Jack said to Rachael as he flicked on his turn signal, “I bet he’s speaking this morning because he has an agenda,” and he turned up the volume on the radio. “He’s got to address all the crap that went down yesterday at the Barnes & Noble, but then, it’s his show.”
Savich had an agenda. He stood at Jimmy Maitland’s elbow, looking out over the sea of media faces from newspaper, radio, and TV, most of them familiar to him, seated in their plastic chairs, the TV people well-groomed, sharp, camera ready, the newspaper reporters looking on the seedy side in jeans, more like real people. He glanced over at Sherlock, gave her a smile and a nod. When Mr. Maitland introduced him, he stepped up to the mike, and looked out at the avid, hungry faces, ready to hurl their endless questions at him, eager for a sound bite or two.
“I suppose most of you have heard about the disturbance at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Georgetown yesterday afternoon.”
There was a wave of laughter since every reporter in the room had swarmed over Georgetown, interviewing everyone within ten blocks of the Barnes & Noble. Steve Olson, the manager, had closed the store and stood out on the sidewalk to take their questions. It had been a special report weaving in and out of regular programming throughout the evening, some of the speculation rivaling the truth, which was strange enough.
Savich said, “The woman we arrested in the Barnes & Noble died at Washington Memorial Hospital at around midnight. An autopsy is scheduled for this morning.”
“Agent Savich, why an autopsy? Didn’t she die of bullet wounds?”
“Did you shoot her yourself?”
Savich said, “So far, our preliminary information is that her wounds weren’t fatal. Did she die from surgical complications? We’ll know today.”
“But she’s still dead. Hey, wait a minute. You think she was murdered?”
“How many times did you shoot her?”
“What did she do? Who was she?”
“Why did she run into the bookstore?”
“What’s her name?”
Savich finally held up his hand.
The room fell silent. “Her name was Pearl Elaine Compton. She was an established assassin, a very good one, according to our information, also a very long-lived one, given she was forty-one years old al the time of her death.
“She had three cohorts. One is dead, one is in the hospital, and the third is still at large. I’ll say it again—we’ll know the cause of her death today.
“As you might have heard, there was a lot of alarm and panic, all understandable, until one of the agents brought her down right after a teenage girl she was using as a shield was smart enough to bite Compton’s forearm and escape.
“It took two shots to bring the suspect down, shoulder and arm. She stayed down and we evacuated her to the hospital.
“No one else was hurt—no customers, no employees, no one in law enforcement.” He leaned even closer, cupped the mike between his hands. “The manager of the M Street Barnes & Noble is Steve Olson, a man I know personally. He was a great help at calming everyone down. He did complain to me, however, that they only now finished reshelving at least five hundred books.”
A bit of laughter. All of them were straining to get closer.
“What this all boils down to is that we escaped tragedy on this one. I sincerely hope my next visit to the bookstore will involve only a cup of tea and looking through the new best sellers. Okay does anyone have any questions?”
Every single hand shot in the air, voices already escalating. Savich gave them a look. He nodded to Mercer Jones, longtime crime reporter for the Washington Post. Mercer had planted a couple of stories for him over the years. Mercer said in his deep, plodding voice, “Agent Savich, why is the FBI involved in a shooting in Georgetown? Why not the Washington police? What’s really going on here? Why were you after this Pearl Compton?”
Mercer was good, bless him; Savich had always recognized it. Mercer had given him the perfect lead-in. Savich said, “Good questions. Let me give you some critical information.” He looked at Jimmy Maitland, who nodded.
“As you all know, Senator John James Abbott recently died in an automobile crash that was ruled accidental.” He paused. “We now believe it’s possible that Pearl Compton, the assassin who died last night, was involved in his death. We’ve reopened the case.”
No need to mention Rachael, and Mr. Maitland had agreed. After all, this performance was to protect her. Why kill her if the FBI already knew everything she knew? The media would go haywire, dig into all of it. They’d find Rachael, but it would take a while. Whoever in Senator Abbott’s family was behind it, they had to be afraid. Fear meant mistakes. As he expected, there was a moment of stunned silence, then pandemonium.
Milly Cranshaw, host of Night Lights on PBS, yelled out, “Agent Savich, the official ruling was that Senator Abbott had been drinking and he lost control of his car. You’re saying someone hired this woman to assassinate Senator Abbott? Who would do that? Why?”
Savich smiled at her. Trust Milly to load up with a half-dozen questions so he could pick and choose.
“Pearl Compton was hired to make it look like an accident?” added Thomas Black of CBS, bushy gray eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.
“What I’m saying is, we’re investigating whether Pearl Compton was involved.”
“But who would want to kill Senator Abbott?”
“Do you think it was a terrorist act?”
Mercer shouted out, “But no one took credit.”
Savich let the wave of questions flow over him. Many voices he recognized, but soon it became a cacophony, and they were beginning to argue with one another.
Time to bring it to a stop. Savich raised his hand. The room quieted.
“We’re investigating everyone involved in Senator Abbott’s life, both personal and professional.”
“But what information do you have that raised doubt his death was an accident?” yelled Bert Mintz from Fox.
“We believe Senator Abbott had not taken a single drink for at least eighteen months before his death. And for eighteen months, he had not driven a car, either. We have a good deal of information in our ongoing investigation that we are not prepared to make public at this time.” He knew what he’d just said would be his big sound bite.
Savich turned away in the two seconds of stunned silence, something he didn’t realize was possible, then, of course, came more shouted questions.
Slowly, he paused, turned back. He said, “I will keep you updated as our investigation continues. Thank you.”
Savich stepped away from the podium and walked off the dais amid the cacophony of voices, Jimmy Maitland on his heels. His boss was smart. No way was Mr. Maitland going to face that rabid pack.
Savich, Sherlock, and Maitland stood in the wing, listening to the questions being flung in their general direction. Director Mueller shut them down with his usual polite efficiency.
Maitland said to Savich, “We’re putting the FBI’s credibility on the line here, Savich.” He plowed his fingers through his crew cut.
“We all agreed it’s our best shot at protecting Rachael and getting to the truth.”
Maitland nodded, then laughed. “The looks on their faces. I thought old Jerry Webber from the Post was going to fall out of his chair. That was some bombshell.”
Maitland sighed. “It’s still really tough for me to accept that someone killed Jimmy. I never noticed he’d stopped drinking, but then I only saw him every couple of months. Rachael is completely sure about this?”
Savich nodded.
Maitland said, “You know the media will discover her in no time now they’re motivated. They’ll be camping out on the Abbott front yard. Like you said, the announcement should protect her from any more attempts on her life. Clean it up, Savich, clean it up fast.”
Director Mueller repeated what Maitland had said. “Take care of it, Savich. Quickly. The president is very concerned.” He smiled at Sherlock and left, three of his staff sur
rounding him.
Sherlock asked Maitland, “Did Senator Abbott tell you about his daughter, sir?”
“Yes, he was very happy, but he didn’t tell me too much about her background. He seemed thrilled to have found her. His spirits were good.” Maitland shook his head. “But then six weeks later, he’s dead. This is a deep black snake pit, boyo. The director’s right, it needs to be settled once and for all.”
“Soon, I hope,” Savich said. “Why don’t you come over to my house this evening, sir. You can meet Rachael Janes Abbott.”
“Sounds good. How about Dr. MacLean? Any updates?”
Savich smiled. “We’ve got some good leads there. In fact, if you’ll excuse us, sir, we need to follow up on something.” Savich, holding Sherlock’s hand, walked off, leaving Maitland to stare after him and shake his head. He was struck by a sharp memory of Savich’s dad, Buck Savich, the wild cowboy who caught more bad guys than he had in his time. He remembered being in a bar in Dallas with Buck once when a paunchy guy in black leather came strutting in to pick a fight. He picked Buck, the fool. Maitland smiled when he thought of the guy stretched out on his back on the barroom floor, moaning.
He looked forward to meeting Jimmy’s daughter. What did Jimmy’s ex-wife, Jacqueline, and her daughters think about Rachael?
THIRTY-TWO
Hart Senate Office Building Washington, D.C.
Jack shook Greg Nichols’s hand, showed him his creds, and all the while Nichols stared at Rachael, the look in his eye, to Jack’s mind, too interested. “It’s good to see you again, Rachael,” he said, and smiled, his voice too warm. When he shook her hand, he held it, his eyes on her face, on that braid.
Now this was unexpected. And Jack didn’t like it. Nichols cleared his throat and gave her that too-interested look again. He was tall, solid, fit, no fat that Jack could see. His tailored dark blue suit fit him well. His light brown hair was styled by a very talented pair of hands, and his teeth were as white as his shirt. He presented himself as a no-nonsense, rugged, supremely trustworthy man and had Rachael smiling back at him. Jack knew he was thirty-seven, and he wielded a good deal of power in his own right here on Capitol Hill. He even had enough juice to have gone from one top-dog master to another in under two weeks.
Nichols said, “I’m sorry but as I said when you called, Agent Crowne, I have very little free time this morning. Senator Jankel has a vote before noon and I must brief him.
“Let me say I was flabbergasted by the FBI press conference and their speculations about Senator Abbott’s tragic death. Do you ... do they ... really believe Senator Abbott was murdered, that his death was set up to look like an accident, and every local and federal agency was fooled?”
So you want to play, do you? Jack said, “That’s about the size of it, yes. There’s very little doubt at this point.”
Nichols sat down heavily behind his lovely mahogany desk, waved them both to the chairs in front. His back was to the window, naturally, with the sun flooding Jack’s and Rachael’s faces. Jack angled his chair, and Rachael did the same.
Jack looked around. “Nice digs.”
“Yes, these offices are among the finest. A senior senator has usually garnered enough influence over the years for a large office. As chairman of the Ways and Means Committee, Senator Jankel is a major spokesman for the party. You should see the senator’s office if this one impresses you.”
Jack said, “Do you enjoy being the power behind the throne, Mr. Nichols?”
An eyebrow went up. “Power, Agent Crowne? Do you know, I’ve never really thought of it that way. No, rather, I think of myself as a facilitator, a person who keeps things running smoothly, a person the senator can trust implicitly to implement his ideas, to prepare him for whatever demands come up. But I only do what he wants done. Now, enough about me. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Mr. Nichols, you knew Senator Abbott possibly better than anyone, including his brother and sister and Rachael.”
Nichols said, “That only makes sense since I worked closely with him for thirteen years before his death. As for Rachael, she only had weeks.” He shrugged. “His siblings ... well, here’s honesty for you— only the Abbott name tied them together. There were never any bonds of affection, any genuine love or caring—at least that’s how it always seemed to me. The senator’s father—I met the old man exactly once. He looked at me like I was a mutt. He was an imperious old buzzard with an iron fist. He died less than five months before his eldest son. I knew he and his son rarely spoke. Senator Abbott said only that he and his father didn’t see eye to eye about his career choice. I think that was an understatement. I thought it was probably a good deal more.
“When Rachael came into his life, not long after his father’s death, I believe Senator Abbott hoped to get closer to his siblings, for Rachael’s sake—wanted all of them to come together again as a family, but...” His voice hitched, his eyes blurred for a moment. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, it’s difficult ... I’ve just begun to accept his death, but now, to hear you say it wasn’t an accident, that some crazy person actually murdered him, I ...” He stopped, shook his head, looked down at his clasped hands on the desktop.
“How did you come into Senator Abbott’s orbit, Mr. Nichols?”
That brought his head up. “Call me Greg, please. Fact is, I met Senator Abbott when I was fresh out of law school, betwixt and between, I suppose you could say, uncertain what I wanted to do. I was sitting in the Big Raisin, an English pub and restaurant over on Platt Avenue, drinking a beer, wondering what I was doing here in Washington, of all places. I didn’t know anybody, didn’t have a single contact, and yet I’d taken the train down from New York to interview for a job that morning and was nursing a beer and thinking I was a great fool.
“Senator Abbott came in and sat down beside me, ordered a martini, two olives. He looked familiar, but I didn’t realize who he was. He seemed like a nice businessman, friendly, passing the time while waiting for his lunch guest. He asked me what a young guy with a bad haircut was doing sitting at a bar in the middle of the day, and why I wasn’t out building bridges or teaching children math.
“I laughed, told him it was all happenstance I was even in Washington, in that particular restaurant, drinking that particular beer, which I should point out was warm.
“He rolled his eyes, said, Ah, it’s English.’ We continued to talk, he kept asking me questions. Another man came in maybe twenty minutes later, evidently the fellow he’d been waiting for. I didn’t realize it then, but it was the Speaker of the House. Senator Abbott got up and handed me his card. When I realized who he was, I tell you, I nearly choked on my beer. He even shook my hand, introduced himself. Then he told me to call him later that afternoon, he wanted to speak to me about a possible career change.
“I told him I didn’t even have a career to change.
“He laughed, told me I wouldn’t have to concern myself with former employers then, would I?
“I went to see him the next morning. He hired me. Over the years I took on responsibilities, I gained his trust. We became close.” Nichols smiled. “I was his spearhead.” Again, he paused, eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, but I know you understand, Rachael.”
“Well, I certainly understand my own pain,” she said. “I expect I’ll feel it for a good long time.”
Nichols glanced at an abstract painting on the far wall, huge red flowers, looking ready to explode. He said, “I certainly understand that. Senator Abbott had charisma in spades. It’s a natural talent, one you really can’t learn. It’s certainly not Senator Jankel’s strong suit, but we’re trying.” He gave them a self-deprecating smile. “Please don’t spread that around, all right? I really don’t want another career change now.”
“Of course not,” Rachael said.
Nichols cocked his head to the side, looked thoughtful. “It’s been solong since I’ve had these concerns, I’d forgotten. There’s so much to learn. Believe me, Senator Jankel’
s likes and dislikes, his beliefs, what’s really important to him, they’re very different from Senator Abbott’s. What else can I tell you, Agent Crowne?”
Jack said, “Since I’m sure your time is running short, Greg, you could cut the bullshit, that’d be good.”
Nicholas jumped to his feet, planted his hands on his desk. “What is it you’re implying, Agent Crowne?”
“Greg,” Rachael said, “you and I are both guilty of not telling the investigators the truth. Both of us know Jimmy killed that little girl because he told us individually. And we both know he hadn’t had a drink or driven a car for eighteen months because of it. Both of us remained silent. Neither of us wanted to ruin his good name. Of course, it might have led to your own involvement in the cover-up, but that’s over now.
“I’ve told everyone the truth. It’s time you did, as well. All of it.”
He sat down again, looked at them over his steepled fingers. “When I spoke to the investigators, I did not cover up that the senator had stopped drinking and driving, I simply didn’t emphasize it to the police because I didn’t want the hit-and-run accident eighteen months ago to come out now that Senator Abbott was dead anyway.
“Evidently, the FBI believes the senator was murdered, because he’d stopped drinking and driving. I suppose this was based on what you told them, Rachael?”
“Yes.”
To be honest, that sounds rather feeble to me, surely not enough to make the FBI reopen the case. There must be more.” He looked pointedly at Jack, who only shook his head.
Nichols continued. “I have given this a lot of thought, and I don’t believe he was murdered. No, that doesn’t make sense. I believe he committed suicide. Of course, I haven’t publicized that.
“And then you came to tell me you were going to make your father’s confession for him, you were going to tell the world about it.”
“Yes, that was what I was going to say, what I very well still might say.”
Nichols said, “Do you want to know why he told me he was going public, Rachael?”
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