by Allan Topol
Campbell paused to jot some notes in the steno book. When he was finished, he said, "I think I'd better talk to Mrs. Winthrop."
Instinctively Jennifer tried to intervene. "Do you have to do that right now? She's had quite a shock."
The detective disregarded that idea completely. "The events are fresh. Now's the best time."
"Why don't you wait until the FBI gets here? They'll be running the show. Why make her do it twice?"
He bristled. "What makes you such an expert?"
"I spent two years working at Justice."
"Then you'll be happy to know that we're cooperating more these days. The D.C. police and the FBI operate as equal members of a team in a case like this. They won't make her tell her story a second time."
Was Campbell serious? Did he really believe the public announcements that White House officials were making about increased cooperation with the D.C. police? "You're kidding yourself. I called to make sure the President knew what happened to Robert. He wasn't merely the President's closest friend. He was a member of the cabinet. Killing him is a federal crime, as well as a local one. In this case, the FBI will never trust the D.C. police to do a good enough job."
Her words struck a sensitive nerve. "Well, they're wrong," Campbell snapped, "and until they get here, I'll do it my way."
She shrugged. Further discussion was obviously useless. "You're in charge for now. I'll get Ann, but please, can you avoid exposing her to all the blood and the odor downstairs? I don't think that would serve any useful purpose."
That caught him up short. Then he nodded at her request. "Of course."
As Jennifer reached the bottom of the stairs to the second floor, Ann was starting down. Her gray hair was tousled wildly on her head. Her skirt and blouse were rumpled.
"I'm sorry to bother you now, Mrs. Winthrop," Campbell said politely.
"You have to do your job." She led the way to the dining room table, and the three of them sat down.
"Thanks for your help," Campbell said. "I know how difficult this is for you." He glanced over his notepad. "What time did you leave the house today?"
"Jennifer picked me up around eleven."
"Anybody else here at the time?"
"Just Robert and the gardener."
"You have a name and address?"
Ann crossed into the kitchen and returned with a brown address book. "Clyde Gillis," she said. "Six-fifteen Quincy Street, Southeast Washington, 555-1249."
"How long has he worked for you?"
"Ever since we came to Washington. Nice man."
"Do you know a George Nesbitt?"
She shook her head.
Campbell gazed at Ann sympathetically. She had had a real shock. He didn't want to badger her. "Did your husband have any enemies?"
Ann scowled. "I have no idea."
Her harsh tone made him pause. Then he pressed on. "Were you aware of any threats that might have been made on his life recently?"
"A couple of nights ago, a man with a foreign-sounding voice called. He asked me if my husband was home. When I said no, he said to tell him that Hammas will kill him if he doesn't change his policy toward Israel."
"Did you tell Mr. Winthrop?"
She nodded. "He laughed about it and said prank calls like that went with the job."
That was about the way Campbell figured it, too, and he shrugged. "To your knowledge, what was taken from the house this afternoon?"
"I didn't see anything."
"Jewelry?"
She glanced at Jennifer. "I checked. It's all here."
"What about cash?"
For the first time, a question seemed to trouble Ann, Jennifer thought. Campbell had the same reaction.
"None of mine. I don't keep much in the house."
"And Mr. Winthrop?"
"He liked to keep a fair amount of cash. I don't know what was taken."
Campbell's instincts told him that the cash was an important point. At last, he might be getting somewhere. "Why did he keep so much cash? In his position that's odd."
"He said it made him feel comfortable to be ready for any emergency."
The flat way she said it told him this was the party line. Campbell stopped to review his notes, to figure out another way to get at her.
"Do you think you'll be able to find out who killed my husband?" asked Ann, also without emotion.
"We'll sure try, but I have to tell you there were nine hundred and twelve homicides in the District last year. Most were related to drugs one way or another. Unfortunately, we don't have the resources to solve every one of them, but you can bet we'll put everything we have into solving this one."
Campbell didn't say that with pride. It was clear what he meant. An innocent kid on the way home from school in a black area gets caught in a drug cross fire, and he becomes a statistic. A secretary of state, who happens to be from a wealthy New York WASP family and a friend of the President, gets shot, and the mayor would tell Campbell to pull out all the stops. The city's reputation as the murder capital of the world was about to take a giant boost when the secretary of state's death made headlines in every Sunday paper around the globe tomorrow.
Campbell was getting ready to frame his next question when two men came barreling through the front door. One, in his late forties, looking like a former football player, with a blond crew cut, was wearing a brown polyester sports jacket, a white shirt, and a tie. The other one, not even thirty-five, was shorter, a little under six feet, thin and wiry, dressed in an Italian designer suit. He had gray metal-framed glasses and wavy thick brown hair.
"Where's Detective Campbell?" the polyester jacket asked.
"I'm Campbell," the detective said, rising to his feet. "Who are you?"
"FBI Special Agent Bill Traynor, and he's Ed Fulton, who's working with me at Director Murtaugh's request."
The younger man seized his cue. Fulton broke in. "The feds have taken over the investigation," he announced. "Half a dozen FBI forensic people are on the way. You can have your people wait outside."
"Now, hold on a minute," Campbell replied. "It's a homicide committed in the District. We always work together in a case like this."
"Not this time, bud," Fulton snapped. "Not when the victim is the secretary of state."
Looking pained, Ann got up and left the room. Nobody seemed to notice her. Jennifer was too intrigued by the Washington infighting to move.
Campbell walked over to the phone. "I'm calling the police chief," he said. "He'll go right to the White House."
"You're too late," Fulton shot back. "Director Murtaugh has already spoken to the mayor. The truth is that she was very pleased to be rid of this hot potato."
If Fulton thought that invoking Murtaugh's name would make Campbell more malleable, he was wrong. It further enraged the detective. He bit down hard on his lower lip as he picked up the phone. It took him three calls until he found Malcolm Lowry, the chief of police, at a daughter's house. After listening for a minute, he slammed the phone down in disgust.
"Fine, it's all yours," he said. He pointed his finger at Fulton and Traynor. "I hope you two geniuses choke on it."
Fulton wasn't the least bit intimidated. "You don't have to get pissed," he said in a condescending tone. "The secretary of state was a good friend of the President's. This development shouldn't surprise you."
Bill Traynor looked at Campbell sympathetically.
"C'mon, we're all in the same business," he said, trying to smooth things over. "Why don't you start by telling us what you've learned so far?"
Campbell's mouth was set in a firm line. "How could I learn anything if I'm so stupid?"
"Hey, I didn't say that," Fulton replied. "I just wanted to make it clear who's in charge."
This young twerp was pissing him off. "Well, you could have said that we were working together."
"Look, we don't need this crap," Fulton said, now sounding furious himself. "As far as I'm concerned, you can tell us what you learned, pull your peop
le, and hit the road."
Campbell put the notebook in his pocket. He moved in close to Fulton, his fists clenched. For an instant Jennifer thought he was going to punch him out. "You've got an attitude problem," he said. Then he pulled away with dignity, as if he had decided that the satisfaction of smacking Fulton around wasn't worth losing his job. "I've got nothing to tell you, smart ass. The security guards who were out in front this afternoon are still here. Mrs. Winthrop is in the house and"—he suddenly became aware of Jennifer listening with an amused expression on her face—"and Ms. Moore, who brought Mrs. Winthrop home from the theater, is right here. Your forensic people can get any prints or other stuff from my people. I'm out of here."
Campbell shoved his hands into his pockets and stormed out of the house, taking half of his people with him.
"You got anything special to contribute right now?" Fulton asked Jennifer. His tone was haughty. To have gotten his job, this guy must have one helluva resume, Jennifer thought. She had rarely met anyone who enraged people so easily—including her.
Yeah, I've got something to contribute, Jennifer told herself. A lesson for you in how to talk to people. "Not a thing," she replied coldly. "As Detective Campbell already told you, I brought Ann Winthrop home. If you don't mind, I'll wait with her until her daughter gets here, and then I'll leave. You can find me in the Washington phone book at Blank and Foster law firm on Monday, if you need me."
"By Monday we'll have this crime solved," Fulton said with confidence. "We'll have the man who killed Winthrop behind bars."
Chapter 3
It was almost eleven on Sunday morning and Ben Hartwell, dressed in a fifteen-year-old Yale Law sweatshirt, was trying to teach Amy, his four-year-old daughter, how to operate a scooter. They were on the flagstone patio in the back of his Newark Street house in the Cleveland Park section of Washington, and under his breath Ben was cursing his stupidity in acceding to Amy's repeated pleas for a lightweight aluminum scooter as a birthday gift. Dexterity and balance weren't his strong suits, and he had never ridden a scooter in his life. Plus, Amy was too young for it. She was going to kill herself.
But Amy had said at least ten times, "Really, Daddy, everybody in the preschool has one except me." With the guilt he felt as a single parent, he had yielded. Even after reading the owner's manual, though, he wasn't much help, other than holding the scooter and reminding her about the warnings that were plastered on it. The helmet had been easy. Amy had readily agreed to that. The elbow and knee pads proved to be a sticking point. "Karen and Emily don't wear them, and I don't wanna. I'm no baby."
"They're not for babies," he said, trying to be calm and patient. "They protect your knees. If I were going to ride a scooter, I'd wear knee pads."
She laughed. "You'd look stupid in them."
"But you won't."
"No, Daddy, no," she cried, her eyes filling up with tears. In the end, he caved. "Only this first time. After today, no knee pads, no scooter."
After ten or fifteen minutes, she told him he could let go. Dressed in a pale pink sweatshirt and red corduroy slacks, Amy, who had practiced on her friends' scooters, was soon zipping around the patio.
While watching Amy, Ben let his mind wander. At some point today he had to prepare his summary of the evidence in the Young case. He kept hearing in his mind the words Senator Young had shouted at him when he was questioning Young yesterday afternoon: "You're just a mad-dog prosecutor." The words had stung so badly that Ben had picked up a paper cup half-full of tepid coffee. He was within a hair of flinging it at the senator and scoring a bull's-eye in the middle of Young's white shirt and expensive silk tie. He didn't have to take crap like that from a senator who had accepted secret payoffs from a Mexican drug cartel. The senator had been trying to get his goat with that "mad-dog prosecutor" charge. It wasn't true.
Suddenly, he heard the pager on his belt beep. It was the phone number of Al Hennessey's house in Georgetown. Oh, shit, he thought. His boss, the U.S. Attorney, never worked or called on the weekend. It had to be something urgent. Ben's guess was that Young had complained about Ben's aggressive interrogation. Might as well get it over with fast, Ben decided. "C'mon, Amy," he said, "let's go inside for a little bit."
"But I want to ride my scooter."
"Just for a few minutes, honey, while I make a phone call. You can play with your Barbies. Then we'll come back out. I promise."
In his first-floor study, Ben dialed Hennessey's number. "It is Sunday," Ben said. "I didn't get my days mixed up."
"That's very funny. Real funny."
His boss did not have a sense of humor. Only that practiced politician's tone. "What's up, Al?"
"I was sitting here having brunch when Jim Slater called from the White House."
"And?" Ben held his breath.
"Slater wants us to hold up thirty days taking the Young case to the grand jury."
"And I hope you told him no fuckin' way."
"You don't tell the President that."
"Jim Slater's not the President."
"He speaks for Brewster. There's no doubt that on most issues, Brewster will do what Jim tells him."
"I thought we're a democracy. Nobody elected Jim Slater."
"Listen, Ben, you know what the score is in this town. Young is a powerful Democratic senator. You're getting ready to cut off both his nuts and stick them in his mouth. If Jim Slater tells me to delay thirty days taking the case to the grand jury, how can I tell him no?"
Ben resisted the urge to shout. "Why does he want the thirty days?"
"They want to make their own independent review of the evidence."
That was total bullshit, as Hennessey well knew. "I'll be working on the summary today. I can have a packet to him in a couple of days. He should be able to review it in a few hours."
"It's more than that."
"Even I could figure that out."
"They want Young's vote on the Tax Reform Act, which is scheduled for December first. Once you go before the grand jury, they're afraid the investigation will leak to the press. Young will be so pissed that he'll work against the Tax Reform Act. Brewster's whole economic program will go down the tubes."
"But if I delay thirty days, there could be a leak, and my witnesses will end up in Lake Michigan wearing concrete shoes."
"I told Slater that."
"And?"
"He doesn't give a shit. He's got one interest in life—helping Brewster. He could care less about anything else."
Ben felt his face getting red with rage. He was sick and tired of White House interference in criminal investigations. It always happened, no matter who was president. "Then call Slater back," he told Hennessey, "and tell him to stick it up his ass. We're doing the jobs we're paid to do."
"Take it easy, Ben," Hennessey said.
Those words fueled Ben's anger. Hennessey was such a wimp. Why didn't he stand up to Slater?
"I hate it when somebody tells me that."
"Don't be so damn emotional. We're talking about a thirty-day delay for chrissake." Hennessey was sounding exasperated. "This is no big deal. You don't always have to do things your own way."
"Why don't you and I go to Ches Hawthorne? The AG will back us in a fight with Slater. There's no love lost there."
"The AG's in Tokyo for a conference on law enforcement in the Pacific Rim. He won't be back until next weekend."
"Then call Slater back and tell him that we want a personal briefing with the President on the issue."
"You don't have a choice," Hennessey said. His sharp, emphatic tone let Ben clearly know that Hennessey was in charge and that he could and would fire Ben if Bert didn't follow his orders.
The message came through loud and clear to Ben, who shook his head in disbelief. For three years Hennessey had done everything the White House had wanted, without a demur, in the hope that he would be nominated for a judgeship on the court of appeals in Washington. So far, all that ass kissing hadn't gotten Hennessey his prize, even though t
wo vacancies on the court had been filled by Brewster in his first three years in office. There was another vacancy now, and Hennessey had redoubled his efforts.
"All right," Ben said, resigned. "Your eggs are getting cold. I'll wait the thirty days. Slater will have a summary of the evidence by five on Tuesday afternoon."
"Thanks, I appreciate that. But don't hang up. Slater raised something else that concerns you as well."
Ben saw Amy walk across the living room, dressed in one of the long black dresses Nan had used for piano recitals, with her mother's lipstick caked across her mouth.
"Will I like this one any better?" Ben asked.
"I don't think so."
Amy was sitting down at the baby grand piano in the living room. "I'll be right there," he called to her.
"What'd you say?" Hennessey asked.
"I was talking to Amy. What did you want?"
"Slater says Brewster's all worked up about the Winthrop killing."
"Based on what I read in the morning Post, he should be. It doesn't say much for his anticrime program if the President's best friend, and this country's secretary of state, is murdered in his own house."
Ben heard the piano. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amy's little fingers, not pounding, but dancing and gliding on the piano, as Nan had taught her.
"The FBI's going to need help from our office," Hennessey said, "and Slater made me promise to give it to my best lawyer. I immediately thought of you, of course."
"I'm flattered, but then you remembered that I'm working full-time, seven days a week on the Young investigation. So you went to second best."
"Fortunately, I didn't have to because Young's gone on hold for thirty days. Remember?"
Ben thought Hennessey was being ridiculous. He had tried cases. He knew how much work there was to do in a big case like the Young prosecution. "Don't you think I'm going to want to use the thirty days to interview witnesses in Chicago?"
"Pete Hamell in the U.S. Attorney's office in Chicago can do the witness interviews. Don't forget, I pulled plenty of strings to get Hamell assigned to you full-time on Young."
Hamell was a second-rate lawyer who had the worst trial record in Chicago. Ben said tiredly, "You must want to be a judge on the court of appeals badly."
