"How many votes are six rounds?"
"Those aren't votes, Michael. Six Hydra-Shoks is a verdict."
"I'm sure you're right."
"Now what else can this scene tell us?"
"Let's locate Camera 24 North. That's the video we were watching at the police station."
"Good thinking. I've got the schematics for the video setup on my phone. Let me take a minute."
While Rusty checked his phone, I continued looking around, taking it all in. Then I walked up to the end of the pool at the bottom of the Lincoln Memorial stairs. I looked in and saw it was maybe three feet deep toward the middle. Shallow enough to freeze hard and fast but deep enough to accept a grown man's body. Suddenly a shiver racked up my spine, and I imagined what Gerry Tybaum must have been feeling as he came running across the exact point where I was standing. It could only have been pure terror for him. I pulled the collar of my topcoat tighter and turned away from the pool. Rusty pointed at the end of the pool toward an almost unnoticeable camera mounted alongside the pool and walkway.
"That's twenty-four north. The camera that saw it all that night."
"Make sure we've got great photos of the layout and good stills of the camera setup, okay?"
"I've included that in my notes, Michael."
"Then let's get out of here. I've seen all I need."
Rusty gave me a searching look. "Is it hard for you to visit a murder scene?"
"You bet," I said. "It always has been. What about you?"
"Naw. In the CIA I was the murder. A piece of cake, this."
"It's your cake, then, my boy. Enjoy it."
21
President Hubert S. Sinclair had watched his Chief of Staff squeeze the Girl Scouts time slot and the American Agriculture's time slot so that he now had gained thirty-five minutes for the President's meeting with the FBI and District Police.
Sinclair sat behind his desk in the oval office and crossed, uncrossed, then recrossed his feet at the ankles. He hated to admit it but he had to: mysterious meetings with law enforcement had always frightened him, beginning with his first days on the job as a county prosecutor, where his worry was that he would fall short and allow a guilty man to walk free. Today he felt the same generalized anxiety as he had felt even back then: what good ever came from meetings with law enforcement? When you came right down to it--
The intercom on his phone interrupted his inner monologue.
"Mr. President, I have Special Agent Ames and Detective Holt to see you. Should I bring them in?"
"Yes, please do," replied the president even as his palms were dampening with fear. I'd rather meet with Putin than the freaking FBI, he thought. At least with Putin, you knew what you were getting. But the FBI--ouch! That could come in so many different packages that he would need to be on his best game for the next thirty minutes. Plus, to make it much worse, he knew what it could be about and if it were--if it were about the Vice President's wife's dalliance with Gerald Tybaum--then Sinclair stood to be embarrassed by his vice president. And embarrassment was the kiss of death to any politician. Sure, let them find your sperm on some aide's dress, that might get you impeached. Infidelity was a career-killer: infidelity cost big stars their careers, cost them elections, and would never be forgotten by history. It was his vice president's infidelity, true, but it could run off onto Sinclair himself. His hand shook as he reached for the humidor and retrieved a plump Cuban cigar. They were de rigueur again now that Cuban relations were normalized. But he only spun it in his fat fingers without tooling away the wrapper. Smoking was illegal in all federal buildings. Which included the White House and its Oval Office, which reminded the president no man was above the law, not even the tobacco addict inhabiting the world's most powerful office. A random thought ran through his brain, a glimpse into the possibility of having the vice president's wife taken down--by some anonymous gunman, maybe. He immediately shook that off and wondered whether he was losing his mind.
The door opened.
"Mr. President, Jack Ames of the FBI and Ronald Holt of the District Police."
"Come right in, Gentlemen!"
The two cops took client chairs across from the president at his desk. Everyone settled in.
"So," said Sinclair, "what's up?'
"Mr. President," Special Agent Ames began, "we've got a situation on our hands. A dire situation."
"I'm all ears."
"Long story short--your opponent from the Climate Party--"
"Gerry Tybaum, damn shame."
"We have a witness who will swear it was it was Vice President Jonathan S. Vengrow who was the gunman. He says he saw your vice president execute Mr. Tybaum."
"No! That wouldn't be at all possible."
The potential uproar and coming rancor all but capsized the president's emotional state. The room swam before his eyes. His pulse shot up; he had to unbutton his collar button and loosen his tie. "My great God," he muttered.
"Well, Detective Holt here took the statement of Senator Jessup. Long story short, he just happened to be visiting the Lincoln Memorial and witnessed the whole thing."
The breath caught in Sinclair's throat. "Jessup? What in God's name was Jessup doing at the Lincoln Memorial?"
"Meeting a prostitute," said Agent Ames.
"Getting a blowjob," added Detective Holt, always keen on putting the icing on the cake, so to speak.
"No!"
It was too much. "Give me ten minutes," said Sinclair, and waved his hand at the northeast office door used by the two men. "Just go back out and wait while I make some calls, please."
The men obeyed, hurrying into the president's secretary's office outside the Oval Office and quietly closed the door behind them. President Sinclair checked the clock facing him on his desktop. Ten minutes.
Sinclair picked up his phone and dialed 1. The line was answered instantly.
"Jon Vengrow, Mr. President. Do you need me to come down?"
"I do. Come through the Rose Garden and use the east door."
"I'm on my way, sir."
Two minutes later the two men were facing off across Sinclair's great desk. Sinclair met his vice president's gaze; the vice president seemed to be cool and relaxed. So Sinclair launched in.
"Gerald Tybaum was shot down several weeks ago Sunday night."
"I know, I know. Damn shame. I always liked Gerry," said the vice president, speaking solemnly as if appearing at the wake.
"Hold on. It gets bad. Two cops are waiting outside. They're saying they've interviewed Senator Jessup, who says the man he saw shoot Gerry Tybaum was you, Jon."
Vice President Vengrow all but stood up from his chair. "Me?" he cried, drawing it out.
"That's right. Jessup was at the Lincoln Memorial when he saw the gunman chase Tybaum up to the pool and shoot him. He says the man with the gun was you, Mr. Vice President. I wanted to hear your side of this before I proceeded with the cops because I know they're going to want to arrest you and bring my whole administration crashing down. Tell me it isn't so, Jonathan."
Vengrow spread his hands. He stared at the desktop. He stuck a finger in one ear and swirled it around. His jaw jumped as muscles formed silent words. He was developing his answer.
"I have an ironclad alibi."
"Great! Great! Go ahead, Jon."
"I was home watching Homeland."
"You were--you were watching TV?"
"Yes. The show was about an agent operating in Pakistan."
"And how--and how is your watching a TV show an alibi? Was there someone there with you who can corroborate your story?"
"Indio had been called over to her mother's. She was ailing, and you know how Mrs. Grant can get."
"I do, I do," Sinclair said, though he had no idea how the vice president's mother-in-law "got." "What was she like?"
"Ailing." He made a sweeping motion across his abdomen as if that should be explanation enough.
"Did she go to the hospital? Was a doctor called in? How do we prove Ind
io's whereabouts?"
"Ask Mrs. Grant, I would say. She could confirm her daughter's visit."
"Whoa, whoa up, Jon. This is getting off-center. We're trying to prove your whereabouts Sunday night, not your wife's and not your wife's mother's ailment. Help me with sorting you out, please."
"No one was around. Secret Service has their office up front in the Observatory. I was clear back in my bedroom."
"You have your own bedroom?" asked Sinclair. It was the first he'd heard.
"I do. Privacy and working late. I need my own area."
"Got it, got it. So you were back in your office, and the Secret Service was up front. Are you able to leave your office and get outside without the Secret Service knowing? I think I know the answer without even asking."
"No, there's no way that could happen. They've got all the exterior doors covered, as well as the surrounding grounds."
"Sure, sure. So, what happened next?"
"I watched Homeland."
"Do you own a gun, Jon?"
"I do. It was the weapon I carried during the First Gulf War."
"A handgun?"
"A semiautomatic."
"And where's that gun now?"
"At home in my desk."
"Is there some way we can have it tested to prove it hasn't been fired in a long time?"
"That won't fly. I was out shooting the day before, Saturday."
"Shooting at what?"
"You know," said the vice president evenly, "gun range targets."
"So any tests would show it had been fired recently?"
"Affirmative. That's not a solution."
"Then you tell me. How do we overcome Jessup's claim you pulled the trigger on the gun that nailed Tybaum?"
"One thing the police will want to do is test my gun against the bullets pulled out of Gerry's back."
Sinclair alerted. "How do you know they came from his back?"
"I think I read that in the paper, didn't I?"
"I read the same paper. I've got it right here. It doesn't say anything about where he was shot. Newspaper stories usually don't tell those details. So, how do you know they came from his back?"
"I think I heard that Mr. Tybaum was running away when he was shot from behind. Maybe that's it."
"That's not in the article either."
"Well, then, screw it. I don't recall where I got it. I just know what I know, that's all."
"Maybe it's because you pulled the trigger? Work with me now, Jon. I can help you if I get all the details."
"It wasn't me." The VP's voice was small and seemed to arrive from a great distance.
The President sat back and picked up the Cuban cigar. Without a word he rummaged through his desk, looking for his BIC lighter. Once he had that in hand, he flicked the igniter and lit up his cigar. He blew a dense plume of smoke across the desk.
The president turned the cigar and studied its lit end. "Sons of bitches--I'll smoke in my frigging office if I need. And I need it now."
"No thanks, Mr. President."
"No thanks? I don't recall offering you one, Jon. I know you don't partake."
"That's right; I don't. Indio wouldn't let me in the door if I came home reeking of Cuban tobacco."
"Her loss. The First Lady says she enjoys the smell."
The vice president looked askance at the president. He couldn't imagine a wife saying she enjoyed the odor of her husband's cigar. It didn't fit into any wifely tropes he could dredge up.
"Jon, why don't we do this? Why don't we ship you overseas for a week and see if I can douse this fire? Let me see if I can work my magic to make this go away."
"All right. Whatever you want, Mr. President."
"We need you incommunicado for a few days; that's all, Jon."
"All right. You thinking maybe Asia?"
"No, those Asians are too jealous of who gets to host who. I'm thinking Eastern Europe."
"Won't that stir up the Russians too much?"
"Well, you've got a point there."
"What if I go into hiding at Bethesda Naval Hospital and we tell everyone I'm gravely ill."
The president's face lit up. "That I like. Yes, that works. Then I've got you close by while I work this out."
"I'll talk to Dr. Monks today. He can admit me and put me under quarantine."
"Take plenty to read, Jon. We all know you get restless. And Jon, just one more thing. It's no secret that Gerry Tybaum has been sniffing around Indio. Is any of that stuff I've heard actually true? Was she carrying on an affair with our dead friend?"
The VP looked injured. It was not a subject the president enjoyed pursuing. He had his suspicions about the VP's wife, but he'd never said anything, never considered it his place to speak up.
"She might have seen him a few times. She's admitted that to me."
A few times? Thought Sinclair. I heard it was a raging wildfire.
"How did that affect you, Jon?"
"Did it make me crazy? No, Mr. President. We haven't been in love for twenty years. She doesn't give a damn who I see and the feeling's mutual."
"I didn't know. Sorry to hear it's like that."
"Just doesn't matter anymore, Mr. President. Hasn't mattered for so long I forget. We're married because I need the votes and she enjoys the benefits."
"Tell you what, Jon. Your name is all over the street as the shooter. Lots of people think you shot Tybaum because of his liaisons with your wife."
"I know that. It kills me, sir."
"We want the prosecutor on Tybaum's case to finish up his investigation ASAP because it's going to clear your name. Your need that, I need that, the administration needs that, the country needs that."
"I hear you, sir. We need an indictment brought against someone besides me."
"Right. So let's keep our eye on the ball and let's be sure the investigation goes smoothly. I'm putting you on that, Jon. You ride shotgun for the prosecutor. If he needs anything, make sure he gets it. If he wants you to testify then, by all means, do so. Just be careful."
"Don't forget, Mr. President, I used to work for the U.S. Attorney myself. Of course, that was twenty-five years ago, but I still know the game."
"Excellent, Jon. Still, watch your step. I'm counting on you to do this right."
"Thank you, Mr. President. I'm all over it."
"All right. Why don't you head back out the way you came and I'll get the cops back in here? I just wanted your side of things before I went ahead with those boys. I knew you'd have something for me that made sense."
The vice president stood and solemnly shook hands with the president. Then he ducked out into the Rose Garden and disappeared. The president had Yolanda bring the FBI agent and detective back into his office.
"All right, men, I've made some calls, asked some questions."
"I'm sure you have lots of sources," said Special Agent Ames.
Sinclair stared him down. My sources are none of your damn business, he thought.
"Anyway, I'm comfortable in saying Senator Jessup's got his wires crossed. The shooter was not the vice president."
"So you're giving us the green light on speaking to the VP and getting him cleared?" asked Detective Holt.
"That's doable. But not quite yet. The vice president has been ailing. He's being admitted to Bethesda for testing and observation as we speak. There's no hurry is there?"
The last part was said with a menacing tone. It said there better damn well be no hurry. Both men agreed instantly: there was no hurry.
"So. What else we do know about the shooting?" Sinclair asked his visitors.
"Not much else," they said in unison. "Nothing further."
"Good. My time's up with you fellows. Give Bethesda a call in five days. Maybe they can update you on the vice president's condition then. But I don't want you disturbing him while he's under the weather. You feel me?"
Both men agreed; they understood to back off for awhile. It was political, and all three men knew it. But no one was sayin
g so. The president needed time to rally, and the cops had to do as he said.
Within reason, at least.
22
Detective Holt was waiting in my office the next morning.
"Michael," he began, "it's time to talk to Bambee."
I looked him up and down. "That sounds like a hooker's name, Holt."
"Bingo. She's the girl who was at the Lincoln Memorial with Jessup."
"Oh, yes, she's in the police reports. Why no statements yet?"
"She went into hiding after the shooting. A CI just turned her up for us."
"Where is she?"
"The good thing is, she's still here in D.C. The bad news is that she's lawyered up and won't speak without her mouthpiece present. She's also shopping her story to the Enquirer."
"So much for Jessup's career," I ventured. "He can kiss his Senate seat goodbye."
"He's still got almost a year left in his term. He's a 2018 candidate."
"This story will be on the front pages at least until then. Hell," I said, "maybe you should run against him, Holt. The seat is there for the taking. Move the family, get residency, throw your hat in the ring."
Detective Holt snorted. "Yeah, right. I wouldn't be an elected official coming to this town no matter how much they offered to pay me. I like to be able to sleep at night. Plus, I don't like spending time in the confessional. No, let's leave that to the real whores."
"Whoa, those are pretty strong words."
"You're new here, Mr. Gresham. The day will come when you'll be using similar words when you talk about our Congress."
"I'll put that on the back burner. So, how do we talk to Bambee--what's her real name?"
"Evelyn Adelphia. She's a cheesehead from Milwaukee originally."
"Do I need to call for an appointment?"
"Done," said Holt. "I've got us talking to her at her attorney's office at ten o'clock. So clear your calendar, counselor, this one's going to be interesting. She just might put the vice president away once and for all."
Annie's Verdict (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 6) Page 12