“Don’t call him that. We’re not on a chummy, first-name basis with this dirtbag.”
Wonk blinked. “Sorry. Anyway...Mr. Bracey?” Seeing no objection, he continued. “Mr. Bracey was initially identified by both witnesses as the one who actually shot the store owner. In their initial statements to the police, they said the shooting was entirely unprovoked; the victim had already surrendered the contents of his cash register.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was a gentleman in his forties, an immigrant from Japan, with a wife and four children. The Post clipping in the file reports that Mr. Takahashi was a beloved local resident, very hard-working. He was a huge baseball fan and quite active sponsoring Little League teams. His family and the community were absolutely devastated.... Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. Continue.”
“When Mr. Bracey came to trial, neither of the eyewitnesses would testify. You’ll see a note near the back of the file, written by an assistant prosecutor who comments about likely witness tampering. But without their testimony, there was no case.”
Hunter didn’t say anything.
“There is nothing further in his official record, not until the Copeland attack. Believe it or not, Dylan, that was his first criminal conviction.”
Hunter flipped open the file folder. Bracey’s photo was paper-clipped inside the cover.
Hollow cheeks, thin lips, dirty-blond hair, empty eyes the color of ice.
“So, that makes this piece of crap a ‘first-time offender.’”
“As far as the courts and the DOC are concerned—yes. And that is probably why they admitted him into that rehabilitation program.... That is the extent of what I learned, but there is more detail in the file about his family, past associates, addresses, and so on.”
“That should be helpful.” Hunter took a last look at the photo, burning the image into his memory, then slapped the cover shut on it and slid the folder aside.
He flipped open the second file. Saw a broad, leering face with dark curly hair and a wispy mustache staring back at him from black shark’s eyes.
“That next fellow is John Joseph Valenti. ‘Jay-Jay’ is his street name. Anyway, Joh— Mr. Valenti hails from a nice Philadelphia working-class family. His father is a heavy-machine operator. They all moved to the Virginia suburbs ten years ago, when the builder for whom his father works landed a major paving contract in the District.”
Wonk paused. “Believe me, Dylan, this one is a real weirdo. I had a brief look at his social services report. When he was a child—a really young child—he liked to hurt animals. They caught him drowning a litter of kittens in a stream. Slowly, one at a time. He was only six years old. Can you imagine that?”
“Indeed I can. What else?”
“He was caught...exposing himself to other children.”
“No need to be embarrassed, Wonk.”
“Well, I just find that positively creepy. And not just to children. Later on, to a neighbor, an adult female living in the house next door. He stood naked in front of his window, doing...things. He was only ten.”
“Precocious little bastard, wasn’t he?”
Wonk winced. Dylan had forgotten that he didn’t like raw language.
“Anyway, there was more of that sort of thing as Mr. Valenti entered his teen years. So he was placed in a psychological counseling program. However, there were no legal consequences when he stopped attending.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
“Things grew considerably more serious when he was accused of molesting a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“His first known rape?”
The researcher’s plump cheeks reddened. “Well. Not rape, exactly. It was—what do they call it?—a kind of a fetish assault.”
“Say no more. I’ll read the file. So, what happened to him?”
“Nothing happened. As with Mr. Bracey, nothing of consequence ever happened to this individual, either. In this case, the girl was too embarrassed to pursue charges. Or perhaps it was her parents who were embarrassed; the report is ambiguous on that point. But Mr. Valenti—he was fifteen at the time—was urged again to seek counseling. He did not.”
“I am reeling in shocked incredulity. Anything else?”
“Only rumors. Very disturbing rumors, however. During the summer that he turned sixteen, Roberta Gifford, a college coed who lived on his block, went missing. Her body was discovered a week later, two miles away. She had been tortured...with various objects.”
He fell silent for a moment. Hunter stared down at the shark’s eyes in the photo.
“He was questioned about it,” Wonk continued, “but nothing came of it. He had an alibi, and so the case is still listed as unsolved.”
“What was his alibi?”
Wonk pointed at the third file folder. “Him.”
Hunter looked at it. Drew it closer. Flipped it open to the photo.
Older man, early forties.
Strong face. Large, hawkish nose.
Longish, slack sandy hair, tossed back roughly.
Eyes like an overcast November sky.
Hunter tapped the face in the photo with his forefinger. “This,” he said softly, “is the one who interests me most.”
“Adrian Dalton Wulfe,” Wonk announced. “He had hired Mr. Valenti to help him with home renovations at the time of the girl’s disappearance. Or so he claimed to the authorities.” Hunter didn’t say anything, so he went on. “And not long afterward, he also hired Mr. Bracey to assist with the yard work. That, apparently, is how the trio met.”
Hunter rocked slowly in his chair, holding the file folder level with his eyes.
“Dylan?”
Hunter remained silent. Rocked. Studied the photo before him.
“Why have you asked me to research these individuals?”
Silence.
“I gather that this is all about Dr. Copeland’s suicide this weekend. Am I correct?”
Silence.
“I assume that you intend to write about it, then?”
He stopped rocking. Lowered the file folder and met his researcher’s eyes.
“Among other things,” said Dylan Lee Hunter.
SEVEN
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Monday, September 1, 6:45 p.m.
They stood in the hallway of the funeral home. Susanne Copeland, clutching a tissue, stared at the open door of the parlor just ahead of them, on the left. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen; her dark-red, shoulder-length hair bordered a pretty face now lined with pain and fatigue, a face that seemed to have aged ten years in the past three days.
She breathed deeply. “Okay. I guess it’s time.”
Annie took her arm gently and they began to walk slowly toward the room, followed closely by about a dozen of Susie and Arthur Copeland’s closest family members.
The funeral director who had greeted them at the building entrance had walked ahead, and now stood to one side of the parlor door. On the opposite side of the entrance a small, marble-topped table supported a spray of white roses, the visitors’ register, and a golden pen. The director smiled sadly as they approached, his hands clasped before him like a maitre d’.
“Mrs. Copeland,” he said, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder, “please take all the private time you need, and let me know if you require anything, anything at all.”
She blinked and swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”
He moved to greet the relatives following them. She glanced at Annie, then at the door yawning open before her, as if it were the entrance to hell. Annie gave her arm a supportive squeeze. Susie took another deep breath, let it out, and they entered.
Soft string music was playing over the intercom—some banal, bittersweet religious hymn. She felt Susie’s arm go rigid at the first sight of the casket. Illuminated by hidden lights, it rested in a recessed alcove to their right. It was a gleaming bronze thing lying on a bier draped in cascades of rich white fabric, surr
ounded by what seemed to be a solid wall of floral wreaths and displays. The sickly sweet scent of hundreds of flowers was almost overpowering.
Arthur Copeland’s face and folded hands were visible against the white satin of the casket’s open lid.
As they neared, Susie’s pace slowed; then her steps became halting, each punctuated by a little gasp. The gasps became sobs. She sank onto the kneeling pad at the side of her husband’s body.
“Oh God. Oh God. Oh Arthur!” she cried out, her voice high and thin. She reached out a trembling hand, touched his sleeve. “Oh Arthur!”
Annie found hot tears running down her own cheeks. She knelt beside her friend, wrapped her arm around her quaking shoulders. Susie turned into her, and they hugged and cried together.
Annie didn’t know how long they remained like that. She became dully aware of the family members around them, sobbing and praying.
Eventually, Susie regained her composure. Annie helped the young widow to her feet and then stepped aside to let her lean in close to her husband’s body.
It was a cliché, she thought, but Arthur looked as if he were merely asleep. The man’s face, so anguished during the past two years, was serene now—unlined, unmarked, bespectacled, just as it had been earlier in his life. She had dreaded seeing his body tonight almost as much as Susie had; but she marveled now that there was no sign of the gunshot wound that he had inflicted to his own skull. Clearly, the funeral director was as skilled at his own reconstructive craft as Dr. Arthur Copeland had been at his. At just forty-four, Arthur had been one the nation’s most renowned plastic surgeons.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” Susie said, shaking her head. “Oh, Arthur, why?” She touched his clasped hands, flinched a bit—the shock of the hard coldness, Annie realized—but then let her palm rest on them. She touched his wedding ring with her forefinger. Then she leaned her face over his, and began to talk to him so quietly that Annie could no longer hear what she was saying. As she spoke, she patted his loose blond strands. Smoothed the lapel of his charcoal suit. Ran her palm down his tie.
Annie had to turn away. Each of her friend’s tender gestures felt like the thrust of a knife.
At last, Susie bent and kissed Arthur’s forehead. She straightened and hesitated, swaying slightly.
“Susie dear, would you like to sit down, now?”
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes dazed; she was beyond exhaustion. “Yes. Thanks. And maybe a little water.”
They took seats in a line of chairs positioned not far from the casket. Annie fetched a paper cup of water from a cooler in the corner and found a box of tissues. The rest of the family members joined them, consoling each other quietly as they took their seats. After a while, the director entered, closing the door behind him, and approached.
“Mrs. Copeland, many of your friends and family have already gathered outside. Just let me know when you feel ready to receive them.”
“I’m ready. Ready as I can be.”
He smiled gently. “He obviously was a beloved man. We haven’t had this many visitors here for a very long time.”
He returned to open the door, and people began to file in slowly. They first approached the body to kneel and pray, then turned to the waiting family, most of whom stood to receive them. Annie stood beside Susie, who remained seated. The visitors, some in tears, leaned over to hug her and whisper the painfully trite things that people always struggle to say to those who have lost a loved one. Once past the receiving line, many stayed for a while, taking seats in the rows of padded folding chairs that filled the rest of the parlor.
Annie was not surprised to recognize and greet a number of those filing past her: They were co-workers from Langley. Susie was a long-time European analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence, and Arthur had worked for the Agency on a consulting basis for over a dozen years. She was astonished, though, when the CIA director himself entered, flanked by several top Agency people, including Grant Garrett. Nobody had told her about this. But then again, they wouldn’t announce in advance the itinerary of such a group. She knew the two OS security officers flanking the door; many more would be outside, forming a protective cordon around the building and the armored limos.
The intelligence chiefs paused as a group at the casket for a solemn moment, then made their way to Susie. Each of them hugged her and expressed sadness that Annie knew was heartfelt. When they reached her, they greeted her quietly and by name. Garrett, his face stony, nodded, said a terse hello, and gave her a brief hug before moving on. After they passed through the receiving line, they wandered among the seated guests, exchanging handshakes with some of those whom they recognized and—she had to smile to herself—pointedly ignoring others whose identities it would be unwise to acknowledge.
Susie stared at them in wonder. “I never knew how many friends we had there.”
Annie leaned close to her ear. “Whatever its faults, you can say this for Langley: It’s family.”
Her eyes roamed the endless line still wending its way into the parlor. Then rested on a man framed in the doorway.
He was not exceptionally tall, but his lean physique made him look so. He had an arresting face: dark, curly hair and craggy features—a somewhat broad nose, gaunt cheeks, and eyes that moved constantly and seemed to be taking in everything. Upon entering, he glanced at the two OS men at the door. Then his eyes wandered and rested on the Agency bosses circulating among the seated visitors. She saw or imagined some fleeting expression cross his face before he turned and moved toward the casket.
Susie asked her for another cup of water, so she headed back to the water cooler. As she returned, she noticed that the man was standing over Arthur Copeland’s body. He did not kneel; he simply remained there a long time, motionless, hands jammed in the pockets of his long, dark cloth coat. Finally, he turned away to join the procession approaching the receiving line. His glance met hers and she looked away quickly, as if she’d been caught.
When the man reached Susie, he leaned over and took her hand in both of his.
“Mrs. Copeland,” he said in a soft baritone, “I join your husband’s many friends and admirers in sharing your grief.”
“Thank you so much.... Forgive me, Arthur knew so many people. You are—?”
“I’m sorry. Dylan Hunter.”
“And how did you know my husband, Mr. Hunter?”
He hesitated, just an instant. “I met him in a professional capacity.”
“You’re a doctor, then?.... Oh!” She glanced knowingly toward the CIA chiefs, now heading toward the exit. “I think I understand—”
“I’m a journalist, you see,” he interrupted smoothly, “and your husband was helpful to me, once. With some medical research. It was for an important story that I was working on. I regret that I never had the opportunity to tell him just how grateful I was. I came by to pay my respects to him and to you. He was a—” The man paused. “He was someone I can’t forget.”
“Thank you. It’s so kind of you to tell me that. Arthur touched so many people.”
He smiled at that. He lifted Susie’s hand gently in both of his and kissed it.
Then he turned to her.
“Hello. Dylan Hunter. I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”
His eyes were hazel-green and locked onto hers. She suddenly felt awkward.
“Actually, I’m just a friend. Of Susie’s. I mean—of course, it is a loss. A great loss to all of us. Thank you.”
Her words felt clumsy, but he nodded, still holding her eyes. She suddenly felt aware of her body. Found her hand moving instinctively toward her hair before she caught herself and extended it to him instead.
He took her hand. His was big and warm and strong. He held hers and he held her eyes.
Then he released her hand and her eyes and was gone.
She watched his receding figure as he strode toward the exit. He wore black, low-cut boots. His long, loose cloth coat tapered down from his shoulders, falling cape-like
behind him.
ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA
Tuesday, September 2, 11:35 a.m.
The slow procession of cars, led by the hearse and the black limos bearing the family members, rolled down the narrow, meandering lane through the cemetery. It pulled up and stopped beside a broad, open-sided tent. Not far away, beneath a stand of several weeping willows, a pile of rich brown earth amid the gray headstones marked Arthur Copeland’s final resting place.
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