frightened enough to be truthful.
Senator Farris was at a fundraiser in Dover, Delaware, a black-tie event to help fill the campaign coffers. Having the elder Farris two hours away worked to Cady’s advantage. His instinct told him that Patrick Farris would never stray off the established template if his senator-father was in the room running interference. With that in mind, Cady called the congressman on the drive over to his house, apologized for the lateness of the hour, and downplayed how he had some questions about other students the Zalentines had known back in their Princeton days. Cady also lied about how it would only take a minute or two of the congressman’s valuable time.
Surprisingly, Patrick Farris had been pleasantly agreeable.
Cady walked over to the driver’s side of the squad car and ID’d himself.
“We’ve been instructed to swing by every hour,” the officer behind the wheel said. “Do you know what this is all about?”
Cady shrugged. “Preventative measures.”
“I hear the Service carts him to and from Rayburn,” the officer in the passenger seat said. “It’s the Chessman, isn’t it?”
Cady cursed silently. Too many cooks involved in an ever-widening investigation made it all but impossible to keep the lid on anything. “The congressman knew both Sanfield and the Zalentines. Keep that to yourself, though. Like I said, preventative measures.”
“He expecting you this late?”
Cady looked at his wristwatch. Almost eleven.
“Yes.”
Chapter 11
P atrick Farris answered the door to his three-story row house, a brownstone in Woodley Park—a couple of rock-throws off Connecticut Avenue. Farris looked drained.
“Agent Cady,” the house rep said, standing aside to let the federal agent come in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“I apologize, Congressman, for keeping you and Mrs. Farris up so late.”
“No worries. My wife is in Florida and I’m a night owl.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Long day.” Farris led Cady up a short set of stairs to a living room the size of a basketball court with a cappuccino leather sectional curving across the hardwood floor at mid-arena. Two matching ottomans sat atop a sheep pile throw rug in front of the elongated sofa. A couple of Italian leather armchairs sat on opposite ends of the sectional, tilting inward. Seating accommodations had been arranged to allow guests a perfect viewing of something that immediately captured Cady’s eye as he ascended the final steps. The Farrises had an aquarium the size one normally finds in a doctor’s waiting room. If the three-story had a room for entertaining, this was certainly it.
“Alternative fuels are indeed the wave of the future,” Farris continued, “but you can only read so many House bills on biofuel, wind power, and electric cars before all life is sucked from your marrow and you crave to toss yourself into the Potomac.”
“So you’re on that House Select Committee?”
“Idiot me thought I’d hit a grand slam when I first got assigned to it.”
Cady walked along the front of the tank, looking at Farris’s assortment of exotic fish. The aquarium sat on an oak base and had to be six feet long by four high. Various decorations lay on the light blue gravel at the bottom of the tank: a sunken pirate ship snapped in two, a half-buried treasure chest, and a yellow submarine with pictures of the Fab Four staring back at Cady from each of the submarine’s four portholes. A couple starfish sat motionless, a variety of multicolored aquatic plants stretched upward, and rocks, coral, shale step ledges, and driftwood were also strewn about the colored gravel.
“Fortunately, we’ve got a service that checks the filter system and temperature,” Farris said. “The fish were my wife’s idea. The Fab Four and the topless mermaid on the swing set were my two cents.”
“I bet.” Cady peeked at the mermaid, and then began checking out the fish. “What’s this one with the red
Senator Farris was at a fundraiser in Dover, Delaware, a black-tie event to help fill the campaign coffers. Having the elder Farris two hours away worked to Cady’s advantage. His instinct told him that Patrick Farris would never stray off the established template if his senator-father was in the room running interference. With that in mind, Cady called the congressman on the drive over to his house, apologized for the lateness of the hour, and downplayed how he had some questions about other students the Zalentines had known back in their Princeton days. Cady also lied about how it would only take a minute or two of the congressman’s valuable time.
Surprisingly, Patrick Farris had been pleasantly agreeable.
Cady walked over to the driver’s side of the squad car and ID’d himself.
“We’ve been instructed to swing by every hour,” the officer behind the wheel said. “Do you know what this is all about?”
Cady shrugged. “Preventative measures.”
“I hear the Service carts him to and from Rayburn,” the officer in the passenger seat said. “It’s the Chessman, isn’t it?”
Cady cursed silently. Too many cooks involved in an ever-widening investigation made it all but impossible to keep the lid on anything. “The congressman knew both Sanfield and the Zalentines. Keep that to yourself, though. Like I said, preventative measures.”
“He expecting you this late?”
Cady looked at his wristwatch. Almost eleven.
“Yes.”
Chapter 11
P atrick Farris answered the door to his three-story row house, a brownstone in Woodley Park—a couple of rock-throws off Connecticut Avenue. Farris looked drained.
“Agent Cady,” the house rep said, standing aside to let the federal agent come in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“I apologize, Congressman, for keeping you and Mrs. Farris up so late.”
“No worries. My wife is in Florida and I’m a night owl.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Long day.” Farris led Cady up a short set of stairs to a living room the size of a basketball court with a cappuccino leather sectional curving across the hardwood floor at mid-arena. Two matching ottomans sat atop a sheep pile throw rug in front of the elongated sofa. A couple of Italian leather armchairs sat on opposite ends of the sectional, tilting inward. Seating accommodations had been arranged to allow guests a perfect viewing of something that immediately captured Cady’s eye as he ascended the final steps. The Farrises had an aquarium the size one normally finds in a doctor’s waiting room. If the three-story had a room for entertaining, this was certainly it.
“Alternative fuels are indeed the wave of the future,” Farris continued, “but you can only read so many House bills on biofuel, wind power, and electric cars before all life is sucked from your marrow and you crave to toss yourself into the Potomac.”
“So you’re on that House Select Committee?”
“Idiot me thought I’d hit a grand slam when I first got assigned to it.”
Cady walked along the front of the tank, looking at Farris’s assortment of exotic fish. The aquarium sat on an oak base and had to be six feet long by four high. Various decorations lay on the light blue gravel at the bottom of the tank: a sunken pirate ship snapped in two, a half-buried treasure chest, and a yellow submarine with pictures of the Fab Four staring back at Cady from each of the submarine’s four portholes. A couple starfish sat motionless, a variety of multicolored aquatic plants stretched upward, and rocks, coral, shale step ledges, and driftwood were also strewn about the colored gravel.
“Fortunately, we’ve got a service that checks the filter system and temperature,” Farris said. “The fish were my wife’s idea. The Fab Four and the topless mermaid on the swing set were my two cents.”
“I bet.” Cady peeked at the mermaid, and then began checking out the fish. “What’s this one with the red
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