Best Laid Plans(9)
Was Barry always such an arrogant jerk or was he this way because he was being forced to work with her? Had Juan said anything to Barry about her record?
Although Juan wouldn’t have had to tell him anything. What had happened in Hidalgo and with their colleague Ryan Quiroz was no big secret. Everyone on her squad knew she’d disobeyed orders. Maybe they also suspected that she’d gone to Mexico in breach of a dozen different federal and international laws, but no one—not even Ryan—had said anything to her. Juan knew—not officially or unofficially, but he knew.
Which was why he didn’t trust her.
Her head ached. The tension in her office was adding to her insomnia.
Lucy followed Barry to the door, which opened as soon as they knocked. The Hispanic male was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit, crisp white shirt, and burgundy tie. Conservative and almost formal.
Barry showed his badge. “Special Agents Barry Crawford and Lucy Kincaid to see Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington.”
He nodded formally. “I’m Joseph Contreras, her personal assistant. May I tell her what this is regarding?”
“We need to speak with her directly. It’s about her husband.”
Again, he nodded, then led them into a vaulted foyer with beautiful Spanish tile floors and a large glass chandelier towering above them. Far more opulent than Lucy had expected and didn’t fit in with the Tex-Mex decorations—a large wood-inlayed Texas star on one wall with the Texas flag and the American flag framed on either side.
“Wait here, please. You may have a seat.” He gestured toward a long antique bench that Lucy recognized as a restored pew. What a neat idea, she thought.
Neither she nor Barry sat, but he studied the house, ignoring her. She’d started off on the wrong foot with him this morning—Barry was a by-the-book FBI agent with a solid record. He’d been in the Violent Crimes Squad in Los Angeles prior to 9/11; when VCMO had been drastically cut back, he’d been assigned to the elite Counterterrorism Squad in New York City. He’d transferred to San Antonio and back into Violent Crimes three years ago. It seemed like an odd move after such a high-profile assignment. If she knew Barry better, she would ask him more about his history and why he changed squads. While it was common for FBI agents to move around to different field offices—particularly after their rookie years—it wasn’t as common for an agent to change specialties.
Contreras returned and said, “The congresswoman will be happy to meet you in her home office. She has a full schedule, so I need to ask that you keep this as brief as possible.”
He led them down a large, wide hall past large, wide rooms with large, wide—and masculine—furniture. The residence felt like a man’s house, and Lucy wondered if Worthington had lived here before he married Adeline.
Adeline’s office was across from a spacious library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her office was smaller in scale, but no less grand. Here there was definitely a feminine touch—the floors were a pale cream, the walls a delicate-print wallpaper, and the furniture a light, intricately carved wood. A wall of windows looked out into a vast rose garden.
The congresswoman rose from her leather desk chair and walked over to them on four-inch heels. She was still shorter than Lucy, who wore low-heeled ankle boots. “I’m Congresswoman Reyes-Worthington. It’s a mouthful, I know, so I insist you call me Adeline.”
Barry and Lucy both shook her extended hand, and Barry handed her a business card. “FBI Special Agent Barry Crawford, and this is Special Agent Lucy Kincaid. May we sit?”
“Of course.” She motioned to a couch and two chairs. Above the couch was a detailed oil painting of a battle Lucy was unfamiliar with. It included a Texas flag and pre–Civil War clothing.
Congresswoman Adeline Reyes-Worthington was an attractive, petite Latina dressed in a crisp, tailored business suit and soft pink silk blouse. She was in her forties and had the air of a businesswoman used to being in charge and getting things done.
“May I ask Joseph to bring coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you,” Barry said. “We’re here on official business. We regret to inform you that your husband, Harper Worthington, was found dead this morning.”
She blinked several times. “Harper?”
“We are sorry for your loss. We won’t keep you long, as I know this is a difficult time.”
She shook her head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I spoke to Harper last night, before I left for a charity dinner. He was fine.” Her bottom lip quivered just a bit, and her voice cracked as she asked, “Was there an accident?”
“I need to be blunt with you. Though the FBI will do everything to ensure that no details of Mr. Worthington’s death are released publicly, because you’re a public official, there may be unscrupulous reporters digging around.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She turned to Lucy, confusion in her dark eyes. “How did he die? It was an accident, right? It had to be an accident.”
Lucy didn’t say anything, deferring to Barry.
“The Bexar County Medical Examiner’s office is performing the autopsy, and we hope to have answers shortly,” Barry said, “but you should know that his body was found at the White Knight Motel in downtown San Antonio.”
She sighed in relief, though her eyes were still confused and wary. “It’s not Harper. There has been a huge mistake. Harper is in Dallas on business. He won’t be home until tomorrow morning. And he would never go to a motel.”