“I know nothing about that! Nothing about the attempts on Dr. MacLean’s miserable life! How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

Savich said, more steel in his voice now, “Would you please tell us your whereabouts on May eighteenth at about three o’clock in the afternoon? That was the afternoon Dr. MacLean was nearly run down by a dark sedan here in Washington.”

She didn’t spew this time. She became quiet and still. Her lips were moving, as if she were whispering a mantra, or ritual words, to get herself back in control. She said, slowly and precisely, spacing her words as if explaining something to an idiot, “I am calling my lawyer. I cannot imagine what you think you’re doing bursting in on a representative in the Congress of the United States of America and conducting yourself in such a manner. I will have both of your jobs for harassing me. If necessary, I will ensure that your supervisors are fired, as well. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock said calmly, “Congresswoman McManus, can you begin to imagine what would happen to your public career if what Dr. MacLean is saying gets out? Just a whiff of it?”

“Now you have the gall to threaten me? You want to ruin me by spreading malicious gossip?”

“No, ma’am, we would not do that. But you know as well as we do that an allegation of that nature, even a mention of it behind someone’s hand, could snowball and ruin you quite effectively.”

Savich raised a hand before she could speak. “We don’t know what the truth is about these matters, ma’am, but we felt it our duty to inform you of these allegations.”

The door opened and Nicole Merril stepped in.

Obviously McManus had pressed a call button.

“Please see these people out, Nicole.” She rose slowly, stared at them both with cold assassin eyes. “If you wish to speak to me again, you may not. You will speak only with my lawyer. Nicole will give you her name. If any of this absurd conversation leaks to the media, I will come after you personally. Good day.”

After Savich fired up his Porsche, he turned to Sherlock. She saw he was grinning like a loon.

“That was more fun than outshooting you at the firing range. I guess that does it for our popularity with her at this point. You think she’s running scared? Or is she planning our destruction?”

Sherlock said, “Oh, we got her all stirred up, that’s for sure. And yes, she’s scared. I could feel the tension pouring off her.” Sherlock leaned her head back against the Porsche’s soft-as-sin leather seat, closed her eyes.

Savich said as he turned into traffic, “Let’s have some lunch, then pay a visit to Pierre Barbeau and his charming wife. I think we’re on a roll.” He nodded to the agent parked down the street. “I wish we could tap her phone. But at least we’ll know if she meets up with somebody.”

Sherlock smiled when the wind tore through her hair as the Porsche swerved gracefully around a big honking SUV.

THIRTY-FIVE

Sherlock said, “Remember how Sean was whooping and hollering, grabbed our hands and pulled us ’round and ’round that maypole at DuPont Circle?” Savich shot her a grin as he passed the circle and smoothly turned right off New Hampshire Avenue NW onto Eiger Street.

She was still smiling when they drove by the very ritzy modern condo building where the Barbeaus lived. “I guess I was expecting another huge Georgian set back in a beautiful yard. Although now that I think about it, is it possible their being French makes a difference?”

Savich laughed as he parked the Porsche a half block down, not far from one of the South American embassies. He gave Sherlock a grin, leaned over and kissed her. “You taste like the cheddar cheese from your taco.” He lightly rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. He then ran his fingers through her tangled hair, his fault, she’d told him long ago, whenever she rode with him in the Porsche.

He sat back to admire his handiwork. She said, “You sure no one can tell I was riding in a convertible at wind-tunnel speeds?”

“Nah,” he said, “you’re perfect.”

They looked over the immaculate grounds, at the blooming flowers planted in heavy ceramic pots and wooden flower boxes lining the walkways, everything swept and clean, the grass meticulously mowed. The sun was bright overhead and it seemed to Sherlock that the petunias and purple rhododendron were stretching up to reach it. She thought her deep red rhododendron at home was more brilliant.

“Maybe there’s something to having someone do all the work for you. Everything’s got a high shine.”

Savich shook his head. “I like to sweat over my own lawn mower.”

“A doorman, now isn’t that uptown? And he’s even wearing a spiffy uniform. I believe those are Green Bay’s colors.”

“The French National Police can’t cover much of this expense,” Savich said. “Lucky for him that his income is nicely subsidized by the large number of euros in Mrs. Barbeau’s bank accounts.”

“Her family is big into train construction and maintenance throughout Europe,” Sherlock said, as they walked up the flagstone walkway to the glass-fronted building. “At least we know Pierre Barbeau didn’t work today. You think he’s lying low?”

“Maybe. I heard he and his wife haven’t been seen much. They’re still torn up about their son’s death,” Savich said.

The doorman glittered in his green-and-gold uniform. He was startled, clearly, when Savich showed him their FBI creds, but he recovered quickly. “You wish to see the Barbeaus?”

“Yes, please give them a buzz,” Sherlock said. “We know they’re both home.”

When they stepped out of the elevator on the ninth and top floor, it was onto pristine gold-white marble. The Barbeaus’ condo occupied half of the floor.

On the second ring of the doorbell, they heard the sharp click of heels. A young woman, her complexion swarthy as a pirate’s, and wearing, of all things, a classic French maid’s black-and-white uniform, opened the door. She was a bit out of breath.

“Oui? May I help you?”

As she stepped forward, Sherlock wondered if the maid was the real French deal, or if she was amusing herself. Sherlock pulled out her ID. “I’m sure the doorman called up. As you see, we are FBI. We would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Barbeau.”

The young woman turned quickly and disappeared through an arched doorway to the left. She immediately came back, heels loud and sharp on the marble floor, her face flushed. She apologized for leaving them in the entryway, and showed them into the starkly modern, entirely white living room. Savich hated white on white, but the view of all the historic residences through the floor-to-ceiling windows was very nice indeed. He saw his Porsche hugging the curb, boxed in now by a Beemer and a Mercedes, royalty, to his mind, surrounded by minions.