Wells’s mind drifted unintentionally from Ayres to her parents, how disappointed they would be if they knew her real interest— like that of most of the other members of the Senate Wall Street Oversight Committee —was not to manage Wall Street, but to be rewarded by Wall Street for not really managing it at all. She also couldn’t help but wonder how her parents would feel if they also knew about her fast and loose lifestyle. Actually, she didn’t really wonder at all. She knew precisely how they’d feel. She didn’t feel much better about herself.
“Goodnight, Senator,” Ayres replied, bringing Wells back into the moment. He summoned the elevator for her. “Robert’s here to drive you home. He’ll pick you up again in the morning at nine o’clock and get you to the WSOC hearings on time.” Wells nodded absent-mindedly and stepped into the elevator.
* * *
AYRES STOOD THERE, STARING at the closing elevator door. He had agreed to stay on as Chief of Staff to the new Senator Wells following her selection. He just couldn’t fathom how a low-life empty suit like Wells had been chosen over him to succeed the real Senator Wells. He quietly shook his head in dismay, turned away from the elevator bank, and walked back into his office.
* * *
AS ALWAYS, GOOD OLD dependable Robert Grant was right there, waiting for Wells as the elevator deposited her into the underground parking garage. “Evening, Senator. How are you tonight?”
“Okay, Robert, bit of a long day. You?”
“Fine, Senator. Thanks for asking. Let’s get you home, then.”
That was pretty much how it was with Grant every night, just a warm and fuzzy ride home, someone harmless with whom to make small talk. Wells had occasionally confided in Grant about her dates, but he just listened; didn’t judge.
Riding home, Wells thought about tomorrow’s hearings, to consider whether possible Wall Street malfeasance had contributed to the country’s economic collapse. She knew the hearings were not going to be any fun. With increasing pressure and hostility from both the media and various public interest groups, it was becoming more difficult to keep up appearances without actually doing much of anything. Lately, she felt as if it were she—rather than Wall Street—who was under the microscope and being scrutinized.
The job was taking a greater toll on Wells every day. What do people expect of me? Why are they so damn naïve? Life was a lot easier when she was just a Midwestern farmer’s daughter looking to find herself a rich husband and settle down. Maybe that simple life was not so bad after all. Maybe I should return to that after my term is up.
Wells’ mind returned to the present. She had a premonition that someone was watching her. She glanced back over her shoulder but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just a lot of cars on the road. Nothing unusual about that on the crowded D.C. roadways.
Wells tried to convince herself that she was just being silly, imagining that someone was following her. But she couldn’t help herself. Her anxiety wasn’t a matter of logic. It was what it was. Her heart was beating faster, and her breathing was becoming more labored. She’d take an Ativan when she got home. That always did the trip.
A few minutes later, Grant pulled his car into the rotunda out-side the townhouse project where Wells lived. “Here we are, Sena tor. Let me walk you to your townhouse.”
Somewhat calmer, Wells resisted giving into her anxiety any further. She was far more worried about the awkwardness that would ensue if Grant saw her guest for the evening, possibly already waiting at her front door. “No need, Robert,” she said as she slid out of the limo. “I’m good, thanks. See you in the morning.”
* * *
GRANT WATCHED WELLS WALK off through the outside lobby entrance to the townhouse project. He shrugged, and peeked at his watch. Still time to make it home before the Lakers–Wizards game comes on.
* * *
HE WATCHED WELLS ENTER the lobby, punch her identification code in the interior lobby security door, pass through the released door and start down the attractively landscaped path toward her individual townhouse unit. He wasted no time.
Being a former engineer had its advantages. One tap on the device in his hand and an alert on the lobby security console built into the security desk sounded. The security guard glanced at the console, and swiftly headed outside to find whatever it was that had set off the alarm.
The man smiled at the security guard’s anticipated reaction. Two more taps on the device and the network of surveillance cameras immobilized and the interior lobby security door lock was deactivated. The man rapidly passed through the disabled door and briskly moved down the path he knew led toward Wells’s townhouse.
He watched Wells enter her townhouse and close the door behind her. He carefully surveyed the surrounding environs as he inconspicuously approached her unit. He didn’t see anyone.
Outside the entrance to her unit, the man paused and removed a pair of latex surgical gloves from his shoulder bag and snapped them onto his hands. He tried the door. Locked. No surprise there. He hurriedly withdrew a tiny instrument from his pant pocket and inserted it in the door lock. In a few seconds he had the door unlocked.
He tried again to see if he could open the door. Still no luck. It opened a little, but was held fast by a chain lock. The man was becoming agitated. Every second he remained outside the unit increased the likelihood of someone coming along the path and bearing witness to his presence.
He had to get inside the unit. Now.
He grasped the gun and attached suppressor from inside his shoulder bag, removed the safety catch, inhaled, and let fly a desperate kick at the door. He wasn’t sure which would give way first, the chain lock, the door itself, or perhaps neither. But he had no choice. He had to try. He had to break this impasse. If not his foot as well. He couldn’t risk standing around outside the unit any longer.
* * *
Fortunately, the chain lock proved less sturdy than the door. And his foot. He was inside the unit. And had closed the undamaged door.
Hearing the noise, Wells rushed into the entryway of her townhouse when she heard the loud noise of the man’s foot meeting the door. She looked right at him. She appeared momentarily confused. “What the hell? I thought . . .”
Before Wells could finish her exclamation, two bullets only partially muffled by the suppressor attached to the man’s gun screamed through her chest. Cutting off any chance for her to scream. She involuntarily reached for her chest, where the blood was already spreading, but it was too late. She collapsed to the floor.
He checked for a pulse. There wasn’t any. No reason to fire any more shots.
He lifted the body, carried it into the bedroom, and spread it out on the bed, face up, stripped it naked, and scattered the articles of clothing on the floor. He then opened his shoulder bag, removed a tube of Crazy Glue and a Monopoly make believe $100 bill. He applied an ample amount of Crazy Glue to the entire back side of the Monopoly bill and pressed it firmly against the forehead of the dead body. Let the shrinks figure out the meaning of that signature marker.
Despite the brief delay in gaining access to the unit, the man was quite pleased with the scene—his constructed body art as it were— and how smoothly things had generally gone. He allowed himself a moment to gloat over how well he had executed this first step in his plans. Just the first step. More to follow. Soon. Very soon. Until they learn. Until I teach them. I will prevail. I must prevail.
He quietly left the townhouse unit—intentionally choosing not to lock the door on the way out—and discreetly made his way back nearby the glass security door separating the townhouse grounds from the lobby. He paused the stopwatch feature of the smart phone clipped to his pants. Less than eleven minutes had transpired since he had first passed through the security door.
The security guard was back at his desk in the lobby. The man clicked the device in his hand. He watched the security guard momentarily stare at his console in apparent disbelief, utter something the man couldn’t quite make out, and leave his post unatte
nded for the second time in less than fifteen minutes, no doubt in search of whatever was setting off the repeated false fire alarms.
The man waited another minute for good measure. He then entered and walked through the lobby and back out into the world desperately in need of his services. He clicked on his device once more to reset the security feature on the interior lobby door. He didn’t reset the surveillance cameras. There was no reason to leave a roadmap as to when the cameras had not been working. That would not be an issue with the security door lock.
Once again, the man reflected on how well things had gone.
* * *
AND HE WOULD HAVE been right, if not for the pair of eyes that had peered out at him from the nearby shadows as he had exited Wells’s townhouse.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, February 6, 5:30 a.m.
FRANK LOTELLO WAS ALREADY awake when the alarm went off. He had not been sleeping well since that day, almost six months ago, when he lost his wife, Beth, to the carelessness of a drunk driver. Beth was his love, his best friend. She was the person Lotello had always discussed his cases with, every one of them, large or small, simple or complicated.
On extended bereavement leave, the department shrink they made him see said to be patient. Give it time, he said. The ache would lessen, he said. Hey, I know I need to get past this. I do. But the thing is, I’m not sure I want to. Without you, Beth, I don’t know who I am. What I am. I can’t touch you—hold you, hug you—anymore. I can’t feel you—hear you—anymore. It’s even becoming harder for me to remember what you look like. I’m so afraid the ache is all I have left of you. If I let go of the ache, I’m afraid you’ll disappear completely. Then what?
Lotello’s bereavement leave was now officially over, but he had not yet been assigned any new work through his on-call rotation. He wondered how much longer they would continue coddling him. Without saying as much, his homicide department was unofficially cutting him as much slack—and additional time—as they could.
He had spent years working his way up to homicide. Watching the needle on the scale and the inches on the tape measure climb as he put in the time. At least he still had an enviable full head of hair.
He loved homicide. Almost as much as he loved Beth. He hated the thought of possibly having to give it up. But—as a single father of two young kids, eleven-year-old Charlie and nine-year-old Maddie, who had just lost their mother—he wondered if he could balance the 24/7 on demand protocols of a large urban city homicide department with the always on demand requirements of single parenthood.
Of course, his first priority would have to be the kids.
People were always telling Lotello that his kids looked just like they had been lifted out of Mark Twain’s novels, Charlie, the spitting image of brown-eyed, red-haired Tom Sawyer, and Maddie, the perfect clone of blue-eyed, blond, freckle-faced Becky Thatcher. But whenever Lotello looked at them, all he saw was Beth.
It was just the three of them now. It was up to him. Lotello was painfully aware his priorities needed to change. I have to get past this all-consuming funk, feeling sorry for myself. Thinking about myself. I need to concentrate on Charlie and Maddie, not on myself.
Nevertheless, he had told the department he wanted to give remaining in homicide a try. He explained that he had suitable primary and secondary parenting backup from his housekeeper and the next-door neighbor. The housekeeper was primary. The next-door neighbor was secondary. Both the housekeeper and the neighbor loved Charlie and Maddie and would do anything for them. They could be trusted. Completely.
Even with these arrangements theoretically in place, Lotello wondered if he was truly ready for a “big leagues” real case.
ALMOST AS IF ON cue, the telephone rang. “Lotello.”
“Hey, Frank, it’s me, Jeremy.”
Jeremy Barnet was Lotello’s younger homicide partner. “No shit, J. Who else would be calling at 5:30 in the morning? While the kids were still asleep. What’s up?”
“You know Jane Wells? Senator Jane Wells?”
“Sure, make it a point to have lunch with Jane at least once every other week. How many senators do you know?”
“Funny. Don’t really need your sarcasm right now. It’s just as early for me. Do you know who Wells is?”
“I see her on the news now and then. So?”
“Dead, murdered in her townhouse. We drew next on the wheel. The case is ours. I’m on the way to her townhouse now. Just texted you the address. How soon can you get there?”
“Not supposed to text and drive, J. To early for the housekeeper. Gotta get the kids up and out and over to the neighbor’s. Make sure she’ll get the kids to school. I’ll call when I’m on the way.”
“Drive’ll take you about 30 minutes at this hour. See ya there.” Lotello’s question about how much longer they were going to shelter him had been answered. In spades. It was not lost on Lotello—or his pride—that the first case back he’d caught was this high profile. No way that was on his young partner. “Wait up, J. When did all this supposedly happen?”
“I’m not sure. I got the call a few minutes ago. I was anxious to reach you and get going.”
“What’s the rush? Where’d you think I’d be at this hour? Find out who called this in, and when. I’ll meet you at Wells’s place as fast as I can.”
Barnet hung up. Lotello knew Barnet was not happy with his answer; that he probably was tearing out to Wells’s townhouse on a Code 3 emergency response, lights and siren, and wanted assurance that Lotello would be doing likewise. Barnet is such a fuss budget. Not necessary. Maybe a Code 3 for the patrol cars, but not for homicide. Not like it’s going to bring Wells back to life.
Lotello dragged himself out of bed, pulled the covers up over the pillows, threw on some sweats, and bent down to stroke Beau, the youngest member of their family, a German shepherd rescue pup, one of Beth’s many thoughtful acts. Lotello went out front, grabbed the newspaper, glanced at the headlines while waiting for Beau to piddle, and then went back inside and into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and took a few sips from the carton of orange juice as he quickly skimmed the remainder of the newspaper to see if there was anything about Wells. If there was, he didn’t see it. He did notice that the Lakers had pummeled the Wizards the night before.
Lotello put some food and water down for Beau, who needed little coaxing. He also put out some dry cereal, milk, and fruit for the kids, and confirmed their lunch pails were in the refrigerator ready to go from last night.
He knew he had to get out to Wells’s townhouse. But he needed to take a couple minutes on the treadmill in his combination home office and exercise room to get the kinks out and to get his juices flowing. It was going to be a long day. He spent two minutes in the shower—one of his favorite thinking spots—and drying off. He thought it odd that someone reported the Wells body around 4 or 5 in the morning. What do you think, Beth? If Wells had already been missing for any period of time, wouldn’t that have made the morning newspapers? You know I read the papers every morning. There were no such reports. If the murder happened last night or early this morning, who—other than the killer—would have known about the body, and called it in so early this morning? This means the killer probably made the call. Why would he do that, especially at that hour?
Beth didn’t answer.
NO MORE STALLING, THEY had to get going, but he needed to ease in the next-door neighbor. Just this first time.
“Dad,” said Maddie, as he gently woke her, “what are you doing? It’s still way too early.”
“Morning, Pussycat,” Lotello said, kissing both of her sleepy eyes. “It’s not still way too early. Breakfast’s out and your lunches are in the ’fridge. I’ve already fed Beau. You and Charlie need to get up, brush your teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, and take Beau with you next door to stay with Mrs. Schwartz ‘til Elena gets here. Mrs. Schwartz will get you and Charlie to school. C’mon, get a move on it! And remind Charlie that Elena’ll pick you up af
ter school. I gotta go. See you tonight, Princess. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad,” Maddie parroted back.
Beth had been right about Beau. It was good for Charlie and Maddie to have some responsibility, and a friend who would watch out for them. Maddie seemed to be adjusting to Beth’s death okay, at least as near as Lotello could tell, but Lotello wasn’t so sure about Charlie, who was a lot quieter than he used to be, and a lot more moody. He needed to keep a closer watch on both of them, especially Charlie.
AS LOTELLO DROVE OFF in the “family-safe” Volvo, he inconsistently snuck an unsafe peek at his text messages to see exactly where Wells lived—where she used to live. Not supposed to text and drive, but, hey, I’m just reading. And I may have broken protocol by about seven minutes. So I’ll break a few speeding rules and make up half of that on the way. Not gonna matter.
CHAPTER 3
Friday, February 6, 7:35 a.m.
HE SAT THERE IN the dark, all alone. Things weren’t like they used to be. He had lost so much, but he was going to get even. They would be sorry.
So far, so good, it had all gone much easier than he had imagined. The first call was a little dicey, but he was off the phone in a flash, well before the cops could have thought to trace it. If he had called 911 instead, the call would have been recorded, if not traced, before he could have hung up.
The timing of the second call, to the reporter, also went pretty easy. The story would soon make the media outlets and begin drawing attention. He wondered what she would say to explain how she got her information.
He knew the next murder would also be easy, but they would then start becoming more difficult to pull off. He didn’t care. I have to shake things up, bring about some real change.
He liked the dark. It was quiet, peaceful. No one bothered him. Not anymore. It allowed him to think, and to plan.
The Amendment Killer (Brooks/Lotello Thriller) Page 34
