by Stuart Woods
“Do you carry a handkerchief?”
“Yes.”
“May I see the one you’re carrying now?”
Bruce reached into a hip pocket and handed him the folded handkerchief. It was of white cotton, with blue edging.
Morris inspected it. “Where did you buy this?”
“At Brooks Brothers.”
“Do you wash and iron your own handkerchiefs?”
“No, they go to the laundry, along with my shirts. I must say, Sergeant, that all this is mystifying. What is it you are pursuing?”
“A murderer.”
“Well, Elton Hills is not a murderer, and neither am I.”
Morris handed him back the handkerchief.
“Where does Elton Hills live?”
“In Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“Yes.” Bruce produced his address book and read it out. “I should tell you that Elton doesn’t answer his phone. You’ll hear a beep, and you can leave a message, but I wouldn’t expect a call back.”
“Do you expect to hear from him soon?”
“I have no reason to.”
“Then why were you and Mr. Hills dining together?”
“He called me and said he wanted to see his son’s house in Georgetown. I showed him the house and took him to dinner.”
“Was he staying at the Four Seasons?”
“No, he stayed at his son’s house and went home the following morning.”
“Do you know when he left town?”
“I had a call from him, thanking me for dinner, at around one PM yesterday. He said he was back at home.”
“How long a drive would that be?”
“Two or three hours, depending on traffic.”
“Does Mr. Hills drive?”
“No, I doubt if he has a current license. He has a servant who drove him to D.C.”
“Well, I’m going to have to speak to Mr. Hills.”
“Good luck with that,” Bruce said. “Are we done, Sergeant?”
“Yes, Mr. Willard. I may call you again.”
“I’m right across the street, about six doors down.” Bruce gave him a card. “Are you interested in antiques?”
“Only in old weapons,” Morris said.
The two men shook hands, Bruce got out, and Morris drove away. Bruce continued down the street, not looking back.
Avery Morris went back to his office and called Elton Hills’s number. When he heard the beep, he said, “Mr. Hills, my name is Avery Morris. I’m a Washington, D.C., police officer. Will you please call me? It concerns the death of your son.” He hung up.
Late in the afternoon, Morris’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Sergeant Morris.”
“Sergeant, my name is Horace Pettigrew. I’m an attorney in Philadelphia, and I represent Mr. Elton Hills. Mr. Hills doesn’t take phone calls from strangers, and he asked me to speak to you. You called about his son’s death? How can we help you?”
Morris had half expected something like this. “Mr. Pettigrew, is Mr. Hills acquainted with a man named Creed Harker?”
“Sergeant, Mr. Hills isn’t acquainted with anybody. He has been a recluse for close to forty years.”
“How about the minority leader of the House of Representatives?”
“Sergeant, Mr. Hills’s circle of acquaintances is limited to his domestic employees and two or three members of my law firm. Everybody he once knew is now either dead or doddering.”
“He is acquainted with a man named Bruce Willard.”
“Ah, yes, a friend of Mr. Hills’s late son who is a dealer in antiques. He recently cataloged Mr. Hills’s home furnishings for estate purposes. I think it’s safe to say that, outside his household, Mr. Willard is the first person he has met in several decades.”
“Do you know Mr. Willard?”
“I do not. The only reason I know his name is that Mr. Hills has appointed him as the agent for the sale of his belongings after his death. He has no heirs. Is there anything else?”
“I would like to come and visit with Mr. Hills,” Morris said.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Pettigrew replied. “Mr. Hills does not receive visitors, and as you may surmise from my call, he does not speak to strangers.”
“This is in connection to a homicide investigation.”
“Sergeant, I can assure you that Mr. Hills has no knowledge of any homicide. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go back to work.”
“I might leave Mr. Hills another message.”
“As you wish, but do not expect a response from either him or me.” Pettigrew hung up.
Well, Morris thought, I tried.
Carla came back to Stone’s house in time for dinner. She showered and changed, then they went to Patroon, where they were meeting Dino and Viv Bacchetti.
When they were settled at a table and had a drink in hand, Carla spoke up. “I’ve been at a meeting all day, listening to the tape of the Georgetown meeting of Henry Carson and his cohorts and hearing the report from Strategic Services on their voice analysis of the attendees.”
“And what was the verdict?”
“They positively identified the voices of everyone who said anything audible at the meeting, by comparing them with recordings from congressional hearings and press conferences. They are nailed! There’ll be three pages in tomorrow’s paper, including a transcript of the meeting, and it will be on the Times wire tonight, to all the major newspapers in the country.”
“That’s great news, Carla,” Stone said, “and great reporting.”
Carla took a gulp of her martini. “Thank God for Evan Hills,” she said. “All we had to do was confirm everything he said, and the tape was the final nail in the coffin.”
“What do you expect the result of all this will be?” Viv asked.
“Great embarrassment for the Republicans in Congress, but I’m not sure how long that will last. The next election is two years away, so they’ll have time to paper over the story. You watch: pretty soon they’ll be calling it old news and playing the blame game every time they get a question about it.”
“The minority leader apparently took it harder than just being embarrassed,” Dino said.
“I can’t figure that out,” Carla replied. “He wasn’t the type to blow his brains out over a thing like this—he was very good at brazening his way through any embarrassment.”
“So you think it was a homicide?”
“That’s what’s so crazy about it,” Carla said. “How could anybody get into the Capitol with a gun, then walk into the House cloakroom, shoot a congressman, walk away? It seems impossible.”
“Somebody with the right credentials,” Viv said. “Somebody who wouldn’t get noticed. A staffer? Another congressman? A Democrat, perhaps.”
She laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine. The Capitol Police and the FBI are all over it, and they haven’t come up with a thing.” Carla looked around. “Where is the ladies’ room?”
Stone pointed the way, and she left the table.
“You all set for your meeting on Monday?” Dino asked.
“I believe so,” Stone replied. “What about your end?”
“Well, it’s a lot more complicated than what you have to do,” Dino replied. “More dangerous, too.”
“More dangerous than Dolce?”
“Well, maybe not, now that you mention it.”
“I think you’re both crazy,” Viv said. “You, especially, Dino. If this goes wrong, you’re going to be out of a job. They’ll drum you out of the department.”
“You could say that about half the decisions I make,” Dino said. “It goes with the territory, and I’m okay with that. Besides, Mike Freeman would be glad to have another Bacchetti over at Strategic Services.”
Carla came back, and they ordered dinner.
• • •
Will and Kate Lee had a late supper in the White House family quarters after a reception in the East Room earlier in the evening.
Will brought the Sunday New York Times upstairs with him, and they went over the big story of the day while they waited for their dinner to be served.
“I wish this had happened before the election,” Kate said. “We might have won a few more House seats on the back of this story.”
“If this had come out before the election,” Will said, “they would have found a way to blame me for it.”
Kate laughed. “They’re very good at that, aren’t they?”
“I think they teach a course in blaming the president at that CPAC shindig. You’ll see, it’ll be your turn soon.”
“Oh, I think I’ll get a pretty good honeymoon—until after the baby is born, anyway.”
“That may be true,” Will said, “and it may not be.”
“And then we’ll get a week of baby pictures in the papers and magazines.”
“The country does love a baby, doesn’t it?”
“All the world loves a baby.”
“It’s a pity we can’t auction the pictures,” Will said. “We’d be set for life on the proceeds.”
“Maybe we should sell the pictures to somebody who’ll give a lot of money to a good cause.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, the National Organization for Women? Planned Parenthood?”
Will laughed. “I like it,” he chuckled.
Early on Monday morning Dino sat at a table in a police vehicle made to look like an ordinary camper and went over a well-marked large-scale map of the area that included the Bianchi estate.
“Okay,” Dino said to the Special Operations captain in charge of the unit, “tell me how you’re going to approach the house.”
“We’ve got a detail of a dozen men up this creek at a little marina,” the captain said. “At half past one PM they’ll come down the creek by boat and land at the estate’s dock, which can’t be seen from the house. They’ll conceal themselves in the woods around the old stone barn and wait for my command over the radio.”
“What about the front of the house?”
“We borrowed the Scali painting company van, which is large, and we’ll send that up the driveway to the service drive that branches off. We’ll unload four men near the kitchen door, and they’ll go in with buckets of paint and their weapons concealed in drop cloths. Once inside, they’re going to have to play it by ear.”
“I want you to explain to your people that this man may seem old, but he’s very dangerous, especially with a knife.”
“They already understand that, boss.”
“And I want every one of them to understand that nobody is to risk his own life to take this guy alive. Do I make myself clear?”
“If he’s armed, shoot first and ask questions later, right?”
“That’s one way to put it. Another way to put it is: we don’t have enough on this guy to convict him, but we know that he’s the one who cut up the priest and who got rid of Carmine Corretti’s body, which we haven’t found yet. I do not want him to walk.”
“I read you, boss,” the captain said.
“Where’s the white van going to be?”
“Right where we are now. They’ll respond to my radio call to go in.”
“How many people?”
“Three, and they know what they’re doing.”
“I want at least one armed cop with them.”
“I can do that.”
“Dress him for the occasion.”
“Right.”
“Now, we’ve had a change of plan. We’re not sending the van to New Jersey, it’s going right here.” Dino tapped the map. “We worked it with the Feds.”
“That’s much more convenient,” the captain said.
“Have the people in the van been told that this is a twenty-four-hour job for them?”
“That’s been made clear.”
“They’ve got the paperwork they need?”
“We’ve double-checked that—it’s all in order.”
Dino went over a list in his notebook. “Okay, that’s all I’ve got. I’m going to the office, and I want you on your cell phone with me for the whole operation. I want to know, step by step, how it’s going.”
“I’ll be in touch the whole time,” the captain said.
“And remember, there will be two civilians in the house, and I don’t want them roughed up in the process or, worse, shot.”
“I’m on top of that, boss.”
Dino was having trouble leaving the RV. “I hope to hell that I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Don’t worry, boss, we’ll get this done right.”
“I’m counting on that,” Dino said, “and I don’t want any statements to the press coming out of your unit, and I don’t want any leaks, either. We’ll make this public at the right moment.”
“We’re a tight bunch, boss, nobody’s going to leak.”
Dino shook the captain’s hand, left the RV, and got into his car. “Okay, let’s go to the office,” he said to the driver.
He had never in his life been more nervous.
Stone closed his briefcase and took a few deep breaths. He was perspiring lightly, and he dabbed at his face with a tissue from the holder on his desk. Joan came into his office.
“This came for you by messenger,” she said, handing him a small wrapped package. “No return address.”
Stone accepted the package, waited for her to leave, then unwrapped it, exposing a plastic box. He examined the contents, then closed it and put it into his briefcase.
Joan buzzed him. “Fred is outside with the car and Mary Ann Bianchi,” she said. She peered into his face. “You don’t look so good. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” Stone said. “Gotta run.” He left through the office’s outside door and got into the waiting Bentley.
“Good day,” Mary Ann said. He thought she didn’t look so good, either.
“And good day to you. Fred? You know where we’re going?”
“I do, sir,” Fred replied, and the car moved out smoothly.
“Why do you and I have to do this, Stone?” Mary Ann asked.
“Because there isn’t anybody else.”
“I suppose you’re right. I just hate doing it.”
“If we do it properly, we’ll only have to do it once.”
“Well, that’s comforting. Why do I have to go all the way there?”
“Because you’re the only person who can do what you have to do.”
“You’re right, I guess. I don’t know why I need to be told that, but I do.”
“It’s going to be all right, Mary Ann.”
“It’ll never be all right,” she said.
“In a week, it’ll be better. In a month, it’ll be better still. In six months, it’ll be like it never happened, I promise you.”
“Promises, promises,” she muttered.
As they approached the house, Stone said, “Fred, I want you to remain in the car, and I don’t want you to get out, no matter what happens. When I leave the house, I’ll open the car door myself. Don’t get out.”
“I understand, sir,” Fred replied.
The day had begun sunny, but now dark clouds were massing to the north, and Stone could see lightning in them. They were due for a nor’easter, according to the forecast.
They pulled into the drive, and Stone said, “Please open the trunk, Fred.” He got out and retrieved two umbrellas, then pressed the button that closed the trunk. “Ready?” he said to Mary Ann.
“No,” she said, “but I’ll put on the best face I can muster.”
; Pietro met them at the door, put their umbrellas in a stand next to the front door, and escorted them to the library. “Lunch will be in here,” he said, indicating the table, already set. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“Scotch,” Mary Ann said. “Rocks. Make it a double.”
Stone looked at her, alarmed. “A glass of sherry,” he said. “A chilled fino.” Eduardo had always kept that. Pietro left the room.
Stone looked at his watch; Dino’s men would be on the move by now. “Go easy on the booze, will you?” Stone said to Mary Ann. “I may need your help before this is done.”
“Don’t count on it,” she said. “I can feel myself coming undone.”
“Well, suck it up! We’re in this now, and there’s no help for it.”
“What about Pietro?”
“That will be taken care of.”
Pietro returned with two glasses on a silver tray. “Miss Bianchi will be down shortly,” he said, then left again.
Mary Ann sank into an armchair and tugged at her scotch; Stone stood at the fireplace, warming his ass. Rain began to beat against the windows.
“A perfect day for it,” Mary Ann said.
“A perfect day, if this were a bad movie.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” she said. “I want it to end.”
The main door opened, and Dolce swept into the room, wearing a tan cashmere dress and a necklace of emeralds. “Hello, hello,” she said, and turned to Pietro, who had silently entered the room again. “I’ll have a glass of champagne,” she said, “and you can put the bottle on the table.” She turned back to her guests. “And how is everyone today?”
Stone had never seen her bubbly before, and he wasn’t sure what it meant. “I’m just fine,” Stone said.
“Me, too,” Mary Ann replied, managing a weak smile.
“Sweetie,” Dolce said to her sister, “you don’t look all that well. Are you ailing?”
“No, I just didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m tired.”
“Guilty conscience?” Dolce asked, then laughed. She tossed off the champagne. “Let’s sit down. Soup is on its way.”
They all took seats at the table, and Stone put his briefcase next to his chair. Lobster bisque was served, laced with sherry; a good dish for a rainy day.
