Whiplash

Sherlock and I know about your wife, Senator, and they are FBI agents I trust to keep things close to the vest. What about the people you've taken into your confidence-Corliss Rydle and your two sons? Are there others you confided in?"
    "I told you about my nonpolitical friend, Gabe Hilliard, who owns several security firms. He knows, but believe me, he has no axe to grind. He doesn't want to kill me, he only wants to beat me at golf. Listen, if I can't trust him, I can't trust anybody." The senator looked down at his watch. "Corliss told me Gabe's coming by anytime now. She told him he might have to run the gauntlet through the media. You can meet him if you like."
    Savich thought that would be a good idea. "Your aide knows Mr. Hilliard personally?"
    "Oh, yes, they're great friends. You know, maybe one of the house staff overheard something, but no one else. All right, I see your point. There are lots of possible leak sites."
    Savich said, "I suspect your aide, Corliss Rydle, could have her fingernails yanked out and still not tell anyone about this. I gather you've told your sons you'd cut them off at the knees if they let this thing out?"
    "Cut them off at the neck, more like it."
    Savich added, "You're sure the investigator has no clue about Nikki?"
    "No, Corliss told him we were worried about a stalker, not a ghost. Listen, Savich, a media leak still concerns me."
    Savich said, "The media is not what I'm worried about. The fact is, everyone who knows, whether innocently or not, has a tie to this. We have to find out if this was personal, or, as you believe, an assassination attempt, before they have a chance to try again. Now I want to hear everything that happened from the moment you stepped into the Foggy Bottom Grill until Dana Frobisher was taken away by the paramedics."

29

    Hoffman jerked his fingers through his hair, and looked both ashamed and embarrassed. "Here I am thinking about myself, and how all this will affect me. That poor woman is dead because I called her to ask her to lunch.
    "All right. When she arrived, we chatted about things in general, you know, nothing important, one doesn't discuss business right away. . . ." He paused a moment. "Then we ordered. I had just begun telling her why I'd asked her to lunch, when she became ill and-died."
    Ruth asked, "Did your office call her office?"
    "Yes, Corliss usually makes my calls."
    "Did Corliss tell her the reason for the lunch invitation?"
    Hoffman frowned down at his clasped hands. "No, I don't think so. Corliss was after me about an upcoming vote, and I needed some more information, and so I don't think we did. She accepted my invitation, and that was that."
    Savich said, "Did your office make the reservations, Senator? And when?"
    "Yes, my staffer, Al Pope, always gives them a heads-up even though I'm there like clockwork every single week, usually with a colleague. It's only polite to let them know how many people will be coming. I believe he made the reservation five, maybe six days ago."
    "Which of you arrived first, Senator?"
    "I did. I always arrange to get there first, say hello to everyone, shake hands with the diners I know. Dana Frobisher arrived some ten minutes later, if I remember correctly. My waiter-the same waiter I've had for years, Mr. Graves-he would know for sure."
    "Did you order something to drink while you waited for her?"
    "Yes, mineral water, lemon slice. Mr. Graves always brings it without my even asking."
    Savich said, "Did you suggest she order the shrimp, Senator?"
    Again, Hoffman paused, looked over at the draperies covering the long windows at the front of the house. "Maybe I did, or maybe Mr. Graves did. Isn't it odd? I don't remember Mr. Graves's first name, never used it. In any case, Mr. Graves might have mentioned to her that it was excellent, that it was the dish I always ordered, or I might have. She told me this was her first visit to the Foggy Bottom Grill.
    "As I said, I always order the fried shrimp. It's my one dietary sin for the week. Everyone who works there knows that, it's sort of a joke, you know, they batter up the shrimp extra thick for me, fry it in a skillet with two inches of hot oil. But I wanted something light, as my weight was up this morning, so Mr. Graves suggested I order the small Cobb salad. Can you believe that? I overindulge at dinner last night and that saves my life? Something so insignificant, so arbitrary. It's hard to deal with this, Agent Savich."
    Ruth asked, "You're