“Does this have any connection to the murder of Chief Justice Weston in Washington?”
FBI Agent Duffy stopped, backed up to the microphone, looked deeply into the lenses of the camera, and said, “We’re praying that these two atrocities aren’t connected. That would be a catastrophe.” He walked away, and thought, if they are connected things would be problematic.
Two Killers.
One day.
Another yelled, “Mayor Rodin, you didn’t speak. Are you going to divorce your wife?”
The mayor’s stoned expression confessed all, before he said, “No,” and continued off the podium.
C H A P T E R 15
WILLIAMSBURG, BROOKLYN, NY—William Vale Hotel
Naim and Brandy had made themselves presentable and were at the hip West Light Bar on the 22nd floor inside of The William Vale Hotel in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Electric-blue and mustard-yellow velvet chairs and a polished stone bar anchored the vast room, with a three hundred sixty degree view of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens from twenty-two stories up. Beautiful.
He was in denimed jeans, black blazer, with a shirt and tie. She had changed out of her office costume and into a little black dress, extremely high heels, pearls around her neck, and carried a handbag as pricey as a Manhattan Penthouse. She held a martini glass in her hand and took a grateful gulp. They both glanced at her Cartier wristwatch.
“What can I say. Time is money,” she said, smiling.
“Tell me about it. We’ve both had very long days,” he said, continuing to make small talk. He was exhausted and wanted to be in bed. Preferably with her.
“It’s always a long day at the Times,” she replied. “Especially when you break a story with photos of a dead judge.”
“I read your piece. Is it OK for you to publish these sorts of photos?”
She turned towards him as she answered. “That depends. I’ve verified the source, so...”
“Wait a minute. You’ve talked to Judge Weston’s killer?”
“Twice. And the FBI thrice. In person. The FBI Cyber Unit was livid that I published the photos.”
Naim concealed his amazement. “Sounds very exciting,” he said, touching her hand.
“You’re being kind,” she said, enjoying his touch.
Was he making a pass at her? He was such a charming romantic and she knew that nothing he did was an accident.
“It’s only exciting until a killer wants to meet.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, sipping Veuve Clicquot. “No way I’m letting you meet any person bold enough to kill the Chief Justice. Hell, I’ve seen news accounts exposing the murder of four people. The judge’s wife has about three breaths left. No way can you meet him.” His subtle concern shifted to a smile. “Not alone, anyway.”
“You’re very concerned,” she said, grinning. She opened her handbag and extracted a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and read from it: “These are the people he hinted at as next on his list: The President of the United States; The Vice President of the United States; the Secretary of State; two undersecretaries of State; the president’s chief of staff, Todd Decker; one of his two deputies, Carmen Vargan; two U.S. Senators; and the Attorney General.”
“Quite an impressive list of victims,” Naim said, watching bites from chef Andrew Carmellini being placed on the table.
“Thank you,” she said to the waiter. And then to Naim, she said, “All but the senators have considerable access to the Oval Office. Perhaps the killer does, too. And victims is your word, not mine. As you know some people are looking for a change in Washington.”
“Hence, the reason the Justice was killed. Removing Weston gets rid of a liberal, allowing the president to appoint someone else.”
“Exact-a-Mundo,” she said, pointing at him with a fork—steak on the end of it. “Someone’s been watching CNN. But the new appointee will have to pass the scratch and sniff test of the conservatively lead Senate.”
“So how are we to meet this animal?”
“We?”
“Yes, we. Or oui, if you like it in French.” He winked.
“There will be a demonstration by Americans for Sentencing Reform tomorrow on Capitol grounds. He asked me to be there and he’d find me.”
“So, he knows what you look like?” A bit of fear had crept into his voice.
“Everyone does. My headshot is public and on every article I write.”
“Good point.” He remembered reading her bio and admiring her New York Times online headshot nine months ago when they’d met. He had saved her from being run over by a drunk driver.
“Enough about me,” she said, watching the waiter place their fifth of seven courses in front of them. “How’s Marco?”
“He’s Marco. Superman. Adonis. The school sent out an e-mail blast indicating classes were canceled this week. There’s a candlelight vigil on Friday to mourn the deaths.”
“But is his arm good?”
“Yes.”
“So sad we have people that can mentally choose to kill innocent people,” she said, looking into the air. “Is he at the dorm or your home?”
“You know we finally finished converting the former maid quarters into his private apartment. He’s there with Amber. She’s a wonderful girl.”
“Yeah, I can see them marrying, have sex, kids, and grow old together. In that order.”
“Like you and I?”
“Hold it. I’m no one’s old,” she said despite being four years his senior. Her stunning sex appeal and brilliance were her most stimulating attributes. The ones that he adored about her. It was nice for him to date a woman that enjoyed museums, operas, and roller coasters, which were his faves.
“Neither am I old.” He was laughing. “I was, however, implying that we’d grow old together.”
“Oh, OK,” she said, “cause you were about to get shot.” She playfully made her hand into a gun and shot at him. “Pow.”
“You’re too much,” he said with a wide grin on his face. His mood saddened. “I had it out with Sinia. She, once again, tried convincing Marco to move back to North Carolina. She did it right in front of Amber with zero fucks given to the girl’s feelings. Or his for the matter.”
“What’d he say?”
“No doubt, he refused. And, then, she was pissy tonight because I made clear that she couldn’t stay at my home. I’m at a point where she’s more nuisance than anything else and her constant attempt to put a wedge between Marco and me is getting old. I had Ginger get her a room at the Peninsula.”
“Certainly, she can’t complain about you putting her up there,” Brandy said, giggling.
“This is not funny,” he replied, laughing. His laugh settled into a weak grin.
“On a more serious note, thanks for the transparency. Things with her will get better, Naim. You’re a good man and time has proven you to be a grandfather—”
“Whoa, grandfather? You know something I don’t?” He knew that she and Amber had had a few play dates.
She laughed. “Let me rephrase, great father. Two words.”
He wiped his forehead, and said, “Be careful with your words editor. I’m barely a father. And not looking to be a grandfather before fifty.”
She leaned over, brushed her lips against his ear, whispering, “Did I tell you what a superior lover you are, too?”
He licked his upper lip, glancing at her with a critical eye.
Brandy blushed. Everything he did turned her on. She said, “Don’t let anyone question who you are, or your worth. You’ve overcome odds that typically leaves young, AA men in a vat of despair and hopelessness. I’m not going to sit here and stroke your outlook on life, which is always bright...”
“Except when my Achilles heel comes to town,” he said, cutting her off. “But, continue, your words are blaming and therapeutic.”
“Although older than you, I’m not your counselor,” she said, laughing. “Let’s just get that straight. And I would not excoriate or character ass
assinated your baby mama.”
“OK. OK,” he submitted. He seductively raised an eyebrow, and asked, “What time are you flying out to D.C. Tomorrow?”
“Haven’t decided, but I may be taking Amtrak. Why?” She had an idea but asked.
“Sleep with me.”
“Don’t ask me to do something. Make me do something.”
__________
Naim brought Brandy to her third climax and continued his ministration until she stopped climbing up the wall, before he pulled a few inches out of her by getting into the push-up position. She gasped and he re-entered her.
Laying on top of her, he let her breathing normalize. “Nothing like a late night workout.”
She pulled his head up by gripping his ears. Staring into his eyes, she said, “Your cockiness is dangerous.”
“What did you say about my cock?” he asked, contracting his stomach muscles, forcing his penis to jump inside of her.
She emoted and stared at him. His chiseled shoulders and defined biceps made her wetter. He rested his head between her soft breast, kissing each hardened nipple. They were in a luxuriant Yotel suite, setting Naim back three-hundred-bucks for the night.
Brandy Scott was worth every penny.
C H A P T E R 16
WASHINGTON, D.C.—FOUR Seasons Hotel
Through the night David Thurman had seduced two women: a twenty-four-hour diner waitress and a United States Capitol policewoman. Both of them enjoyed PCP with him and had been told a different lie explaining why he was in D.C. To the waitress, he was an Italian beautician with an appointment to do hair in the WH. To the officer, he was an economist in town for a summit to combat government wasteful spending. He didn’t add that offing the justice shaved a few dollars off of the budget even if temporarily. He had crafted unique memories for them both. They’d never forget his sexual prowess. He had choked the waitress to the point of her passing out as he brought himself to satisfaction. He gave the cop multiple orgasms, spelling the alphabet on her vagina with his tongue and a diamond necklace. They had sex all night until she had to leave for duty. She was unaware that she had left him with Betty Weston’s stolen necklace about her throat. What a gift from a one-night stand.
Leaving the Georgetown Four Seasons, Thurman hopped on his bicycle and rode along Wisconsin Avenue towards the Potomac River—just a tourist out and about taking in the morning sun. With the Weston inquiry in full-swing, he had work to do and the Columbia U shooting sharing the headlines was a problem. No one was to share or over-shadow his shine. He had dreamt of killing the campus shooter a second time. Time to ratchet up the stakes, he thought. Changing identities and ID was a priority. He needed a few subtle appearance alterations also. He had to take the bike for a swim in the Potomac and pick up his escape vehicle-a dated Nissan Maxima from the thirty-one hundred block of “P” Street, NW. Afterward, he was headed back to his ghetto hideout in all its stinking, steaming, roach-infested glory.
But first he had to make a call. He needed to retain a lawyer: One, Naim Butler.
C H A P T E R 17
Tuesday
NAIM SHOWERED AND DRESSED in gray jeans, black mohair loafers without socks, white button-up and a blue tie. The hip professor. He packed a bag of essentials, then, after closer inspection, grabbed a garment bag and packed that too. He had no idea how long he’d be in D.C. and wanted to be prepared for about two weeks. Things had moved quickly. His thoughts were running in different directions. His first case, a demand actually was underway. How is this going to play out, he thought.
Boarding the elevator, he headed to the garage to store his luggage in his Mercedes and was greeted by Marco who was onboard.
His son was in pajama bottoms and no shirt, the sling prominently shown. Marco said, “Going somewhere, pater?”
“To Washington—for a few days. Maybe a week.” Perhaps even longer, he thought.
“Just leaving me here with my crazy mom, huh?”
Naim smiled. “Not my intent. I’ve never even thought of that.”
“You’re slippin’.”
“I’ve kinda taken on a case. A big one. The kind of case I was built to do. You assured me that you were mentally, OK, and I want to allow you to prove that by not being an overbearing dad.”
“No, I don’t need that. Mom did enough of that for the last eighteen years.”
“Good, so I am going to D.C. to handle a case that will do exciting things for my future. And yours, too.”
“Thanks. I get it.”
The elevator stopped and the door hissed open. Naim exited in the underground garage which housed three vehicles. A glass wall separated the garage from a full gym and fourteen-meter pool. Naim, a health-nut, swam three days a week, weight trained two days and jogged two days. He tossed the bags into the sedan’s trunk, sent a text to his driver, and rejoined Marco in the elevator. They rode up a level.
“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Naim asked, making their way to the kitchen.
“A little pain. I didn’t sleep well due to the severity of the discomfort. The doctor prescribed Vicodin, which made me lethargic, so I won’t be taking that.”
June, their motherly maid/cook, said, “Tylenol should work. We don’t need you addicted to those pain pills. The epidemic is real.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Naim said, sitting at the table.
June slid a coffee mug in front of Naim and poured him a cup of black coffee.
June was a short, svelte woman, sporting curly white hair, and sixty-something. She didn’t have children, but lived with her husband of thirty-five years in a Park Avenue apartment, minutes from Naim who was like a son. “Got little eggs scrambled with cheddar cheese, home fries, and smoked salmon.”
“I’m in,” Marco said, smiling. “Amber will be down shortly.”
“I hope more dressed than you,” June said, chuckling.
Marco said, “You’re too much, Mama June.” She had instructed him to call her June—No Mrs. Required. He had added “mama” out of respect. He sipped orange juice, and then asked his father, “So what case are you chasing all the way in Washington?”
“Washington?” said June perplexed. Her head was cocked to the side with a suspicious eye looking through Naim.
“Yup, I caught him taking bags to his Benz. Trying to sneak out on us.”
Naim chortled. “You two are too much.” He took a bite of eggs and chewed slowly.
“Stall tactic,” June said, smirking. “Spill it, mister.”
“If you two must know, the justice’s killer called me last night and wants to meet.”
“Get the eff outta here,” Marco said with his jaw on the table.
“Watch the language,” June demanded.
“Eighteen is not that grown for profanity, sir, and you have a vast vocabulary. Use it,” Naim said.
“Back on subject,” June said, tapping Naim’s shoulder, “Why you? You’ve only been an attorney a few months.”
“Two.” That was the prince.
“And haven’t led a case,” June said with a sassy hand on her hip. Although the part-time house servant, she was more grandmother than maid.
“This no doubt will be a capital case. Can you handle that?” Marco asked bluntly.
“Yes I can,” Naim replied, smiling. “It’s more like a chat. Nothing says I’ll take on the case per se. But to talk to this man is interesting to me.”
“I got one question, counselor,” Marco said skeptically. “Why’d the killer call you? Shouldn’t he be trying to bring Johnny Cochran back?”
“Perhaps I am Johnny. The next JC.”
“I’ve always loved your confidence, champ,” June said, massaging his shoulders. “I want hourly updates to assure your safety.”
“I want the same, dad. I gotta be honest. I don’t want you involved with this monster. Police are on the hunt for this man. They may shoot you first and ask you questions later. Deem you an accomplice. I mean have you even told the police?”
&nb
sp; Naim was at a mini bar, pulling out a bottle of Dom Perignon. He fixed himself a mimosa and retook a seat at the table.
It felt like he was engaged in an interrogation.
“No, I didn’t. Attorney client privilege.”
“Umm...new flash...He not a client, dad.” His voice was on the side of aggression.
Naim glared at June, apparently for help.
“I’m out of this one,” she said, pressing her back to the island and folding her arms over her breasts. She wanted an answer, too.
“Marco, I’m going to DC to negotiate. Negotiate for the man to turn himself in to authorities. And possibly represent him in preliminary interrogation with federal agents. I want to keep the man alive. I have to defend those who need it and this man desperately needs it. A DC lawyer will sell him out.”
“He killed a Supreme Court Justice for crying-out-loud dad. Do you really want to campaign for this guy?”
“I do,” Naim said, hearing the front doorbell ring. “He needs a vigorous defense like any other defendant. His level of weakness and delusion reeks of mental defect and I am duty bound to assure that he gets help and not warehoused in jail, the defacto mental asylum.” He took a huge gulp of his breakfast libation, and then said, “And with that, I have to go. That’s my driver at the door.”
“You can go, but I promise this ain’t over,” Marco said and winked.
“That’s fine,” Naim said, grabbing his briefcase. “I like promises. Be sure to keep your doc appointment and stay away from in the front of news camera. Period.”
__________
Despite the traffic it took Naim’s driver forty minutes to reach JFK Airport. He exited the car at the US Airways gate while his driver sat his luggage on the curb. He pressed a crisp hundred dollar tip into the man’s hand before entering the airport’s lobby. He was met by Brandy Scott wearing huge sunglasses and a baseball cap.
A Butler Summer Page 5