“That’s more detail than I ever need about your digestive tract, Bones, but yeah we’re on the same page.”
Melissa’s voice came over the phone which was still attached to Maddock’s ear. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, honey, I’m still here. One hour, maybe less.”
“Aren’t you eighty miles away?”
“Yep, on a ledge seventy-five feet off the ground. I’m gonna let Bones drive.”
“Bones driving? So either you’ll be here in forty-five minutes or you’ll die in a fiery crash. Lovely.”
“I heard that,” Bones called.
Melissa managed a laugh. “I’m glad you’re bringing him along. My spidey senses are on high alert.”
“That makes three of us. Be there as soon as we can.” He hung up before she could begin their normal sappy goodbye. She’d understand.
Bones raised his eyebrows. “You’re gonna let me drive? I think you have it backward, kemosabe. I’m the one who sometimes lets you drive.”
“So the fact that the rental car company refused to rent to you after what happened last time has no bearing on the topic?”
“None whatsoever. I’m the victim of a smear campaign.”
“Bones, you’re driving. Let’s get an anchor in up here and take the express elevator down.”
Within three minutes, they’d anchored the hundred foot rope on the ledge and slid down it without pause. Maddock hated to lose a good rope, but with Melissa possibly at risk he didn’t give it a second thought. They reached the rented Crown Victoria a minute later, and Bones was pulling out even before Maddock had the door closed.
Once on the highway, Bones pushed the pedal to the floor. “We have reached our cruising speed of one hundred and five miles an hour. You are now free to watch carefully for the fuzz.”
“At this speed, we’ll be by them before we even see them.”
Bones shrugged. “Hey, maybe they won’t see us.”
“Bones, we’re speeding, we’re not invisible.”
“Speak for yourself. My people invented stealth.”
“Right, the proud Cherokee tradition of pushing an eight-cylinder engine to its limits. Look if we see cops, we’re not stopping.”
Bones took his eyes off the road for just a moment to glance at Maddock. “Wow, first that crazy move on the rock and now this. What’s going on?”
“I have no idea, Bones.”
Maddock turned his gaze to the windshield, as if looking toward their destination could make it appear more quickly. Almost to himself, he mumbled a few words.
“Whatever it is, I just hope we’re not too late.”
TWO
Fifty-seven minutes after he hung up the phone, they skidded to a halt in the Mount Vernon parking lot. Maddock leaped out of the car and hit the ground at a near run, stopping only to pay their admission fee before hurrying up the hill toward the main building.
Mount Vernon stood atop a long, gently sloping hill. The sun gleamed on its white boards, red roof, and high cupola. Outbuildings, their walls and roofs matching in color, flanked a drive that ended in a roundabout in front of the main door.
Melissa waited outside the door. She embraced him and buried her head in his shoulder. He could feel the muscles in her shoulders and upper back move as she breathed deeply. He just held on.
The moment passed quickly as she pulled away and looked him in the eyes.
He could stare at that delicate face and green eyes forever, and he never could resist the urge to run his fingers through her fine brown hair. Sometimes he wondered…
“Did you hear what I said?”
He realized Melissa had been speaking and he snapped himself back into focus. He saw no trace of tears or weakness, just focus and a touch of exasperation.
“Sorry, I was busy admiring your lovely face. What did you say?”
“I said you need to come with me right now. The police are still interviewing Sarah in one of the servant’s buildings, and I want to show you something before they decide to seal the place off.”
He and Bones followed her through the main door. They passed beneath the winding staircase that led up to the second floor and stepped out into the central passage, a wood-paneled entryway with two doors on either side, leading to different parts of the house, and a larger door directly ahead which opened onto terrace, the iconic covered porch that looked down onto the Potomac. On the wall to their right hung a glass case which held a large iron key. Nothing seemed unusual about the room except perhaps the presence of half a dozen muddy footprints.
Bones scanned the room. “What’s the problem? You want us to beat up the janitorial squad?”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “Don’t pull that ignorant crap on me, Uriah. I know you better than that. The problem is that someone messed with the Bastille Key.” She pointed to the key in the glass case.
Bones appealed to Maddock. “Dude, she called me Uriah. I’ve killed men for less.”
Maddock ignored him. “What’s this Bastille Key?”
“It’s a key to the famous French prison. It was a gift to George Washington from Marquis de Lafayette back in 1790.”
Maddock walked over to the display. “Looks fine to me.”
She sighed. “The key itself is fine. But see how those footprints are darkest right by the case? When I saw that, I took a closer look. Reach your hand under the case.”
“Won’t that set off the alarm?”
She shook her head. “We turned the alarms off in this building when the police arrived.”
Maddock’s fingers immediately discovered some sort of hinge mechanism not visible from a normal view. He squatted down and examined it. The lock showed clear signs of forced entry and was now held in place with a single nail through the hasps.
“Did they take or damage anything?”
“Not as far as I can tell. But take a look at that bit of green stuff at the bottom of the case.”
This time, Bones also leaned over to get a better view. Maddock pulled his fingers away with a small bit of the substance on his fingers. It felt like…
“Wax.” Bones exclaimed. “So we know they were after the key.”
Maddock frowned. “How do we know that?”
Bones shook his head. “Sheesh, you need to get with the program. The wax means—.”
He stopped and looked at Melissa. “Do you want to tell him or should I?”
Melissa shrugged. “I don’t actually know what the deal is. I just thought it was suspicious.”
“Fair enough,” Bones said. “Lucky for you two I have a checkered past. The wax tells us they’re making a copy of the key.”
Voices sounded at the entryway and two police detectives entered, escorting Sarah Abrams. Bones and Maddock had met the forty-something curator two days earlier when they had arrived from their San Diego training base. Despite weighing less than a hundred pounds at five-four or five-five, she had bubbled with energy, her blond locks dancing as she gave them a rush tour of some Mount Vernon highlights. Now Abrams looked pale, her eyes focused in the distance despite standing and shaking hands with one of two detectives in the room.
The other detective entered. He stood a couple inches taller than Maddock, with light brown skin and short, black hair. He cast a solid figure despite some extra pounds around the middle. His brown eyes scanned the doorway and his hand moved slowly about three inches toward the inside of his jacket. Most people would have failed to notice this, but Maddock knew the man was preparing for the possibility of having to draw a weapon. He made sure his hands were clearly visible and at his sides.
The officer stopped the motion toward his jacket and extended his hand instead.
“Detective Dwayne Ramos. You must be Dane Maddock.” He spoke with a slow, southern drawl, unusual for the DC area.