Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  The group broke up, and Will, accompanied by a Secret Service agent, made for the elevator to the family quarters of the White House. “

  Bob Kinney, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in a blue blazer with an open-necked shirt, left his room and wandered through the public rooms of the apparently deserted inn. It was handsomely decorated, he thought, and he hoped Nancy Kimble would find enough guests to make a go of it. He walked into a nicely paneled library, spotted a carved mahogany bar in a corner, and made for it.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked from the doorway.

  “Let me buy you one,” he said, slipping behind the bar.

  She walked across the room toward him, tall, leggy, dressed in well-cut black trousers and a white silk blouse. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have a Laphroaig.”

  “A what?”

  “Single-malt Scotch,” she said, pointing. “On the rocks.”

  “I think I’ll try one, too,” he said. He found a pair of glasses, filled them with ice, and poured the amber liquid.

  They touched glasses and sipped.

  “Mmm,” he said. “That’s remarkable.”

  “I always think I can taste the peat from the Scottish soil,” she replied.

  “So you’re new to the innkeeping business?” he asked. “Yes. My husband dropped dead of a heart attack at his desk seven months ago. He was with a brokerage firm in Charlotte, and we had just finished decorating this house.”

  “How old was he?”

  “He was fifty-two. How old are you?”

  “Fifty-four and a half,” he replied.

  “I’m forty-four,” she said.

  “You don’t look it.”

  She smiled for the first time. “That’s just what you were supposed to say. I’ve never met an FBI agent before. Are you typical of the breed?”

  “No, I’m larger, smarter, and more ornery. I’ve never met an innkeeper before, except across a check-in desk.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Separated, pending divorce,” he replied. “It’ll be final next month.”

  “Kids?”

  “Two, both girls, both all grown up and married. One of them is going to present me with a grandson in a couple of months. How about you?”

  “Childless. We tried, it didn’t work. It’s probably just as well. I’m not sure what kind of a mother I would have been. Do you like veal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because we’re having blanquette de veau, whether you like it or not.”

  “A blanket of veal?”

  “It’s a stew, and it covers the rice, like a blanket.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “I thought you might like something other than southern cooking, so I sent the cook home.”

  “I like southern cooking, too.”

  “Stick around a couple of days, and you’ll get plenty.”

  “I’m going to do everything I can to stick around for at least a couple of days,” he said.

  “Good. Who shot the senator?”

  “We’ve narrowed the list of people with a motive to about ten thousand.”

  She laughed aloud. “Add me to the list,” she said. “I hated the bastard and his politics.”

  “What kind of shot are you?” he asked.

  “I’ve never fired a gun of any kind.”

  “Where were you at dawn this morning?”

  “Showing the cook how to scramble eggs slowly.”

  “Well, you have a motive, but no means or opportunity,” he said. “You’re officially cleared.”

  “Aw shucks. I was hoping to be more thoroughly investigated.”

  He peered at her over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t say you weren’t going to be investigated,” he said.

  She smiled a little. “Oh, good.”

  9

  Kinney woke up at eight and reached for her; she was gone, and the covers were cool. He sighed. It had been a memorable night, the kind he had not had since the first year of his marriage. He had to get moving.

  He showered, dressed, and went looking for Nancy Kimble. He found a table set for one in the dining room, settled there and waited, sipping the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice that had been left for him.

  Nancy soon came through the kitchen door with a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage and set it before him. “Good morning,” she said. She sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.

  “I appear to have taken advantage of you last night,” Kinney said.

  “On the contrary, it was I who took advantage of you. Here I was, alone in this house for the first time with a big, handsome man, and an FBI agent on top of that. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “I guess I’m pretty much an opportunist myself,” he said. “It was the nicest night I’ve spent in living memory.”

  “You’re sweet,” she said, smiling. “What are you doing today?”

  “I have some work to do out at the senator’s lake cabin, and it will take me all day.”

  “You’ll be back for dinner?”

  “I will, but unless I get lucky and there’s another serious federal crime in the area, I’m going to have to go back to Washington tomorrow.”

  “Well, there’s always tonight,” she said.

  KINNEY WAS sitting in a rocker on the front porch when the sheriff’s patrol car pulled up to the curb, followed by a deputy in an unmarked car.

  Tom Stribling got out and handed Kinney the keys. “All yours,” he said. “Need any help?”

  “Nah, this is going to be mostly repetition,” Kinney replied. “What shall I do with the car when I’m done?”

  “Leave it at the airport when you go,” Stribling replied.

  “Tom, I’ve made it clear to my people that you’re in charge of the local investigation. We’re just there to offer support—prints, lab work—anything you need.”

  “I ‘predate that,” Stribling said. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything new for you.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. This is going to be a tough one. Thanks for your help.” The two men shook hands.

  Stribling got into his patrol car with his deputy, waved, and drove away.

  Kinney started the car, drove to Main Street, and found a hardware store. He purchased some tools, then drove out to the senator’s cabin. A deputy waved him through a gate, and then he was alone in the house.

  He started with a thorough room-by-room search of every drawer and closet, every nook and cranny. That done, without success, he started on the floorboards, looking for loose ones or boards that were too short or out of place. When he found an interesting one, he used a prybar to lift it, then hammered it back into place when he was done.

  He broke for lunch, heating up the fried chicken and vegetables still in the fridge. Man, that woman could cook! He worked for another four hours in the afternoon, until he was certain that nothing of interest could possibly be hidden in the cabin. Finally, he took a walk around the perimeter of the house, looking for a tool-shed or other structure that might hide a filing cabinet. Finding nothing, he cleaned up after himself in the cabin, then drove back to Kimble House.

  Nancy met him at the door. “You look tired,” she said, “and a little disheveled. What have you been doing?”

  “Investigating,” Kinney replied. “It can be hard work.”

  She went and poured him a stiff Laphroaig. “Here,” she said, thrusting it at him. “Drink this while you soak in a tub.”

  He did so, and was the better for it.

  The following morning, she walked him to the door. “You still haven’t investigated me,” she said.

  “What was that I was doing for the past two nights?” he asked.

  “I mean really investigated me.”

  “I think I will need all the facilities of the Bureau’s headquarters for that,” he said. “Can you come to Washington soon?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I have
a place you can stay. It’s very nice.”

  “As long as it has a bed.”

  “It does.”

  She pulled him back inside the door and kissed him properly, then he put his bags in the car and turned it toward the airport. Then he stopped. He made a U-turn and drove to Elizabeth Johnson’s home.

  She met him at the door. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Kinney?”

  “Ms. Johnson, you may not believe this, but I’m here to do you a favor.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m here to take those files off your hands.” He quickly raised a hand before she could speak. “Please hear me out.”

  “I don’t have any files,” she said adamantly.

  “Please, Ms. Johnson, let me explain. The senator had a lot of enemies, some worse than others. If we interview every one of them, it will take us months, maybe years, to develop suspects.” He took a deep breath and told the lie. “Now, I think it’s very possible that, somewhere in those files is the name and the motive of the man who murdered the senator, and I can’t believe that you would do anything to stop us from finding out who that is. I’ve already searched the cabin thoroughly, and the only other place the senator would have felt comfortable leaving those files is here.” He stopped and waited, watching her think.

  “I hadn’t thought about the killer being in the files,” she said finally. She turned and started into the house. “All right, come on in.” She got the key from the safe, led him down to the basement, moved some things out of the way, and pointed at the index card files.

  Kinney dug them out and tucked the little four-drawer cabinet under his arm. “Thank you,” he said.

  She led the way back to the front porch. “You know, Mr. Kinney,” she said, “I expect there are a lot of things in there that would hurt people. The senator had a mean streak. I wouldn’t like to think you were going to use those files to hurt anybody.”

  “Only the man who killed him,” Kinney replied. “Thank you again.” He got into the car and drove to the airport, where the Lear was waiting for him.

  Back in the Hoover Building, Kinney made room in his office safe for the little filing cabinet, set it inside and locked the safe, then he went to see the director.

  “Sit down, Bob,” Heller said, “and tell me what you’ve got. Tell me everything.”

  Kinney sank into a chair and crossed his legs. “We’ve got what I told you yesterday,” he said, “and nothing more. There isn’t anything more. The guy is a pro.”

  “You mean a hitman?”

  “Sort of. I don’t think the Mafia did it, if that’s what you mean, but I think I can tell you something about the shooter.”

  “Please do.”

  “He’s a loner, but maybe with a support network. He probably learned to shoot in the military. He’s driving a nondescript vehicle—an SUV or a pickup or an RV—something that would blend in without attracting attention. It may not be the first time he’s killed somebody, but he only kills people when he feels some moral justification. He’s between forty-five and sixty-five. He’s well-educated, with at least a bachelor’s degree, maybe even with some graduate work. He’s not a hired killer or a sociopath, he’s doing this out of conscience. He’s methodical, patient, and cool-headed, and he’s going to be nearly impossible to catch, unless he makes a mistake next time, or the time after that.”

  The director looked alarmed. “You think there’s going to be a next time?”

  “There’s an outside chance that he bore some personal grudge against Senator Wallace, but I doubt it. He’s on a crusade, and he’s only just begun.”

  “How do you know all of this?” the director asked.

  “I don’t know any of it,” Kinney replied. “I worked in profiling for a while, and I’m an intuitive investigator, that’s all.”

  “So you’re guessing?”

  “You could call it that, but if I’m guessing, then I’ve guessed my way into this job.”

  The director was turning red in the face. “Well, you listen to me, Kinney. You’d better stop guessing and come up with some real evidence that will help me catch this man, and you’d better do it quick, or I’m going to find myself a new deputy director for investigations.”

  Kinney stood up. “No, you listen to me, Mr. Heller. I’ve got twenty-seven years on the job, and I could retire tomorrow and quadruple my salary in the private sector. I know that, because I’ve had offers, so there’s nothing you can do to scare me. In fact, you’re the one who ought to be scared, because you’re hanging on by your fingernails, and chances are you’re not going to be around long enough to fire me. Until you do, I’m going to run this investigation as I see fit, which is a hell of a lot better than you or anybody else in this organization can do, so stop trying to pressure me. When I have something more concrete, I’ll tell you. Until then, stay out of my way.”

  Kinney, feeling enormously relieved, walked out of the director’s office, leaving the director agape, and went to his own office down the hall. Only twice before in his career had he spoken to a superior that way, and never to a director, but he was beyond caring now, and he was going to work his own way or not at all.

  He stayed late at the office, went to another floor and copied the senator’s files, two index cards to a sheet. He placed the copies in a shopping bag and went home to the residential hotel where he had been living since his separation from his wife. There, he locked the copies in his personal safe. He was too tired to read them.

  10

  The president and the first lady got out of the presidential limousine, shook hands with the bishop and the greeting party, and walked into the National Cathedral.

  Will had been in the building many times, usually for funerals or memorial services, and he was always impressed with its size. It was said that the Washington Monument, laid on its side, would fit inside the nave. He followed a priest down the center aisle and, before he took his seat, he and Kate went to Betty Ann Wallace and murmured words of consolation.

  Freddie Wallace’s corpulent body rested in a mahogany coffin so large that it reminded Will of Napoleon’s casket in L’Ecole de Militiare, in Paris. He hoped the gravediggers in South Carolina had been warned.

  The service began briskly and got slower, with each speaker taking more time than had been allotted, drawing out the sound bites for the media, who were represented by a pool camera set up to one side of the coffin. Will was the last speaker on the program, and finally, his turn came. He stood up and walked to the pulpit.

  “I have known Freddie Wallace since I came to the senate to work for Senator Ben Carr, more years ago than I like to think about. The very first thing I remember about him was that he knew my name the second time I saw him. I was flattered, because I didn’t know at the time that Freddie had a prodigious memory, that he never forgot a favor or a slight, or the name of anyone who might be useful to him at some later date.

  “Freddie and I spent the entire length of our acquaintance on opposite sides of nearly every political question that came our way, and yet he found time, even when I was a lowly senate aide, to share with me his extraordinary command of senate procedures. I confess I learned more about parliamentary obstruction than progress from Freddie, but that has its place in the senate, too.” He paused for a chuckle from the audience.

  “In spite of our political differences, Freddie became my friend, in his way, and when I was elected to the senate he became a fount of good, if sometimes dangerous advice. I had to be very careful about taking Freddie’s advice, and careful if I didn’t, too, since Freddie was likely to take umbrage. Freddie’s umbrage was to be avoided.

  “There are many in Washington, perhaps more than a few in this audience, who will not miss Freddie, but I am not among them. I will miss his personal warmth and his wit, and especially, his advice, which often pointed the way to a good decision, in either the positive or negative sense.

  “Kate and I send out our hearts to Betty Ann, and our condolences, too
.” Will returned to his seat and sat down.

  AS THEY made to depart the building after the service, Will made one more move to console the widow. Betty Ann grabbed him fiercely by the elbow and drew his ear to her lips.

  “I have his files,” she hissed, “and I’m going to use them.” She released him and turned to the next mourner.