Insatiable Appetites

by Stuart Woods

  A man wearing a badge on his belt approached their table. “Excuse me, gentlemen, can you tell me if you saw anyone go into the men’s room recently?”

  “My back is to the men’s room,” Elton said politely.

  Bruce looked at Elton, then at the police officer. “No, I didn’t,” he replied. The officer moved on to the next table, then he came back. “Excuse me, sir, but someone at another table says that you went into the men’s room.”

  “Well, that isn’t what you asked me, is it?” Elton said irritably. “I went in there, perhaps half an hour ago, urinated, washed my hands, and came back to my table.”

  “Is that so?” the detective asked Bruce.

  “It is. Did something happen in the men’s room?”

  “Someone needed medical attention.”

  “I saw no one else when I was in there,” Elton said. “I hope that’s helpful.”

  The officer thanked them, then left the table, apparently satisfied.

  Later, on the way out of the hotel, Elton dropped his soiled handkerchief into a trash bin, then got into the waiting Bentley.

  “If you don’t mind, Elton, I’ll walk,” Bruce said. “It’s a nice evening, and I like to window-shop on the way home from here, to see what the competition is offering.”

  “Of course,” Elton said. “I’ll be going home first thing in the morning, but I’ll be in touch.”

  The two men shook hands, and the Bentley drove away.

  As Bruce started to walk away, the police detective who had spoken to them earlier appeared at his side. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can you give me the name of the gentleman who was dining with you?”

  “His name is Elton,” Bruce replied.

  The man wrote down the name in a notebook. “Do you think he might have noticed that something might have been amiss in the men’s room?”

  “Well, he certainly has his wits about him, but he’s in his late eighties, and somewhat reclusive. I doubt if he’s been in a public men’s room for the past thirty years.”

  “Thank you,” the man said, and went away.

  Bruce wondered why he had not asked for his name and why he had given the policeman only Elton’s first name.

  Bruce Willard woke at his usual 6:30 AM, brushed his teeth, then went to his little kitchen and made coffee, poured orange juice, and toasted himself a muffin, as he did every day of the week, except weekends, when he made himself scrambled eggs and bacon.

  He retrieved the Washington Post and the New York Times from his front doorstep, then went upstairs and took his tray back to bed. At the stroke of seven AM he switched on the TV to the morning CBS TV show and watched as he ate his muffin and sipped his coffee. He finished with the orange juice just as the network handed off to the local news show. A beautiful young woman gazed into the camera and read from a teleprompter:

  “Last night at the swank Georgetown Four Seasons Hotel, a well-known lobbyist and security expert, Creed Harker, died in the men’s room of the hotel’s restaurant, apparently at his own hand.” They switched to tape of the police officer Bruce had spoken with the evening before. “This is only preliminary,” the detective was saying, “but we found Mr. Harker’s body locked in a men’s room stall. He had received a gunshot wound that appears to have been self-inflicted. We found a loaded semiautomatic pistol on the floor beside his body, and his fingerprints were on the gun. A single shot had been fired.”

  Bruce gulped his orange juice. This could not be happening.

  • • •

  At police headquarters, Detective Avery Morris was called into his captain’s office, along with his partner and their lieutenant.

  “Are we ready to wrap this up?” the captain asked.

  The lieutenant turned to Morris. “Avery? Bring us up to date.”

  Morris nodded. “We processed the men’s room last night and found nothing to indicate the presence of anyone but Creed Harker in the stall. The gun contained only Harker’s fingerprints. The medical examiner did the autopsy early this morning, and he reports that Harker’s wound was consistent with a self-inflicted gunshot.”

  “Well, that’s it,” the captain said, “in the absence of any other evidence.”

  Morris removed a plastic evidence bag containing a handkerchief from his pocket. “We did come up with one thing that I haven’t been able to explain. We searched the various trash cans in the lobby, which was routine, and just outside the front door we found a man’s handkerchief, neatly folded.”

  “Anything odd about it?”

  “It’s made of a very fine linen and appears to have some age on it. It had been starched and ironed and it had oily stains that might be gun oil, as if it had been used to wipe a gun clean of fingerprints. It bears no manufacturer’s label and no laundry marks, indicating to me that it was custom-made and had only been laundered and ironed in the home.”

  “Well, shit,” the captain said, “I was hoping that we could announce to the press that this case is closed. No indication of who it might have belonged to?”

  “There was an elderly man sitting near the men’s room, who left the hotel by that entrance. He might have thrown it away as he left the hotel.”

  “Who was he?”

  Morris read from his notebook. “A Mr. Elton, apparently.”

  “Did anyone see this Mr. Elton deposit the handkerchief in the trash can?”

  “There are no witnesses to that effect.”

  “So, it could have been deposited there by anyone leaving or arriving at the hotel at any time?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Well,” the captain said, “in my book it’s not evidence, since it has no identifying marks and no witness who can connect it with any person.”

  “I’m inclined to agree, Captain,” Morris said. “I just thought I ought to mention it.”

  “What about the gun Harker used? Was it registered to him?”

  “No, sir, the serial number tells us it was sold to the U.S. Army in 1949. It’s a .45 Colt, of a size that makes it issued to general officers. Army records are not computerized back that far, and I have no reason to think that a paper trail exists. However, Harker’s secretary told us that he collected weapons of various kinds, and it could very well have been part of his collection.”

  “Okay, we’ve pursued this case to its natural conclusion,” the captain said. “Death was by self-inflicted gunshot wound, using the man’s own gun. I’ll announce it to the press at my noon media conference. Any objections from anybody?”

  Nobody spoke.

  Stone sat at his desk and looked at his wristwatch. It was mid-morning, and Mary Ann Bianchi had not phoned. She was the first step in setting up everything, and he itched to call her to find out what was going on. Before he could do that, his attention was drawn to a bound document on his desk, titled Journal, Volume I, which lay on the first of Eduardo’s red leather-bound, handwritten volumes. That was fast, he thought. Anna Fontana had been working for only two days in the office next door.

  Stone flipped open the binder. The first entry was dated January 1939.

  I met, at his request, with M.L. in an apartment on Broome Street, downtown. The place was nicely furnished, but it did not appear to be lived in, just used for meetings. I had just arrived when C.L. joined us, in the company of two men who appeared to be bodyguards.

  M.L. immediately asked me my age; when I told him I was nineteen, he at first seemed shocked, then intrigued. He began asking me questions about myself, to which I gave only terse answers. C.L. looked at me in disbelief and seemed ready to dismiss me, until I pointed out that I had been invited there. I had had no previous business relationship with either of these men, nor anyone who knew them, to my knowledge. I did not know who had introduced us.

  M.L. took a new tack, asking my advice about the price of genuine scotch whiskey. I told him I coul
d supply him with twenty cases immediately and named a price. C.L. laughed and said that was less than the wholesale price. I told him I would be happy to sell it to him at the wholesale price. M.L. thought this amusing and pointed out to C.L. that Prohibition was long gone, and scotch was plentiful at the wholesale price. He asked me if I could supply more than twenty cases, and I replied that I could, but not immediately; it might take another week or two. M.L. accepted my price and asked where he could collect the shipment. I told him that I would require payment of the entire sum in advance and that I would deliver it to any local address he wished within twenty-four hours.

  C.L. objected to this arrangement and asked me why they should trust me. I told him that whoever had recommended me to them must have thought me trustworthy, and since I was clearly the weaker hand in the transaction, I would need advance payment to protect my position and to be of further use to them. I said that if this was not satisfactory to all concerned, we could forget the whole business and that I would sell my scotch elsewhere. I thanked them for their time and made to leave.

  M.L. stopped me. He opened a briefcase and counted out the sum in large notes. I asked him if he would like a receipt, but he said that my beating heart was his receipt and that if I did not deliver on time it would be removed and delivered to him. I agreed to this arrangement, and he instructed me to deliver the whiskey to the basement of the building we were in. Suffice it to say, I was motivated to make the delivery on time, and M.L. and I agreed to do further business on the same terms.

  Stone thought that M.L. and C.L. might well be Meyer Lansky and Charlie Luciano, and that Eduardo must have been selling them stolen scotch whiskey.

  Then Joan buzzed him and said Mary Ann was on the line. Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Mary Ann,” he said. “Where are we in all this?”

  “I told Dolce that you needed to meet with the two of us about some business with the estate.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “She agreed to have us for lunch at Papa’s house Monday at one PM.”

  “I should think that’s enough time to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “She wanted to meet today, but I thought Dino would need more time than that. I mean, this is all very complicated.”

  “Yes, it is certainly that. I’d better get to work on my end right now.”

  “Can I ride out there with you on Monday?”

  “Of course. I’ll have Fred pick you up at eleven forty-five.”

  “At my office, please.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Stone, I’m frightened.”

  “I understand your concern,” Stone replied, “but I think this will be our only opportunity to bring this off without public notice.”

  “I suppose this will be expensive.”

  “Breathtakingly so. I can’t tell you how much now, but brace yourself.”

  “All right, I’m braced,” Mary Ann said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Stone hung up and called Dino. “Mary Ann and I are going to lunch at Eduardo’s house on Monday at one. Is that going to work for you?”

  “I can make it work,” Dino said.

  “I’m concerned about Pietro.”

  “And well you should be.” Someone interrupted Dino. “I’ll call you when everything is set and run you through it.”

  Stone called Mike Freeman and told him what he needed.

  “I can do that,” Mike said.

  “And no freebies, Mike. Bill this to me, and I’ll see that it’s paid in full immediately. No discounts, either.”

  “As you wish, Stone.”

  Stone hung up, satisfied that all the bases would be covered, but still, he was filled with dread. He did not wish to be in the same room with Dolce, not even with Mary Ann there, but now he was committed, and he would have to go through with it. And he would have all weekend to worry about it.

  Elton Hills had an early lunch in his son’s study and watched C-SPAN, which was featuring a live session of the House of Representatives. He watched as the House minority leader spoke against a bill sponsored by the other party. Elton knew that face from the newspapers he had begun reading, and he knew the man’s voice from the tape Bruce Willard had played him of the meeting that Evan had attended and, later, exposed. The voice grated on his nerves.

  Elton looked up the number of the House in the phone book and, when it was answered, asked for the office of Representative Evan Hills.

  “Good morning,” he said to the young man who answered. “My name is Elton Hills. I am the father of Congressman Hills, and I wonder if I might speak to his chief of staff?”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Hills.”

  He was kept on hold for about a minute, then a young woman came on the line. “Mr. Hills?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Elaine Tozer. I’m Congressman Hills’s chief of staff. May I express the sincere condolences of all of us in his office on your terrible loss?”

  “Thank you, Miss Tozer,” Elton said. “That is very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Actually, there is. I wonder if I could come to the Capitol and see my son’s office? I’d like to know where he worked.”

  “Of course you may, Mr. Hills. I’d be delighted to receive you here and take you to his office.”

  “Is there a room number?”

  She gave it to him. “How will you be arriving?”

  “In my car, with a driver.”

  She told him how to get to the garage and said she would arrange a visitor’s parking pass. “I’ll be happy to meet you in the garage and bring you to Evan’s office. When would you like to come?”

  “Would an hour from now be all right?”

  “Of course. I’ll meet you in the garage at that time.”

  Elton thanked her, then he packed his things, left the housekeepers a note and a hundred-dollar bill, and went to his waiting car.

  Elaine Tozer was a small, trim woman in her forties, dressed in a business suit. She greeted him warmly and led him to the elevator. Once aboard, she clipped a plastic tag to his coat pocket that read: VIP GUEST. “That will get you through security and anywhere you want to go in the building,” she said.

  She kept up a running chatter as they got off the elevator and walked to Evan’s office. She took him into the handsome room. “I’m so glad you could come today,” she said. “Tomorrow we have to dismantle the office and prepare it for an appointed successor, who will serve out Evan’s term.”

  “Do you think I could spend some time here alone?” Elton asked.

  “Of course. We won’t be needing the room this afternoon. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’d just like to sit here quietly and commune with the spirit of my son.”

  “I’ll leave you alone, then.” She left the room.

  Elton had a look around the office and found it much like his son’s study. There were no photographs of him with politicians or celebrities as he might have expected to find in a politician’s office. He sat down at the desk and idly opened a drawer or two, and in the right-hand top drawer he found something he had not seen for a long time: it was the small 9mm semiautomatic Walther pistol that his elder son had bought somewhere. It had apparently been the World War II sidearm of some German officer. The elder boy must have given it to Evan, he thought.

  As he held the gun, a television set across the room came to life, apparently on a timer. The channel was C-SPAN, and the camera was directed at the floor of the House of Representatives, where a man stood at a podium, speaking. He recognized the Speaker from his pictures in the newspaper. A thought came to him. He went to the door leading to the reception area and locked it, then returned to the desk.

  He found a book about the Capitol building, and inside it, a plan o
f the House wing. He noted that Evan’s office was quite near the House floor. The route from one to the other was simple.

  Elton field-stripped the weapon, and cleaned it, as he had the .45, then he wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it into his coat pocket, thinking hard. He glanced back at the TV set; the House was adjourning. It was a wild chance, but as long as he was in the building and armed, why not?

  Elton found a roll of tape in his son’s desk and walked to the rear door of the office, which opened into a hallway. He opened the door, pressed back the spring-loaded bolt, and taped it into place. He looked both ways up and down the hall, then let himself out and pulled the door closed behind him. He reckoned he had a walk of less than a minute. His VIP GUEST pass got him deference from everyone who might have questioned his presence. After all, he was an ordinary-looking elderly man in a tailor-made suit—not the sort to attract interest.

  As he reached the House chamber the doors opened and people began to stream into the hallway, the session having ended. He stood by the door and looked inside; he saw the minority leader standing in the aisle, talking with some people, then the man left the others and walked toward the main doors.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Speaker,” Elton said to him.

  The man’s eyes went to the pass, then to his visitor’s face. “Yes? Can I help you, sir?”

  “I am Elton Hills, the father of Congressman Evan Hills.” He watched the man’s expression change from solicitous to stone cold. “I have no time for you,” he said.

  “I have a message for you from my son. He asked me to deliver it in person. Is there somewhere we could be alone for a moment?”

  The man looked annoyed. “This way,” he said, leading Elton through the doors and making a turn. They appeared to be in the House cloakroom. The man led him to a curtained alcove and pulled the velvet drapes shut. “Now,” he said, “what is it?”

  Elton gave him a little push that caused him to fall into a chair.

  “Now, see here, Mr. Hills.”

  Then Elton had the gun in the man’s mouth. “This is my son’s message,” he said, and pulled the trigger. The pistol was not as noisy as the .45 had been. Elton quickly wiped the weapon and saw that the man’s fingerprints and blood were put on it, then he turned and walked back to the main doors and left with the last of the congressmen leaving the session.