The bedside clock showed 11:33. Such a late, cautious call from Del Valle could only mean one thing—he had information about Panama and couldn’t discuss it on an open line.
Corvino pulled black pants and a T-shirt from the closet and dressed hurriedly in the dark. He slipped on a shoulder holster, and checked the 9mm Browning. It was fully loaded. There was no reason to expect a threat, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He donned his lightweight, navy blue windbreaker and headed for the door.
Corvino had walked halfway down the hallway when he heard the elevator rising—and not stopping on the fourth floor. His penthouse was on the fifth. No one was allowed up unless the doorman notified him.
An unannounced visitor could only mean trouble. Someone was monitoring his movements and wanted to prevent him from leaving the building.
He ducked into the fire escape opposite the elevator as the digital display illuminated Five. He held the fire door open a crack.
Footsteps ascended the stairs beneath him.
Two intruders.
Crouching low, he risked peering down the stairwell and saw a thick-set man with a crew cut dressed in dark maintenance overalls coming up the steps. The man held a long-barreled Ruger .22 in his right hand.
Corvino glanced around for cover, aware the elevator was opening on the other side of the door.
There was no choice: he had to immobilize the man on the stairs.
As the intruder rounded the corner, Corvino launched himself off the top step with a high kick. His right foot connected with the man’s wrist, snapping the bones and sending the weapon spinning from his hand.
Corvino’s weight thrust him into his assailant and the man grunted in pain and surprise. The momentum of the attack threw him back down the short flight of steps and onto the concrete landing, his head smacking against the floor as Corvino fell on top of him. Corvino heard and felt the man’s ribs crack under his weight.
Good. The son of a bitch was out cold.
Corvino stood, scooped up the Ruger and aimed for the door, ready to fire.
The door flew inwards and the second intruder appeared. Corvino squeezed the Ruger’s trigger three times. The thug jerked as the bullets hit him in the chest. He wavered an instant, then fell, his gun clattering down the stairs.
Both men were dressed identically. Even their crew cuts matched. He searched the dead man’s pockets for ID, which would probably be fake but might confirm his worst suspicions.
He found what he was looking for in the inside left pocket, a laminated plastic card stating that the guy he’d just blown away was Karl Burkwood of AT&T. Like Hell.
The men looked like typical CIA foot soldiers.
If so, someone had decided he was expendable. Did that mean the phone call was a setup? No. He was certain the caller had been Del Valle, and it was inconceivable that Ryan would order his termination. There was no time or point in interrogating the unconscious man. He wouldn’t know why they’d been sent or who had given the order. His only option was to hide the bodies and head for the rendezvous.
Corvino hauled the corpse upright and slung it over his shoulder.
Outside the apartment door, he fumbled his keys from his jacket pocket, inserted them in the lock, and opened the door. Inside, he headed straight for the bathroom and dumped the body into the tub, then returned to the stairwell.
They must have accessed the building via the underground parking garage using an electronic lock decoder. It was the only way into the building without using the lobby. And AT&T wouldn’t be making house calls at this time of night.
As he bent over the unconscious man, Corvino noticed a thin line of blood dribbling from his mouth. His breath hissed through his open lips in a low, wet rasp. One of the broken ribs must have punctured a lung. Without medical aid the man would drown in his own blood within an hour.
Corvino snapped the man’s neck.
His own side!
Del Valle better have some damn good answers.
The dashboard clock showed 11:54 as Corvino drove his black Ford Mustang cautiously out of the underground parking garage, scanning the street for signs of a backup team. A Chevy van with AT&T markings sat at one end of the street, obviously the surveillance vehicle. He signaled left, heading away from the van so he could keep it in sight in the rearview mirror. If he was being watched, they’d follow, but the van didn’t move.
He turned right at the end of the street onto Prospect, pulled over, and waited.
A station wagon drove past him heading in the opposite direction, but no vehicle appeared from the street he’d exited. Traffic in this part of Georgetown was usually sparse at this time of night, especially on a Monday. If anyone was tailing him, he’d spot them soon enough.
Certain the van wasn’t going to appear, Corvino moved off. He turned left onto 34th Street and headed for the Key Bridge.
Traffic was also light on the Memorial Parkway as he guided the Mustang towards the rendezvous site, making good time. The Potomac loomed a large black expanse on his left as he passed Gravelly Point and the Waterfowl Sanctuary. Up ahead he could see the lights of the airport.
The rest area situated opposite the park appeared on the left. He turned and eased the Mustang into the parking lot. No sign of Del Valle’s car. Other than a Mack truck parked way down at the other end, the place was deserted. Overhead, a DC-10 flew in low, its red and white landing lights flashing as it dropped to the runway across the road. He couldn’t see anyone in the Mack’s cab; the driver was probably asleep on the bunk behind the seats. Cicadas rattled loudly in the trees, their mating noise swamping the light hum of traffic cruising up and down Memorial. Corvino cautiously headed over to the edge of the grass verge beside the parkway, looking across to the airport perimeter. Two indistinct figures sat on the bench near the airport fence. Teenagers, but no sign of Ryan.
Something niggled at the back of his mind as he returned to the car. Del Valle wasn’t the only one who knew he liked coming to the park. The events of the last forty-five minutes had happened so fast he hadn’t made the connection. He’d mentioned his visits to Lang. The Englishman was a keen pilot and spent most of his off-duty time piloting his Cessna Skymaster up and down the East Coast. He kept his plane in the private hangers at the other end of the airport, and Corvino had told him—
“Corvino,” a familiar voice said.
He turned.
The first bullet hit him in the heart, knocking him back against the Mustang, his eyes widening in shock, the brief muzzle flash burning into his retinas.
The second took him just below the heart, shattering the breastbone.
Blood jetted from his mouth as he slumped on the tarmac.
“Adios,” the figure said as it drew near Corvino’s twitching body. And then shot a third bullet into his stomach.
Corvino stopped moving.
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON.
TUESDAY, MAY 30.
12:24 A.M.
The shower was hot, almost scalding, but that was the way Dr. Gregory Retek liked it. He’d stood underneath the powerful spray for ten minutes and would stay there for at least another five. After all, Sondra wouldn’t arrive for twenty minutes at least.
He picked up the brush for the third time, lathering it with Imperial Leather and began to scrub his back again. He started slow, his movements controlled, regular. Then as the bristles numbed his skin, he scrubbed with more force, increasing the width of each circular motion until his back—already red—grew redder still. The bristles pricked like a tattooist’s needles under the hot water, each movement a tiny jab of pain.
Retek paused to look down at his large stomach. Somewhere beneath it was the head of the thing that had caused all his troubles throughout twenty years of marriage, a shriveled specimen of manhood hidden from his gaze by gluttony—a voracious appetite for gourmet food and vintage wine and no taste for exercise. Except sex, of course. Of that there’d been plenty.
He felt beneath his overhang with
his left hand to locate the offending organ, finding it under a secondary roll of fat. He sucked in his gut as far as possible, pulling his penis clear of the flab. Its small, acornlike head seemed innocent in contrast to his thick fingers. So much trouble for such a tiny thing, he thought. He’d not been blessed with a large endowment, but the women in his life had never complained; he had a lively imagination, a gentle touch and a clinical understanding of what a woman’s body needed. But when Sondra arrived, however, it would not be little for long. The voluptuous body of a Roman goddess, the insatiable mind of a libertine, and a pussy like a clam that could milk his balls until he thought he was coming blood and felt like he was seventeen all over again. Not bad for a seriously overweight man of forty-seven.
A dry chuckle escaped his throat. Not bad at all for a fat, guilt-ridden widower nearing fifty.
Widower?
Murderer.
He thought of the cellar and the freezer in which Diane’s body now lay.
She’d often left him notes on those nights he’d come home late—late from ministering to the needs of the sick, late from ministering to their bank accounts, or in the case of several wealthy, aging single women, late from ministering to their leathery vaginas. And she, dear Diane, was out sipping gin fizzes, snacking on salmon canapés while playing bridge with other dull, dull Washington wives.
Didn’t know what you wanted to eat, darling—dinner’s in the freezer, she would write without fail. Help yourself.
It summed up his marriage. Diane had never understood what he wanted, and yes, he had helped himself many, too many, times. Now his former meal ticket was tucked away in the General Electric Superchest in the cellar, just another side of beef—or in Diane’s case—lamb. She’d never been more than a vacuous follower even at the best of times.
He realized he was kneading his penis and that he was growing hard, the thought that she was dead actually exciting him with unexpected desire.
No, he should save his seed for Sondra.
Switching off the water he stepped from the shower. All he had to do was think up an airtight story and find a way to dispose of the body. Guilt be damned. He hadn’t become a doctor out of a great calling to the Hippocratic oath; just money. Yes, money and sex and power were—if he was brutally honest with himself—the only things in life that mattered, the three muses that steered the ambitions of the capital city’s political circus, and indeed, most people in Washington.
But murder was never a scenario he had sought after in his scheme of life. No, not even at the moment his hands clamped around Diane’s throat.
He smiled at the memory as he donned his terry-cloth robe and made for the bed. A bottle of Chivas Regal stood on the bedside table and next to it a glass that had hardly left his hand all evening. He poured a generous measure, closing his eyes as the scotch warmed his throat. Sitting on the bed, he glanced at his reflection in the dresser mirror. A tired drunk with a huge gut and a sad face framed by silver-gray hair stared back dispassionately. He smiled, but it came out as a frown.
“To freedom,” he toasted, raising the glass, and took a sip.
His eye caught the framed photo of himself and Diane on the dressing table. The short brown dyed hair curling in at her chin, the wrinkled skin around the brown eyes, the pug nose, lips barely tinted with coral lipstick, blue L.L. Bean sweater. Her dressing table with its familiar pots of face cream, compact, mascara, hand lotion—all the things he’d have to dispose of if he was going to make out that she’d left him.
At least the notion of her leaving him was easily plausible. She’d left him twice before—once five years ago after delivering months of threats, and a second time after she’d found out about his short affair with that secretary, Monica DeVries, in the fall of 1991.
But bitterly afraid to be alone, Diane had always come back. And the more dependent upon him she’d become, the deeper his contempt for her had grown.
He got up and stood before the mirror, clutching the glass as if his life depended on it. He should stop drinking. Too much liquor had passed his lips over the past twenty-four hours. But he smiled at his reflection. He would never again have to wake up beside Diane’s drooping eyelids ever again. Plus, the bonus. He knew she hadn’t cut him out of her will, regardless of her threats, and the one million dollars in mutual fund-invested money—her money—would add a nice little cushion to the income from his medical practice. He was sick of Washington, and with Sondra’s yearning to return to Chicago, the money would help them buy a nice, large property in select surroundings. The Prospect Avenue brownstone was worth $900,000 at least. Add to that the price of Sondra’s property and they could live like royalty.
But what was he going to tell her? Would her love for him survive the truth he was a murderer?
Sondra Vaphides was a remarkable woman, the only member of the fairer sex he’d ever truly fallen in love with. An English lecturer at Georgetown University, they’d met at a cocktail party thrown by a Democratic Senator from New Jersey last summer. Auburn hair, long legs—she was a couple of inches taller than his 5’ 7”—and deep green eyes. A cut above the plump matrons and lonely secretaries with whom he usually indulged his lusts, he had trouble believing she was forty-one as Sandra looked ten years younger without the aid of a plastic surgeon. But even more exciting was her boldness, her obvious wanton desire for a man nearing fifty and carrying eighty pounds too much. Sondra had two sons, but they lived with their father, a sociologist, in Sacramento. Single, well-off, insatiable—she was free. She was everything he needed.
The whiskey warmed his throat before he realized he’d poured another generous shot. Grimacing, he tipped the rest back into the bottle. His hand shook, spilling the amber liquid over the table.
“Damn.”
It was an antique that had belonged to his mother, the last of a pair.
He plodded to the bathroom to get a wash cloth to wipe up the spill before it stained.
All Sondra knew was Diane had left. He’d told her on the phone that morning when she’d called to say she was coming back from her business trip tonight instead of tomorrow as planned. She’d been delighted by the news.
He looked at the clock on the dresser: 12:27 A.M. he’d lost track of time. Sondra should be here soon if the train was running on schedule. He sighed, returning the washcloth to the bathroom.
The doorbell rang twice, startling him.
Sondra always rang twice on the few occasions she’d visited. A simple code but it had once averted a head-on collision with Diane.
He started for the stairs. Diane had left yesterday, he thought, rehearsing his story. She knew about Sondra and it was the last straw. She said she wanted a divorce. This time he believed she meant it.
Sondra smiled as he opened the door.
“Is she—”
“No, I haven’t heard from her since she left.”
She smiled like a happy child. “Darling, that’s wonderful news.”
Before he could close the door she was in his arms, her lips glued upon his as she dropped her pocketbook to the Aubusson rug. He held her tight, kissing her passionately as she traced her fingers through his hair.
“The bedroom,” he said before she silenced him with another kiss.
Then she pulled away, taking him by the hand and leading him to the stairs. Her firm ass-cheeks seemed to glide beneath the green fabric of her skirt. He sighed.
“I’ve been excited all day since you told me,” she said as she ascended the stairs, “but I don’t want to talk about it now.”
She tossed him a schoolgirl grin as they neared the top. He slapped her rump. She giggled, the sound filling his ears with sweet promise.
Neither of them heard the cellar door opening.
As soon as she entered the room, Sondra hastily threw her brown jacket across an armchair. She wore an almost transparent cream blouse, the curves of her low-cut bra clearly traceable under the sheer fabric.
“I hope you didn’t wear that at your me
eting.”
“Changed on the train,” she said. “Especially for you.”
He pulled the covers from the bed.
The skirt was discarded next. She wore sheer silk stockings held in place by matching cream, lacy garters.
“These too,” she added, seeing his eyes widen.
All thoughts of Diane vanished. His member stiffened beneath the terry robe. Her legs looked fabulous in the stockings.
“Keep them on.”
She smiled and slipped her silk French silk panties down, kicking off her shoes as she made for the bed, gesturing to him. He threw off the robe. She spread her legs and he entered her, trembling with physical relief at her touch, almost shaking with the emotional strain he’d endured. Sondra groaned as he started to thrust his fleshy hips. He looked down. Her eyes were closed. She pulled him closer. He grunted. Neither heard the stairs creak.
The Scotch had made his system sluggish. Although hard, he would have to work at it, but Sondra wouldn’t mind. He smiled to himself. Instead of depleting his desire, murder was improving his performance.
Sondra grunted. “Deeper.”
He complied. She groaned, gripping his back with urgency as her hips pushed against his.
Then he saw stars as incredible pain exploded through the back of his head. Consciousness deserted him as he heard Sondra scream—
ALEXANDRIA.
7:04 A.M.
Nick’s head was leaden with sleep as he picked up the phone on the fourth ring.
“Nick?”
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