Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  She sat back down at her desk. “Is this your first time in the White House?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “The sweating. You’ve got the first-time-in-the-White-House sweats, that’s all.”

  “Ma’am, I just want to get the president’s signature on a receipt, and then I’m out of here.”

  “What have you got for him?”

  “Didn’t Agent Kinney’s office call?”

  “Yes, but they didn’t say what was in the package.” She held her hand out. “Let me have it.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s for the president’s eyes only.”

  “I’m not going to open it, I just want to feel it.”

  “Feel it?”

  “That’s what I said. Do your instructions say anything about somebody besides the president feeling it?”

  “No, ma’am, but it’s already been X-rayed and passed.”

  “Give it to me.”

  He handed her the package, but when she picked up a letter opener, he snatched it back.

  “Boy, you nearly got a letter opener right through your hand.”

  “You can’t open it, ma’am.”

  She burned a look right through him. “You sit down over there and wait until I can get to you.”

  He sat down, holding the package primly on his knees.

  Forty minutes later, a door beside Cora Parker’s desk opened, and the president stepped through it. “Cora, will you please make some time for Senator Kennedy this afternoon, and let his office know when?”

  Agent Smith leapt to his feet, attracting the president’s attention.

  Will Lee turned and looked at the young man. “Who’s this?”

  “Special Agent Kerry Smith of the FBI, sir. I have a package for you.”

  “Just give it to Ms. Parker,” he replied and turned back toward the Oval Office.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Agent Kinney has instructed me to deliver it to you, personally, and to no one else.”

  Will paused. “Let me explain how this works,” he said. “One of these days, somebody is going to smuggle a bomb into the White House, and when they do, I’m determined that it’s going to be Ms. Parker who opens it, not me.”

  Cora Parker stood up. “Mr. President, I quit,” she said. “I’m not going to be a sniffer dog or a canary in a coal mine for anybody, not even the president of the United States.”

  “Well, in that case, Agent Smith,” Will said, “you’d better give it to me. Ms. Parker is not cooperating.”

  Smith handed the package to the president and dug in his pocket for the receipt and a pen.

  “Ms. Parker will sign for it,” the president said. “That’s not an exploding pen, is it?”

  “”No, sir,“ Agent Smith replied.

  “How do I know that?” Cora demanded.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll sign for it,” the president said. He scrawled his name on the receipt and handed it back to Smith. “Thank you, Agent Smith.”

  “Good morning, sir.” He spun around and fled the office.

  Will and Cora Parker burst out laughing.

  “It’s his first visit to the White House,” she said.

  “I figured,” Will replied.

  Will sat down in a comfortable chair and ripped open the package. He read Bob Kinney’s letter, then he began to go through the index cards.

  There, in a copperplate hand learned in a South Carolina schoolroom seventy-odd years ago, was a concise but surprisingly accurate history of his life, beginning with his dropping out of law school, at the behest of the dean, and spending a year in Ireland. His affair with a young schoolteacher named Concepta Lydon was mentioned— how the hell did Freddie find out about that? he wondered.

  His affair with Kate was covered, too, much of it at a time when he had thought nobody knew about it. He felt his ears burning. He read quickly through the rest of the cards, finding nothing that caused him any great concern. Finally, he walked back into Cora’s office and dropped the cards into her shredder.

  “Well, what could that be?” she asked, reaching for the cards.

  He slapped her wrist lightly. “It would only embarrass you,” he said. He stayed until the remainder of the cards had fed into the shredder.

  That night over dinner, Will told Kate about Freddie’s files. “He knew all about us when we thought it was a secret,” he said.

  “How much did he know?”

  “Pretty much everything.”

  She looked shocked. “Not what we did in bed.”

  “No, at least he didn’t make notes about it. He outlined the whole business with Ed Rawls, too. You should have told me about it at the time.”

  “Come on, Will, aren’t you glad I didn’t? I mean, really?”

  “Well, yes. At least I could have truthfully denied knowing about it.”

  “That can be important sometimes.” She wasn’t going to tell him about the most recent letter from Ed, either. “What did you do with the file?”

  “I shredded it.”

  “Before I had a chance to read it?”

  “There were things that didn’t concern you in the file.”

  “Aha! Other women!”

  “Well, yes, but long before I met you. It was all very innocent.”

  “Innocent?”

  “Well, maybe not completely innocent. You would have approved.”

  “I doubt it,” she said, kicking him under the table. “Well, that’s my best guess.” “Well never know now, will we?” Will beamed at her. “I guess not.”

  22

  Helen walked into Kinney’s office and deposited a thick file on his desk. “Two agents and I went through all the files the CIA sent over, and this is the only one that we found interesting. I think you should read it.”

  “Have a seat,” Kinney said, opening the file. He speed-read it, every page, then closed the file. “Send your two agents over to Judge Henry’s chambers with the file, and tell them to get a search warrant for the home, vehicles, and any other property of Edward Eugene Coulter. I want it by lunchtime. In the meantime, assemble a search party and a tech team. We’re going to do this right.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, then left his office.

  Kinney took a deep breath. His hunch had been right; their man was a federal retiree with a tech background, and before the day was over, they would have the son of a bitch in custody. He began thinking about retirement, but he hadn’t gotten far when his phone buzzed.

  “There’s a Nancy Kimble on line one. Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I’ll talk to her.” He pressed the button. “I was just thinking about you,” he lied.

  “That’s a lie, but a nice one. I can see my way to get to D.C. for a few days. Are you receptive to that?”

  “Receptive isn’t a strong enough word. How soon?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We may have something to celebrate. I’ll look forward to it.” He gave her his address. “I’ll leave a key for you at the front desk.”

  “Bye-bye.” She hung up.

  He liked it that she was brief on the phone. He hated phone conversations, except to exchange important information or to arrange meetings. His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.

  “It’s the president,” Helen said.

  He nearly asked the president of what, but he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  “Good morning, Bob. I want to thank you for your kindness in sending me that information yesterday.”

  “I was glad to do it, sir.”

  “There was nothing there I didn’t already know, except how much the gentleman knew, and that was a surprise. It made interesting reading. How are you coming on the murder investigation?”

  “We have a hot lead right now, Mr. President, a retired CIA employee with exactly the right background. I’ve already requested a search warrant.”

  “I’d appreciate a call when you know if it
pans out,” the president said.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Good morning to you, Bob.” The president hung up.

  It was the first call that Kinney had ever received from a president, and it left him a little breathless. Suddenly, he remembered that he had lied to the man. He had, after all, copied the files, and he made a mental note to shred the pages pertaining to the president when he returned home that night.

  Kinney felt better than he had in months. He had a suspect, his girl was on her way to D.C., and he had just taken a call from the president.

  The house was on a pretty street in Arlington, Virginia, a comfortable, old-fashioned brick structure surrounded by other, similar houses. It was on a half-acre lot with a three-car garage, which set it apart from its neighbors, and one garage door was half again as big as the others. “Look at that door,” Kinney said as they made their pass. “He has an RV. We were right about that. I hope you didn’t talk to any of his neighbors.”

  “No, sir,” Smith replied “We’ve stayed away from the house. Besides the RV he has two cars—an Audi Six and one of the newer VW Bugs. He owns four handguns, all licensed.”

  “You and I will make the first approach. We’ll radio when we’ve secured Mr. Coulter. I don’t want to arrive with a SWAT team, especially since he’s armed. Let’s try not to alarm him.”

  “Yes, sir. You want me to park now?”

  “Go around the block once more. I want to see the house from the back, if it’s possible.”

  “It’s not, but we’ve got half a dozen agents ready to go in through the back door.”

  “Keep them calm,” he said to the team in the backseat of his car.

  “Yes, sir,” an agent replied. He spoke into a handheld radio. “Everybody relax. The deputy director and Smith are going in first. They’ll call us when the house is secure.” The radio crackled with terse responses.

  They were coming around the block again. “Just pull right into the driveway,” Kinney said. “We’ll get out of the car real casual-like, then go slowly to the front door and ring the bell like citizens.”

  “Yes, sir.” Smith swung the sedan into the driveway and stopped.

  “You two stay here and be inconspicuous,” Kinney said to the two men in the backseat. “Let’s go, Smith.” He got out of the car and stretched as if he’d driven a long way, looked around the neighborhood, then slowly made his way to the house and up the front steps. The doorbell was a friendly chime, but it wasn’t answered immediately. Kinney looked at Smith. “Are they home?”

  “The first team in the neighborhood talked to the mailman, who says they’re always home in the mornings.”

  The front door opened. A small woman in her sixties stood there. “Yes?”

  “Good morning,” Kinney said, smiling. “Are you Mrs. Coulter?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My name is Robert Kinney. I’m from the FBI. May I see your husband, please?” He didn’t flash a badge, didn’t want it to seem too official.

  “Of course. Please come in. He’s in the den, having his lunch.”

  Kinney followed her across the living room toward another door. He could hear the sound of a TV set—CNN.

  “Now?” Smith asked quietly.

  “Not yet,” Kinney replied.

  They emerged into a room lined with books, with a large projection TV in one corner. Across the room a man sat in a recliner, his feet up, a tray in his lap.

  “Ted, this is Mr. Kinney, from the FBI,” Mrs. Coulter said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Coulter looked up. He looked younger than his sixty-seven years, with black hair and an unlined face. “Morning,” he said. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Coulter,” Kinney said, producing his badge. “I’m Bob Kinney, this is Special Agent Kerry Smith.”

  “How do you do?” Coulter said. “Betty, will you get my thing for me?” He held out his tray and she took it away and went toward the kitchen.

  Kinney nodded at Smith to follow her. “Give Mrs. Coulter a hand, will you, Kerry.”

  “What’s this about, Agent Kinney?” Coulter asked.

  Kinney reached into an inside pocket and produced the legal document. “Mr. Coulter, I have a search warrant for your home, your property, and your vehicles.” He handed it to Coulter, who opened it and began reading.

  Kinney waited for him to finish. “Do you understand the warrant?”

  “Yes, I do,” Coulter replied, “though I confess I’m baffled. Why do you want to search my place?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t go into that right now, Mr. Coulter, but we’ll be as quick and efficient as we can, and I’d appreciate your cooperation.”

  Coulter waved a hand. “Help yourself,” he said.

  At that moment, Smith returned followed by Mrs. Coulter. She was carrying a familiar object, and she set it down next to Mr. Coulter’s recliner.

  Kinney nearly flinched. The object was a walker. Coulter moved forward in his chair and grasped the aluminum framework, then hoisted himself painfully to his feet.

  “You’ll have to forgive my husband,” Mrs. Coulter said. “He had a pretty bad stroke late last year, and he still has trouble getting around.”

  Kinney watched Coulter move, and it was obvious that his right side had not yet completely recovered from paralysis. He waved Smith over. “Go outside and use the radio. I want only four agents inside, no weapons displayed,” he whispered. “It looks like we’re in the wrong place.”

  “This won’t take long,” he said to Coulter.

  “Take your time,” Coulter replied. “This sort of makes my day.”

  23

  Kinney didn’t like making the phone call, but he did. The president couldn’t take the call but returned it half an hour later.

  “Tell me the news, Bob,” Will Lee said.

  “Mr. President, I’m sorry, but our man was the wrong man.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “He looked perfect, but the man had a stroke last year and, in spite of a lot of therapy, he still has to use a walker, and his right side is partially paralyzed. He’s right-handed, too.”

  “You checked with his doctors?”

  “Yes, we went over his medical records and talked with his physiotherapist. Our search of the house turned up absolutely nothing except four handguns, all registered and legal.”

  “Well, keep at it, Bob. It’s only a matter of time before this man kills again.”

  “I know, sir, and we’ll give the case everything we’ve got.”

  The president hung up.

  Kinney was discovering that he did not like disappointing presidents.

  He called a meeting of his team, and when they were assembled, he spoke. “Let’s go through the whole thing again, every detail of every murder. There’s bound to be something we’ve missed.”

  The team discussed every murder at length, and when they had finished, they had come up with nothing new.

  “Have we found any other suspects at any other federal agency?” Kinney asked.

  “No, sir,” the man in charge replied. “Coulter was perfect, but he’s obviously not our guy.”

  Kinney thought for a moment. “Suppose he faked the stroke and is lying to his therapist about his paralysis? It’s elaborate, but it’s an excellent way of diverting suspicion from himself.”

  An agent spoke up. “I spoke to his neurologist, who treated him for the acute effects of the stroke, and the man says there’s no way he could fake what he went through. Coulter nearly died. His physiotherapist says he’s worked extremely hard but has recovered very slowly. Faking is not an option.”

  “I want a team on Coulter at all times. If he shows the slightest sign of not being paralyzed, we’ll be on top of it. See if we can get a wiretap warrant, too. I want us to listen to his phone conversations.”

  One of the senior men spoke up. “Bob, this is a real stretch. The only benefit I can see in it is if, rath
er when there’s another murder, if we could establish Coulter’s whereabouts at the time, we could prove he’s not involved.”

  “Do it,” Kinney said.

  Katharine Rule Lee sat at the head of her conference table and looked at the people around her. “Do you agree with the FBI’s conclusions about Coulter?” No one spoke. “Anybody?”