One morning, Keith looked in the mirror and found a forty-year-old man staring back. He was still six two, but he had to wear reading glasses, there were gray hairs among the blond, and ten extra pounds surrounded his midsection. Evans’s career had been stagnating until he became the public face of the D.C. Ripper task force and played a part in bringing down President Christopher Farrington. His involvement in another case involving U.S. Supreme Court Justice Felicia Moss had given his career another boost. But his personal life was still bleak. There had been a few women since his divorce, but none of them had put up with his all-too-frequent absences any better than his ex-wife. He didn’t blame the women for the failed relationships. He couldn’t discuss his work, he had to break dates on a regular basis, and the things he experienced led him to be emotionally cold at times.
Half an hour ago, Keith had read a bulletin that affected two of the few people he counted as friends. He felt uneasy about having to break the bad news but not as uneasy as he felt sitting beside his partner, Special Agent Maggie Sparks.
Maggie was a slim, athletic woman in her early thirties. Her DNA was a hodgepodge inherited from Cherokee, Spanish, Romanian, and Danish ancestors that conspired to create a very attractive woman with glossy black hair, high cheekbones, and a dark complexion. The only blemish on her beauty was a faint scar on her cheek, the product of a gunfight during the Farrington investigation. Maggie still maintained a wry sense of humor and a positive outlook on life despite the horrors she encountered on the job, and Keith always felt his spirits rise when he was with her.
Keith’s attraction to Maggie had grown over the years, but he had never gotten up the nerve to ask her out because he wasn’t certain how Maggie felt about him and he was terrified that any overtures he made to her would destroy their working relationship.
“How do you think they’ll take the news?” Maggie asked as they climbed the steps to Brad and Ginny’s apartment.
“I don’t know. I never talked that much to Brad about Clarence Little. We went over the similarities in his case and the Ripper case, but he never talked about how he got along with the guy.”
Keith was breathing a little unevenly when he got to the third-floor landing. If Maggie was experiencing any physical stress, Keith couldn’t see it.
“This is it,” he said, stopping at the second apartment. He knocked, and the door opened a few seconds later, revealing a smiling Brad Miller clad in sweatpants and a New York Jets T-shirt.
“Hey, guys, come in,” Brad said, stepping aside to let the agents into his apartment.
“Thanks,” Keith said.
“Hi, Keith, Maggie,” Ginny said. She was also wearing sweats and a T-shirt, only her team of choice was the Kansas City Chiefs.
Brad took a closer look at Keith and Maggie, and he stopped smiling.
“What’s up?” he asked cautiously.
“Something happened in Oregon we thought you’d want to know about,” Keith said. “Clarence Little was in Portland for a court appearance. He killed two guards and his female attorney in the jail elevator while they were going from the jail to the courtroom.”
“He killed Millie Reston?” Brad asked, shocked.
“Did you know her?” Maggie asked.
“Not really, but she called me a little while ago to talk about Clarence’s case. That’s the only time I talked to her.”
“How did he kill the guards?” Ginny asked.
“The authorities in Portland reviewed tapes of Reston’s visits to the jail, and they think she may have fallen for Little. They’re pretty certain Reston smuggled a gun into the courthouse.”
“The poor sap,” Brad said.
“Is there anything you can tell me that might help catch Little, any favorite places, friends, relatives?” Keith asked.
Everyone looked at Brad, who flushed and couldn’t meet anyone’s eye.
“I can’t remember anything like that, but something happened that I never told you, Ginny.”
“About Clarence Little?” she asked.
Brad nodded. “He sent me two letters.”
“What kind of letters?” Ginny pressed.
“They were creepy, but there weren’t any threats in them. I didn’t tell you about them because I didn’t want to worry you.”
“When did you get them?” Maggie asked.
“The first one was slipped under the door of our apartment in Portland on the evening of the presidential election. I found it when we came back from the election-night parties. The second one was sent to my office in the Senate right after Clarence’s cases were sent back for new trials.”
“Do you have them?” Keith asked.
“I threw out the first one. I figured Clarence was just playing one of his mind games, and I didn’t want to buy into it. He was on death row, anyway, and I didn’t think of him as a threat. I kept the second one. It’s in my desk at the office. I can give it to you.”
“I’ll have someone from the lab pick it up,” Keith said.
“Neither letter was mailed from the prison. The first one wasn’t mailed at all, and the second was sent from Portland. They contained some personal details that Clarence shouldn’t have known about. Not anything secret. Anyone who knows us would have known about them. The first one mentioned Ginny, and I never discussed anything about my personal life with Clarence. So I figured he had an accomplice. For what it’s worth, I think Millie Reston helped him. I confronted her about the letters when she called, and she was very evasive and sounded nervous.”
“I’ll give this information to the people who are looking for Little,” Keith said. “Someone will get in touch with you.”
“Why did you hurry over to tell us about the escape? Do you think we’re in danger?” Ginny asked.
“I have no idea,” Keith said. He looked at Brad. “Would Little have any reason to hurt you?”
“Ginny and I talked about this when we learned his cases had been reversed. Clarence and I got along pretty well but—as Ginny pointed out—a psychotic serial killer doesn’t think like a normal human being. I’m not that worried, though. Clarence has no logical reason to want to hurt me. He’ll be trying to hide or get out of the country. I doubt he’ll come all the way to D.C. to get to me or Ginny.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was general knowledge among the members of Senator Carson’s staff that Brad had represented Clarence Little. The morning after Little’s escape made the front page of every newspaper and led every television newscast in the D.C. area, the escaped serial killer became a constant topic of conversation in the senator’s office.
Bonnie Berliner was the legislative correspondent with the cubicle outside Brad’s office. An attractive brunette with a cheerful manner and a bright smile, she had just graduated from Oregon State with honors and a degree in government. Her father was a big contributor to Carson’s campaign, but she probably would have been hired on merit. Bonnie was answering e-mails about health care issues when Brad walked by. She swiveled away from her monitor.
“Mr. Sharp wants to see you,” Bonnie said.
“About what?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Okay. I’ll just get rid of my stuff.”
Brad expected Bonnie to go back to her computer. Instead, she looked him over.
“Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You know, Little.”
Brad had been reassuring every workmate he had passed, starting with the receptionists, and he had his patter down pat.
“Mr. Little and I got on fine. Anyway, he’s probably in Mexico by now.”
Bonnie shuddered. “I was in school when he was torturing those women. I don’t see how you can be so cool.”
“Every law enforcement officer in the country is after Clarence. He’s probably spending every waking minute figuring out how to stay out of prison. And there are three thousand miles between us. I’m sure he hasn’t given me a thought.”
Brad hung u
p his coat, grabbed a steno pad for notes, and headed down the hall to Lucas Sharp’s office, which was next to the boss’s. The chief of staff had the second biggest office, but it was nowhere near the size of Carson’s corner suite. The walls were of the same movable metal as Brad’s, and a picture window closed off by blinds faced the hall. One quarter of the office was taken up by a round conference table and the chairs that surrounded it. A flat-screen TV was affixed to the wall behind the table. Sharp’s desktop was invisible because of the legislative bills, magazines, newspapers, and files that covered it.
When Brad walked in, Sharp motioned him toward a chair on the other side of the desk.
“Have reporters tried to interview you about Little?” Sharp asked.
“The phone was ringing off the hook, so we unplugged it. There were reporters in front of our apartment, but I escaped through the service entrance in the basement.”
“Good. Stick with no comment. The senator doesn’t need this distraction with the race heating up.”
“I don’t know anything, so not commenting won’t be a problem.”
“You know I was a deputy district attorney when Clarence killed his first three victims.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
Sharp shook his head. “Little is one sick puppy. I was called to the second crime scene. This was before we knew the killings were connected. I still get the occasional nightmare, even though it’s been years since I saw the body.”
“I’ve seen the autopsy photos and those kids in the forest. That was enough for me.”
“Yeah, well, if you even dream you’re in danger, you tell me and I’ll get you protection.”
“Thanks, but I’m sure I won’t need it.”
Brad had assured everyone that he didn’t feel he was in danger, but he found himself scanning crowds for a glimpse of the serial killer, and he made sure he walked home during daylight. By the end of the first week, news of the escape had slipped from the front page to the interior of the newspapers because there were no new developments. By the second week, Ginny had stopped obsessing about Little, and Brad thought about his ex-client less and less.
Friday morning, the senator’s secretary buzzed Brad and told him to come to Senator Carson’s office. Brad put on his jacket, straightened his tie, and walked down the hall. When he got to the office, his boss was bent over the draft of a bill, scribbling notes on a legal pad. Brad stood in the doorway and waited. After a few moments, Carson looked up and waved Brad toward a chair. While Brad crossed the room and sat down, Carson took off his glasses, shut his eyes, and massaged his eyelids. Brad waited patiently as the senator replaced his glasses. Carson’s tie was undone, and the sleeves of his dress shirt had been rolled back. His hair looked as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and he seemed tired. When he spoke, he sounded subdued.
“I’m getting good reports about your work, Brad.”
“It’s pretty interesting, so it’s not hard to get engaged.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely interesting, although not always in a good way.” He pointed at the papers spread across his desk. “Senator Dumont is driving everyone nuts with his half-assed immigration bill.”
Brad permitted himself a smile. Dumont, who was from a state bordering Mexico, was in a tight reelection campaign. His bill was loaded with proposals for electrified fences and border guard “shoot to kill” exceptions he knew would never become law but would make him sound more anti–illegal alien than his challenger.
“So, I hear you’ve had a little excitement in your life,” Carson said. Brad looked puzzled. Then he realized that the senator was alluding to Clarence Little’s escape.
“I haven’t been involved with Clarence Little for almost two years.”
“Are you worried he’ll come after you? I can arrange for protection.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it. Clarence is probably in another country by now. And,” he said ruefully, “even if he’s still in the U.S., he wouldn’t have any reason to be mad at me, since my efforts on his behalf helped get the Erickson case reversed and gave him the opportunity to escape.”
Carson smiled. “When you put it that way, I guess you are safe. But I didn’t ask you in here to talk about Clarence Little. I called you in here because you’ve shown an ability to deal with delicate situations.”
Brad frowned. After the Farrington affair and his adventures at the Supreme Court, he wanted nothing to do with “delicate situations.”
“The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is meeting on Monday. Jessica Koshani, a constituent, has been subpoenaed to testify. She’s flying in tonight on a private jet. I want you to pick her up at Dulles. Don’t go to the main terminal. Private planes land at their own area. Park in front and go to the waiting room. She’ll meet you there. Then you’ll take her to a house I own in Georgetown.” Carson gave Brad the address and tossed a key to him. “I’ve rented a car for you. It’s in the parking lot.”
Carson tossed Brad another key and told him where to find the car.
“Miss Koshani will be landing a little after seven. Get her settled in, then drive her to the hearing on Monday morning. We convene at nine thirty, so you’ll get her around eight thirty. Take her in the back way so no one sees her. After the hearing, you’ll drive her to the airport. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
Carson looked down at the immigration bill, and it was clear that their business was complete.
Through the window in the waiting room, Brad watched the Learjet carrying Jessica Koshani taxi to a stop. Moments later, steps were lowered to the tarmac, and an elegantly dressed woman walked down them. Brad was madly in love with Ginny, but that didn’t mean he didn’t notice attractive women. Even though she was dressed simply in black pants and a light tan jacket over a white silk man-tailored shirt, and her only jewelry was a pearl necklace and two gold rings, this woman would have stood out in a room full of fashion models.
“Miss Koshani?” Brad asked, trying not to stare. The woman nodded. Brad knew Koshani had just flown to D.C. from Oregon, but she showed none of the fatigue most cross-country travelers manifested.
“I’m Brad Miller. The senator sent me.”
“Those are my bags,” she said dismissively, pointing to two large suitcases that a flight attendant had carried from the plane.
Brad hefted the bags and carried them to a black Mercedes. He opened the back door for Koshani and waited until she was settled before putting the bags in the trunk. When he got behind the wheel, he couldn’t help taking a quick peek at his passenger in the rearview mirror. Koshani was stunning. Brad felt a little guilty about getting sexually aroused, and he reminded himself that he was married to a fantastic woman. Then he remembered President Jimmy Carter’s interview in Playboy, in which he said that God forgave men for committing adultery in their hearts, and he smiled. If a little unacted-upon lust was good enough for a president, it was good enough for him.
“You are on the senator’s staff?” Koshani asked, shortly after they connected with the highway.
“Yes.”
“What do you do for him?”
“I’ve got a law degree, so most of my work has to do with analyzing bills from a legal perspective.”
“You know I am testifying before the Intelligence Committee?”
“I’m driving you on Monday.”
“What do you think the senators will ask me?”
Brad was surprised that Koshani would pump him for information. All he knew about the inquiry was what he’d learned when Koshani’s name had come up, and he wasn’t going to divulge what he’d heard.
“I don’t have any idea,” he said. “The senator is pretty tight-lipped about security matters.”
Koshani asked a few more questions. When it became obvious that she would learn nothing from Brad, she stopped, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
Part III
Strange
Interlude
Chapter Nineteen
The city of Georgetown was founded in 1751 and was a major port and commercial center in colonial times. It was assimilated into the District of Columbia in 1871 and was Washington’s fashion and cultural center until the capital grew and new Victorian homes and Gilded Age mansions were built closer to the centers of government. The area went into a steady decline until members of the Roosevelt administration moved there in the 1930s, and it became one of Washington’s most fashionable residential areas again after Georgetown resident John F. Kennedy became the thirty-fifth president of the United States.
Many of the homes in Georgetown’s tree-lined residential area are two-hundred-year-old row houses with beautiful gardens. The three-story house where Jessica Koshani was staying stood back from the street on a small tree-shaded lot. Brad had gotten a quick look around when he brought Koshani’s bags in from the car. The downstairs living room was furnished with elegant French Provincial furniture. The theme continued upstairs. There was a grandfather clock in the second-floor hallway and a four-poster bed in the bedroom where he had left Koshani’s valises. Brad thought the house was pretty classy.
There hadn’t been any lights on when Brad dropped off Koshani on Friday night, and there were no lights that he could see Monday morning. As he walked up the path to the front door, it dawned on him that he had been to the senator’s home in Virginia for a staff picnic shortly after he started. The house had been built at the turn of the twentieth century on several acres of farmland and was within reasonable commuting distance of the Capitol. Brad wondered why the senator also owned a second house in town. Of course, Senator Carson was rich, and he might have bought it as an investment or for out-of-town guests or just because he wanted to.
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