CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

KATE HAD PLACED THE CALL THAT NIGHT; FRANK HAD wanted to waste no time. The voice on the machine stunned her; it was the first time in years she had heard those tones. Calm, efficient, measured like the practiced stride of an infantryman. She actually began to tremble as the tone sounded and it took all her will to summon the simple words that were designed to trap him. She kept reminding herself how cunning he could be. She wanted to see him, wanted to talk to him. As soon as possible. She wondered if the wily old mind would smell a trap, and then she recalled their last face-to-face meeting, and she realized that he would never see it coming. He would never attribute deceit to the little girl who confided in him her most precious information. Even she had to give him that.

It was barely an hour later when the phone rang. As she reached out for it, she wished to God she had never agreed to Frank’s request. Sitting in a restaurant hatching a plan to catch a suspected murderer was quite different from actually participating in a charade designed solely to deliver your father to the authorities.

“Katie.” She sensed the slight break in the voice. A tinge of disbelief blended in.

“Hello, Dad.” She was grateful that the words had come out on their own. At that moment she seemed incapable of articulating the simplest thought.

Her apartment was not good. He could understand that. Too close, too personal. His place, she knew, would be unworkable for obvious reasons. They could meet on neutral grounds, he suggested. Of course they could. She wanted to talk, he certainly wanted to listen. Desperately wanted to listen.

A time was reached, tomorrow, four o’clock, at a small café near her office. At that time of day it would be empty, quiet; they could take their time. He would be there. She was sure nothing short of death would keep him away.

She hung up and called Frank. She gave him the time and the place. Listening to herself it finally dawned on her what she had just done. She could feel everything suddenly giving way and she could not stop it. She flung down the phone and burst into tears; so hard did her body convulse that she slumped to the floor, every muscle twitching, her moans filling the tiny apartment like helium into a balloon; it all threatened to violently explode.

Frank had stayed on the phone a second longer and wished he hadn’t. He yelled into the phone but she could not hear him; not that it would have made a difference if she had. She was doing the right thing. She had nothing to be ashamed about, nothing to feel guilty about. When he finally gave up and cradled the receiver, his moment of euphoria at growing ever close to his quarry was over like a flamed-out match.

So his question had been answered. She loved him still. That thought for Lieutenant Seth Frank was troubling but controllable. For Seth Frank, father of three, it made his eyes water and he suddenly didn’t like his job very much anymore.

*   *   *

BURTON HUNG UP THE PHONE. DETECTIVE FRANK HAD BEEN true to his promise to let the agent in on the kill.

Minutes later Burton was in Russell’s office.

“I don’t want to know how you’re going to do it.” Russell looked worried.

Burton smiled to himself. Getting squeamish, just like he predicted. Wanted the job done, just didn’t want to get her pretty nails dirty.

“All you have to make sure you do is tell the President where it’s going down. And then you make damn sure he tells Sullivan before the fact. He has got to do that.”

Russell looked puzzled. “Why?”

“Let me worry about that. Just remember, do what I tell you.” He was gone before Russell had a chance to explode at him.

*   *   *

“ARE THE POLICE SURE HE’S THE ONE?” THERE WAS A HINT of anxiousness in the President’s voice as he looked up from his desk.

Russell, pacing the room, stopped to look at him. “Well, Alan, I’m assuming that if he weren’t they wouldn’t be going to all the trouble to arrest him.”

“They’ve made mistakes before, Gloria.”

“No argument there. Just like us all.”

The President closed the binder he had been examining and stood up, surveyed the White House grounds from the window.

“So the man will shortly be in custody?” He turned to look at Russell.

“So it would seem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that the best-laid plans sometimes go awry.”

“Does Burton know?”

“Burton seems to have orchestrated the entire thing.”

The President walked over to Russell; put his hand on her arm.

“What are you talking about?”

Russell relayed the events of the last few days to her boss.

The President rubbed his jaw. “What is Burton up to?” The question was said more to himself than to Russell.

“Why don’t you buzz him and ask him yourself? The only point he was absolutely insistent on was your relaying the message to Sullivan.”

“Sullivan? Why the hell would . . .” The President did not finish his thought. He rang for Burton but was told he had suddenly become ill and gone to the hospital.

The President’s eyes bored into his Chief of Staff. “Is Burton going to do what I think he’s going to do?”

“Depends on what you’re thinking.”

“Cut the games, Gloria. You know exactly what I mean.”

“If you mean does Burton intend on making sure that this individual is never taken into custody, yes, that thought had crossed my mind.”

The President fingered a heavy letter opener on his desk, sat down in his chair and faced out the window. Russell shuddered when she looked at it. She had thrown the one on her desk away.

“Alan? What do you want me to do?” She stared at the back of his head. He was the President and you had to sit and wait patiently, even if you wanted to reach across and throttle him.

Finally he swiveled around. The eyes were dark, cold and commanding. “Nothing. I want you to do nothing. I better get in touch with Sullivan. Give me the location and time again.”

Russell thought the same thing she had earlier as she recounted the information. Some friend.

The President picked up his phone. Russell reached across and put her hand on top of his. “Alan, the reports said Christine Sullivan had bruises on her jaw and had been partially strangled.”

The President didn’t look up. “Oh really?”

“What exactly happened in that bedroom, Alan?”

“Well, from the small pieces I can remember she wanted to play a bit rougher than I did. The marks on her neck?” He paused and put down the phone. “Let’s just put it this way: Christy was into a lot of kinky things, Gloria. Including sexual asphyxiation. You know, people get off when they’re gasping for air and climaxing at the same time.”

“I’ve heard of it, Alan, I just didn’t think you’d be into something like that.” Her tone was harsh.

The President snapped back: “Remember your place, Russell. I do not answer to you or anyone else for my actions.”

She stepped back, and quickly said, “Of course, I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

Richmond’s face relaxed; he stood up and spread his arms resignedly. “I did it for Christy, Gloria, what can I say. Women sometimes have strange effects on men. I’m certainly not immune to it.”

“So why did she try to kill you?”

“Like I said, she wanted to play rougher than I did. She was drunk and she just went out of control. Unfortunate, but those things happen.”

Gloria looked past him out the window. The encounter with Christine Sullivan did not just “happen.” The time and planning that had gone into that rendezvous had eventually taken on the elements of a full-blown election campaign. She shook her head as the images from that night poured back to her.

The President came up behind her, gripped her shoulders, turned her to him.

“It was an awful experience for everyone, Gloria. I certainly didn’t want Christy to die. It was the last thing in the world I wanted. I went there to have a quiet, romantic evening with a very beautiful woman. My God, I’m no monster.” A disarming smile emerged across his face.

“I know that, Alan. It’s just, all those women, all those times. Something bad was bound to happen.”

The President shrugged. “Well, as I told you before, I’m not the first man to hold this office to engage in those types of extracurricular activities. Nor will I be the last.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “You know the demands of the office I hold, Gloria, better than most. There’s no other job like it in the world.”

“I know the pressures are enormous. I realize that, Alan.”

“That’s right. It’s a job that really requires more than is humanly possible to deliver. Sometimes you have to deal with that reality by relieving some of that pressure, from pulling yourself out from between the vise occasionally. How I deal with that pressure is important, because it dictates how well I can serve the people who have elected me, who have placed their trust in me.”

He turned back to his desk. “And besides, enjoying the company of beautiful women is a relatively innocuous way of combating that stress.”

Gloria stared angrily at his back. As if he expected her, of all people, to be swayed by the rhetoric, by a bullshit patriotic speech.

“It certainly wasn’t innocuous for Christine Sullivan,” she blurted out.

Richmond turned back to her; he was no longer smiling. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore, Gloria. What’s past is past—start thinking about the future. Understand?”

She bowed her head in formal assent and stalked from the room.

The President again picked up the phone. He would deliver all the necessary details about the police sting to his good friend Walter Sullivan. The President smiled to himself as the call was being placed. It sounded like it wouldn’t be long now. They were almost there. He could count on Burton. Count on him to do the right thing. For all of them.

*   *   *

LUTHER CHECKED HIS WATCH. ONE O’CLOCK. HE SHOWERED, brushed his teeth and then trimmed his newly grown beard. He lingered over his hair until it met with his satisfaction. His face looked better today. The phone call from Kate had worked wonders. He had cradled the phone in his ear playing the message over and over again, just to hear the voice, the words he had never expected to hear again. He had risked going to a men’s store downtown where he bought a new pair of slacks, sports coat and patent leathers. He had considered and then discarded the notion of a tie.

He tried on his new coat. It felt good. The pants were a little loose on him; he had lost weight. He would have to eat more. He might even start with buying his daughter an early dinner. If she’d let him. He’d have to think about that one; he didn’t want to push it.

Jack! It must’ve been Jack. He had told her of their meeting. That her father had been in trouble. That was the connection. Of course! He had been stupid not to see it right away. But what did that mean? That she cared? He felt a tremble start in his neck and it ended at his knees. After all these years? He swore under his breath at the timing. The fucking timing! But he had made up his mind and nothing could change that decision now. Not even his little girl. Something terribly wrong had to be set right.

Luther was certain Richmond knew nothing about his correspondence with the Chief of Staff. Her only hope was to quietly buy back what Luther had and then make sure no one ever laid eyes on it again. Buy him off, hoping he’d disappear forever and the world would never know. He had verified that the money had arrived in the designated account. What happened to that money would be their first surprise.

The second surprise, though, would make them forget all about the first. And the best part was that Richmond would never see it coming. He seriously doubted that the President would actually do any time. But if this didn’t meet the criteria for impeachment he didn’t know what did. This made Watergate look like a third-grade prank. He wondered what impeached ex-Presidents did. Withered in the flames of their own destruction, he hoped.

Luther pulled the letter out of his pocket. He would arrange for her to receive it right about the time she’d be expecting the last set of instructions. The payoff. She would get her payoff. They all would. It was worth it, letting her squirm like he knew she had all this time.

No matter how often he tried he couldn’t erase the memory of the woman’s leisurely sexual encounter in the presence of a still warm body, as though the dead woman was a pile of trash, not to be bothered with. And then Richmond. The drunken, slobbering bastard! Again the visions made Luther seethe. He clenched his teeth, then abruptly smiled.

Whatever deal Jack could cut him he would take. Twenty years, ten years, ten days. He didn’t care anymore. Fuck the President and everybody around him. Fuck the whole town, he was taking them down.

But first he was going to spend some time with his daughter. After that he really didn’t care anymore.

As he walked over to the bed, Luther’s body took a jolt. Something else had just occurred to him. Something that hurt, but which he could understand. He sat on the bed and sipped a glass of water. If it were true could he really blame her? And besides, he could just kill two birds with one stone. As he lay back on the bed, it occurred to him that things that looked too good to be true usually were. Did he deserve any better from her? The answer was absolutely clear. He did not.

*   *   *

WHEN THE MONEY TRANSFER HAD REACHED DISTRICT BANK, automatic prewire instructions kicked in and the funds were immediately transferred out of the account to five different area banks, each in the amount of one million dollars. From there the funds followed a circuitous route until the total sum was once again assembled in one place.

Russell, who had put a tracer on the flow of money from her end, would find out soon enough what had happened. She would not be particularly pleased about it. She would be far less pleased about the next message she received.

*   *   *

THE CAFÉ ALONZO HAD BEEN OPEN ABOUT A YEAR. IT HAD the usual array of outdoor tables with colorful umbrellas in a small space on the sidewalk enclosed by a waist-high black iron railing. The coffee was varied and strong; the on-premises bakery was popular among the morning and lunch crowds. At five minutes to four only one person sat at the outdoor table. In the chilly air the umbrellas were collapsed down resembling a column of giant drinking straws.

The café was located in the ground floor of a modern office building. Two stories up hung a scaffolding. Three workers were replacing a glass panel that had cracked. The entire facade of the building consisted of mirrored panels that gave a complete image of the area directly opposite it. The panel was heavy and even the burly men struggled with the weight and bulk.

Kate bundled her coat around her and sipped her coffee. The afternoon sun was warming in spite of the chill, but it was fading rapidly. Long shadows had commenced to creep over the tables. She felt the rawness in her eyes as she squinted at the sun suspended directly over the tops of a number of dilapidated row houses that sat diagonally across the street from the café. They were destined for demolition to make room for the continued renovation of the area. She did not notice that the upper-story window on one of the row houses was now open. The row house next door had two windows smashed out. The front door on another was partially caved in.

Kate looked at her watch. She had been sitting there for approximately twenty minutes. Used to the frenetic pace of the prosecutor’s office, the day had dragged interminably. She had no doubt there were dozens of police officers in the vicinity waiting to pounce once he walked up to her. Then she thought about it. Would they even have a chance to say anything to each other? What the hell could she say anyway? Hi Dad, you’re busted? She rubbed her raw cheeks and waited. He would be there right at four. And it was too late for her to change any of it. Too damned late for anything. But she was doing the right thing, despite the guilt she was feeling, despite breaking down like that after calling the detective. She angrily squeezed her hands together. She was about to hand her father over to the police, and he deserved it. She was through debating it. She now just wanted it to be over.

*   *   *

MCCARTY DID NOT LIKE IT. NOT AT ALL. HIS USUAL ROUTINE was to follow his target, sometimes for weeks, until the assassin understood the victim’s patterns of behavior better than the victim did. It made the killing so much easier. The additional time also allowed McCarty to plan his escape, to allow for worst-case scenarios. He had none of those luxuries on this job. Sullivan’s message had been terse. The man had already paid him an enormous sum on his per diem, with another two million to follow upon completion. Under any yardstick he had been compensated—now he had to deliver. Except for his first hit many years ago, McCarty could not remember being this nervous. It didn’t help matters that the place was crawling with cops.

But he kept telling himself things would be okay. In the time he had he had planned well. He had reconnoitered the area right after Sullivan’s phone call. The row house idea had hit him immediately. It was really the only logical place. He had been here since four in the morning. The back door to the house opened into an alleyway. His rental car was parked at the curb. It would take him exactly fifteen seconds from the moment the shot was fired to drop his rifle, make his way down the stairs, out the door and into his car. He would be two miles away before the police even fully understood what had happened. A plane was leaving in forty-five minutes from a private airstrip ten miles north of Washington. Its destination was New York City. It would carry one passenger, and in a little over five hours McCarty would be a pampered passenger on board the Concorde as it descended into London.

He checked his rifle and scope for the tenth time, automatically flicking away a grain of dust on the barrel. A suppressor would have been nice, but he had yet to find one that worked on a rifle, especially one that was chambered with supersonic ammo as his weapon was. He would count on the confusion to mask the shot and his subsequent departure. He looked across the street and checked his watch. Almost time.

McCarty, while being a very accomplished killer, could not have possibly known that another rifle would be trained on his target’s head. And behind that rifle would be a pair of eyes as sharp if not sharper than his own.

*   *   *

TIM COLLIN HAD QUALIFIED AS AN EXPERT MARKSMAN IN THE Marine Corps, and his master sergeant had written in his evaluation that he had never seen a better shot. The focus of that accolade was now sighting through his scope; then he relaxed. Collin looked around the confines of the van he was in. Parked down the street on the curb opposite from the café, he had a straight shot to the target. He sighted through his rifle again, Kate Whitney appearing fleetingly in the crosshairs. Collin slid open the side window of the van. He was under shadow of the buildings behind him. No one could notice what he was doing. He also had the added advantage of knowing that Seth Frank and a contingent of county police were stationed to the right of the café while others were in the office building lobby where the café was located. Unmarked cars were stationed at various locations up and down the street. If Whitney ran he wouldn’t get far. But then Collin knew the man wasn’t going to run anywhere.

After the shot Collin would quickly disassemble the rifle and secrete it in the van, emerge with his sidearm and badge and join the other authorities in pondering what the hell had happened. No one would think to check a Secret Service van for the firearm or shooter who had just wasted their target.

Burton’s plan made a lot of sense to the young agent. Collin had nothing against Luther Whitney but there was a lot more at stake than a sixty-six-year-old career criminal’s life. A helluva lot more. Killing the old man was not something Collin was going to enjoy; in fact, he would do his best to forget it once done. But that was life. He was paid to do a job, had in fact sworn to do that job, above all else. Was he breaking the law? Technically he was committing murder. Realistically he was just doing what had to be done. He assumed the President knew about it; Gloria Russell knew about it; and Bill Burton, a man he respected more than anyone else, had instructed him to do it. Collin’s training simply did not permit him to ignore those instructions. Besides, the old guy had broken into the place. He was going to do twenty years. He’d never make twenty years. Who wanted to be in prison at eighty years old? Collin was just saving him a lot of misery. Given those choices, Collin would’ve taken the round too.

Collin glanced up at the workmen on the scaffolding above the café as they struggled to right the replacement panel. One man grabbed the end of a rope connected to a block and tackle. Slowly the piece began to rise.

*   *   *

KATE LOOKED UP FROM STUDYING HER HANDS AND HER EYES locked on him.

He moved gracefully along the sidewalk. The fedora and muffler hid most of his features but the walk was unmistakable. Growing up she had always wanted to be able to glide along the ground like her father, so effortlessly, so confidently. She started to rise and thought better of it. Frank had not said at what point he would move in, but Kate didn’t expect him to wait very long.

Luther stopped in front of the café and looked at her. He had not been this close to his daughter for over a decade, and he was a little unsure how to proceed. She felt his uncertainty and forced a smile to her lips. He immediately went to her table and sat down, his back to the street. Despite the chill he took off his hat and put his sunglasses away in his pocket.

McCarty sighted through his rifle scope. The iron-gray hair came into focus and his finger flipped off the safety and then floated to the trigger.

*   *   *

BARELY A HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, COLLIN WAS MIRRORING those actions. He was not as hurried as McCarty since he had the advantage of knowing when the police were going to move in.

*   *   *

MCCARTY’S TRIGGER FINGER CROOKED BACK. EARLIER, HE had noticed the workmen on the scaffolding once or twice but then had put them out of his mind. It was only the second mistake he had ever committed in his line of work.

The mirrored panel suddenly jerked upward as the rope was pulled down and the panel cocked in McCarty’s direction. Catching the falling sun directly on its surface, the panel threw the reflection, red and glimmering, full in McCarty’s eyes. Momentary pain shot through his pupils and his hand jerked involuntarily as the rifle fired. He cursed and flung down the gun. He made it to the back door five seconds ahead of schedule.

The bullet struck the umbrella pole and severed it before ricocheting off and imbedding into the concrete pavement. Both Kate and Luther went down, father instinctively shielding daughter. A few seconds later Seth Frank and a dozen uniforms, guns drawn, formed a semicircle around the pair, facing out, their eyes scanning every nook and cranny of the street.

“Shut this whole fucking area down,” Frank screamed to the sergeant, who barked orders into his radio. Uniforms spread out, unmarked cars moved in.

The workmen stared down at the street, completely oblivious to the unwitting role they had played in the events unfolding below.

Luther was pulled up and handcuffed and the entire party hustled into the lobby of the office building. An excited Seth Frank stared at the man for one satisfying moment and then read him his rights. Luther looked across at his daughter. Kate at first could not meet his gaze, but then decided he at least deserved that. His words hurt her more than anything she had prepared for.

“Are you all right, Katie?”

She nodded and the tears started to pour, and this time, despite squeezing her throat in an iron grip, she could not stop them as she crumpled to the floor.

Bill Burton stood just inside the lobby doorway. When an astonished Collin came in, Burton’s look threatened to disintegrate the younger man. That is until Collin whispered in his ear.

To his credit Burton assimilated the information rapidly and hit upon the truth a few seconds later. Sullivan had hired a hit man. The old man had actually done what Burton had intended to falsely set him up for.

The wily billionaire rose a notch in Burton’s estimation.

Burton walked over to Frank.

Frank looked at him. “Any idea what the fuck that was all about?”

“Maybe,” Burton answered back.

Burton turned around. For the first time he and Luther Whitney actually looked at each other. For Luther, memories of that night again came hurtling back to him. But he was calm, unruffled.

Burton had to admire that. But it also was a great source of concern for him. Whitney was obviously not overly distressed at being arrested. His eyes told Burton—a man who had participated in literally thousands of arrests, which normally involved adults blubbering like babies—all he needed to know. The guy was planning to go to the cops all along. For what reason Burton was unsure and he really didn’t care.

Burton continued to look at Luther while Frank checked in with his men. Then Burton looked over at the huddled mass in the corner. Luther had already struggled with his captors in an attempt to go to her, but they were having no part of it. A policewoman was making awkward efforts to console Kate but with little success. Traces of tears worked their way down the thick wrinkles in the old man’s cheeks as he watched each sob wrack his little girl.

When he noticed Burton right at his elbow, Luther finally flashed fire at the man until Burton led the old man’s eyes back over to Kate. The men’s eyes locked again. Burton raised his eyebrows a notch and then settled them back down with the finality of a round being fired into Kate’s head. Burton had stared down some of the worst criminals the area had to offer and his features could be menacing, but it was the absolute sincerity in those features that turned hardened men cold. Luther Whitney was no punk, that was easy enough to see. He was not one of the blubberers. But the wall of concrete that made up Luther Whitney’s nerves had already started to crumble. It swiftly finished dissolving and the remnants trickled toward the sobbing woman in the corner.

Burton turned and walked out the door.