Mac also drew the Judge’s attention at the same time.
The Judge had Governor Thomson in the favored position less than a week before the election, up in all of the polls. Then Mac started investigating the murder of a Washington political blogger in a seedy St. Paul motel. Mac’s investigation uncovered a conspiracy by a big-money donor to manipulate the voting results and steal the election for then Vice President Wellesley. Breaking the case just days before the election triggered a political wave in favor of the governor. That investigation, its twists and turns and impact on the election and politics, was what the book, tentatively titled Electing to Murder, was all about.
Mac, too, had made a big impression.
The Judge and FBI Director Thomas Mitchell, seeing an obvious talent in Mac, and with his live-in girlfriend already coming to DC, arranged a really good bureau job for him, which, much to their surprise, Mac promptly spurned.
Mac wanted a break and some time to reassess his life.
He suddenly had money—lots of money—more than he would ever need, from a successful investment in a chain of Grand Brew coffee shops with some childhood friends. With that came a desire to explore new ventures, such as managing his newfound wealth, restoring his recently purchased Georgetown brownstone, and the book. Maybe it was time to give up chasing killers.
But the lure of interesting cases would prove to be too much, and besides, exceptional investigative talent never goes unused for long.
The Judge had already brought Mac into one FBI case involving the death of the daughter of an important political contributor. Now, the Judge was here, wanting to talk business, and Mac suspected the great man was here to ask for another political favor as he poured him a cup of coffee while they sat at the center island in the kitchen.
“Mac, I need a favor. I want you to look into a murder that happened two nights ago over in Southeast.”
“Here in DC?”
The Judge nodded.
“That’s DC homicide.”
“I know, and I also know you’ve been hanging out at that DC cop bar, you and Wire, trading war stories with their homicide guys.”
“That we have.”
“And they like you two.” It wasn’t a question. The Judge was, of course, well informed.
Mac cut to the chase. “What’s the homicide, Judge? Is this another political case?” he asked with a sigh.
“No,” the Judge answered, and a wave of sadness washed over his face. “The victim is Shane Weatherly.”
“And who is Shane Weatherly?” Mac asked, a bit of exasperation in his voice.
“He is my godchild.”
Mac immediately chastised himself. “Oh geez, Judge. I’m so sorry. It’s just that, you know … usually … you …”
“No need to apologize, son. Everything with me is always politics, so why would this be any different?” The Judge said. His shoulders slumped forward, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug, and he stared down into its dark-black contents. “Shane was the son of Thomas Weatherly. Thomas and I grew up together and later studied together at the University of Minnesota. He was my best man when I got married. He is perhaps … no, he is my best friend.”
Mac had never seen the Judge emotional, let alone teary. He grabbed the box of Kleenex off the counter by the sink and gently slid it over.
The Judge took a couple of tissues, dabbed at his eyes, and blew his nose. “Shane was coming into town and called me Monday afternoon to ask if he could meet with me while he was here. We’d planned on dinner tonight. Then I got a call from Thomas late last night, saying that Shane had been killed Monday night, here in Washington.”
“What happened?”
“All I know is that he was shot and killed in a parking lot behind the East Union Tavern over in Southeast, across the Anacostia River. He and another man were killed. The other man was named Isador Kane. I’ve come to learn Kane was an employee at the Environmental Protection Agency. Shane and Mr. Kane were found shot dead in Kane’s car behind the tavern. They were each shot multiple times.”
“What’s Shane’s connection to this Kane guy?”
“I’m not sure, Mac. His name didn’t mean anything to Thomas.”
“What did Shane do?”
“He was a scientist, a geologist of some kind. I know he was an active environmentalist. In fact, he was arrested at some demonstration years ago and fingerprinted. That’s how the police ultimately identified him.”
“You said he was just coming into town. Do you know from where?”
The Judge shook his head.
“Do you know why he was coming here?”
Again, the Judge shook his head.
Mac slumped back against the counter, an uncertain look on his face.
Dixon saw it. “What is it, Mac?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go to Wire first.”
The Judge nodded and considered his answer. “I didn’t for two reasons.”
“Which are?”
“First, she’s still in France, working. She won’t be back for another couple of weeks yet.”
“And what’s the second?”
“This isn’t a security or missing persons kind of thing—this is a murder. You’re the best murder investigator I know, even if you don’t regularly carry a badge or practice the art anymore.”
“What do you want me to do, Judge?”
“I do know that the lead detective on the case is a detective Lincoln—”
“Coolidge,” Mac finished with a nod and small smile. “Ironically, they call him the President.”
“And you know him.”
“I’ve drunk with the man. He’s a good, solid, experienced homicide detective. He knows what he’s doing, Judge.”
“That’s the reputation,” the Judge answered. “But I don’t know this Detective Coolidge. I know you, and I trust you. I want to know what happened—what really happened. I have to be able to give Thomas some answers, and I need to know why my godchild was murdered, in my town. If he was into something he shouldn’t have been, I want to know. If he was an innocent victim, I want to know. But I don’t know that I should be the one to go talk to Detective Coolidge. I don’t want to involve the White House in this in either an official or unofficial capacity. So …”
“I can poke around, and nobody’s the wiser,” Mac suggested, nodding.
“Will you?”
“Of course, Judge,” Mac answered as he reached for his cell phone.
• • •
Mac, in hiking boots, blue jeans, a gray University of Minnesota hoodie, and a navy-blue Twins baseball hat, pushed his way into the East Union Tavern a little after 6:00 P.M. Inside, he found Metropolitan Police of the District of Columbia Detective Lincoln Coolidge resting at the far end of the bar, nursing a small bourbon. Coolidge reminded Mac of Kirby Puckett. He was a short, stocky, bowling ball of a man, with a shaved head and still in his black pinstripe suit and black trench coat. Coolidge looked up as Mac approached, smiled, and bellowed, “And me sitting here with an empty drink.”
Mac smiled, reached for his wallet, and looked to the bartender. “Another one for him, and one for me, and I suspect we’ll run a little tab.”
“Little, my ass. I got me a rich ex-cop in here. I’ll be going top shelf.”
“Figures.”
“Where’s Wire?” Coolidge greeted heartily. “I tolerate you because that fine filly comes along.”
Mac laughed. “She’s still overseas, so tonight you’re stuck with moi.”
“Pity.”
The two men enthusiastically shook hands and retired to a booth.
Coolidge took out a folder and set it in front of him, rested both of his hands on it, and looked Mac dead in the eye, the warm greeting now shelved. “Now why would an unemployed, modestly successful ex-homicide detective from little old St. Paul, Minnesota, want to know about the double homicide of two anonymous men from two nights ago down here in Southeast, DC?”
“I don’t
.”
“Ah.” Coolidge smiled knowingly. “But someone in those elite circles you occasionally troll in does.”
“Correct, and we’re pretty high up the food chain here,” Mac answered quietly, casually sipping from his bourbon and making a quick scan of the mostly empty bar. Mac put his glass up to his lips and before he took a drink, whispered, “Shane Weatherly was the godchild of Judge Dixon.”
Coolidge sat upright, as if the great man himself had just walked in. Judge Dixon’s name had that effect on people, particularly in DC.
“I’m here on his behalf,” Mac stated plainly.
“You sound like Tom Hagen in The Godfather,” Coolidge quipped.
Mac did his best Brando shrug and impression. “Are you ready to do me this service?” Coolidge chuckled, shook his head, and put his bourbon glass to his lips.
Mac turned serious. “The Judge would appreciate knowing what happened, Linc. He’s crushed. Weatherly meant quite a bit to him. The father is one of the Judge’s best friends.”
“Best political friends, I’m sure.”
“No,” Mac answered, shaking his head, “just best friends. Weatherly senior was the Judge’s college roommate, best man at his wedding, and a retired architect living in San Diego. Other than undertaking his civic duty to vote every so often, he has played no role whatsoever in politics.”
“So he’s an authentic friend?”
“Yes.”
“What does the good Judge want?”
“He asked me to come and find out what happened to Shane Weatherly. I know sharing details of an ongoing homicide isn’t exactly SOP, but I think you can trust my discretion. And Judge Dixon is not a bad guy to have a marker with.”
“No, no he’s not,” Coolidge answered, and Mac could tell there was something percolating in the detective’s mind as he slowly nodded at Mac. “Okay.”
Coolidge opened the folder and began walking Mac through the case. The two men were found in the front seat of Kane’s car at the end of a long parking lot that ran between the back side of the tavern and a small accounting office and a plumbing supply company. “The car was parked between two panel vans for the plumbing supply company,” Coolidge explained. “Kane was shot four times and Weatherly five times, nine shots in total, yet nobody appears to have heard a thing.”
“How long were they in here on Monday night?”
“A couple hours, but let’s backtrack for a second, Mac. Weatherly arrived in town Monday night on a flight from your neck of the woods, Minneapolis, after he started the day flying to Minneapolis from Bismarck, North Dakota.”
“So he flew in from North Dakota and met with Kane. What’s the connection?”
“At this point, all I’ve been able to find to connect them is that Kane and Weatherly graduated from Cal-Berkeley together.”
“So we just have two old college friends catching up?”
“Possibly,” Coolidge answered, but Mac sensed he didn’t believe it was just that.
“Any idea what Weatherly was doing in Bismarck?”
Coolidge shook his head.
“Who was he working for?”
“I don’t know, Mac. It looks like his home is in Sausalito, California, but from what I can tell, he was a geologist for hire, a freelancer, going from place to place to work. In the last year, he’s received checks from environmental groups in California and Pennsylvania, one from the city of Edmond, Oklahoma, and most recently, twenty thousand dollars from Soutex Solutions about a month ago. I looked up Soutex, but all I could find was a PO Box in New Orleans. From there, the trail is nonexistent at this point.”
“So Weatherly arrives, and the first thing he does is come here.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The bartender says Kane was waiting for Weatherly. They drank a few beers and ate a pizza, and then Kane closed out the tab with his credit card just after 11:00 P.M. The tavern here has a surveillance camera.” Coolidge pointed over each end of the bar. “One camera has the front of the tavern, and the other focuses on the back of the place.”
“Anyone follow our guys out?”
“No,” Coolidge answered, shaking his head. “Kane and Weatherly exited out the back of the tavern, and nobody left in that direction for a good half hour after they did.” Coolidge took out some photos. “I have the video back at the precinct, but these are stills. You’ll see our two boys sitting in the back booth here.” He pointed. “You’ll see some papers and the open laptop.” The detective took out three more still photos. “These are the rest of the people from that night—six guys sitting at the bar, baseball caps on three of them, a cowboy hat on another, and a couple guys in ties, all generally solo, and then our boys, and then three booths close to the front of the bar were also occupied. Nobody followed them out. In fact, nobody talked to them at all or seemed to pay any attention to them.”
“I assume you watched the footage all the way through?” Mac asked.
“Yes, but nothing jumps out. It was just a small number of people quietly drinking away.”
“What did the bartender or bartenders have to say?”
“Nothing. No issues. Nothing unusual or noticeable happened. No interaction amongst the customers. It was very quiet.”
“Were the patrons that night regulars?”
“A few were. Some weren’t, but the bartender said that wasn’t unusual. He said there was nothing unusual about the night. Just a normal, quiet Monday night.”
“So what’s your initial assessment?” Mac asked, taking a drink from his second bourbon. “What do you think this was all about?”
“It looks like a simple robbery. Gone are cell phones, watches, wallets, credit cards, and everything else possible from the car. It looks like they cleaned out the glove box and the center console. Weatherly’s backpack and luggage were gone. The two victims’ pockets were pulled inside out. The only thing not taken was the car itself.”
“Did these guys have a lot of money on them?”
“I don’t know, Mac.”
“How much did they spend in the bar?”
“They paid $38.42 for beer and pizza with Kane’s credit card, which is missing. I mean, this is not a place you come to if you have a lot of cash. This is a working-class joint.”
“Weatherly flew into town on Monday. Did he fly first class?”
“No.”
“How about Kane, any history of money?”
“No. He has a small apartment here in DC. He draws a government paycheck at the EPA, drives a Hyundai, and has a little over ten grand in a savings account. He’s not poor, but he’s certainly not rich, either. Isador Kane is your standard dime-a-dozen, upper-middle-management government bureaucrat.”
“And we had nine gunshots, right?”
“Correct.”
“And nobody heard a thing?” Mac asked. “I find that impossible to believe.”
“We canvassed pretty hard, and nada,” Coolidge replied. “These guys left the bar a little after 11:00 P.M. They weren’t discovered until early the next morning when the plumbing guys showed up for work and found the car and the bodies. That’s how quiet and unnoticeably this whole thing went down.”
Mac flipped to the forensics report. “Same gun for all nine shots, it appears. Slugs are Remington Subsonics.”
“Yes. Not a terribly unusual casing. I was thinking that it was good ammunition for a little Ruger, maybe.”
Mac raised his eyebrows. “With a suppressor?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Those can be pretty quiet,” Mac replied knowingly. “There’s still a pop, but it’s a little one. That might explain why nobody heard anything.” Mac flipped through the report. “Linc, what’s the story on this muddy boot tread?”
“Oh, that,” Coolidge replied, walking to Mac’s side and looking down at the page. “It was odd, but we found some mud inside the car, on the passenger side, on the foot plate next to the seat. I think it was possibly from the shooter as he stretche
d over Weatherly and reached for the center console. He had to put his foot by the seat there to reach over. It left a little bit of a boot tread, like from a hiking type of boot that neither Kane nor Weatherly were wearing. I had our forensics people take pictures of the print and a sample of the mud for testing to see if the dirt is local or not.”
“It is worth a shot, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” Coolidge answered. “It will probably take a week or two to find out that part of it. I don’t hold out huge hope. Unless the boot tread is truly exotic, it probably won’t amount to anything.”
“Can we go walk the murder scene?” Mac asked.
Coolidge nodded and tilted his head to the back of the bar. “Let’s go.”
Mac and Coolidge walked out the back of the tavern and turned right. The crime-scene tape was still twisting in the light-evening breeze at the far end of the parking lot. Coolidge took out the crime scene photos and handed them over to Mac as they approached the tape. Mac activated the flashlight app on his cell phone and flipped through the pictures. He shook his head when he looked at the pictures of the victims in the car and then lingered over the last one, which was taken from the front of the car with both victims slumped over, dead in their seats.
“So, Linc, I’m looking at this. Weatherly and this Kane walk out the back of the tavern, take a right, walk down here about thirty yards, get in his Sonata, snap in their seatbelts all safe like, and once they’ve done that and can’t get away, some guy jumps out in front and starts going all Tony Montana.”
“That’s right.”
“And after he does that, he takes all of their belongings. Wallets, watches, phones, briefcases, backpacks, anything these guys had. So, a robbery?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
Mac caught the little inflection in Coolidge’s tone. It matched the little voice talking in his head that was telling him this scene was not what it seemed. Standing where the front of the car would have been, he started walking around the taped off area again, stopping from time to time and checking details in the photos. Once he’d worked his way all the way around the tape and back to the front again, he stopped. He flipped through the pictures once more and again lingered on the last photo. “You don’t really believe this was a simple robbery, do you, Linc?” Mac asked with his eyes still laser focused on the gruesome photo.
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