CHAPTER 15
HOW DID IT HAPPEN, and who was the intended victim?” Benton says. “Likely it was Gabi,” as he calls her, and he wasn’t in Lyon with me.
In the midst of foiling the latest terrorist plot to overthrow our democracy, he couldn’t represent the United States at our first international symposium of the Doomsday Commission. As disappointing as that was, it’s nothing new, and I traveled alone.
“The first woman secretary general, and she comes on like gangbusters against human rights violations and hacking,” Benton says. “In particular going after Putin, and poisonings are the Russian’s special sauce.”
“Interpol’s relationship with China hasn’t been so great, either.” I remind him that the former president of the international police organization was Chinese. “He vanished from France and since has been arrested, as I recall from what was all over the news.”
“I agree,” Benton says as I lean against him, my head on his shoulder. “It’s improbable that the wine was meant for you or anyone around you, including me.”
Whoever tampered with it had no reason to think that the secretary general might turn around and give it to someone else, he adds. It’s also hard to imagine the Brussels police chief would have anything to do with such a scheme. It would be far too easy to trace, in fact, ridiculously so.
“For sure he’s going to be questioned, and might even be blamed.” Benton sets another bottle of water on my bedside table. “Not to mention the possible damage to his reputation if this becomes public. No matter what, there will be those who think he’s guilty or at least wonder about it.”
“We don’t know that he wasn’t the intended victim,” it occurs to me next. “Or possibly it was the owner of the Brussels wine shop.”
“That’s right, we don’t know much at this point. Without evidence, we can’t even say a crime’s been committed.”
“Clearly the person responsible doesn’t give a damn about possible collateral damage no matter how random,” I reply angrily. “Doesn’t care who might be ruined or killed. Someone’s husband, wife, child, could be absolutely anyone,” and the thought is sickening.
“That much is indisputable.”
Benton walks past the brick fireplace and antique furniture, headed to the windows overlooking the water. He begins opening the shades, letting in the morning gloom.
“Bottom line,” he says, “we won’t know who the intended victim was until we figure out when and where the bottle was accessed. And how it was done.”
“Yes, and with what,” I agree. “I’ll start checking with the labs as soon as I can think straight and don’t feel queasy.”
From my vantage point on the bed, I can see old trees stirring in the wind, the gray sky churning over the Potomac River. The last weather report I remember predicted showers on and off today with another front on the way. This one could include freezing rain that in Old Town usually means power outages.
During bad storms, people around here stay inside, their focus on old roofs leaking and trees coming down. Some roads and alleyways flood, and the police are tied up with accidents and other weather-related calls. Beat officers aren’t as eager to patrol in a downpour, and conveniently for Gwen’s killer, Fruge was tied up on drug overdoses last Friday night.
In bad weather, surveillance cameras are less effective on the ground. They’re not helpful from above when there’s a heavy overcast. All of these factors created the very conditions Gwen Hainey’s killer may have found ideal. My thoughts slide back into that dark hole while Benton remains fixated on the wine that almost killed me and possibly everyone I love.
“We have to ask who had access,” he says, standing in front of his dresser, and in the dim light of the blustery morning, I see what he has on.
A black turtleneck sweater, black cargo pants, tactical boots as if just coming in from a police detail, and he retrieves his 9mm pistol, a Sig Sauer like mine.
“Let’s look at every link in the chain. Gabriella gave you the wine while you were with her at Interpol.” He slides the gun into a pocket holster that he tucks inside his waistband. “From there you carried it directly back to your hotel room in Lyon, where it stayed for several days?”
As he says this, I envision the tile floors, carved wooden beam ceilings and colorful silk-covered walls. I remember the sensuous perfumes of the candles and soaps, and the bouquet floral et fruité of the house Beaujolais, crimson like blood.