EPILOGUE
THE MODEST COMPACT TRUNDLED INTO THE SMALL TOWN
of Pennington, New Jersey, and its driver stared around at the
landmarks of his home, which he had not seen for so long.
South of the junction marking the center of town,
he passed the Civil War-vintage white clapboard house with the
shingle of “Mr. Calvin Dexter, Attorney-at-Law.” It looked
neglected, but he knew he would enjoy fixing it back up and seeing
if he still had a practice left.
At the junction of Main Street and West Delaware
Avenue, the heart of Pennington, he toyed between a strong black
coffee at the Cup of Joe café, or something more at Vito’s Pizza.
Then he noticed the new food mart and recalled he would need
provisions for his home on Chesapeake Drive. He parked the car,
bought from a lot close to where he had landed at Newark Airport,
and entered the mart.
He filled a whole shopping cart and ended up at
the checkout. There was a lad there, probably a student working his
way through college as he had once done.
“Anything else, sir?”
“That reminds me,” said Dexter. “I could do with
some sodas.”
“Right across there in the cold case. We have a
special offer on Coke.”
Dexter thought it over.
“Maybe some other time.”
IT WAS the parish priest at St. Mary’s on South
Royal Street who raised the alarm. He was sure his parishioner was
in Alexandria because he had seen the man’s housekeeper Maisie with
a cartful of shopping. Yet he had missed two Masses, which he never
did. So after morning service the priest walked the few hundred
yards to the elegant old house at the junction of South Lee and
South Fairfax streets.
To his surprise, the gate to the walled garden,
although seemingly closed as ever, opened with a light push. That
was odd. Mr. Devereaux always answered on the intercom and pressed
a buzzer inside to release the catch.
The priest walked up the pink brick path to find
the front door also open. He went pale and crossed himself when he
saw poor Maisie, who had never harmed anyone, sprawled on the
hallway tiles, a neat bullet hole drilled through her heart.
He was about to use his cell phone to call 911
for help when he saw the study door was also open. He approached in
fear and trembling to peer around the jamb.
Paul Devereaux sat at his desk, still in his wing
chair, which supported his torso and head. The head was tilted
back, sightless eyes gazing with mild surprise at the ceiling. The
medical examiner would later establish he had taken two
close-bracketed shots to the chest and one to the forehead, the
professional assassin’s pattern.
No one in Alexandria, Virginia, understood why.
However, when he learned of it from the TV evening news at his home
in New Jersey, Cal Dexter understood. There was nothing personal
about it. But you just cannot treat the Don that way.