"Off the record? They're ex-Intelligence agents; if not ours, then trained by somebody out there—Mossad maybe or M15. They're too good to be amateurs and too well-known to be taken lightly. Trust me, they'll slip up somewhere and then we'll have them."
Louis Freeh, Former Director, FBI
The housekeeper was stubborn, at first, insisting that 'Senatoor Bron' hadn't told HER about any termite inspection. Grissom kept his voice low and reasonable as he chewed ferociously on a wad of gum, reassuring her over and over again that he had the Senator's signature on the work order, and that the inspection wouldn't take very long at all. Finally, and only after a phone call to the man himself did she grudgingly allow Grissom to come in to the back entrance of the Georgetown townhouse, grumbling the entire time.
Out in the van, Grissom was aware of Miss Chocolate quietly laughing. Her voice carried through the earpiece of the thick, black-framed glasses he wore as he quietly set his bag on the kitchen table and began assembling the Arado. "So, she gave you a hard time?"
"She's probably worried about pissing off her boss," Grissom replied softly, pushing up his spectacles. "The Senator isn't the easiest man in Washington to work for."
"Probably not. Let me know when you're ready to go and I'll turn the screen on."
A few moments later he was moving slowly through the hallway, pretending to sweep and mumbling softly into the mouthpiece as he did so. "Okay, going through to the back rooms now. For the record, I don't think he's got any termites."
"That's good. I kind of wondered why a brownstone would even NEED an inspection—" Miss Chocolate lightly commented. Grissom swept the metal detector over the edges of the wall very carefully.
"The support joists for a building like this are often wood, and if one of them weakens it compromises the stability of the wall. So, into the study we go—"
A thorough sweep in the room revealed some lost pocket change, a few bobby pins and nothing else. Grissom reached in a pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out another piece of gum; in his earpiece, Miss Chocolate cleared her throat. "What if he doesn't have a safe? Or what if he's got one but it's in his office?"
"This brownstone was built in the late twenties and inhabited by politicians almost exclusively; statistically speaking it's got to have some sort of vault security in it somewhere," Grissom muttered. "And as for the idea that the camera is at his office—I don't think so. It's a personal item of blackmail. He wouldn't risk having an office worker or secretary see it. No, it's got to be here, somewhere."
"Okay then—that leaves one room," she replied cautiously. "We're coming up on the half hour mark."
"Bedroom," Grissom agreed, and made it a point to lumber loudly through the townhouse. When he reached the senator's bedroom he stood for a moment and peeked in, assessing the layout. It was a back room, with a fireplace and a low slanting ceiling. Grissom stepped in and eyed the walls carefully, sweeping the loop head of the Arado from baseboard to ceiling. The first wall showed nothing but a few blips where the studs were, but on the second wall, the partition between the bedroom and bathroom, made the metal detector hum.
Grissom looked carefully in the little hallway between the bedroom and bathroom, noting a fuse box inset on the wall. Carefully he tugged open the door and peered in, noting the circuit switches and labels on them. Then, he carefully stuck a finger under the lip of the edge and tugged; the back panel of fake switches swung open to reveal the front of a dull grey wall safe, small and solid. Instead of a dial, there was a keypad on the bottom of it, and Grissom stared at it carefully, trying not to grin.
"We have safe," he murmured gently.
"Oh?"
"It's behind the fuse panel between the bedroom and bathroom. Small, with a keypad." As he spoke, Grissom set the Arado down and fished in his jumpsuit pocket for a little box, opening it to reveal a disc of red powder and a brush. He carefully dusted the keypad, making sure to coat each key evenly. Through the infrared filter of his glasses, three numbers were whiter with heavy fingerprints on them, and he studied them carefully. Miss Chocolate's voice came in his ear again. "A car just pulled up—a Miata. A woman's getting out."
"Time to pack up," Grissom assured her, and carefully wiped the keypad clean before closing the false back and outer door of the fuse box. He went through the motions of sweeping through the bathroom and flushed the toilet before moving back out into the hall. He could hear voices from the kitchen, and headed that way, making sure to walk heavily as he disassembled the Arado and began packing it up.
"Okay, you're looking good here. I'd say you ought to keep an eye on the north east side since I did spot a little dampness there and termites will flock to any rotting wood. I'd suggest maybe spraying around February, and we can set that up for you if you like," Grissom announced in a slightly bored tone.
The housekeeper gave a curt nod of relief. "Fine. I tol' you there were no bugs. I keep a clean house, inside and out."
"Yes, Mira, we know you do, we know you do," the other woman murmured soothingly, reaching for the clipboard that Grissom held out. "So, spraying in February—can your company call back then to set up an appointment?"
"Yes ma'am. We're hoping to do the entire block, and I can put you on our list if you like," he rattled on, keeping his gaze down. The woman signing the receipt was a lean strawberry blonde with a slightly preoccupied air. She handed back the clipboard. Grissom noted her designer linen pants suit, diamond tennis bracelet and her manicured nails. He took the paperwork back and tore off the top sheet, handing it to her.
"Fine, put us on the list then. I'm just glad you're done before our party tonight, so if you don't mind—" she trailed off and Grissom blew a huge bubble with his gum, nodding. He clunked his way out of the house, tossing the bag with the disassembled Arado in the front seat. Carefully he backed the van out of the driveway and moved down the street, giving a sigh of relief.
"Problem?" came Miss Chocolate's voice. He sighed.
"Lady of the house. I thought the Senator was a widow."
"He is. Has a few women on the side, but he hasn't gotten serious with anyone. "
"Then who's the hostess I met in the kitchen?" Grissom asked, pulling the van into the parking lot of a Dunkin' Donut shop. He parked and went to the side, opening up the sliding door. Miss Chocolate climbed out, looking every bit as cute as he knew she would in her matching Truman's Termite Terminators jumpsuit. She pulled the scarf from her hair and shook her head as she pulled the earpiece out of her ear.
"I think she's the Senator's daughter. I remember reading that she acts as hostess for some of his parties and goes to some of the state events with him."
Grissom frowned a little. "If she's there tonight, I need to make sure she doesn't recognize me then. That would be a bad thing."
Miss Chocolate shot him a sidelong glance, nodding slowly, but his attention was on the bookstore a few doors down from the donut shop. He hesitated, then looked at her, his expression almost . . . embarrassed.
"Would you mind terribly if I stopped in there?" he asked, politely.
Bonifant was filled with tall cases, and some of the aisles were a little cramped, but Sara didn't mind. She and Mr. Peppermint received a few curious glances from the grey-haired clerk but after a quick once-over, she smiled and turned back to the carton of books she was busy sorting. The by now familiar scent of paper and wood made Sara smile, and she parted company with Mr. Peppermint after a little nod.
It was easy to get engrossed in the selections. Bonifant was well-organized and uncrowded at this point in the day. Sara made her way down the hobbies and crafts aisle, idly reading the titles when a particular one jumped out at her: Do-it-yourself Boat Repair and Maintenance.
Sara pulled it out and examined it, feeling a surge of delight well up inside her. The pictures were clear, and the step by step directions fairly concise—she flipped to the inside cover and checked the price in the corner, feeling smug when it ended up being at least two dollars cheaper than she'd been willing to pay.
A bargain.
Feeling pleased with herself, she tucked the book under her arm and went looking for Mr. Peppermint, wondering where she would find him. A part of her mind logically argued he'd be in the mystery or spy section, but a quick peek down that particular aisle proved her wrong. Curious, Sara wandered towards the back of the store, finally spotting his broad frame standing in front of . . . the Romance shelves.
It had to be a fluke, she decided.
But no, as she approached, she noted that he not only had a Barbara Cartland in his hands, but three others tucked in the crook of his arm. He was scanning the inside cover of the paperback, his expression slightly . . . pained.
He looked up, and Sara grinned broadly at him.
He blushed. "These aren't for me," he mumbled in a note of slightly mortified sincerity. Sara said nothing, cocking her head.
He cleared his throat. "They're . . . for my mother."
"Your mother."
"My mother. She's eighty two, and a serial Romance reader. I can't keep the woman in Harlequins." Mr. Peppermint admitted with a sigh. "She goes through Regencys like potato chips."
Sara laughed, letting her head drop back as she pictured a little white-haired woman voraciously reading through a stack of yellowing paperbacks while Mr. Peppermint tried frantically to keep handing new ones to her.
"It could be worse . . . she could be addicted to online gambling, or collecting Precious Moments figurines," she offered after her chuckles died away. Mr. Peppermint considered those alternatives with a faint wince and nodded.
"You have a point. In any case, I'm fairly sure she hasn't read any of these, so I might as well feed her inexpensive habit. Once she's done I can always recycle them through the Book Hive."
Sara nodded, and the two of them looked at each other for a moment. She felt that little tug of attraction again; the one that didn't have anything to do with the Candy Shop, and everything to do with how blue his eyes were.
Then she led the way back to the front of the store, reaching the cash register first; at the sight of her selection, Mr. Peppermint's eyebrow went up but he said nothing. They left the shop a few minutes later and climbed into the termite van.
"So now what?"
"Now we go our separate ways—at least for a while," Mr. Peppermint told Sara. "I have to return the van, pick up the dinner party invitations, rent a suit and see if Gum Drop managed to locate and purchase another Bell and Howell Zoomatic camera."
"Hmmm," Sara nodded. "And I have to find appropriate eveningwear and rent a car. Are we actually going to stay for dinner?" she mused, glancing over at him. Mr. Peppermint managed a small smile and thoughtfully stroked his beard.
"Depends on how hungry we are I suppose. Most Senators host pretty elaborate soirees."
They drove in companionable silence for a while longer, and Sara finally spoke up. "It seems so . . . mercenary. You know, to steal his blackmail collateral AND eat dinner on his tab."
"You're a taxpayer; you've paid for it," Mr. Peppermint told her forthrightly. "The Senator is having it catered because it's an entertainment expense, so I wouldn't worry about it too much."
"Well in THAT case—" Sara smirked. "Bring on the spinach puffs."
She spent a busy afternoon shopping. Normally it wasn't one of her favorite activities at all; but because of time constraints she hadn't had a chance to pack too much, and there was the camera to consider. Finally, after a quick stop in Macklin's Theatrical Supply, Sara took on the elegant boutiques of downtown Georgetown in quick succession, arriving back at the Liberty Guest House by three in the afternoon. She flipped the Do Not Disturb card onto her door handle and settled in for a quick nap, wondering sleepily if Mr. Peppermint was back from his own errands yet.
By the time five o'clock rolled around she was up again, glad to hear the soft knock on her door. Opening it she admitted him and he gave her a smile as he set a paper bag on the dresser. Sara eyed the squat paper parcel.
"Successful afternoon?"
"Remarkably. I picked up the camera at an antique shop and cleaned it up a bit, then found a formalwear place a few doors down—I hope you don't object to paisley."
"The whole suit?" Sara made a face, visions of Mr. Peppermint looking like a refugee from a Peter Max painting. He smiled gently and shook his head.
"Vest only—just tacky enough to give the professor a personality. Oh, and here—" carefully he fished in his pocket and pulled out three different wedding rings, holding them out to her, "Details matter."
"Wow, I guess so . . . " she murmured, amused. She selected one and slipped it on, feeling the coolness of the band against her skin. "This one fits."
"Good," Mr. Peppermint commented absently. He was unwrapping the package and concentrating as Sara stepped over. She studied the camera with an approving look, nodding to herself as she handed back the other two rings. He took them and tucked them away. "Think you can fit this in your purse?"
Sara shot him a disbelieving look. "Um, no. An evening formal takes a clutch, usually no more than fifteen inches by seven, Mr. Peppermint."
He looked nonplussed; his brows drew together in worry but Sara cleared her throat and spoke again, her tone confident. "Don't worry. I have it covered. The bigger concern is the combination. Three numbers give us waaay too many options, unless you've managed to narrow them down."
"I have a hunch," Mr. Peppermint nodded. "The three numbers we have are nine, five and three, and because we know most people set a combination to a date they remember, we have three that might fit the bill. Either it's the Senator's birthday—September of thirty five, or it's his daughter's—March of fifty nine, OR it could be his granddaughter's, May of ninety three."
Sara stared at Mr. Peppermint for a long, long moment. She very quietly murmured, "You . . . don't get out much, do you?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing softly. "I'm no mathematician but the precedent IS with human nature, Miss Chocolate."
Two hours later, after a shower and a shave, Grissom adjusted his bow tie, delighted that it was a clip-on. The muted silver and blue of the paisley pattern reminded him of an oil slick on the surface of a pond; iridescent. He stroked his chin, trying to get used to the smoothness and examined himself in the mirror.
Something was missing. Frowning, he considered himself a moment longer, then fished out his reading glasses, settling them on the bridge of his nose. Satisfied, Grissom scooped up the invitations to the dinner party, then stepped across the hall to Miss Chocolate's room.
She opened the door, and he blinked, stunned.
She smiled broadly at him, her dimples showing.
"You shaved," she noted.
"You're pregnant," he blurted.
Miss Chocolate looked down at the rounded bulge of her tummy, now rounding out a sleeveless crystal beaded top and pretended to be surprised. "Wow, how did THAT happen?"
Grissom arched an eyebrow at her, but couldn't hold his straight expression a moment longer and grinned. Miss Chocolate grinned back and when she did, he noticed the second thing that was different about her. His gaze narrowed in on her teeth, and she gave a self-conscious smile.
"Your—"
"You can say it. My gap. I have this orthodontic piece that fills it in. I suppose I could wear it more often—"
"Don't. That is . . . I like you better without it," Grissom admitted, feeling warm in the face as he said so. The smile Miss Chocolate gave him at that moment left him awash in new heat. She broke their gaze and cleared her throat, inviting him in to her room.
"Thanks. So—I have baby Bell and Howell all tucked away here, and now it's up to us to figure out a way to get me into the senator's bedroom. I'm thinking contractions."
Grissom gave a thoughtful nod and checked his watch. "A few Braxton-Hicks; nothing too alarming, but enough that you may need to lie down."
Sara stared at him, pausing as she reached for her tiny green velvet clutch purse. "How do you know about contractions?"
"Ah. That would be telling—" he responded, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Shall we go?"
He escorted her to the rental car, mindful to help Miss Chocolate in, and took his time in pulling out into traffic. Out of the corner of his vision he saw her absently stroke the rounded padding around her middle, and the sight sent an odd pang through him; to cover it, Grissom spoke up.
"The name on my driver's license tonight says Gideon Pfefferminz, and I'm associated with the entomology department of the Smithsonian. I received this invitation because of my Forensic consulting work with the FBI. What shall I call you tonight—besides 'dear'?"
Miss Chocolate lifted her chin; her profile looked lovely against the backdrop of Washington lights. "Felicity," she murmured, thinking for a moment. "We met two years ago when we kept taking the same elevator together. Coffee led to lunch which led to a few other things in the course of time. We've picked out names for the baby, but opted not to know the sex."
"Ah. And how far along are we?" Grissom prompted, amused at her casual certainty. Miss Chocolate fished in her purse for a compact, and checked her lipstick.
"Gideon, you KNOW the Bugling is due in five weeks, and Doctor Phair says I need to stay away from alcohol and minced clams."
"Allergic?"
"No, I just don't like them."
"How could I forget, Felicity? You swept into my staid little insect-oriented world and turned me overnight into a devoted husband and slightly nervous father-to-be. Good thing I have the ring to prove it—" So saying, Grissom fished in his vest pocket and pulled out a wedding band, carefully working it onto his finger. Miss Chocolate studied it with approval.
"Where did we get married? It better not have been Busch Gardens," She warned.
"Annapolis. In a park. Afterwards you tried to teach me to skip stones in the pond and I nearly killed a duck with a bad throw," Grissom murmured gently while Miss Chocolate snorted against the back of her hand. He shot her a gentle look. "I'm not very athletic."
"That's okay. You have lots of other wonderful qualities." She paused and added, "And the duck recovered."
Grissom chuckled, warmed unexpectedly by the gentle whimsy of the moment; this shared whistling in the dark. They turned into Georgetown proper, quickly reaching the townhouse and parking nearly a block away because there were already cars lining both sides of the narrow street. He eyed the dark sky as they headed to the townhouse, and something in his expression made her follow his gaze upward. "Afraid it's going to rain?"
"Hoping it won't. Rain will coop everyone inside, and make it harder to get to the bedroom."
Miss Chocolate nodded, and then they were at the front door, in the glare of the porch light and ringing the bell. The door opened, and Grissom looked at the same strawberry blonde woman from earlier in the day; she smiled too brightly; a clear sign she didn't recognize him. Grissom nodded at her.
"The Pfefferminzes—Gideon and Felicity?" he prompted, almost apologetically. "From the Smithsonian?"
"Oh, oh! Yes, the liaison for the FBI on that serial killer case! Oh goodness, come in!" came the woman's warm tones. "I'm Catherine Willows, and I'm hosting this for my father tonight, so please, let's get you both inside and find something to drink—"
Grissom found himself quietly proud of the way Miss Chocolate waddled in, looking radiant and serene. Immediately Mrs. Willows beamed. "Oh wow; congratulations!"
"Thank you. I've got about a month to go," she dimpled, shooting him a quick look of affection.
Warming to his role, Grissom slid an arm around her back and squeezed lightly. "It all happened so fast . . . "
"Yes well it sure seems that way in the last couple of weeks," Mrs. Willows agreed. "Anyway, let me introduce you around . . . we're pretty casual at the moment—"
Despite her words the room looked immensely elegant with fresh cut flowers in fancy crystal, and well-dressed people making small talk in little groups scattered through the salon. Carefully Grissom steered Miss Chocolate in and smiled as Mrs. Willows made introductions to a few of the other guests; he was careful not to overdo his doting image.
After twenty minutes or so the room fell silent in one of those universal pauses in the conversation that can sweep through, and into the void came a low, almost musical voice. "All right, nice to see you folks tonight. Having a good time?"
Senator Samuel Braun looked out over the assembled group, his face smiling, his sharp eyes unreadable. The man radiated a ruthless good-nature, but hints of a quick temper made his mouth occasionally turn down, and his gaze missed very little. Grissom felt the senator's attention sweep over him after a single piercing stare; fortunately one of the caterers moved by, offering champagne and the moment passed. Next to him, Miss Chocolate let out a soft sigh.
"He's . . . a little scary," she admitted. Grissom nodded, leaning in to reply.
"And dangerous. We know first-hand that he's a blackmailer and I doubt his crimes stop there."
Miss Chocolate nodded, and looked towards the buffet line, where people were already beginning to congregate. She lightly stroked the bulge of her belly and managed a quick smile, batting her eyes. "Do you think they have any potatoes au gratin?"
"Let's go find out, shall we?"
Catherine Willows looked over the assembled group and felt a sense of satisfaction tempered with an undercurrent of anxiety. The party was going well, just as she'd promised Sam, but his mood was still prickly, and try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling that another 'discussion' was coming soon. What this one would be about, she wasn't sure, but whatever the topic, it sure as hell wouldn't be pleasant, given how much he was drinking.
She sighed, wishing not for the first time that she was more than just an extension of her father's political influence. There was a time she'd wanted a real career; a chance to go back to school and DO something with her life beyond hosting parties and lobbying. But Eddie wouldn't hear of it, and Sam kept her busy with his own political agenda. And then after Eddie died—was murdered, she amended bitterly—then there was Lindsey and more pressure from Sam to stay in Washington, hooking up people to people and making things happen behind the scenes.
And frankly things with Sam were getting . . . bad. Not that her father's hands had ever been particularly clean, but of late Catherine realized he had secrets that she didn't ever want to know. All she had left now was Lindsey, and her own reputation, for whatever that was worth. Given the political climate, her days as a hostess were probably limited too, and God knew what she would end up doing once Sam was out of office .
She caught a glimpse of the couple from the Smithsonian, sitting together on one of the love seats, plates in their hands. They looked adorable, and for a moment Catherine smiled at the sight of them—clearly the nerdy professor adored his young wife, and by the shy glances she was giving him the feeling seemed to be mutual. Catherine remembered a time when she and Eddie had been like that—slightly besotted and trying to be discreet about it. She walked over to them and this time her smile was sincere. "How are you two doing?"
"Good," the young wife—what was her name?—blurted. "I love your stuffed mushrooms."
"Oh thanks, but I can't really take credit—it's the catering company's recipe," Catherine replied honestly. At that moment the young wife winced, and bent forward a little. Concerned, Catherine took a step closer. "Are you okay?"
"I think someone else liked the mushrooms too," came the woman's little choked laugh. "Um, I really hate to ask this, but do you have someplace I could . . . lie down for a minute?"
"Oh—ah, sure, yes, of course—" Catherine smoothly replied. She watched the husband rub his wife's back and murmur gently to her; to give them a moment of privacy Catherine looked away, smiling to herself.
Once the woman was on her feet she chuckled a little. "It's nothing serious, honestly, but a few minutes on my back and the baby will tire itself out. I hope."
"How are we doing here?" came Senator Braun's concerned question. He looked at his daughter and then at the pregnant woman, who blushed. Catherine managed a tight smile for her father.
"She just needs a few minutes to lie down, Sam—she's going to be fine."
"Well that's good. You know, if you have the baby here, I get to be the first to contribute to the college fund," he joked lightly. Everyone managed a smile at that, and Senator Braun slipped a supportive arm around the young mother-to-be. "Right this way, we'll get you situated comfortably. Mugs, I think Congressman Ibarra's glass is empty," he added. Catherine nodded, and reluctantly moved back to the other guests after giving the nervous father-to-be a pat on the arm.
"The first one's always the most nerve-wracking. You guys will be fine," she assured him. He blinked at her through his glasses, and in his gaze Catherine saw a quiet core of something more than just the surface of blue.
"Thank you," he told her gently, and moved to follow the Senator and his wife.
Grissom sat on the edge of the bed, looking carefully at Miss Chocolate and waiting. They both heard the receding footsteps, muffled slightly by the carpet out in the hall. A minute later, he stood up, locked the door, and reached into his coat pocket to pull out a pair of latex gloves.
Miss Chocolate grinned broadly. "You're prepared for a home delivery."
"To work," he chided, but with a twinkle in his gaze. Carefully Grissom stepped to the wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, slipping his index finger into the ring of the fuse box panel and tugging it open. He pulled the false back of the box open as well and looked at the safe face carefully.
Miss Chocolate rose off the bed and turned her back to him as she lifted her beaded blouse and undid the belt for her padded belly. Working quickly she unzipped the back and pulled out the Bell and Howell Zoomatic camera, being careful to handle it by the grip. She walked around the bed and towards Grissom, watching him intently.
He tapped in the first set of numbers—9, 3, 5.
The light above the keypad flashed green.
"Happy birthday, Senator." With a smirk of satisfaction, Grissom gripped the handle and turned it, pulling the little door open and looking inside. There, on top of a stack of folders and amid a few jewelry boxes and bundles of photos sat another Bell and Howell Zoomatic movie camera. Grissom reached in and took it out, handing it to Miss Chocolate while taking the other one from her.
Smoothly he set the new camera into the safe, and paused; over his shoulder he murmured, "Go tuck our prize in—I want to look at something here."
"Okay—" she replied, already turning away. Grissom took a step closer to the safe and reached out a finger to flip through the first stack of photos, feeling a surge of adrenaline rise through him when he recognized what he was looking at. Swiftly he shifted to a second stack, and pulled the files out enough to read the labels on them. A sudden sound brought him back; swiftly Grissom pushed everything further into the safe and closed the door. He carefully re-latched the false back to the fuse box, closed the fuse box door as well, then looked over at Miss Chocolate.
She was trying to hook up the belt of her false belly and having trouble, so he came around and worked the Velcro strap for her just as they both heard footsteps coming back down the hall. Miss Chocolate tugged her beaded top down, smoothing it frantically as Grissom moved to the door and lightly, swiftly unlocked it.
"I brought you some water—" came the voice of their hostess. Grissom smiled at Miss Chocolate, but she was looking panicked as he began to turn the doorknob.
"Gloves!" she whispered frantically. He glanced down at his latex-covered hands, but the door was already opening.