When he let her loose, Roosevelt was long gone. Judith stepped away and glared up at the man.
“What the hell you think you’re doin’, missy?”
His voice trickled with arrogance.
So, Judith thought. She was colored to him. She lowered her eyes.
“I wanted to just say hello to the President and say I’m real sorry for his loss. The man’s friend died. Folks got a right to tell him they’re grievin’, too.”
“Folks do. You don’t.”
“I got a right to be here. I got this.” Judith produced the pass handwritten by Jacob Tench with her right-hand, unpoisoned glove.
The man crossed his arms over a great chest, refusing to examine the note. He shook his head.
“No. You got no right whatsoever, little girl. And that paper ain’t worth shit to me.”
Judith tucked the page away into her pocket, beside the empty cyanide bottle.”Who are you, mister?”
He unfolded his arms. Beneath his coat, Judith glimpsed the leather edge of a handgun harness.
“You a cop?”
“Not at the moment. But yeah, most days I’m a D.C. cop. Right now I’m talking to you because of the other people I work for. They don’t want you here. That means I don’t want you here.”
“Who are they?”
The man reached into a pocket for a pack of Lucky Strikes. He lit up, not offering a cigarette to Judith. He made her wait until he’d struck his match.
“Let’s just say,” he breathed with smoke that hid the hint of almonds around them in the cemetery, “that no one gives a damn if you screw Jacob Tench in your cruddy little apartment in that nigger alley. But when you start coming out in public, when you start appearing at the same places he appears with his wife . . . well, then, missy, some folks got a big problem with that.”
She had her answer: Mrs. Tench’s family. The dead senator’s clan. Apparently Jacob had been a bad boy on other occasions, as well.
“You understand what I’m telling you, little girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
The tip of the cigarette glowed hot from a long suck, while the man considered Judith. He nodded.
“I can see why he bothers with you, though.”
Judith shuffled. “You been following me?”
“I been following Tench. And I seen enough to know it’s time for you to quit your job in his house. You just tell the missus you’re movin’ on. No explanation necessary. Go sweep some other white folks’ floor. It’s all the same to you.”
“I don’t want to quit. But I’ll quit screwing the mister. I don’t want no trouble. Alright?”
“Too late for that. You got to go. And I mean today.”
Judith lifted her chin, to measure him. She could make him agree to have his employers pay her some fee, a month’s salary, and in return she’d leave the Tench household. She’d hold out her hand for him to shake on the deal. But he was too big, no less than two hundred and fifty pounds, not older than forty, strong. The dose she could deliver through his hand would make him mightily sick, and that was all.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I start watching you, too, missy. And I don’t figure it’ll be too long ‘til you fuck up and I slam your ass in jail.” He chortled. “You might not even have to fuck up. You might get hurt one night. Know what I mean?” Judith nodded. “Alright then. Beat it.”
Judith turned to walk out of the cemetery. The man held his ground. When she was ten yards off, he said, low and mean, “I’ll be watching, little girl.”
She stopped and turned to him. “I know.”
The big cop shrugged at her, then focused his interest on his cigarette.
Judith pivoted and walked on. She peeled from her left hand the poison-tipped glove, the silk sheath and condoms, then the dry glove from her right. She snapped them away in her purse. Her hands had grown dewy inside the gloves; the chill nibbled now at her bare skin.
Only then did she ball her fists.
* * * *
Aurora Heights
Arlington, Virginia
IN HER POWDER-BLUE maid’s uniform, Judith pulled back the curtains from the big picture window and dusted the furniture clustered in front of it. She made a mix of ammonia and water in a bucket to clean the many panes of the window. When Mrs. P. set out a snack in the mid-afternoon, she and Judith sat on the sofa to eat and chat in the daylight.
Jacob and his wife returned from the funeral at two o’clock, an hour after Judith. Husband and wife went to their separate portions of the large house and did not speak to either of the maids. At three o’clock, Judith told Mrs. P. that all her work for the day was finished and she was leaving. The old cook shook her head at more secretiveness from Desiree and said nothing. Judith robed herself against the cold and walked to her Nash.
She didn’t know the big cop’s name. She didn’t need to.
* * * *
Washington, D.C.
THE TIN-PAN VOICE ON the radio startled Lammeck.
“Car one, car one, calling Eyeball. I’ve got confirmation on a burgundy Nash, license plate SCR-310.”
The answering voice of Eyeball—Dag—spat from the speaker.
“Give me your 10-20, car one!”
The Secret Service agent in car one said he was on New Hampshire heading north into Washington Circle. Lammeck listened while the agent updated his position: The suspect car was coming out of the circle, headed east on K Street in the early rush hour traffic.
“Got her!” Dag growled, triumphant. He instructed car one to follow and take no action.
“Professor! You hear me?”
Lammeck fumbled for his microphone. He’d spoken on the two-way radio only once, to test it when the agents had installed it in his car. Now he held the mike to his lips, pressed the talk button, and bellowed, “Yes!”
Dag said nothing and the radio went silent. Lammeck didn’t know what to do next; he waited dumbly for Dag to instruct him. Through the afternoon, he’d been scanning the recent batch of government hiring files sent by Mrs. Beach. His front seat was scattered with folders. He put the mike down on top of one.
“...finger off the button!” Dag snarled through the speaker. “Goddammit, take your finger off the goddam talk button!”
Lammeck scooped up the mike.
“Sorry, sorry, Dag. I’m here.”
“Talk, Lammeck, then let loose on the damn mike and shut up while I talk. Jesus! Now listen, I’ve got an agent following a burgundy ‘39 Nash, plate number SCR-310. Got that? It’s her.”
Lammeck did nothing for a moment, to be sure.
“Lammeck!”
He pushed the button again. “Got it, yeah, yeah.”
“She was probably casing Pa Watson’s funeral over at Arlington Cemetery. Hot damn, I knew she’d try a stunt like this.”
Lammeck asked, “Where are you now?”
“Pulling out north on Seventeenth, headed for K. I got agents moving in for backup. You make for Vermont. If she heads straight east on K, we’ll pass you and you get behind me. Get going.”
Lammeck set down the mike and reached for the ignition key. Then, he grabbed for the mike, pressed the button again, and said, “Roger.”
Dag belted, “Go!”
Lammeck cranked the engine and merged into traffic away from his constant view of the White House. Every vehicle around him shared his urgency; at 4:00 p.m. in the District, everyone pulling out of parking spaces prepared themselves to do combat to beat the coming gridlock. At F Street, he ran a red light, then gunned it to beat a trolley onto G Street. Horns blared; the trolley driver clanged his bell.
Lammeck shot north across another intersection, dodging cars and nailing his own horn. His clenched hands were damp on the wheel. He was not so reaccustomed to American driving on the right that his manic maneuvering was instinctive; twice after making turns, he found himself in the wrong lane.
Dag continued to guide his agents on the two-way. Once he reached K Street and
spotted the ‘39 Nash, he coolly intoned his location and distance from the target. He ordered car one to back off. Dag was in his element. Lammeck listened while agents checked in with their own locations. Dag instructed all to avoid contact; they were merely to take up support positions on all sides and shadow him and the Nash. No one was to move until Dag gave the word. Lammeck did not trust his own driving enough to speak up, except when Dag shouted, “Lammeck!” He answered with a hurried “Ten-four,” and gunned through every break he could find in the traffic, north toward K.
Dag coached him over the radio: “Don’t answer, Professor. Just drive. There’s two of them in the car. I’m a half a block back and I can see there’s a guy driving and a dark-haired woman in the passenger seat. Who the fuck is the guy? Don’t answer! We’ll find out in a few minutes. Alright, team, alert, they’re coming up on Franklin Square. Wait... shit! They’ve turned north on Vermont. Repeat, north on Vermont! They’re headed toward Thomas Circle.”
Lammeck heard this and stepped on the gas, obeying Dag’s order not to answer. He ignored every traffic signal, veering sharply in and out of traffic, regardless of the direction it traveled, closing in urgently on Dag’s droning radio voice. An opening in the southbound lanes gave him the shot at speeding past the cars ahead of him. He leaned on his horn. Adrenaline prickled in his veins.
Lammeck reached K Street and shot across through squealing cars to Vermont Avenue. He didn’t know how far behind Dag he was; he couldn’t look up from the pinball game of horns and bumpers all around him long enough to find out.
Had Dag said there were two people in the Nash? This could be a remarkable turn of events. Did Judith have another confederate in the city, just as she had in Newburyport? Was she part of some wide-ranging conspiracy, or was this guy driving just some unlucky boyfriend or patsy she was working to help her reach Roosevelt?
Lammeck fixed his mind on his driving. He intended to find these answers out and a lot more in the next few minutes.
Dag crooned on the radio. Lammeck’s engine wound tight, and he wove recklessly through packed traffic on narrow Vermont. Then Dag shouted over the radio, “Out of Thomas Circle now! Headed west on Mass. Ave. toward Dupont Circle.”
Thomas Circle was still two blocks ahead. Was that Dag’s olive drab Packard a hundred yards in front of his bumper, heading west on Massachusetts? Lammeck looked beyond the Packard for a burgundy Nash and did not see it.
He reached for the microphone. “Dag, is that you up ahead? Coming out of Thomas Circle?”
“No.”
A moment stretched by on the radio. Another opening spawned in the southbound lanes of Vermont. Lammeck sensed it and charged ahead, making up ground toward Dag with his engine thundering and other drivers damning him. He swerved to avoid a Buick as it dove for the curb. Lammeck spun around Thomas Circle and lit out on Massachusetts, west toward Dupont Circle, five blocks off. He ducked and wove in and out of line until he forced an opening, drivers pulled aside to let him dash past with horns squalling.
“Lammeck!”
But Lammeck was going too fast to grab for the mike and respond. Dupont Circle had rushed up on him sooner than he’d anticipated. He hit the brakes and spun hard right, entering the one-way flow around the ring. His fender barely avoided two cars on his left, but he overcorrected and nudged a Ford on his right. This driver, a woman in uniform, shook her fist. Lammeck stayed in the circle, past the connection to New Hampshire and Connecticut, then past the continuance of Mass. Ave. at the opposite end from where he’d entered. The Ford Lammeck had nipped tried to follow him as well, to get him to stop. Lammeck couldn’t stop, but he didn’t know where to leave the circle. He grabbed the mike.
“Dag!”
“Mass. Ave. They’re heading back the way they came on Mass. Ave. Lammeck, fuck! You passed me!”
It must have happened in the blur of traffic inside the circle. Lammeck scorched tires now, orbiting Dupont Circle again. The Ford he’d bumped got trapped in a slower clump and could not stay in his wake when Lammeck careened back out onto Massachusetts. He left the furious driver behind, still on spin cycle, and surged into the clear.
Dag and Judith and the mystery man were close ahead. He ducked into the left lanes of Mass. Ave., mashing the gas pedal. His stomach turned over, queasy from the unremitting nerves of the chase.
“Alright, Professor, I see you back there. Cool down, you’re driving like a Red Bailer. Just stay in your lane, okay?”
Lammeck gazed ahead. There was Dag’s Packard, only five cars behind a Nash driving along Embassy Row. One more burst of speed and he could pull in right behind Dag.
He nailed the gas, closed on the bumper of the truck in front of him, and swung out, putting his driver’s-side tires into the westbound lanes. Cars honked and dodged while Lammeck roared past, until he was right behind Dag. The car at Dag’s rear slowed out of fear of Lammeck and let him merge.
The radio wailed, “Goddammit, I told you to cool it!”
Lammeck grabbed the mike. “Sorry. I can see them, up ahead. You’re right, there’s two of them.”
Before Dag could make any reply, the ‘39 Nash pulled out of the pack. A puff of exhaust billowed from its tailpipe as the car heaved into higher gear and took off, angling wildly into the oncoming lanes.
“Son of a... it’s supposed to be surveillance!” Dag shouted into the radio. “Alright. Alright. Eyeball to all agents, all agents! Suspects are eluding. Headed east on Mass. Ave., approaching Thomas Circle. Stop traffic on all thoroughfares out of Thomas Circle. Repeat: Stop traffic on all thoroughfares out of Thomas Circle!”
Voices flocked to Dag out of the airwaves, with names of streets each pursuing agent would block. Vermont, Rhode Island. Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth.
“Lammeck, stay on my tail,” Dag barked, “and don’t do one damn thing else.”
Lammeck left the mike alone and drove as he was told.
The Nash tried hard to escape, accelerating dangerously toward the traffic circle, careening into every lane. Dag was trying to throttle all routes out of the circle. If that worked, Lammeck would be face-to-face with Judith and her driver within minutes. Cornered, would they both bite capsules, too? Dag would be overjoyed if these two collapsed at his feet. But twin suicides would rob Lammeck of a once-in-a-million opportunity.
The Nash came up on Thomas Circle and barely slowed to navigate the curve. Dag pulled up tight on the car’s bumper. Breathing hard, Lammeck struggled to stay close on Dag’s rear. Traffic swerved out of the way once they saw a chase was on, but not one second passed when Lammeck was not narrowly avoiding some collision with a tree, car, or terrified pedestrian. He hung on grimly, heart hammering, keeping Dag’s rear in front.
The Nash did not shoot out of Thomas Circle the way Dag anticipated: Instead, it tore the whole way around the ring, to fire back down Massachusetts the way they’d come in.
“West on Mass. Ave.!” Dag shouted to his team. “Someone shut it down! Mass. Ave.!”
Agents scrambled in their number to see who was closest. No one could get to Dupont Circle quick enough. They’d been outfoxed.
“Lammeck, it’s up to you. I’m gonna guess at Dupont Circle they’ll try to go back the way they came and head south on New Hampshire. Take Rhode Island to M Street! Haul ass to New Hampshire! Shut it down!”
“Got it!”
He tossed the mike aside scarcely in time to peel away from Dag’s bumper at Scott Circle. After squealing three quarters of the way around the loop, he burst out onto Rhode Island. With horn blasting, Lammeck tore for M Street. The radio stayed silent; Dag was relying on Lammeck now and not his agents. At the intersection of M and Connecticut, Lammeck ran another red light, then merged onto M. Brakes smoked and a milk truck skidded sideways, but Lammeck only saw these things in his rearview mirror. He raced the quarter mile of M Street, shouting at drivers in his way, before powering through a stop sign at Twenty-first. There, he took a sharp right turn at twenty miles an hour, acc
elerated to travel another fifty yards, then slammed on his brakes.
He rocked to a stop in New Hampshire Avenue, blocking the two left lanes. Cars shrieked, drivers lowered their windows to shout. Lammeck grabbed the mike. “Done!”
Dag made no answer.
Lammeck got out of his car. He was a big man breathing heavily, pumped from the chase. Aggravated drivers were slow to approach him. They stayed behind their open car doors issuing colorful curses. Lammeck ignored them. He strode into the right lanes headed north toward Dupont Circle. These he could not block with his car. A few autos slid past, one driver flipped him the bird. He looked up the road, feeling sweat cool on his neck.
The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01] Page 22