Whiplash

47

FIFTH FLOOR, HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Friday afternoon

Agent Ruth Warnecki steered Aiden and Benson Hoffman into the CAU. The large room was crowded with agents and staff, all talking on cell phones and landlines, while computer keyboards clicked away above the hum of hard drives. One agent was whistling. The noise was a din, hard to hear over.

Ruth smiled at the two men. "It's a bit hectic. What with the vice president's accident, we're all very busy."

Aiden Hoffman, Senator Hoffman's eldest son, stared around him. "Can you tell us why Agent Savich wanted to see us, Agent Warnecki?"

Ruth smiled. "As to that, I'll leave it to Agent Savich. Now, come with me, gentlemen." She led them down the hall to an interior conference room, opened the door, bowed them in, and closed the door behind her. Savich was standing beside the table, speaking on his cell phone. He studied Aiden and Benson as he rang off.

He motioned them to be seated at the table, then sat across from them. It was stone silent in this narrow, windowless interview room, locked down tight with the door closed, like a prison cell after the loud, busy unit Ruth had brought them through.

"Do we need a lawyer?" Aiden asked, his voice tense.

"A lawyer?" Unlike Aiden's, Savich's voice was calm and smooth. "I certainly hope not. I wished to meet with you both privately, and this seemed the best place. Thank you for coming on such short notice." Both men were buff and tanned, and reeked of good breeding, like their father. Unfortunately, neither son's eyes had their father's humorous twinkle or sharp intelligence. Despite their laid-back designer clothes, they looked scared. Good, Savich thought.

Aiden, the older at thirty-eight, was sitting forward, his hands clasped. He looked both sincere and apprehensive. "We wondered why you asked us here, Agent Savich. I mean of course we're concerned about Vice President Valenti, Ben and I have known him all our lives. But asking us here-what do we have to do with what happened? I mean, sure he was driving our father's car, but-"

Benson cut in on a nervous laugh. "It wasn't just a freaking car, it was a Brabus." Benson, thirty-six, wasn't as impressive a figure as his brother, either in height or looks. Clearly, he didn't have his brother's control either. Savich knew Benson was more in-your-face, less concerned with what others thought of him. Savich felt a barely banked temper roiling behind his eyes, ready to bubble over with the right provocation. At least he hoped so.

"Maybe you don't know what that is, Agent Savich." Benson tried and failed to keep his voice light. A note of contempt bled through.

"Why don't you tell me?" Savich said easily, amused by the barely veiled smirk on Benson's face.

"Ben," Aiden said quickly, "Agent Savich drives a Porsche Carrera. Our dad really enjoys driving Porsches, always had a new Porsche in the garage when we were growing up. He told us your last one got blown up."

Savich only nodded, watching Benson Hoffman's eyes go hot. Because Savich had made him look like a fool?

Aiden said, "When you called, I thought at first you wanted to ask us what we knew about Dana Frobisher, the woman who died at the restaurant. Then when you mentioned the vice president, we thought you must be trying to get some background, since Dad doesn't seem to want to talk to anyone except for calls from the hospital. He's taking this very hard. Our mom died three years ago, and now his longtime friend may die too, and he was driving Dad's car. I think Dad feels responsible."

Benson snorted. "He's mourning the car as much as Valenti. I hope he had it insured."

Aiden looked pained. He ignored his brother. "Look, Agent Savich, what can we tell you?"

"Why don't you tell me first about Dana Frobisher. Did you know her?"

Aiden shrugged. "We met her a few times at the house. Our mother worked with her on a charity board, and Mom talked about her quite a bit."

"Only at first," Benson said. "Then Mom didn't mention her again. I don't know what happened. We haven't seen her for what, Aiden, five years?"

Aiden nodded. "Something like that."

Savich said, "You said you've both known the vice president all your lives."

"That's right," Aiden said. "Valenti and our mother were very close once upon a time, high school sweethearts, the way she told it. When we were little, she'd tell us stories about adventures they'd had growing up, places they'd gone, then she'd look embarrassed and shut up. Later I heard her say that when Alex Valenti went off to Harvard and she went to Stanford, they didn't see each other much anymore, and that's when she met Dad."

Benson sat back in the uncomfortable chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and snorted. "I don't know why they let Mom into Stanford-on an academic scholarship-I mean, she never did anything with her degree, never made any money on her own. She did love her charities, though, joined every one she could find. Anyway, it's ancient history."

Aiden said, his eyes serious on Savich's face, "Alex Valenti and my mother kept up with each other, stayed friends, and after Ben and I were born, our families sort of merged."

"Yeah," Benson said, "the Valenti kids-always around, always welcomed by Mom whether we wanted them there or not."

Savich said easily, "I guess both of you know the Richards family as well?"

Benson said, "Oh yeah, we've all met. Even though Bowie's family's got tons of money, Bowie couldn't cut it, he ended up going to some police academy."

Aiden said, "Bowie's an FBI agent, Ben. He got promoted to Agent in Charge in the New Haven Field Office last year."

Benson shrugged again, a particularly irritating habit. "Yeah? Like you, Agent Savich? Well, I just know he's a putz. Maybe he didn't deserve what happened, but poor old Bowie ended up really getting the shaft, didn't he?"

"How's that?" Savich said.

Benson spit it right out with a smile. "Everybody put out his wife was killed in a plain old auto accident, and wasn't it tragic, but that wasn't what happened at all."

Savich realized he didn't want to know. This was private and had nothing to do with this case. He said, "Why don't we leave that for another time. What can you tell me about your father's best friend, Gabe Hilliard?"

"Another uncle forced down our throats," Benson said.

"He gave you a train set when you were eleven," Aiden said.

"Yeah, but after that, all he did was preach to us about the value of education. He was a pain in the butt, and now his son, Derek, is going to marry Dad's aide, Corliss. Isn't that a kick? I always thought Corliss wanted Uncle Gabe, not his dorky son."

Aiden said, "That's true. She's young enough to be his daughter, but when we've seen them together, there's this sort of embarrassment, you know? And they look at each other when they think no one else will notice. Old Uncle Gabe, I wonder what he thinks about Derek getting her rather than him."

Now this was interesting, Savich thought. "What about your relationship with your dad?"

"Our dad?" Benson said, a trimmed eyebrow shooting up at least a supercilious inch. "What do you want to know about that?"

"I understand your dad spoke to you about his odd midnight visitations," Savich said.

Benson snorted again, more contempt oozing out. "Oh, that. The visitations? Come on, I mean, get a grip here, Dad. Aiden and I could never figure out that little scam. He hasn't sung that song for a while now, I guess he's had his fun with us."

Aiden said, "He only talked about it to us one time. I don't know what he saw, but it must have been something that scared him good because he even suspected that we were the ones behind it. It isn't true, of course. To be honest, we nodded and looked interested because we didn't know what else to do. We even stayed there one night to check it out, but of course there wasn't anything."

"It's funny, really," Benson said, and both his eyes and voice were hot now. "So many people admire our dad, claim he's exactly what our country needs. I've heard people call him a genius. A genius?" Ben let out a bitter laugh. "Our dad claims to see an alien outside his bedroom window. Come on. I'll tell you, the only thing he's good at is being a politician. He's like all the rest of them, a self-serving clown. To this day he won't let us have what is rightfully ours, because we weren't good at slaving away at some low-class office jobs he picked for us."

Aiden said quickly, "It was a brokerage firm, actually."

Benson overrode him. "It was all bull, just like the positions we have now. Then my bitch wife divorced me for no good reason-and my father is so mean-spirited he gave her a sizable payment from my trust, and locked down the principal for both of us until we're fifty. Fifty! I can't even afford the maintenance on my seventy-five-foot StarBird any longer. Dad could buy a new StarBird, pay for it out of household cash, but of course he refuses. It isn't fair."

Aiden looked like he wanted to jump in and agree with his brother, but he was smarter than that. Savich said, "Neither of you considered this manifestation could be the work of a stalker of some sort, someone out to hurt him? You didn't consider that your father could be in any danger?" Savich watched the two men, saw them exchange a look. He felt a tug of pity for Senator Hoffman. He found himself wondering what Hoffman's sons were like at Sean's age. Had they already shown signs of becoming the self-absorbed whiners they were today? Or were they innocent and eager and smart, like Sean, then somehow, for whatever reason, they'd changed utterly into what they'd become?

Savich gave them a chance to jump in, but all he got were another couple of shrugs. He said, "All right, then, so you weren't worried that your dad was in any danger. I would like to know what you and Benson think about what happened to Vice President Valenti."

Aiden sat forward. "Ben and I talked about this while we were waiting for you. We've always known Uncle Alex to be a really good driver. Back before he won his first election to the House of Representatives, he and dad were drinking at our house to his last hurrah-and then he flew to France and drove in Le Mans. Dad said Uncle Alex could have tried his hand at racing professionally."

Benson picked it up. "Yeah, he was a great driver once upon a time. But hey, Valenti's getting up there, he must have pushed the Brabus faster around that curve than he could handle. We all saw what that tree did to the car."

"Your father told me on the phone that he doesn't believe it was an accident," Savich said. "He's scared and he's angry. He believes the car was rigged." He stopped, waited.

"What?" Aiden asked blankly. "You're saying someone wanted to murder Vice President Valenti? That doesn't make any sense. Why would you murder the Vice President of the United States? I mean, they don't do anything, for God's sake. Is that really what you think happened?"

Savich rose, splayed his palms on the conference table, looked at each man in turn, both older than he was but not yet grown men. He strongly doubted they ever would be. He said, "The FBI is examining what remains of the car carefully. We hope to know for certain what happened. Until then, I would appreciate your not adding to any speculation.

"The fact is, very few people knew your father was going to lend the Brabus to Alex Valenti, so the vice president is not the likely target.

"So, tell me, who, other than yourselves, do you think might benefit from your father's death?"

Benson Hoffman laughed. "Other than us? Not more than a thousand people, I imagine. As I said, he's a politician."

Aiden didn't disagree, just tried to look pained.