I read a lot of writers and editors blogs. I belong to several writers groups online. I subscribe to writers magazines. I've been published in an anthology. My first devotional book was released in March. All that would seem to hint that I'm an author wouldn't it? Well, I haven't felt like one lately. I suffer with several chronic conditions, one of which is fibromyalgia. It's the one I despise the most. It takes the most from me. But, it helped me gain some recently.
Since we moved to North Carolina, for the most part, it's remained in remission. However, for the past two months, it's been raging on and off. Actually, more on than off. So my writing went into deep deep hiding. Did I mention deep? Actually a lot of things "went into hiding" but it was my lack of writing that really affected me.
I've read in so many places that "true" writers write because they have to, are compelled to. The only thing I felt compelled to do was nothing, absolutely nothing. I had no desire to write. That scared me. Was I a fraud? Was I not a true writer? Say it isn't so!
Okay, it isn't so. One day last week I took my personal laptop to work. During lunch I sat outside under a shade tree and opened up Word, hoping for something, anything. Tada! The words just flowed. I can't say I've written every day since then, but I've written more in the last week than in the past two months.
Honestly, after using all my energy to make it to work and back home, there's no way I could put together truly cohesive thoughts. I guess I could have tried, but honestly, it wasn't worth it to me. Am I still worried that I might not be a "real" writer? Nope. My perspective has changed. When I'm in a fibro flare, if I can write, great. If I can't, that's fine too. I will not feel guilty because neither of those scenarios changes reality. The reality is that I am a writer. Period.
I felt truly energized when I wrote that one day at lunch. Every time I've written since then, I've felt energized. There are no forced words. They just leap on the page. I think that says it all for me. I've had my health imposed break. That's over. Now back to what I've been doing all my life, writing. That makes me happy.
Be blessed everyone!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
My Guest Today - Fellow VBT Author Marvin D. Wilson
My guest post today is from Marvin D. Wilson. He calls himself "The Old Silly". Don't be fooled. Marvin has a lot he can teach young writers (and older ones like myself.). Marvin has three books to his credit and is also an editor. I'd call him "The Wise One". So let's get to know "The Old Silly" a little better. And please, utilize the links at the end of his post to purchase his books and visit his blog. Enjoy!!
Mari, thank you
so much for having me on your blog today. It’s a pleasure to share with your
readers. Today I thought it would be interesting for your readership to get a
glimpse, a sneak preview of my new novel, Beware the Devil’s Hug, slated to be
released later this summer or early Fall. So here is the Prologue in Parts One
and Two. Enjoy, all, please leave any comments/feedback, and I will stop in
occasionally to answer any questions and interact with y’all.
Mari, thank you
so much for having me on your blog today. It’s a pleasure to share with your
readers. Today I thought it would be interesting for your readership to get a
glimpse, a sneak preview of my new novel, Beware the Devil’s Hug, slated to be
released later this summer or early Fall. So here is the Prologue in Parts One
and Two. Enjoy, all, please leave any comments/feedback, and I will stop in
occasionally to answer any questions and interact with y’all.
Oh – before
getting into the Prologue, here is the short adblurb for the book, giving you
some idea what it is all about...
What if a homeless, smelly,
ugly, unkempt old man had a hug so powerful it could cure cancer? Cause a
prostitute to stop hooking and seek true love? Shake the demons of addiction
free from a junkie? Make a radical terrorist Muslim want to befriend and love a
Christian and visa versa? But rare is the beneficiary of his divine embrace –
nobody wants to come near him out of fear.
Ok ... now on
with the short preview-
~~~~~
Prologue – Part One
In a dim, small room with no walls was a lit candle, its tiny flame
flickering. On a sturdy wooden table it sat, perched in its pewter holder like
a glimmering, waxed, miniature monolithic Cyclops. One sat on one side of the
table, Eye sat on the other. Shadows were cast in all directions, but appeared nowhere
around this boundless microcosm.
One said, “You sure you want to do this?”
One knows everything, right? So Eye said, “No doubt.”
One said, “Incarnation hurts. There is carnal pleasure, yes, but
there will be pain. The whole trip, and especially the exodus, most cases.”
Eye knew that. “Tell me some thing Eye does not know.”
One said, “There is no thing you do not know.”
“Then why does Eye not see all of It?”
“Because your focus has been upon your self.”
“Get out of here.”
“No, you get out of here … if that’s what you desire. Have your self
a good look around.”
One laughed and disappeared.
Eye went to Terra.
~~~~~
Prologue
- Part Two
Ali raised his rifle to shoot. As he was about to pull the trigger,
he heard a voice from behind.
“Wait—take me.”
Ali whirled round and saw The Old Man, sitting cross-legged on the
floor, his hands clasped together in a prayerful pose of petition. He glared at
The Old Man and said, “What is this? Who are you and how did you get in here?”
The Old Man wagged his hand in the air. “That is of no significance.
I am here to ask to take this man’s place. Please—kill me instead.”
Ali regarded The Old Man for a moment. He lowered his rifle. “And
why … why should I do this?”
The Old Man shrugged, raised an open palm and nodded toward the
rifleman’s captive Christian. “He is a young man, his entire life ahead of him,
and has done nothing to deserve such a fate. I am old, and have lived my long
life to the fullest. In the Qur’an it says to kill an innocent being is to kill
the entire human race. He is innocent, a good man. I, my friend, have made many
mistakes, committed many sins in my life. It would be best, for all concerned,
if you were to shoot me for your cause rather than him.”
Ali looked deep into The Old Man’s eyes, clucked his tongue and gave
a slow nod. “Very well. You are a brave man. If you wish, I will honor you with
a final request before I take your life. Do you have one?”
The Old Man paused, then smiled. “Yes. Just one.”
“And that is?”
“I can ask anything of you?”
Ali looked down and checked his rifle absently, fiddled with the
chamber. “Anything within reason, old man, other than sparing both yours and this other man’s life.” He looked
back up at The Old Man. “So—out with it. What is your last wish?”
The Old Man stood and held his arms out wide. “Let me hug you.”
Marvin D Wilson is the author of three previous books, I Romanced the stone (Memoirs of a Recovering Hippie), Owen Fiddler, and Between the Storm and the Rainbow.
Marvin, known in the world of Bloggydom as “The Old Silly, has a popular blog, The Old Silly’s Free Spirit Blog, at http://theoldsilly.com.
Marvin is an editor with All Things That Matter Press and also does freelance editing.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Almighty Amazon versus Almighty God
My publisher no longer lists our books on Amazon. Since the company has taken the direction as a direct sales company whose primary product is books, it makes business sense to allow the Diva Sales Representatives the opportunity to sell the books. As such, Amazon is out as a sales outlet. There may be other reasons for the decision, but that's the most important one.
When I first heard this news, I was a bit disheartened. Amazon is HUGE! Everyone lists their books on Amazon. Everyone buys their books from Amazon. In fact, I told someone I know about it and they had quite a response. They told me that I was never going to sell any of my books if they weren't listed on Amazon. Wow! That didn't make me feel good a week before my book launch party. I told one of my best friends and she, as usual, gave words of wisdom. What did she say?
"Mari, you should have told him that his God is pretty small. Your God is bigger than Amazon. "
Well amen! My God is certainly not small. And He is certainly bigger than Amazon. How do I know this?
Only God could have connected me, months earlier, to the two people who hosted me on their blogs. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have connected me to the woman who started a business support group for Christian women. Even though it's based in Chicago, she expanded the group's support and services to women outside of her area. I was fortunate enough to be selected to join. She has provided such encouragement and insight. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have placed it on this same woman's heart to interview me for her new Internet radio show. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have also placed another woman in Raleigh that was joined this same group. She had a product launch in Chicago. because we were connected through this group, I was able to participate in her swag bag and connect with 80 potential readers. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have connected my brother to a woman who is involved in a ministry that was holding an event during the time my book was launching. Only He could have orchestrated an opportunity for me to be a sponsor of the event. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have orchestrated circumstances such that I would call into an Internet radio show as a listener and wind up being able to talk about my book and my publisher for 20 minutes. 20 minutes. Think Amazon had the power to do that? Nope.
Time and time again I have seen God market this book in ways that neither Amazon nor I could ever put together.
You can have almighty Amazon. I'll take Almighty God every day!
When I first heard this news, I was a bit disheartened. Amazon is HUGE! Everyone lists their books on Amazon. Everyone buys their books from Amazon. In fact, I told someone I know about it and they had quite a response. They told me that I was never going to sell any of my books if they weren't listed on Amazon. Wow! That didn't make me feel good a week before my book launch party. I told one of my best friends and she, as usual, gave words of wisdom. What did she say?
"Mari, you should have told him that his God is pretty small. Your God is bigger than Amazon. "
Well amen! My God is certainly not small. And He is certainly bigger than Amazon. How do I know this?
Only God could have connected me, months earlier, to the two people who hosted me on their blogs. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have connected me to the woman who started a business support group for Christian women. Even though it's based in Chicago, she expanded the group's support and services to women outside of her area. I was fortunate enough to be selected to join. She has provided such encouragement and insight. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have placed it on this same woman's heart to interview me for her new Internet radio show. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have also placed another woman in Raleigh that was joined this same group. She had a product launch in Chicago. because we were connected through this group, I was able to participate in her swag bag and connect with 80 potential readers. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have connected my brother to a woman who is involved in a ministry that was holding an event during the time my book was launching. Only He could have orchestrated an opportunity for me to be a sponsor of the event. Amazon had no power to do that.
Only God could have orchestrated circumstances such that I would call into an Internet radio show as a listener and wind up being able to talk about my book and my publisher for 20 minutes. 20 minutes. Think Amazon had the power to do that? Nope.
Time and time again I have seen God market this book in ways that neither Amazon nor I could ever put together.
You can have almighty Amazon. I'll take Almighty God every day!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Welcome Stephen Tremp
Please welcome today, my guest blogger, author Stephen Tremp. Stephen is the author of Breakthrough, an action suspense novel that "weaves together breakthroughs in physics and technology with greed, murder, and mayhem". (Sounds like my kind of book!) It is the first book of a trilogy. Please enjoy his post today as he writes about good blog posts. Be sure to stop by Stephen's blog to find out more this banking and finance guy turned author.
What makes a good blog post?
Content: Blogdom is a world of “What Can You Do for Me.” And rightfully so. People have busy schedules. They have jobs. They have families. They have limited time to visit and read blogs. You have to write about something interesting or offer useful and practical tips that help people. Incorporate a focused obsession and where it’s taking you. This is what brings visitors back again and again.
If you have a blog that states common knowledge, or is long, visitors will likely move on to another blog. I try to cap my blogs at six or seven paragraphs. Be concise. I suggest breaking a lengthy blog into two or three blogs. I do this all the time. And don’t forget to upload a picture of your smiling face. People want to see and get to know the person behind the message.
Most bloggers focus on one subject matter only, like children’s books, poetry, or a daily devotional. Others, like myself, blog on multiple loosely connected subjects. I blog on the following topics:
* My experiences writing books and the pros and cons of self publishing
* Promotion and marketing.
* Basic concepts of science and technology and breakthroughs mankind may be on the cusp of discovering (this goes along with the themes of my books).
* I interview bloggers and writers, especially children’s authors. I think it’s important to support those striving to educate our youth with quality stories and poems. I’m happy to help by giving these writers exposure to an audience they may not normally reach.
Format: You want a format that is pleasing to the eyes. Bloggers can be a fickle bunch and may not return if they do not like your format. Here are two examples (IMHO) of competing sites: iUniverse and Dog Ear Publishing. One site looks professional and one looks, well, not so much. I will not use actual blog sites as I do not want to offend anyone.
First, both sites have white backgrounds. Personally, I like that. A funky green or hot pink might cause me to leave and not return. However, it’s common to see blogs with a color scheme that reflects their theme, such as earth tones for an agricultural theme, or black for dark mysteries, or red for murder mysteries.
Notice the tabs on both sites. It’s clear what iUniverse has to offer. I can easily navigate the site and understand what they can do for me. How much their services cost. And a toll free number I can call and speak with an actual person. However, Dog Ear has too many contrasting colors and font sizes (for me). It’s difficult to read and I spent a lot of time searching for the same information I found in moments at iUniverse.
You probably don’t want to have a cluttered look, or upload lots of videos, music, and a collection of large photographs and other graphics. These can cause your site to open very slowly. Clutter is an art some bloggers can get away with. In fact, clutter enhances their page. But for most of us clutter can detour visitors from returning.
How can a blog build a community of followers?
You have to visit other blogs, become followers, and leave comments. I use Twitter. Visitors can retweet my blog on their Twitter accounts. I also use a Facebook Fan Club called FANS OF THE BREAKTHROUGH TRILOGY. Yahoo! Groups are a great way to meet other authors. I do interviews, profiles, and book reviews. It’s a win-win situation as the spotlighted author will promote the interview/review to their friends and followers who will visit my blog. Both guest and host can literally reach hundreds of new people this way.
I have quite a diverse visitor base from all walks of life. I believe this is one of the strengths of my blog. I present an open-end topic, then encourage healthy conversation by posting question at the end of each blog.
Conclusion
If I can motivate and help people to publish their story or poetry, I feel I’ve accomplished something meaningful. And I’m always willing to listen to feedback and make corrections and changes to the material on my blog. I accept constructive criticism and encourage visitors to leave a comment.
About Stephen Tremp
I’m re-releasing a re-edited version of Breakthrough in late June. It will be available in hard cover, softbound, and ebook. Please stop by and visit my Breakthrough Blogs. My latest blog is Placing Your Book in Brick-and-Mortar Stores.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Blog Jog Day
Thank you for stopping by my Blog today! Please explore all this Blog has to offer, then jog on over to: http://www.claudiadelbalso.blogspot.com.
If you would like to visit a different Blog in the jog, go to http://blogjogday.blogspot.com. Enjoy!
If you would like to visit a different Blog in the jog, go to http://blogjogday.blogspot.com. Enjoy!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Meet Kari Wolfe
Today I'd like to introduce you to fellow author, Kari Wolfe. Kari, like myself, is a busy women with a passion for the written word. So without further adieu, let's find out more about Kari :)
Kari
Wolfe is a writer and a blogger at Imperfect Clarity
(http://www.imperfectclarity.net) in whatever time is left over from being a
stay-at-home-mom to a very precocious and energetic three-year old. She blogs on a number of topics including
writing, book reviews, interviews, and setting and meeting goals.
Currently,
she is on a mission: to combine fiction writing articles with and articles on
how she’s trying to live her life to the fullest and she’s going to bring you
on that journey with her through her blog.
-00-
Kari, can you tell the readers who you are?
I am an
amateur, a wannabe, a talker. I can talk
it up and shoot the sh!t with the best of them, but when it’s all said and
done, I am a fake.
But at
least I’ll admit it. A lot of people
won’t admit it for many reasons: they're afraid of what people will think,
afraid of what people will say, afraid of what they will do. They're afraid of what they themselves have
to do to be what they’ve said they want to be.
They’ve
spent so much time building their house of cards--now they spend it being
afraid of what’s going to happen when the cards fall.
Admitting
I have this problem has been such a relief to me. I don’t have to hide behind what I’ve told
people I am. I can admit--to you as well
as myself--I have areas of my life I need to focus on and to work on. This leaves me free to write whatever I want
to write, whether it’s for publication or myself.
I’m going
on the journey of my life--to be the best “me” I can be.
Why
should I care?
My own
goal is to be the best that I can be. My
own desire with Imperfect Clarity is that like-minded people would join me on
my journey--people who want to grow, change and achieve things they’ve wanted
to do for a long time.
It’s all
about your mindset. Currently, I have an
amateur mindset. Through my blog, my
books and my writing practice, I am going to change that.
My goal
is to become more professional in my daily work and personal life. I’ll tell you what I’m doing and working on;
you can tell me what you're doing and working on--it’ll be a blast. A conversation.
What
do readers and I get out of this?
If you're
a beginning or an “intermediate” writer, you’ll get love and support from
someone in your same basic boat. You and
I can work together to nourish ourselves.
As a
published or an established writer, you can come cheer us on and share your own
knowledge of how this all works.
I hope ulitimately
I provide you with inspiration to go out and to do your own thing, be it
writing, dancing, running marathons, computer programming, teaching, or simply
sitting back, enjoying what you have and working toward what you want out of
your life.
I hope
you’ll join me on my journey.
What
are your current projects?
Currently
I am working on an ebook titled “The Art of Procrastination: A Writer’s Guide,”
a weeklong course for the 2010 Muse Online Conference called “Write Like the
Masters,” and a novel tentatively titled, “The House.”
“The Art
of Procrastination: A Writer’s Guide” and “Write Like the Masters” will be
offered for free on my website once they are finished. I’m hoping “The Art of Procrastination” will
be finished in early June and, of course, “Write Like the Masters” will not be
available until after the 2010 Muse Conference.
You can read more about the class at
http://www.imperfectclarity.net/?page_id=743 and sign up for the conference at
http://www.Themuseonlinewritersconference.Com/
I’m also
excited to be guest posting for another blog twice a month. Not gonna say which blog, only that it’s one
I’ve been watching for a while. I’m
rather excited about it and if you keep an eye on my website--well, I’ll
definitely have it linked!
You
mentioned a novel?
My novel,
“The House,” is about memories and learning to forgive yourself for things you
have done in the past. I mean, to REALLY
forgive yourself. As time goes on, it’s
easy to leave the past behind you, but we need to learn from our mistakes,
forgive ourselves and then move on with the knowledge that our past has taught
us.
This is
something I am working on in my own life.
My past hasn’t been pretty and it’s HARD to forgive yourself for
mistakes you’ve made that hurt other people.
I’m
getting ready to set and announce deadlines on my blog as to what I’m ready to
dedicate myself to.
Kari would love to have you stop by and see her and her work at the following locations:
Imperfect Clarity: http://www.imperfectclarity.net/ This is my writing/life journey blog. My MAIN blog. -00- A few good articles Kari has written: Interview with Les Edgerton of "Hooked" and "Finding Your Voice" http://www.imperfectclarity.net/?p=717 Are You Indispensible? Interview with Seth Godin http://www.imperfectclarity.net/?p=618 Book reviews and "internships" http://www.imperfectclarity.net/?p=603 Re: Modern Procrastination by Seth Godin http://www.imperfectclarity.net/?p=569 -00- Kari's Facebook account: http://www.facebook.com/kari.wolfe Kari's Twitter account: http://www.twitter.com/kippras
Friday, April 9, 2010
First: Deadly Disclosures
Another good read! Julie Cave does an absolutely amazing job handling the apologetics portions of this book. They manner in which it is presented are non-confrontational both in the context of the story and in general. I feel as if I can give this book to someone who doesn't know Jesus or who's new to the faith and they'd learn a lot. It was presented so well. I actually learned a few things myself.
Dinah was completely believable the way she dealt with her grief. So many people, Christians and non-Christians alike, fall into that trap. It was fascinating watching her bottom and then rise. You could empathize with her one minute and want to shake some sense into her the next. I enjoy those kinds of characters.
Many twists and turns in this story. It had me to the end. Another one you should simply run out and buy.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Julie first heard a creation science speaker at her church when she was just 15, igniting her interest in creation science and sparking an enthusiasm for defending the Bible’s account of creation. She has obtained a degree in health science, and is currently completing a degree in law. Julie is married with one daughter and lives on the east coast of Australia.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0890515840
ISBN-13: 978-0890515846
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Dinah was completely believable the way she dealt with her grief. So many people, Christians and non-Christians alike, fall into that trap. It was fascinating watching her bottom and then rise. You could empathize with her one minute and want to shake some sense into her the next. I enjoy those kinds of characters.
Many twists and turns in this story. It had me to the end. Another one you should simply run out and buy.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)
***Special thanks to Stacey Drake of New Leaf Press for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Julie first heard a creation science speaker at her church when she was just 15, igniting her interest in creation science and sparking an enthusiasm for defending the Bible’s account of creation. She has obtained a degree in health science, and is currently completing a degree in law. Julie is married with one daughter and lives on the east coast of Australia.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 288 pages
Publisher: New Leaf Publishing Group/Master Books (February 15, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0890515840
ISBN-13: 978-0890515846
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Thomas Whitfield climbed out of the Lincoln Towncar and stood in the snappy, early morning fall air, breathing deeply. The temperature had fallen a few more degrees overnight, signaling that winter was truly on its way.
Thomas glanced up and down the wide street. There was nobody around at this early hour, and he took a moment to drink in the sights of his beloved city. The graceful willows, their branches arching over the street, were turning gold and red and, in the gentle yellow morning light, threw off highlights like burnished copper. This street was like many others in the center of DC — wide and tree-lined, with magnificent government buildings standing one after the other. That was another thing that Thomas found so delicious about this city — so much of it hinted at the enormous wealth and prosperity of the country, and yet only a few streets behind these world-famous landmarks, the seedier side of American poverty flourished. It was a city of contradictions, Thomas thought.
His gaze fell finally to the building right in front of him — the main complex of the Smithsonian Institution. Enormous stone pillars flanked the entryway into a marble lobby, and behind that were laid out the evidence of mankind’s brilliance. Everything about the institution was testament to the scientific and anthropological advances of man over the pages of history — the inventions, the discoveries, the deductions, the sheer radiance of a human being’s intelligence at its finest.
Thomas Whitfield had always been immensely proud of this place, and everything it showcased. He had boasted about it, defended it, nourished it, and protected it, the way a proud father would his prodigious child.
He was the secretary of the Smithsonian, after all, and he felt a strange kind of paternal relationship with the buildings and their contents.
He stood for a moment longer, a slender whippet of a man dressed immaculately, with highly polished shoes gleaming, thinning dark hair cut short, and a gray cashmere scarf to ward off the cold. Then he purposefully strode down the path and into the main building, scarf fluttering behind him.
To the malevolent eyes watching him through high-powered binoculars down the street in a non-descript Chevy, he presented a painfully easy target.
Thomas settled in his large office with the door shut, turned on the computer, and shut his eyes briefly as he contemplated what he would do next. The course of events he had planned for this day would change everything, and the impact would be felt right up to the president himself. Courage, Thomas, he told himself silently. What you are about to do is the right thing to do.
He began to type, slowly and decisively, feeling within himself a great sense of conviction and purpose. He was so lost in concentration that he was startled by the door suddenly swinging open.
“What are . . . ?” he exclaimed, almost jumping off his seat. Then he recognized his visitor and he glanced at his watch.
“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?”
“I wanted to be sure I caught you,” his visitor replied, moving closer to the desk. “Without any interruptions.”
“I see. What can I do for you then?” Thomas asked, trying to hide his irritation. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted during this most important task.
“What are you working on?” the unannounced guest asked, ignoring him and moving around the side of the desk and trying to look at Thomas’s computer screen.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Thomas answered with a falsely airy tone. “It’s just a family project. Nothing to do with work. Is there something I can help you with?”
Thomas was suddenly aware that his visitor was standing close by him. He felt uncomfortable, and tried to roll his chair away to maintain some space.
“You see,” his visitor said in a quiet voice, “there are people out there who don’t agree with you. They think the project you are working on could be very dangerous. In fact, I believe they have already tried to warn you about continuing with this project.”
Thomas now felt distinctly uncomfortable and a little afraid. He decided to assert his authority. “Listen here,” he said, in a voice that betrayed his anxiety. “What I am working on is none of your business. The subject is certainly not up for discussion with somebody like you. I suggest you leave my office immediately.”
The visitor managed to fuse sorrow and menace into his words as he said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You will have to come with me.”
Thomas retorted, “I’m not going anywhere with you. In fact, I. . . .” He broke off abruptly as he saw the small handgun in the visitor’s hand, pointing directly at him. There was no sorrow or pity on his face — only menace.
“Do I need to force you to come with me?” the visitor wondered, his tone like flint.
Thomas leapt to his feet, his eyes darting about wildly. He needed to get out of here, to try to get away from this situation that had so rapidly gotten out of hand. A hand shot out and grabbed Thomas by the collar with surprising strength. Thomas was shocked as he strained to get away from the man, who was intently staring at the computer screen.
“You traitor!” Thomas spat. “I should’ve known you were nothing more than a trained monkey!”
The visitor chuckled heartily. “That’s ironic, Thomas.”
The visitor, much younger and stronger than Thomas, began to drag him out of the room. Thomas was determined not to go down without a fight, and drove his heel backward into the visitor’s shin. There was a yelp of pain, but the unrelenting grip did not lessen around Thomas’s arm. Instead, a thick arm curled around Thomas’s throat and squeezed, applying pressure to the carotid artery. It took only a few seconds for Thomas to fall limply into the arms of his abductor as the blood supply to his brain was cut off.
That was the last anyone saw of the secretary of the Smithsonian Institute.
• • • •
Dinah Harris woke with a scream dying in her throat, the sheets twisted hopelessly around her legs. Her nightgown was damp with panicked sweat, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. She stared, blinking, at the pale dawn light streaming through the window, while the shadowy vestiges of her nightmare slithered from her memory.
As she lay in bed, joining the waking world from sleep, the familiar blanket of depression settled over her, dark and heavy as the Atlantic winter. The dread she felt at facing another day was almost palpable in the small bedroom. Dinah glanced across at her alarm clock, where the flashing numbers showed 6 a.m.
She threw aside the sheets and stumbled into the tiny bathroom, where she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She was only in her mid-thirties and had once been relatively attractive. Certainly not beautiful, but with what her first boyfriend had once told her — a pleasant face and athletic body. Now her eyes were always underscored by dark bags, her skin pale and paper-thin, and the weight fell off her in slow degrees without ceasing. She dressed in her trademark dark pants suit, pulled her black hair from her face in a severe ponytail, and washed her face.
She made strong coffee and sat in the kitchen as she drank the bitter liquid. The dining alcove was still stacked with moving cartons, filled with books and music that she couldn’t face opening. The gray light of morning lent no color to the apartment, which suited Dinah just fine. Her world didn’t contain color anymore.
Though traffic often seemed at a standstill in the mornings, Dinah always arrived early to the J. Edgar Hoover building. She turned directly to the teaching wing, avoiding the eye contact and morning greetings of many she knew in the building. She knew what they whispered about during after-work drinks and at the water cooler. Her fall from grace would go down as one of the most spectacular in FBI history.
So she kept up the ice-cool veneer until she arrived at her desk, checking her e-mails and teaching schedule for the week.
She didn’t look up as an imposing shadow fell across her desk.
“Special Agent Harris, how are you?” boomed the voice of her former colleague, David Ferguson. He was a big man, six-four and two hundred pounds, with a loud, booming voice and a penchant for pork rinds. He stood above her, his hand resting easily on the holstered gun at his hip; the twin of a gun Dinah no longer wore but kept underneath her pillow.
“Ferguson,” she replied. “Fine, how are you?”
“Feel like a coffee?” he asked.
“Don’t you have a killer to catch?” Dinah asked, dryly.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can wait. Come on.”
He took her to a tiny Italian café a block away from the FBI headquarters. While they ordered, Dinah wondered at his ulterior motive for bringing her here. It certainly isn’t for my sparkling wit and charm, she thought. Rumor had it that the freshman criminology classes were afraid of her.
“So I’m just wondering if I could get your opinion on something,” Ferguson began, tentatively testing the water.
She scowled at him. “You know I don’t get involved in cases.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, calm down, Harris. I just want your opinion. I know you’ve given up your real talents to teach some snotty freshmen.”
His comment stung her, but she narrowed her eyes at him and pretended she hadn’t even noticed. “So get on with it already.”
“I don’t remember you always being this prickly,” complained Ferguson, draining his macchiato. “Anyway. What would you say if I told you the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution had gone missing?”
“Missing?” Dinah raised her eyebrows and slurped her latte. “In what context?”
“As in, turned up for work at six this morning and disappeared off the face of the earth shortly thereafter.”
“How do you know he turned up for work at six?” Dinah asked.
“Security cameras have him arriving in the lobby and heading for his office. After that, who knows?”
“So he’s an adult, maybe he took a trip to get away from work stress or his wife has been giving him grief or his kid is in trouble.” Dinah frowned. “Why are we even involved at this early stage?”
Ferguson paused. “It’s due mostly to his rather prestigious position. It wouldn’t do for the secretary of the Smithsonian to simply disappear. Congress is rather anxious.”
Dinah knew of political influence that ran high in this city but didn’t press the issue. “Is there evidence of homicide?”
“Not really, although I haven’t been to his office yet.” Ferguson made it sound like a confession, and he looked at her sheepishly.
Dinah stared at him. “What do you really want, Ferguson?”
He gathered up his courage. “I need you to work this case with me, Harris.”
Dinah opened her mouth to respond indignantly, but Ferguson held up his hand and continued with a rush. “You know I’m not good with sensitive cases. I. . . .”
“Or complex ones,” interjected Dinah, bad-temperedly.
“I’m operating on a hunch that this is a bad case, that it involves people in the White House.” Ferguson must have needed her very badly to allow her comment to go unheeded.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have a heavy teaching workload,” she said. “So I’ll have to limit my involvement to opinions only.”
Ferguson didn’t say anything but looked even guiltier.
“What have you done?” Dinah demanded.
“I may have cleared your schedule so you could work with me.” Ferguson examined his fingernails with great concentration.
Dinah waited for a beat. “I see. You’ve spoken to my superiors?”
He nodded. “They’ve agreed to lend you to me for as long as the case takes.”
Dinah stood abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee.” She walked angrily from the café.
Ferguson stared at her as she walked off, then slapped down some crumpled notes and heaved his bulk out of the chair. “Where are you going?” Ferguson asked, struggling to keep up with her.
She wheeled around and glared directly at him. “Who do you think you are? Do you think I’m lesser than you so you can sneak around behind my back?”
“Dinah, we really need you back in the field. You were — are — brilliant.” Ferguson spoke softly, hoping to calm her down.
“My field days are behind me, with very good reason,” snapped Dinah. I can’t see a dead body anymore. I can’t feel desire to catch the person who did it. I just want to lie down beside the body and feel the same endless peace of sleep.
“Please, I’m begging you. I need you back,” Ferguson said. Then it hit her. Dinah realized that this situation was very serious. Ferguson was the last person on the planet to beg anybody.
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said dully. She knew that this case could break her.
Ferguson didn’t reply, and his answer was in his silence.
• • • •
The Smithsonian Institution was bustling with tourists and school kids as if nothing had gone wrong. Dinah and David strode into the main lobby, trying unsuccessfully to look casual. When they flashed their badges discreetly, they were allowed into the inner sanctum, where Thomas Whitfield’s personal assistant was fielding phone calls.
The secretary was young and pretty, with thick, dark hair waving gracefully to her shoulders, startlingly blue eyes, and a creamy olive complexion. Her only downfall was the thick eye makeup, applied to make her eyes stand out but which had the effect of making her look like a scared raccoon. “I’m afraid Mr. Whitfield simply cannot be interrupted at present,” she snapped into the phone. “I’ll have him call you back if you’d leave a message.”
She glanced up and saw the two agents standing at her desk. She gave them a wave to acknowledge their presence, repeated the details of the caller, scribbled furiously, and then hung up.
“Good morning,” she said, jumping to her feet. “If you caught the end of that conversation, you’ll know that Mr. Whitfield is in an extremely important meeting and. . . .”
“Save it,” interrupted Dinah, showing the secretary her badge. The young woman blushed. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Whitfield. What is your name?”
The secretary sat down hard, looking relieved. “I’m Lara Southall. I’m so worried about Mr. Whitfield.”
Ferguson flashed his partner a frown and took charge. “I’m Special Agent David Ferguson and this is Special Agent Dinah Harris. You’ll have to excuse her; she’s been out of the field for some time and has forgotten how to relate to people.”
Dinah opened her mouth to reply with outrage, but Ferguson continued, “Can you tell us about this morning?”
Lara Southall regarded Dinah with a mixture of amusement and fear, which Dinah filed away for future reference. “I got to work at eight o’clock as usual,” she replied. “Mr. Whitfield always arrives before me. I usually turn on my computer, get settled, and then get us both a coffee. When I opened his office door to give him the coffee, the room was empty.” As the girl spoke, she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails together absently. Dinah hated manicured fingernails: they reminded her of her distinctly unattractive, chewed-to-the-quick fingertips.
“Mr. Whitfield was due to give a presentation at eleven o’clock,” Lara continued. “So I didn’t really start worrying until about ten-thirty. He hates to be late, and he had to come back to get his presentation and make it uptown in less than half an hour. At eleven, I started to make some calls.”
“Has he ever been absent from the office before?” Ferguson asked.
“Sure, he often has meetings or goes out into the museum to talk to visitors. The thing is, I always know what he’s doing. That’s part of my job. He never goes anywhere during the day without letting me know.”
“So you started making calls at eleven. Who did you call?” Dinah asked impatiently.
Lara ticked off her fingers as she remembered. “I called his cell phone, and I called the other museums. I thought maybe he’d just forgotten to tell me he had a meeting. Nobody had seen him and his cell just rang out. So I called his home. His wife told me he’d left for work at about five-thirty and she hadn’t seen him since. Then I called some of the senior executives. I thought they might’ve had an emergency. But nobody had seen him.”
“Did the people you called — his wife, the executives — seem concerned about his whereabouts?” Ferguson asked.
“Yes, they did. It’s so unusual for Mr. Whitfield to act this way that everyone I spoke to was concerned. I think his wife is actually here somewhere at the moment.”
“So then you called the police?” Dinah said.
“No, one of the directors came over to look at the security tapes. She specifically told me not to call anyone until she’d viewed the footage. I thought that Mr. Whitfield might’ve had an accident on the way to work. Mrs. Whitfield was calling the hospitals when Ms. Biscelli — the director — came back from security.”
“What did the tapes show?” Dinah asked.
“They showed him arriving at six-thirty or so. That’s all I know.”
“Did any of the tapes show him leaving?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Right. So what then?”
“I called the police.”
Ferguson nodded. “What did they tell you?”
“Basically they won’t do anything until he’s been missing 24 hours.” Lara stopped clicking her nails together and started twisting her hair with one finger. “So I told Ms. Biscelli, and she wasn’t happy with that. I think she must’ve pulled some strings, because here you are.”
Dinah and Ferguson both raised their eyebrows at her in confusion.
“The FBI,” explained Lara. “You guys wouldn’t normally get involved, would you?” She may have been a very pretty secretary, but Lara Southall was an intelligent girl. She’d asked the very question Dinah had been mulling over all morning.
“We’re going to look in his office,” Ferguson said, ignoring the question. He handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”
She nodded and picked up the ringing phone. “No,” she said, sounding very weary. “Mr. Whitfield is in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”
• • • •
Ferguson opened the door to the office while Dinah waited to get the log-on details for Thomas Whitfield’s computer. Dinah stood in the doorway, looking into the impressive room, and felt the thrill of the chase wash over her like a wave. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.
The office was furnished with heavy cedar furniture that consisted of a large desk, a leather-bound chair, a couch, and two armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table and one entire wall of built-in bookcases. The floor was covered with thick burgundy carpet, and the drapes at the picture window were also burgundy. The walls contained portraits of several great scientists and inventors — Dinah recognized Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, and the Wright Brothers — as well as photos of the secretary with the president, the queen of England, and other dignitaries. The room itself was clean and uncluttered, likely symbolic of the man himself, Dinah thought.
Ferguson was moving around the room, muttering to himself, as was his habit. Dinah had forgotten how intensely annoying she found this habit. She preferred silence so that she could concentrate.
Having received the log-on details from Lara, Dinah strode to the desk and pulled on her latex gloves. The top of the desk was shiny and would be a great medium to obtain fingerprints. She was careful not to allow herself to touch the desktop while she turned on the laptop.
“By the way, Harris,” Ferguson said from the wall of bookcases, “I forgot to mention that if something has happened to Mr. Whitfield, the media scrutiny is likely to be intense.”
Dinah scowled at the screen of the laptop. She hated the media, and it was a long-term grudge she held from the last case she’d been involved in. “You can handle it,” she said. “I want nothing to do with those vultures.”
Ferguson glanced over at her. “Of course I’ll handle it. But I can’t guarantee that they’ll leave you alone.”
Dinah tapped her foot against the leg of the desk impatiently as the laptop struggled to come to life. “Sticks and stones, Ferguson,” she said tightly. “Words can never hurt me.”
She could see that Ferguson didn’t buy the lie, but he’d decided to let it go. He at least knew not to push too far.
“This whole office is giving me a weird vibe,” he said after a moment. “It’s too . . . organized.”
Dinah logged onto the laptop. “I’m listening.”
“Look at the desk,” Ferguson mused. “No files or paperwork. Not even a pen or a Post-It note. No diary.”
“Maybe he’s just really neat,” Dinah said, opening Outlook on the laptop.
Ferguson went back to his muttering as he continued drifting around the room. Dinah frowned as she clicked through the folders in Outlook. Then she opened the other programs on the computer and looked through the folders there.
“That’s odd,” she commented at last. Ferguson looked up and came over to her.
She clicked through the inbox, sent items, and calendar of the e-mail program. There were no entries in any of them. “They’re completely clean,” she said. “The calendar is the strangest. You’d think the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution would have at least a couple of meetings a week.”
“Maybe he uses a paper diary,” suggested Ferguson.
“Certainly a possibility,” agreed Dinah. “But couple the empty calendar with the fact that he’s neither received nor sent an e-mail from this computer and something isn’t right.”
Ferguson opened the desk drawers and started looking through them.
“Also,” added Dinah, “there is not one single saved document in any other program — no letters, articles, presentations, anything. The entire computer is as if it’s never been used.”
Ferguson sat back on his heels. “You think someone has wiped his computer?”
“Well, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: did Thomas Whitfield wipe his own computer before disappearing or did someone else wipe his computer before abducting him?” Dinah began to shut down the programs. “After all, there is no evidence to suggest that he has been abducted. There’s no sign of a struggle in here or blood stains, is there?”
Ferguson shook his head. “No, there isn’t. But there is something off about this office. Nobody, least of all a man in his position, can get through a working day without sending an e-mail or doing paperwork of some kind.” He gestured at the desk drawers. “There’s absolutely nothing in them.”
“I agree,” Dinah said. She closed the laptop and picked it up. “I’m going to have the lab look at the hard drive. What else?”
“I’ll call in crime scene to lift some fingerprints and check for blood.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Biscelli, and I’d like to talk to his wife.”
Dinah nodded. “If Mr. Whitfield has been abducted, what do you suppose is the motive?”
Ferguson considered. “I don’t know. Money? Fame? Half the time I think these loonies go around killing people just so they can get their name in the news.”
Dinah stared at him. “Do you think Thomas Whitfield is dead?”
He shrugged. “Right now, Harris, I know nine-tenths of absolutely nothing. Let’s talk to Ms. Biscelli. Maybe she’ll know what happened and we can solve this case before dinner time and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”
Flippancy, Dinah remembered, was just Ferguson’s way of dealing with the intensity of this job and the horror they’d witnessed over the years.
Thomas glanced up and down the wide street. There was nobody around at this early hour, and he took a moment to drink in the sights of his beloved city. The graceful willows, their branches arching over the street, were turning gold and red and, in the gentle yellow morning light, threw off highlights like burnished copper. This street was like many others in the center of DC — wide and tree-lined, with magnificent government buildings standing one after the other. That was another thing that Thomas found so delicious about this city — so much of it hinted at the enormous wealth and prosperity of the country, and yet only a few streets behind these world-famous landmarks, the seedier side of American poverty flourished. It was a city of contradictions, Thomas thought.
His gaze fell finally to the building right in front of him — the main complex of the Smithsonian Institution. Enormous stone pillars flanked the entryway into a marble lobby, and behind that were laid out the evidence of mankind’s brilliance. Everything about the institution was testament to the scientific and anthropological advances of man over the pages of history — the inventions, the discoveries, the deductions, the sheer radiance of a human being’s intelligence at its finest.
Thomas Whitfield had always been immensely proud of this place, and everything it showcased. He had boasted about it, defended it, nourished it, and protected it, the way a proud father would his prodigious child.
He was the secretary of the Smithsonian, after all, and he felt a strange kind of paternal relationship with the buildings and their contents.
He stood for a moment longer, a slender whippet of a man dressed immaculately, with highly polished shoes gleaming, thinning dark hair cut short, and a gray cashmere scarf to ward off the cold. Then he purposefully strode down the path and into the main building, scarf fluttering behind him.
To the malevolent eyes watching him through high-powered binoculars down the street in a non-descript Chevy, he presented a painfully easy target.
Thomas settled in his large office with the door shut, turned on the computer, and shut his eyes briefly as he contemplated what he would do next. The course of events he had planned for this day would change everything, and the impact would be felt right up to the president himself. Courage, Thomas, he told himself silently. What you are about to do is the right thing to do.
He began to type, slowly and decisively, feeling within himself a great sense of conviction and purpose. He was so lost in concentration that he was startled by the door suddenly swinging open.
“What are . . . ?” he exclaimed, almost jumping off his seat. Then he recognized his visitor and he glanced at his watch.
“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “It’s a little early for you, isn’t it?”
“I wanted to be sure I caught you,” his visitor replied, moving closer to the desk. “Without any interruptions.”
“I see. What can I do for you then?” Thomas asked, trying to hide his irritation. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted during this most important task.
“What are you working on?” the unannounced guest asked, ignoring him and moving around the side of the desk and trying to look at Thomas’s computer screen.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Thomas answered with a falsely airy tone. “It’s just a family project. Nothing to do with work. Is there something I can help you with?”
Thomas was suddenly aware that his visitor was standing close by him. He felt uncomfortable, and tried to roll his chair away to maintain some space.
“You see,” his visitor said in a quiet voice, “there are people out there who don’t agree with you. They think the project you are working on could be very dangerous. In fact, I believe they have already tried to warn you about continuing with this project.”
Thomas now felt distinctly uncomfortable and a little afraid. He decided to assert his authority. “Listen here,” he said, in a voice that betrayed his anxiety. “What I am working on is none of your business. The subject is certainly not up for discussion with somebody like you. I suggest you leave my office immediately.”
The visitor managed to fuse sorrow and menace into his words as he said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You will have to come with me.”
Thomas retorted, “I’m not going anywhere with you. In fact, I. . . .” He broke off abruptly as he saw the small handgun in the visitor’s hand, pointing directly at him. There was no sorrow or pity on his face — only menace.
“Do I need to force you to come with me?” the visitor wondered, his tone like flint.
Thomas leapt to his feet, his eyes darting about wildly. He needed to get out of here, to try to get away from this situation that had so rapidly gotten out of hand. A hand shot out and grabbed Thomas by the collar with surprising strength. Thomas was shocked as he strained to get away from the man, who was intently staring at the computer screen.
“You traitor!” Thomas spat. “I should’ve known you were nothing more than a trained monkey!”
The visitor chuckled heartily. “That’s ironic, Thomas.”
The visitor, much younger and stronger than Thomas, began to drag him out of the room. Thomas was determined not to go down without a fight, and drove his heel backward into the visitor’s shin. There was a yelp of pain, but the unrelenting grip did not lessen around Thomas’s arm. Instead, a thick arm curled around Thomas’s throat and squeezed, applying pressure to the carotid artery. It took only a few seconds for Thomas to fall limply into the arms of his abductor as the blood supply to his brain was cut off.
That was the last anyone saw of the secretary of the Smithsonian Institute.
• • • •
Dinah Harris woke with a scream dying in her throat, the sheets twisted hopelessly around her legs. Her nightgown was damp with panicked sweat, her heart galloping like a runaway horse. She stared, blinking, at the pale dawn light streaming through the window, while the shadowy vestiges of her nightmare slithered from her memory.
As she lay in bed, joining the waking world from sleep, the familiar blanket of depression settled over her, dark and heavy as the Atlantic winter. The dread she felt at facing another day was almost palpable in the small bedroom. Dinah glanced across at her alarm clock, where the flashing numbers showed 6 a.m.
She threw aside the sheets and stumbled into the tiny bathroom, where she purposefully avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She was only in her mid-thirties and had once been relatively attractive. Certainly not beautiful, but with what her first boyfriend had once told her — a pleasant face and athletic body. Now her eyes were always underscored by dark bags, her skin pale and paper-thin, and the weight fell off her in slow degrees without ceasing. She dressed in her trademark dark pants suit, pulled her black hair from her face in a severe ponytail, and washed her face.
She made strong coffee and sat in the kitchen as she drank the bitter liquid. The dining alcove was still stacked with moving cartons, filled with books and music that she couldn’t face opening. The gray light of morning lent no color to the apartment, which suited Dinah just fine. Her world didn’t contain color anymore.
Though traffic often seemed at a standstill in the mornings, Dinah always arrived early to the J. Edgar Hoover building. She turned directly to the teaching wing, avoiding the eye contact and morning greetings of many she knew in the building. She knew what they whispered about during after-work drinks and at the water cooler. Her fall from grace would go down as one of the most spectacular in FBI history.
So she kept up the ice-cool veneer until she arrived at her desk, checking her e-mails and teaching schedule for the week.
She didn’t look up as an imposing shadow fell across her desk.
“Special Agent Harris, how are you?” boomed the voice of her former colleague, David Ferguson. He was a big man, six-four and two hundred pounds, with a loud, booming voice and a penchant for pork rinds. He stood above her, his hand resting easily on the holstered gun at his hip; the twin of a gun Dinah no longer wore but kept underneath her pillow.
“Ferguson,” she replied. “Fine, how are you?”
“Feel like a coffee?” he asked.
“Don’t you have a killer to catch?” Dinah asked, dryly.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can wait. Come on.”
He took her to a tiny Italian café a block away from the FBI headquarters. While they ordered, Dinah wondered at his ulterior motive for bringing her here. It certainly isn’t for my sparkling wit and charm, she thought. Rumor had it that the freshman criminology classes were afraid of her.
“So I’m just wondering if I could get your opinion on something,” Ferguson began, tentatively testing the water.
She scowled at him. “You know I don’t get involved in cases.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, calm down, Harris. I just want your opinion. I know you’ve given up your real talents to teach some snotty freshmen.”
His comment stung her, but she narrowed her eyes at him and pretended she hadn’t even noticed. “So get on with it already.”
“I don’t remember you always being this prickly,” complained Ferguson, draining his macchiato. “Anyway. What would you say if I told you the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution had gone missing?”
“Missing?” Dinah raised her eyebrows and slurped her latte. “In what context?”
“As in, turned up for work at six this morning and disappeared off the face of the earth shortly thereafter.”
“How do you know he turned up for work at six?” Dinah asked.
“Security cameras have him arriving in the lobby and heading for his office. After that, who knows?”
“So he’s an adult, maybe he took a trip to get away from work stress or his wife has been giving him grief or his kid is in trouble.” Dinah frowned. “Why are we even involved at this early stage?”
Ferguson paused. “It’s due mostly to his rather prestigious position. It wouldn’t do for the secretary of the Smithsonian to simply disappear. Congress is rather anxious.”
Dinah knew of political influence that ran high in this city but didn’t press the issue. “Is there evidence of homicide?”
“Not really, although I haven’t been to his office yet.” Ferguson made it sound like a confession, and he looked at her sheepishly.
Dinah stared at him. “What do you really want, Ferguson?”
He gathered up his courage. “I need you to work this case with me, Harris.”
Dinah opened her mouth to respond indignantly, but Ferguson held up his hand and continued with a rush. “You know I’m not good with sensitive cases. I. . . .”
“Or complex ones,” interjected Dinah, bad-temperedly.
“I’m operating on a hunch that this is a bad case, that it involves people in the White House.” Ferguson must have needed her very badly to allow her comment to go unheeded.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have a heavy teaching workload,” she said. “So I’ll have to limit my involvement to opinions only.”
Ferguson didn’t say anything but looked even guiltier.
“What have you done?” Dinah demanded.
“I may have cleared your schedule so you could work with me.” Ferguson examined his fingernails with great concentration.
Dinah waited for a beat. “I see. You’ve spoken to my superiors?”
He nodded. “They’ve agreed to lend you to me for as long as the case takes.”
Dinah stood abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee.” She walked angrily from the café.
Ferguson stared at her as she walked off, then slapped down some crumpled notes and heaved his bulk out of the chair. “Where are you going?” Ferguson asked, struggling to keep up with her.
She wheeled around and glared directly at him. “Who do you think you are? Do you think I’m lesser than you so you can sneak around behind my back?”
“Dinah, we really need you back in the field. You were — are — brilliant.” Ferguson spoke softly, hoping to calm her down.
“My field days are behind me, with very good reason,” snapped Dinah. I can’t see a dead body anymore. I can’t feel desire to catch the person who did it. I just want to lie down beside the body and feel the same endless peace of sleep.
“Please, I’m begging you. I need you back,” Ferguson said. Then it hit her. Dinah realized that this situation was very serious. Ferguson was the last person on the planet to beg anybody.
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she said dully. She knew that this case could break her.
Ferguson didn’t reply, and his answer was in his silence.
• • • •
The Smithsonian Institution was bustling with tourists and school kids as if nothing had gone wrong. Dinah and David strode into the main lobby, trying unsuccessfully to look casual. When they flashed their badges discreetly, they were allowed into the inner sanctum, where Thomas Whitfield’s personal assistant was fielding phone calls.
The secretary was young and pretty, with thick, dark hair waving gracefully to her shoulders, startlingly blue eyes, and a creamy olive complexion. Her only downfall was the thick eye makeup, applied to make her eyes stand out but which had the effect of making her look like a scared raccoon. “I’m afraid Mr. Whitfield simply cannot be interrupted at present,” she snapped into the phone. “I’ll have him call you back if you’d leave a message.”
She glanced up and saw the two agents standing at her desk. She gave them a wave to acknowledge their presence, repeated the details of the caller, scribbled furiously, and then hung up.
“Good morning,” she said, jumping to her feet. “If you caught the end of that conversation, you’ll know that Mr. Whitfield is in an extremely important meeting and. . . .”
“Save it,” interrupted Dinah, showing the secretary her badge. The young woman blushed. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Whitfield. What is your name?”
The secretary sat down hard, looking relieved. “I’m Lara Southall. I’m so worried about Mr. Whitfield.”
Ferguson flashed his partner a frown and took charge. “I’m Special Agent David Ferguson and this is Special Agent Dinah Harris. You’ll have to excuse her; she’s been out of the field for some time and has forgotten how to relate to people.”
Dinah opened her mouth to reply with outrage, but Ferguson continued, “Can you tell us about this morning?”
Lara Southall regarded Dinah with a mixture of amusement and fear, which Dinah filed away for future reference. “I got to work at eight o’clock as usual,” she replied. “Mr. Whitfield always arrives before me. I usually turn on my computer, get settled, and then get us both a coffee. When I opened his office door to give him the coffee, the room was empty.” As the girl spoke, she tapped perfectly manicured fingernails together absently. Dinah hated manicured fingernails: they reminded her of her distinctly unattractive, chewed-to-the-quick fingertips.
“Mr. Whitfield was due to give a presentation at eleven o’clock,” Lara continued. “So I didn’t really start worrying until about ten-thirty. He hates to be late, and he had to come back to get his presentation and make it uptown in less than half an hour. At eleven, I started to make some calls.”
“Has he ever been absent from the office before?” Ferguson asked.
“Sure, he often has meetings or goes out into the museum to talk to visitors. The thing is, I always know what he’s doing. That’s part of my job. He never goes anywhere during the day without letting me know.”
“So you started making calls at eleven. Who did you call?” Dinah asked impatiently.
Lara ticked off her fingers as she remembered. “I called his cell phone, and I called the other museums. I thought maybe he’d just forgotten to tell me he had a meeting. Nobody had seen him and his cell just rang out. So I called his home. His wife told me he’d left for work at about five-thirty and she hadn’t seen him since. Then I called some of the senior executives. I thought they might’ve had an emergency. But nobody had seen him.”
“Did the people you called — his wife, the executives — seem concerned about his whereabouts?” Ferguson asked.
“Yes, they did. It’s so unusual for Mr. Whitfield to act this way that everyone I spoke to was concerned. I think his wife is actually here somewhere at the moment.”
“So then you called the police?” Dinah said.
“No, one of the directors came over to look at the security tapes. She specifically told me not to call anyone until she’d viewed the footage. I thought that Mr. Whitfield might’ve had an accident on the way to work. Mrs. Whitfield was calling the hospitals when Ms. Biscelli — the director — came back from security.”
“What did the tapes show?” Dinah asked.
“They showed him arriving at six-thirty or so. That’s all I know.”
“Did any of the tapes show him leaving?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Right. So what then?”
“I called the police.”
Ferguson nodded. “What did they tell you?”
“Basically they won’t do anything until he’s been missing 24 hours.” Lara stopped clicking her nails together and started twisting her hair with one finger. “So I told Ms. Biscelli, and she wasn’t happy with that. I think she must’ve pulled some strings, because here you are.”
Dinah and Ferguson both raised their eyebrows at her in confusion.
“The FBI,” explained Lara. “You guys wouldn’t normally get involved, would you?” She may have been a very pretty secretary, but Lara Southall was an intelligent girl. She’d asked the very question Dinah had been mulling over all morning.
“We’re going to look in his office,” Ferguson said, ignoring the question. He handed her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.”
She nodded and picked up the ringing phone. “No,” she said, sounding very weary. “Mr. Whitfield is in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.”
• • • •
Ferguson opened the door to the office while Dinah waited to get the log-on details for Thomas Whitfield’s computer. Dinah stood in the doorway, looking into the impressive room, and felt the thrill of the chase wash over her like a wave. It had been a long time since she had felt anything.
The office was furnished with heavy cedar furniture that consisted of a large desk, a leather-bound chair, a couch, and two armchairs grouped around a glass-topped coffee table and one entire wall of built-in bookcases. The floor was covered with thick burgundy carpet, and the drapes at the picture window were also burgundy. The walls contained portraits of several great scientists and inventors — Dinah recognized Charles Darwin, Thomas Edison, and the Wright Brothers — as well as photos of the secretary with the president, the queen of England, and other dignitaries. The room itself was clean and uncluttered, likely symbolic of the man himself, Dinah thought.
Ferguson was moving around the room, muttering to himself, as was his habit. Dinah had forgotten how intensely annoying she found this habit. She preferred silence so that she could concentrate.
Having received the log-on details from Lara, Dinah strode to the desk and pulled on her latex gloves. The top of the desk was shiny and would be a great medium to obtain fingerprints. She was careful not to allow herself to touch the desktop while she turned on the laptop.
“By the way, Harris,” Ferguson said from the wall of bookcases, “I forgot to mention that if something has happened to Mr. Whitfield, the media scrutiny is likely to be intense.”
Dinah scowled at the screen of the laptop. She hated the media, and it was a long-term grudge she held from the last case she’d been involved in. “You can handle it,” she said. “I want nothing to do with those vultures.”
Ferguson glanced over at her. “Of course I’ll handle it. But I can’t guarantee that they’ll leave you alone.”
Dinah tapped her foot against the leg of the desk impatiently as the laptop struggled to come to life. “Sticks and stones, Ferguson,” she said tightly. “Words can never hurt me.”
She could see that Ferguson didn’t buy the lie, but he’d decided to let it go. He at least knew not to push too far.
“This whole office is giving me a weird vibe,” he said after a moment. “It’s too . . . organized.”
Dinah logged onto the laptop. “I’m listening.”
“Look at the desk,” Ferguson mused. “No files or paperwork. Not even a pen or a Post-It note. No diary.”
“Maybe he’s just really neat,” Dinah said, opening Outlook on the laptop.
Ferguson went back to his muttering as he continued drifting around the room. Dinah frowned as she clicked through the folders in Outlook. Then she opened the other programs on the computer and looked through the folders there.
“That’s odd,” she commented at last. Ferguson looked up and came over to her.
She clicked through the inbox, sent items, and calendar of the e-mail program. There were no entries in any of them. “They’re completely clean,” she said. “The calendar is the strangest. You’d think the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution would have at least a couple of meetings a week.”
“Maybe he uses a paper diary,” suggested Ferguson.
“Certainly a possibility,” agreed Dinah. “But couple the empty calendar with the fact that he’s neither received nor sent an e-mail from this computer and something isn’t right.”
Ferguson opened the desk drawers and started looking through them.
“Also,” added Dinah, “there is not one single saved document in any other program — no letters, articles, presentations, anything. The entire computer is as if it’s never been used.”
Ferguson sat back on his heels. “You think someone has wiped his computer?”
“Well, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is: did Thomas Whitfield wipe his own computer before disappearing or did someone else wipe his computer before abducting him?” Dinah began to shut down the programs. “After all, there is no evidence to suggest that he has been abducted. There’s no sign of a struggle in here or blood stains, is there?”
Ferguson shook his head. “No, there isn’t. But there is something off about this office. Nobody, least of all a man in his position, can get through a working day without sending an e-mail or doing paperwork of some kind.” He gestured at the desk drawers. “There’s absolutely nothing in them.”
“I agree,” Dinah said. She closed the laptop and picked it up. “I’m going to have the lab look at the hard drive. What else?”
“I’ll call in crime scene to lift some fingerprints and check for blood.” Ferguson paused, thinking. “I’d like to talk to Ms. Biscelli, and I’d like to talk to his wife.”
Dinah nodded. “If Mr. Whitfield has been abducted, what do you suppose is the motive?”
Ferguson considered. “I don’t know. Money? Fame? Half the time I think these loonies go around killing people just so they can get their name in the news.”
Dinah stared at him. “Do you think Thomas Whitfield is dead?”
He shrugged. “Right now, Harris, I know nine-tenths of absolutely nothing. Let’s talk to Ms. Biscelli. Maybe she’ll know what happened and we can solve this case before dinner time and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”
Flippancy, Dinah remembered, was just Ferguson’s way of dealing with the intensity of this job and the horror they’d witnessed over the years.
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