Deadly Cross

by Patterson, James

  But when I stood outside the police tape looking at where the Bentley with Kay’s lifeless corpse and her lover’s had been, I recalled the position of their bodies. Her right leg had been crossed over her left, toward Christopher. Her shoulders were turned slightly from him and down, but that could have been from the bullet impacts turning her. Christopher’s body position in death suggested his torso had been turned toward Kay when he was shot. What about it?

  I stood there for a long time, trying to see what it all suggested, before I realized we had it wrong. Given the position of the shooter, fifteen feet back from the center of the front bumper, and given their body positions in death, I decided that the killer had not put two successive rounds in Kay and then Christopher. Or vice versa.

  No, they were each shot once within a moment of each other, little time for the second victim to move at all. Maybe as much as Kay’s shoulders had turned?

  It looked that way to me. Christopher was shot first, then Kay. Not the other way around. Then they were shot a second time, impacts within four inches of the first hits, Kay, then Christopher.

  It’s hard to shoot a pistol accurately like that, even at targets less than twenty feet away. In the heat of the moment, as I can attest, bullets tend to go far wide of the mark.

  Looked at through this filter, I was seeing a highly skilled shooter who’d aimed first at Christopher, then at Kay. That suggested the charter school’s principal was the primary target.

  Was Elaine Paulson an accomplished shot? Was she a member of one of those combat-shooting leagues around the country?

  If so, given what she’d said to us earlier in the day, it was not out of the realm of possibility that she had shot her husband and then his lover.

  I doubted it, but I intended to find out one way or another before —

  My cell rang. Sampson. “How are you, John?”

  He cleared his throat, said, “Unable to write Billie’s eulogy. I just can’t do it, and someone needs to speak for her on Saturday.”

  “I’ll speak for her,” I said.

  “You will?” he said, shocked.

  “If you can’t do it, I’d be honored. Billie was an amazing person.”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THURSDAY, Ned Mahoney and I presented passports, driver’s licenses, and official FBI identifications to Marines at the front gate of the U.S. Naval Observatory north of Georgetown.

  Donald Breit and Lloyd Price, the two Secret Service agents who’d shown up at the murder scene of Kay Willingham and Randall Christopher, met us on the other side of the gate. Agent Breit, the lanky, buzz-cut agent, shook our hands.

  “I know the VP appreciates you coming, Dr. Cross, Special Agent in Charge Mahoney.”

  Agent Price, the short, stocky one, gestured to a black Suburban. “We’ll drive you up to the house. He’s just finishing his workout.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “We heard about your partner’s wife,” said Price, opening one rear door. “Please offer our condolences, Dr. Cross.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, climbing in. “Thank you.”

  From the other side, Breit said, “And I know the boss made a call out to Quantico, Agent Mahoney.”

  “Did he get anywhere?” Ned said, sliding in next to me.

  Breit laughed. “I guess whoever answered didn’t believe it was him at first, but yeah. They’re on it.”

  The Suburban’s rear doors sounded heavily armored when they were shut on us and the agents climbed up front.

  “Bulletproof?” I said.

  Breit said, “It’ll take an anti-tank round and shrug it off.”

  We drove through the grounds to One Observatory Circle, a hundred-and-twenty-year-old white Queen Anne–style mansion that is known as the “temporary official residence” of the vice president of the United States of America.

  “Why is it the temporary official residence?” Mahoney asked.

  Price shrugged. “Congress was supposed to authorize the construction of a permanent residence for the VP. But that was decades ago.”

  “Government in action,” Mahoney said.

  Breit nodded. “Like Darwinism, only we seem to be regressing.”

  “Don’t tell Willingham that,” Price said.

  “Never,” Breit said. “Not a chance.”

  I was half listening to the conversation. A bigger part of my attention lingered on the ripples of grief that had continued to roll out from Billie’s death.

  The rest of our family had taken it hard, Nana Mama especially. She and Billie had shared a special relationship through their mutual interest in cooking.

  “We just saw her recently,” my grandmother had said, shaking her head. “I gave Willow cookies.”

  Jannie and Ali both cried and wondered about Sampson and Willow. Damon, my oldest, was working as a counselor at a basketball camp, but he said he was coming home for the funeral.

  “Can a tick kill me?” Ali had asked as I put him to bed.

  “I guess so, but we live in a city.”

  “So, no ticks?”

  “Nope,” I said, and I shut off his light.

  Ali’s question was on my mind when Breit pulled up in front of the vice president’s residence because I had Googled it after talking to him and found cases where hikers deep in Rock Creek Park had been bitten by ticks and contracted Lyme disease.

  “Okay,” Price said after listening to someone talk in his earbud. “He’ll be sitting down to breakfast in two minutes and expecting you. Let’s move, gentlemen.”

  He got out of the Suburban and opened my door. Breit opened Ned’s.

  “Any advice?” I asked Price.

  “Don’t BS him. He has a BS detector like no one I’ve ever known.”

  CHAPTER 31

  I’D NEVER MET J. WALTER WILLINGHAM in person, but I’d observed him enough on various media formats to know the Secret Service agents were right. We would be dealing with a formidable mind.

  The late Kay Willingham’s ex-husband did not disappoint, arriving in the dining room fifteen seconds after a server set his breakfast tray at the head of the table. Dressed in navy-blue suit pants and a starched white shirt open at the collar, Willingham was of medium height and very fit, with brushed-back silver hair and piercing green-gray eyes that immediately went not to Mahoney but me.

  The vice president started my way but then paused to look over his shoulder at the server. “Thank you, Graciela.”

  She grinned, half bowed, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Vice President!”

  Graciela ducked back into the kitchen, and Willingham’s focus returned to me. He stuck out his hand, studied me, and said in a slight Southern drawl, “Walter Willingham. I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Cross. I’ve actually read a lot about you.”

  “Mr. Vice President,” I said, shaking his hand while those green-gray eyes danced over me. “I wish we were meeting under different circumstances.”

  “I do too,” he said and clapped his other hand over the back of mine. “I can’t tell you how much I wish that.”

  With a nod, Willingham moved on to Mahoney, and I felt like I was coming out of a mild trance. I understood then what Kay had always said about being in her ex-husband’s presence. The VP had the uncanny ability to make each and every person he spoke to feel like he or she was the only other person on the planet.

  As Willingham was shaking Ned’s hand, a very attractive woman in a red sheath dress entered the room. In her mid-forties, by my guess, she had dark hair cut elegantly short, flattering makeup, and flawless pale skin. She was carrying several files and a yellow legal pad in her arms.

  “This is my chief of staff, Claudette Barnes,” Willingham said. “She’ll also act as my counsel for the purposes of this informal meeting.”

  Barnes set down the files, shook our hands, thanked us for coming.

  “Well, then,” Willingham said, taking his seat. “Please, gentlemen,” he said to us and the Secret Service men, “make yours
elf comfortable. And give me a moment to get a little in my stomach. I went long on the treadmill this morning and feel like I’m crashing.”

  Graciela appeared with coffee and poured for the six of us while the vice president dug into three eggs sunny-side up, three strips of thick bacon, an English muffin, half an avocado, and a small cup of fruit. After several bites of each and a long drink of orange juice, Willingham asked the server for privacy, then sat back in his chair and looked at Mahoney and me in turn. “So where does the investigation stand? And how can we help you besides calling Quantico?”

  Mahoney and I had talked on the way over about how best to handle the vice president. It had seemed reasonable to give him an update on the investigation so far, but Willingham had not been married to the deceased for nearly two years. Did he really have any right to know? Especially given the apparent acrimony of their divorce?

  Mahoney said, “Sir, I’m glad to share the fact that the case is ongoing and receiving the attention of a four-agency task force — ”

  “Stop,” Willingham said, and held up his hands. “Special Agent Mahoney, with all due respect, you know my background as a prosecutor?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Then cut the stall. I want to know what you know about Kay’s death.” His shoulders sagged, his eyes got watery, and he gestured toward his chief of staff. “Despite what counsel tells me, I think I have some right to know, even if Kay was no longer my wife. I mean, I still loved her even if she didn’t love me. I still do. And there has to be some perk to being vice president of this damned country.”

  Claudette Barnes shifted in her chair.

  “Well,” I said, retreating to our fallback position, “we came prepared to give you the facts as we know them in return for answers to questions that we have.”

  “What kind of questions?” Willingham’s chief of staff asked.

  The vice president smiled appreciatively and held up his hand to silence Barnes. “Of course, Dr. Cross. Anything. Ask away.”

  Barnes wasn’t happy but sat back.

  “Agents Price and Breit say you were here at the residence the night of the murders.”

  Willingham cocked his head at Mahoney. “That sounds right, but we can check the security logs to give you confirmation. I believe I gave a speech at the Hilton that night and returned here around eleven?”

  “Ten fifty-eight, sir,” Price said, pushing papers at me and Mahoney. “Those are the time-stamped entries at the front gate and here at the residence.”

  “And then you went to bed, sir?” Mahoney asked.

  “No, then I had a piece of blueberry pie and a glass of white wine in the kitchen before going upstairs to read.”

  “What are you reading, sir?”

  “The Gathering Storm, by Winston Churchill,” he said. “About the rise of nationalism and unchecked belligerence in Europe before World War Two.”

  I smiled. “A nice light read, then.”

  “Nice and light has never been my long suit, Dr. Cross.”

  Mahoney said, “Mr. Vice President, did you feel ill will toward your ex-wife?”

  “You don’t have to answer that, sir,” Barnes said.

  Willingham ignored his chief of staff. “Once upon a time I did. I suppose I wouldn’t be human if I had not hated being publicly spurned during the run-up to a national election.”

  I said, “But not enough to have two, maybe three people conspire to shoot her in the midst of a sexual tryst with her lover, an African-American with his eye on political office?” Willingham gazed at me levelly. “No, Dr. Cross. It has been almost two years since Kay left me. I’ve dealt with it. But as I said, even though her life was her own, I still loved her.”

  “How do you know there were two or three assassins?” Barnes asked.

  “An eyewitness claims it,” Mahoney said.

  The vice president sat forward. His chief of staff did as well.

  “Someone saw them shot?” Willingham said.

  “Who was that, exactly?” Barnes asked.

  CHAPTER 32

  WE HAD AGREED BEFOREHAND TO share this information, but Mahoney still appeared uncomfortable as he said, “The eyewitness didn’t see the actual shots, but she heard them and claims to have seen two figures, males with hoods, escaping. She’s less sure on the other, saw a crouched figure moving in the shadows.”

  “You believe this witness?”

  “Not entirely,” Mahoney said. “She’s also a suspect.”

  “Name?”

  “Elaine Paulson. Randall Christopher’s widow.”

  Willingham blinked, took a steadying breath, and said, “Let me get this straight. Christopher’s wife was there?”

  “Admits being there, and she has a weapon,” I said. “A thirty-eight.”

  “The gun you wanted tested?” he said.

  “Correct.”

  The vice president thought about that. “I take it she was unhappy with her husband’s fling with Kay? She knew, didn’t she?”

  Mahoney nodded. “She did, sir.”

  “Upset about it?”

  “Very,” I said.

  “I found in my years as a prosecutor that most often the simple explanations in life are the correct ones,” the vice president said. “She went there to scare them, but when she saw them, she went into a jealous rage and shot them both.”

  “We’re certainly considering that possibility,” Mahoney said.

  “What else?” Willingham said.

  I said, “The killers took jewelry, watches, and wallets from the bodies.”

  Willingham sat forward. “Anything on their clouds?”

  Mahoney nodded. “We have specialists getting access to Mr. Christopher’s cloud, thanks to his widow’s consent. But we’re having trouble finding anyone who has access to your ex-wife’s accounts and passwords.”

  “Good luck with that,” he said. “I know she changed every single account and password after the divorce. Who’s the executor of her will?”

  “Good point,” Mahoney said.

  “I’m sure it’s someone at Carson and Knight, right, Claudette?”

  “I would assume, sir,” Barnes said. “The family’s longtime law firm,” she told us.

  “Where are they located?” Ned asked.

  “Montgomery, Alabama,” Willingham said.

  “Sir, with all due respect, why did Kay suddenly come out and smear you the way she did?” I asked. “Calling you unfit for office and of low moral character right before the election?”

  Willingham got a strange, sad expression on his face. “If I fully understood that, Dr. Cross, I might still be married and Kay might still be alive.”

  CHAPTER 33

  VICE PRESIDENT WILLINGHAM RETURNED TO his breakfast while his chief of staff continued to scribble. After a moment, she looked up at us.

  “So we’re done, Detectives?” Barnes said. “The vice president has a busy schedule today and a meeting starting in about five minutes.”

  I cleared my throat. “Just a couple more questions. You never retaliated after Kay’s attacks, Mr. Vice President. Never responded.”

  Willingham chewed, swallowed, and said, “I was in no position to respond. I’d like to leave it at that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But are you saying, sir, that you have no idea what Kay was talking about when she leveled those accusations at you?”

  He was soaking up egg yolk with an English muffin but stopped to gaze at me. “No,” he said. “I don’t. And if you go back and watch the videos where she made those claims, you’ll see there were never any specifics. It was just rage against me.”

  “But what triggered it?” I asked.

  Willingham pressed his hands as if in prayer, then sighed. “I’d hoped it would not come to this. Show them, Claudette.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” Barnes said. “They have no legal right to it.”

  “They could subpoena it, and I’d rather not be that public about Kay’s…issues.”

 
“Yes, sir.”

  Barnes selected several documents from the files she’d brought in. “These are medical records that ordinarily would be covered by HIPAA, but Kay signed a release allowing her ex-husband to access them.”

  Barnes slid them across the table at me. “I think you’d be the best person to review them first, Dr. Cross.”

  I turned the documents around and saw I was looking at medical records from West Briar, a psychiatric inpatient facility in Hedges, Alabama, where Kay Willingham spent three months in the middle of her two-year hiatus from Washington, DC, following the death of her mother. I scanned the medical narrative, cringing at times, then I closed the file and pushed it to Mahoney. “But the meds helped her?”

  “They always helped until she decided not to take them,” Willingham said, nodding. “Which led to her delusional out-bursts the last week of the campaign and her sudden decision to divorce me and denounce me in the press.”

  “Why didn’t you reveal her history?”

  “Kay didn’t like the stigma attached to being mentally ill,” Willingham said. “She was old-school old South. Being committed to the psych ward again and again, well, revealing that would have been life-shattering. It’s why I never responded to her taunts and smears. I knew she was off her meds, having an episode, and I wanted to spare her the public pain of having her darkest secret revealed.”

  I sat there, feeling like Kay Willingham was a stranger, not the socialite queen of the nation’s capital, not the woman I’d thought her to be.

  Barnes said, “The vice president would prefer it if this part of Kay’s life did not become public unless absolutely necessary.”

  Willingham laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Here I am, trying to protect Kay even on her way to the grave. How do you explain that, Dr. Cross?”

  “Love,” I said.

  His eyes welled up with tears, and he patted his chest. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Barnes got to her feet, said, “We really must be going, Mr. Vice President. You’re expected at nine.”