Some Chicago hotels are landmarks because of their history, location, or decor, but the grandeur of one downtown lobby makes the others look like pale imitations. The ceiling of the Palmer House is worth seeing even if you don’t have any reason to be there. Georgia stared at it the next morning while waiting for LeJeune. The vaulted ceiling was painted with frescos by a French artist, as well as geometric shapes in a satisfying pattern. Originally an engagement gift from Potter Palmer to his betrothed, Bertha, the hotel burned down in 1871 during the Chicago fire but was rebuilt two years later, then restored in the 1920s.
This morning, the Art Deco ceiling, marble floors, and golden light from a dozen candelabras almost took her breath away. She gave the Bureau points for class in housing their “witnesses” here. At least the ones that didn’t need to be sheltered in a safe house.
She spotted LeJeune at one of two escalators at the back of the lobby. He wore a trench coat over a good pair of gray pinstripe suit trousers, white shirt, and narrow tie, looking very much the Chicago Special Agent instead of a Cajun hipster. She felt almost shabby in her blazer and jeans. He didn’t say anything but gave her a brief nod. She wondered if he was also just a bit cowed by the hotel’s opulence.
They ascended the escalator to the Lockwood Room, where breakfast was served. The maître d’ acknowledged him with a smile.
“Bonjour, Monsieur LeJeune.” Clearly he was a regular.
“Bonjour, Louis,” LeJeune replied in a surprisingly good French accent. She wondered where he got it. She’d never studied it, but she knew that Cajun French was not the same as Parisian.
They sat at a table for six and LeJeune ordered two carafes of coffee. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “Got your questions ready?”
“Is this going to be an interview or an interrogation?” she asked.
He pulled out his cell. “Good question. Probably a little of both.” He paused. “We’ll be joined by my boss, Art Chesterton, Blackstone, and the two agents who picked him up in Ecuador.”
“Why here, instead of at FBI headquarters?”
“White-collar suspects are more comfortable here. We tend to get more from them
when they don’t clamor for their lawyer right away. But I’ll record the whole thing on my cell and get a transcript made.”
“Interesting,” Georgia smiled. “I should try that with a suspect. What about Mrs. Blackstone?”
“I’ve arranged for a female agent to breakfast with her.” He paused. “I could let you interview her…” His voice trailed off.
She threw him a look. “I’m good here.”
He grinned. “Thought so.”
A waiter brought their coffee, and LeJeune was pouring when they were approached by four people. Two were obviously Special Agents in navy suits and narrow ties; the other couple were the Blackstones. Georgia studied Dr. Blackstone. He wasn’t that tall but had a presence about him. Maybe it was his mane of perfectly gray hair brushed back from his forehead or his penetrating blue eyes, which despite red rims and dark circles underneath, were alert and watchful.
Was he the patronizing type, the next-to-God doctor, who believed he had the ultimate truth about his patients’ health? If so, he might be in for a taste of his own medicine this morning. Immediately Georgia rebuked herself for her judgmental thoughts. Like everybody else, Blackstone was innocent until proven guilty. Even if he had done a runner.
He wore a freshly pressed charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and gray patterned tie. He sat down as if this was a business conference rather than an interview about potential crimes. The only tell that he knew it wasn’t was that he played with his silverware, especially his coffee spoon.
Mrs. Blackstone, or Barb, as Georgia thought of her, was diminutive, with silvery white hair, lots of makeup over pale skin, and a strained, apprehensive expression. She had to be terrified. She wore a tailored beige St. John suit, and Georgia noticed a beaded broach on the jacket. It was a flower of some sort. She must have beaded it herself. The woman was a long way away from “Barb’s Beading Palace.” She was about to sit down next to her husband when a female agent approached.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blackstone. I’m Special Agent Mary Johnson. You and I will be having breakfast together by ourselves.”
Barb looked bewildered and scared. “But I want to stay with my husband.”
“I’ll bring you back as soon as we can.”
Barb shot her husband a look, and he shrugged slightly as if to say, “I’m not in charge of this clusterfuck.” She meekly followed Agent Johnson out of the room. The two agents who’d escorted the Blackstones to the table sat. When they’d been joined by LeJeune’s boss, they made small talk as they scanned menus and ordered.
Georgia stole a look at LeJeune’s superior, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Arthur Chesterton. He was the antithesis of LeJeune. Old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses, an ill-fitting suit, and salt-and-pepper hair. She almost expected to see a pocket protector in his jacket. Was he a techno-nerd who’d been promoted over LeJeune? Had he proven his leadership mettle? Or was he part of the old white men’s Ivy League establishment? The Bureau still kept a few of them around. She wondered if LeJeune tried to walk all over him. She’d find out.
Once they had placed orders—Georgia couldn’t resist huevos rancheros—LeJeune dug a scrap of paper out of his jacket pocket.
LeJeune got right to the point. “Why Ecuador, Dr. Blackstone?” Apply pressure as soon as possible.
Blackstone sipped his coffee, seemingly unperturbed. “There’s a big American expat community in Cuenca. It’s the third largest city in the country. Our neighbors moved there five years ago.”
“And you thought you could just blend in?”
Blackstone cleared his throat, as though he suddenly realized this was not going to be a pleasant breakfast with friends. “Something like that.”
“Something like that. What does that mean?”
“We had contacts there. Friends. My wife speaks Spanish. It seemed like a good idea.”
LeJeune glanced at Chesterton, then back to Blackstone. “And why did you run in the first place?”
Blackstone took his time answering. “I was the doctor in charge.” He shrugged. “I knew I’d be blamed for the deaths.” He hesitated. “But I did nothing to tamper with the vaccines.”
“But you were there.”
Blackstone lifted his coffee cup, then put it back down. “I’m a doctor. I save lives. I don’t take them.”
Two servers delivered their breakfasts. No one spoke while they set the plates down. The waitstaff disappeared.
LeJeune picked up where he left off. “That’s not what I asked.”
Blackstone glared at LeJeune. “Do I have iron-clad proof that I’m innocent? No.”
Chesterton cleared his throat. LeJeune took a bite of his pancake and chewed slowly. Then, “If you didn’t tamper with the vaccines, who did?”
“I have no idea.” Blackstone drew himself up. Still haughty. But not quite as self-assured, Georgia thought.
“Dr. Blackstone,” LeJeune went on. “The Bureau interviewed everyone who was at the church at the time of Emily Waldorf’s death. Sixteen people were there between noon and two PM. We also interviewed the medical students who assisted you. They all agreed that you stopped all vaccinations for about forty-five minutes every day for a lunch break. Correct?”
“Yes. Even medical students need a break now and again.” He smiled. No one joined him.
“On the day of Emily Waldorf’s death, everyone agreed you disappeared at about twelve thirty PM at the end of the break. We interviewed seven people who were there two days later when the other two victims died. Again, all seven said you vanished for about ten minutes sometime after the break. So, on both days that deaths occurred on your watch, you disappeared for several minutes. Where did you go and why did you leave?”
Georgia looked up from her eggs. She hadn’t realized the Bureau had been that meticulous. She should have. She watched Blackstone. He played with his knife. She glanced at LeJeune. Irritation swam across his face. But Chesterton was impassive. So were the FBI agents.
LeJeune repeated his question. “Where did you go, Dr. Blackstone? And why?”
Blackstone didn’t reply for a moment. Then, “I went out for a smoke.” He seemed to regain his composure. “Surely, they told you that. I was visible through the windows of the church.”
“A respected internist at Mercy Hospital, and you still smoke?”
Blackstone flushed. “It’s the only vice I haven’t been able to conquer.”
Interesting. Georgia remembered Blackstone’s home. There was no odor of cigarette smoke inside. No ashtrays either. If there had been, she would have noticed. Especially in his man-cave office. She and LeJeune exchanged glances. She shook her head slightly.
“I see,” LeJeune said. “So, after the lunch break, you thought it was okay just to light up outside, given your role was to supervise the administration of the vaccine inside?”
“I’m not a superman, Agent LeJeune.”
“Glad to hear it,” LeJeune fake-smiled. “Now, in your absence, who prepared the vaccines? You know, diluted the serum with sterilized water?”
“We did. The medical students and myself. They were my four best students, Agent LeJeune. Perfectly capable of preparing the vaccine. The instructions are clear. I showed each one how on their first day, then supervised them until I was sure they could do it on their own. I mean, it isn’t rocket science.”
LeJeune apparently didn’t like his snark and glowered. “Not rocket science at all. Except three people died as a result.”
“You see? I’m the victim here. You’re blaming me for the tampering again. That’s why I needed to go to Ecuador. Until things calmed down.”
“Or you were caught.”