Sherlock a glance. “Listen, you know I have a lot of demands on my time, Savich, so what do you want that’s so important you dragged me here?”
“Sit down, Alexander.”
He sat down, stiff and angry. “Well?”
“It’s obvious you’re here because you are one of the people who may be trying to murder your grandmother.”
As an opener, this one scored big with Alexander. He went pale, lurched back in his chair, then flushed red with outrage. “What? You believe I would ever harm a hair on Grandmother’s head? You’re a disgrace, incompetent, the lot of you! If you think you can frame me, railroad me into prison, you’re dead wrong.”
Savich’s voice remained calm. “You and your father were the only people with her all three times she got ill from arsenic poisoning.”
“Use your brain for a change—anyone could have gotten to her food. Her own flesh and blood trying to kill her? That’s absurd. You and I have never gotten along, Savich. It’s natural you would feel jealous of what I have and who I am, and I don’t hold that against you, but you need to get over yourself. I have no motive, nor does my father.
“Now, you’ve said what you wanted to say and I’ve responded to it. Over and done. There was no reason for you to demand I come here.”
“You say you have no motive?” Savich raised a finger. “You’re very angry at your grandmother for forcing you to work at the Smithsonian—with those bureaucratic morons I believe you called them. You consider it a rank insult.” He raised a second finger. “Two years ago you embezzled from Rathstone, Grace and Ward, and your grandmother made you pay back the money, convinced them not to prosecute, and I can only imagine how much you resented that.” A third finger went up. “Since she’s brought you into Rasmussen Industries, she’s kept a close eye on you, looks over your shoulder at everything you do to make sure you don’t fall back into old habits. How you must hate being on that short leash, under that constant supervision, of her belittling you in that way.” He raised a fourth finger. “You’ve disappointed her, Alexander, and that scares you because she could cut you off whenever she wishes. You want her position, you want to run the show, and you don’t want to risk losing that, but you don’t want to wait any longer. A prosecutor would have no trouble supplying a motive, Alexander, and you know it.”