The Buck Stops Here (42 page)

Tonight at the ball I would be able to observe Armand, Beth, and Phillip all in one place together. If I could somehow use my access to turn up just a bit of information about James Sparks’ silent accomplice, then at least I could leave town feeling as though I had done all that I could here. This extra day would also allow me to fulfill my appointments with two of the board members of Family HEARTS and then close out that investigation completely.

I promised myself I would leave in the morning and go home, whether I made any progress today or not. If I left early Saturday morning, I could drive all night and get to D.C. by Sunday afternoon. Tom would still be there. Somehow, we would steal away some time alone where I could tell him all that I learned and all that I had been thinking. I knew he was absorbed with the new investigation of the Cipher Five, but I didn’t think he would mind being dragged away for an hour or so once he heard what I had to say.

My meeting with the two board members of Family HEARTS was scheduled for noon at a home in the Garden District, so I decided to have breakfast out and then take a streetcar there.

I dressed in another of my new suits and then set off on foot into the warm and humid morning, doubling back a few times to make sure no one was following me. Feeling secure, I chose a lovely restaurant and was seated in a center courtyard at a small table next to a fountain. I ordered eggs Benedict and then sat back with my café au lait and soaked up the ambiance while I waited for my food to come. How I wished Tom were with me! I knew New Orleans was often referred to as the “Big Easy,” and now that I had been here a while, I understood why. At least in the French Quarter, there was something so very laid back about it, so utterly unconcerned with the usual rhythms of a busy city’s work week. I loved it. In fact, the only problem with this place was all of the food. It was so good that I had a feeling if I lived here, I would have to double my workout schedule just to keep up.

After breakfast my adventure on the streetcar was immensely pleasurable. I sat by a window and watched, rapt, as we rode up St. Charles Avenue past one beautiful home after another. I got off at my stop and then walked a half a block to the home I was looking for. It wasn’t as large as some of its neighbors, but it was richly appointed inside and quite beautiful.

It hadn’t dawned on me that my meeting would include lunch, but soon I was seated at a long table where several courses were served up, one after the other, by a silent and dour-looking butler. Not wanting to seem rude, I ate as much as I could, picking at the rest, and feeling as though I were going to explode. The two women I had come to meet were good friends with each other, both in their seventies, with expensive coiffures and somewhat affected manners. But they were sweet and very interested in the foundation and very proprietary about Family HEARTS. I got the impression that they served on a number of different boards and that they took their charity work
very
seriously. They answered all of my questions, and when we were finished, they said that they hoped to see me at the ball tonight.

Back at my hotel, I entered all of the information they had given me and then sat back and studied the full picture of Family HEARTS. I had received responses from most of my sources, and the few that had had dealings with Family HEARTS gave the organization hearty endorsements. With a few minor adjustments on their part, the charity would pass my investigation on all counts. I closed out the file, knowing that if this were a normal case, it would now be time for me to write out my recommendations and then cut them a check. But this case wasn’t normal, and while I could say without reservation that the charity was a good one, I knew we couldn’t hand over any money to them until these other, seemingly unrelated questions were answered. Was Phillip a criminal? Was Veronica involved somehow? Until we knew for sure, there wouldn’t be any money given from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation to Family HEARTS.

Putting that out of my mind for now, I went online to do a bit of research. I wanted to know more about ricin, the poison that had been in the inhaler. What I learned was that ricin, a by-product of the castor bean plant, was an incredibly deadly substance. Apparently, just one gram of ricin was 6000 times more poisonous than cyanide and 12,000 times more poisonous than rattlesnake venom. It would take only one millionth of an ounce to kill a man—yet the death wouldn’t be instantaneous. From what I could tell, symptoms wouldn’t even show up until 18 to 24 hours after exposure, with death resulting anywhere from 12 to 54 hours after that.

I found some pictures of the plant, and the shiny seeds looked to be about the size of pinto beans, each very pretty, with delicate designs of brown and black and white on their hard shells. The beans were deceptively beautiful, however, because they provided one of the most potent cytotoxins in nature—a cytotoxin which could be derived through several processes, including simple distillation.

Of course, castor oil was taken from the same source, and that was a useful product found in lubricants, paints, plastics, shampoo, cosmetics, and more. Apparently, however, because of the dangers of ricin poisoning, not much castor oil was produced in the United States anymore. Even workers who processed it safely were prone to developing allergic sensitivities, ranging from contact dermatitis to asthma to anaphylactic shock.

The thought that frightened me the most, though, was when I considered the danger of ricin dust in the hands of terrorists. Because castor bean plants were fairly common worldwide—and the toxin somewhat easily produced—the potential for ricin to be used in chemical warfare was staggering. As I looked at website after website, I felt myself growing increasingly anxious. If such a potent poison were released into the general population, we would all be dead of acute hypoxic respiratory failure within days.

With a shudder I finally signed off and went to prayer. I asked God for protection, not just for myself but for my entire country. In such unstable times, I could only pray that the Lord would keep His benevolent hand upon all of us and keep us safe. I also prayed for wisdom and discernment for the NSA agents who were working to crack this case. Finally, I prayed that Tom would stay safe until we could be reunited.

When my prayer was finished, I went outside for a breath of fresh air. The sun was hot, and a number of people were lounging around the pool. I would have loved to go for a dip myself, but there wasn’t time. I would need to start getting ready for the ball soon. First, however, I went back inside my room, sat down, and dialed the phone number of my friend and mentor Eli Gold.

We had a good talk. Things had been somewhat contentious between us since the conversation I had overheard between Eli and Tom in the hospital in Florida, when I first realized that Tom was somehow connected to Bryan’s death. Now I apologized for all I had said and done in my desperate pursuit for answers. I told Eli that, above all else, I wanted him to get better. Still healing from a gunshot wound, he promised me that he would focus fully on his recovery now that he and I had made our peace.

I asked him if he would mind verifying for me the truths that I had uncovered about Tom and James Sparks. One by one, I went down the list of reasons that Tom felt culpable in Bryan’s death. Eli confirmed all of them.

“Is that everything?” I asked. “Is there anything else I don’t know?”

“No, Callie,” Eli replied. “I believe you have unearthed it all. I always knew you could.”

“Everything except how the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation came to be,” I said. “All I know is that somehow it was created with me in mind.”

“It was my idea, actually,” Eli surprised me by saying. “Now that you know everything else, I guess I can tell you how it happened.”

He went on to describe his own investigation into my husband’s death, which he conducted the summer that Bryan died. Unbeknownst to me, Eli had had questions about the boating accident from day one, as certain things simply didn’t add up for him. He had taken it upon himself to seek out some answers, and slowly his investigation led him to James Sparks and Tom Bennett. Because Eli was a former NSA agent himself, he was able to get confirmation on certain facts, and in the end he became acquainted with Tom personally.

Eli liked Tom a lot, and he believed him to be a true man of character. They had some long conversations where Tom expressed extreme remorse over the death of the man in the water—and the widow who had been left behind.

“He told me once,” Eli said, “that ever since the accident, he was just one soul hoping for ultimate absolution.”

“Absolution?”

“He needed to find a way, somehow, to pay for his sin.”

“We don’t pay for our own sin, Eli. Jesus died on the cross to take care of all that.”

“I know,” Eli replied, “and Tom knew too. He just couldn’t shake his own sense of responsibility in ruining your life. He didn’t know you, of course, but he still felt bound to you. What made it so hard for him, I think, was that he could never go to you and tell you what had really happened, or how sorry he was that it had all taken place on his watch.”

“I understand,” I whispered, surprised at the tears that sprang into my own eyes—tears of pity for Tom and his sense of guilt in the matter. I could almost picture him agonizing over me and my pain. He was just that kind of person.

“Of course, Callie, while I was doing the investigation and getting to know Tom, you were slipping deeper and deeper into depression. Finally, I thought of a way that Tom could repay his debt to you. He wanted absolution? I told him that maybe he could find it by giving to others—and that that would start by offering you a job that would pull you out of your despair and offer
you
a way to give to others as well.”

I closed my eyes, picturing it all. My beloved Eli had somehow engineered a path to healing for Tom and for me in one fell swoop. And though a part of me probably should have been mad at Eli for being so manipulative, I knew there was only love in his efforts. I thanked him, from the bottom of my heart, for doing what he thought was right, for suggesting the formation of a foundation and convincing me to pull out of my own grief and step into a job that fit me like a glove.

Fifty

By 5:00
P.M.
I was in the car and on my way to the plantation house where the ball was to be held. My hair and makeup had turned out well, and when I slipped on the beautiful gown, I felt a bit like Cinderella. Shimmery stockings, new shoes, and the silver mask made my look complete. Now as I drove, the mask was on the seat beside me, and I could only hope that an hour and a half in the car wouldn’t wrinkle the gown too badly.

Traffic was heavy, but once I got through the city, I made good time. Following the signs to Grande Terre, I drove down several long, winding roads until I reached the main entrance.

There were already a number of cars there, and as I turned onto the long lane that led to the house, a man in a bright orange vest waved me toward the valet parking area. Instead, I waved him off and found a spot myself, parked the car, and checked my image in the mirror on my visor. As I was freshening my lipstick, I noticed several couples walking into the house. The women looked elegant in gowns even fancier than mine, and the men all wore tuxedoes. On their faces were Mardi Gras masks, which reminded me to put on my own.

The plantation grounds were beautiful, full of massive, graceful oak trees dripping in moss, the walkways lined with azaleas. I walked up the front steps and into the home, showing my invitation to a man at the door. He checked my name off of a list and then welcomed me inside.

To the lilting sounds of a string quartet, I strolled through the first few rooms of the home. They had been restored to the period, with sturdy antique furniture and some impressive paintings on the walls. Allowing myself to flow with the crowd, I came to the ballroom, which was attached to the house via a long, grand hallway. Emerging from the other end, I found myself in a stunning space lined with tall windows and high ceilings that were as gilded as those in a palace.

Someone handed me a copy of the auction list, and I found an empty seat at a table in a corner. Others drifted my way and sat at the same table, some making polite conversation. I found it a little awkward to talk from behind a mask, but I didn’t take it off since everyone else was still wearing theirs.

Out of curiosity I read the auction list, astounded again by some of the offerings. Some incredibly valuable items had been added since the other day, including an original Degas and a trip for two to Tahiti. There were also a number of celebrity items, from a personal training session with a famous fitness guru to a five-song private concert by Harry Connick Jr. Everyone at my table talked about the list, what they planned to bid on, and what they thought would sell high. My very favorite listing was an MDM 1.3-m McGraw Hill telescope, used previously in the Kitt Peak National Observatory in Tucson, Arizona. Before his death, Bryan had been an avid astronomy buff, and something like that would have thrilled him no end. I couldn’t imagine how much it might sell for.