by Barry Lancet
“Can’t rule him out,” the Secret Service agent said.
One of the crew members slid the crowbar over the block and under the fallen sets and pried them up enough for me to crawl out.
At which point the DC cop planted a boot on my back and slapped on the cuffs.
“Is that really necessary?” I said.
“Yes,” the two men said in unison.
The Secret Service agent holstered his gun, looped a hand under my left arm, and yanked me upright, then marched me over to a chair and dropped me into it.
“You sore?” he asked.
“Not much.”
“Need medical attention?”
“No.”
“Good. Stick around.”
“What about Dillman and Tanaka? They okay?”
“All in due time.” The agent walked away, calling over his shoulder, “Keep an eye on him, Hedges. Don’t shoot him unless you absolutely have to.”
* * *
Law enforcement swamped the Kennedy Center.
The FBI, Homeland Security, and an assortment of others all made their presence felt. Washington has more law enforcement entities than an octopus has tentacles. The tentacles spread fast and latched onto everyone in sight.
Starting with me.
Hedges and another cop ushered me into a conference room, where some two dozen other backstage visitors waited. The metal wear around my wrists drew appraising stares.
“How about loosening the cuffs since the place is locked down,” I said.
“No chance,” said Hedges, waving over a young cop from his department before wandering off. “Watch this one. He’s a live wire.”
All the backstage personnel trailed in a minute later, then the interrogation process began.
Every agency had its crack at us. Off to the side, uniformed police officers rolled out a string of six-foot whiteboards on casters. As the interviews progressed, sightings of Mikey, Sharon, and the killer were logged. Witness accounts were cross-referenced. The boards slowly filled. I could read the headings but not the notations below. A timeline began to take shape. Then a second round of questioning commenced to confirm and expand on the emerging skeletal construction of events. Details were fleshed out.
I was a popular item. I retold my story maybe ten times, each time to a different badge. There was no way to circumvent the procedure. Or truncate it. For each interviewer, I laid out my tale from my arrival to my confrontation with the shooter. For each interviewer, I explained why I had a backstage pass. For each interviewer, when requested, I recited my contact information. They all requested it. At the end of the proceedings, Hedges removed the cuffs with great reluctance. Rings of chafed skin at my wrists brought him a measure of satisfaction he made no attempt to conceal.
Four long hours after the shooting, I exited the theater complex. A light breeze ruffled my hair. The white façade of the Kennedy Center with its majestic copper-colored pillars towered overhead. Beyond the edge of the courtyard, the Potomac River roared, robust with runoff from a recent storm. My deltoids throbbed and my wrists were inflamed.
But mental torment overshadowed any physical pain. I couldn’t get an update on the condition of my friends. With each new sit-down, I’d asked about them. I was repaid for my cooperation with silence or shrugs. When I tried forcing an answer before an interrogation began, the interviewer took one look at the handcuffs and read me the riot act.
Now, since my Uber app was malfunctioning, I waited in line for a cab behind eight other “detainees.” Theater patrons had long since vacated the playhouse. For the hundredth time I wondered about Mike and Sharon.
My plan was to take a taxi to the nearest hospital.
Then events took an unforeseen detour, and I never made it to a medical facility of any kind.
CHAPTER 7
SIR,” a voice behind me said, “could you step from the line?”
I turned to find myself facing a woman in crisp navy suit, straight black hair, and distinctly masculine sunglasses.
“Why?”
“I’d like a word in private.”
A blue oval pin trimmed in gold adorned her lapel. At its center was a gold star. At the end of each of the star’s five arms was a small gold disc. I knew the insignia. Everyone who traveled through secure locations within DC knew the insignia. Plus, I’d had the distinct displeasure of seeing it all afternoon.
It belonged to the Secret Service.
“Your people have already interviewed me twice,” I said. “And pointed a gun in my face. I’ve nothing more to say.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like one last word.”
“I mind,” I said. “I need to find my friends as soon as possible. So I’d like not to lose my place in line.”
“If that’s all it takes, we’d be happy to drop you anyplace in town after we talk.”
She waved at a modified black Cadillac XT5 idling some twenty yards away. A man in a nearly identical outfit, with nearly identical shades, leaned against the front fender, his arms crossed.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “Say what you have to say, then go. It’s probably nothing I haven’t heard at least a half a dozen times today. In fact, most of the people in this line have probably heard it.”
Every ear and eye within range was tuned to our exchange.
“I would be happy to explain if you will step over to the rail for a moment.”
“Seriously, there is absolutely nothing more I can add.”
The woman glanced back over her shoulders and shook her head, then raised an eyebrow. What did he think? The other agent gave her an abbreviated nod, so she bent forward and whispered in my ear, “FLOTUS wishes a word.”
The first lady of the United States.
Suspicion gripped me, then a flicker of fear. An over-the-top, ego-massaging compliment was the perfect ploy. Was this a confidential whisper meant to flatter and gain consent? Mentioning the president would be too outrageous, but using the first lady struck a nice balance. Problem was, I had no White House connections whatsoever. Direct or a few degrees removed.
The new rules of engagement between civilians and the greater law enforcement agencies made me wary. The playbook had changed—drastically. With the Secret Service now operating under the Homeland Security umbrella, agents could just as easily drive me away, throw me in a cell, and hold me without a lawyer in the name of national security. I’d already had two guns unjustifiably pointed in my direction. Why should I risk more? I wasn’t sure the Secret Service could actually cart people away like Homeland and other agencies, but why take the chance? Thank you, Patriot Act.
There was another possibility. This could be a con job. My eyes shot to the lapel pin: the ornament looked real enough, but how hard could it be to fake? Or replicate? Or buy online?
“You have ID?” I asked.
Annoyed, the woman slipped a leather badge holder from her pocket and held it open at eye level. She allowed me ample time to inspect the contents—a badge and Secret Service card for one Bonnie Sternkart. I’d seen authentic federal ID before. Not Secret Service but CIA, FBI, and Homeland. I had an eye for detail. Developed from scrutinizing thousands of artworks, separating the dross from the gems, and both from fakes. The shield and identification were authentic.
“Okay, Ms. Sternkart, I’ll give you that,” I said, “but I think you have the wrong guy.”
“Unlikely, sir.”
“There were thousands in the theater today, and maybe two hundred backstage.”
“You are Mr. Brodie, are you not?”
“The wrong Brodie, then.”
Sternkart’s jaw clamped down hard. She extracted a notepad from a jacket pocket, thumbed through a couple of pages, and began to read: “Age thirty-two, six-one, one hundred ninety pounds, black hair, blue eyes.” She ran an unamused glance up and down my frame. “Seems to fit.”
“Fits a lot of people here today.” I looked around. “Could fit the guy at the head of the line.”
She gave me an unyielding deadpan stare, then flicked over a page. Her eyes dropped like daggers to the bottom of the sheet. “Widower, one daughter, resident of San Francisco, born in Tokyo to Caucasian American parents. Japan expert, lived in Japan until the age of seventeen, art dealer and owner of Brodie Antiques on Lombard in San Francisco. Also half owner of an entity in Tokyo called Brodie Security. Japanese detective license through said agency. Involved in several high-profile cases in San Francisco and Japan.”
“Ah,” I said. “That guy. You’re well-informed.”
“Just doing my job. Would that be you, then?”
“It would,” I said.
“Then would you be so kind?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” I said.
“We don’t make deals.”
“Too bad.”
Sternkart frowned. “What do you want?”
“A status report on the two victims.”
The woman’s lips twisted. “That we can do.”
“Good,” I said.
“But in the car.”
“Why? You think I might renege?”
“Our job is to ensure your arrival. Once you’re inbound, we’ll release the information. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
A well-turned hand rose and pointed toward the Cadillac.
I held back. “I need one last bit of proof that convinces me you’re not going to haul me off to some black-ops site.”
“We’re Secret Service, not Homeland.”
“Not enough.”
“How about this?” She leaned forward again and whispered in my ear one more time. My eyes widened. I pulled away and stared into her eyes. They were open and reassuring. They held steady against my probing.
Stunned, I relinquished my place in line.
CHAPTER 8
THE Cadillac XT5 glided toward Washington Circle, then up Pennsylvania Avenue.
The black luxury sedan was practical rather than palatial. Elegant enough to transport visitors to the White House but small enough to navigate the capital’s traffic with ease. The male agent piloted the machine with uncommon agility, weaving around lethargic vehicles with a silky smoothness. He drove with lights flashing but siren silent. From the passenger’s seat, the woman spoke softly into a cell phone.
I sat alone in the spacious backseat, anxious to ask about Mikey and Sharon. The Caddie had a wood-trimmed interior, leather seating, extra foot room, and a stocked mini-bar. A transparent partition separating the front from the back was impressive if only because I heard not a word of what transpired in the forward compartment.
Sternkart finished her conversation, mumbled a few words to her partner, then turned and gazed at the passing scenery.
I tapped on the divider. “We had a deal,” I said.
The woman hit a button on the center console and the panel retracted into the back of the seat.
“Ask away,” she said.
Was it a one-way sound barrier or had a microphone been planted in the back?
“Were they able to revive Sharon Tanaka?”
She shook his head. “No.”
Something in my chest tightened. Breathing became difficult. “How about the man? He was still alive.”
The woman blinked once. “They worked on him for a while.”
“And?”
“He a friend of yours?”
“Both of them are.”
Frowning, she hesitated. “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it either.”
The blood drained from my face. No, no, no. I’d left them in good hands. Professional hands.
“Are you sure?”
She studied me for a moment, then the hard-edged mask dropped away. “Yes. I’m very sorry.”
“In the ambulance? At the hospital?”
“A hospital never came into it,” she said. “The killer was thorough.”
My breathing grew raspy again, as if I were once more pinned beneath a massive weight. I slumped back against the cushioned upholstery. Again an image of Mikey during our college days surfaced. We’d hosted a moving-in party at our new apartment, and like many collegiate affairs it got out of hand.
Three times as many people showed up. We shrugged it off, figuring we’d make new friends. I stepped out for more supplies. When I returned, I found Mikey in a scrap in the courtyard with two oafish guys twice his size, and a gallery of gawkers doing nothing. Just as I turned a corner, they tackled him. I charged in, pulled both guys off my friend, and made short work of them. Turned out they’d come on to my then girlfriend and wouldn’t back off. With me running an errand, the ever-shy but always loyal Mikey had stepped into the breach. He suffered a black eye and a broken arm, but from that day forward our friendship never wavered.
My chest collapsed in a dark hole of pain. Mikey and Sharon in one day? It made no sense. No sense whatsoever. Two gentler souls did not exist.
And I’d brought them together.
What had I done?
* * *
Five minutes later we rolled onto the White House grounds.
It required only a brief nod-and-wave at a sentry in a security booth for entry. The Cadillac eased to a stop near the East Wing. Having frisked me back at the Kennedy Center, Sternkart simply opened my door, nodded me out, then led the way, her partner swinging in behind us.
They guided me along a stone footpath, into the White House, then up a flight of broad, carpeted stairs. On the second-floor landing we stepped into a corridor wide enough to accommodate a marching band. The carpet was white and spotless. Ornate molding with raised scrollwork lined the upper edges of the walls.
From a door midway down the hall, a woman in a no-nonsense yellow power blouse and brown slacks emerged with a smile and her hand extended. She wore her black hair in a pageboy, side locks tucked behind her ears.
“Mr. Brodie, thank you for coming. I am Margaret Cutler, the first lady’s chief of staff, and I will be your liaison in all further communications in the days ahead. Mrs. Slater will receive you immediately.”
In the days ahead?
“The pleasure’s all mine, Ms. Cutler,” I said, wondering what the next few moments might bring.
“Margaret, please. Right this way, if you would.”
The Secret Service agent stationed outside the door from which Cutler had issued opened it as we approached. Margaret stepped through first, followed by my lead escort, who plowed past her fellow agent like a sleek powerboat in overdrive.
I went next and found myself in a reception chamber where four staff members hovered anxiously. Margaret was already moving into the adjoining room with Sternkart on her heels. I glided forward in their wake, the male agent bringing up the rear.
Joan Slater, the first lady of the United States, rose from an overstuffed chair upholstered in a mauve-and-beige floral pattern. “Thank you, Bonnie, Jeff, for bringing Mr. Brodie to me.”
“Ma’am,” the agents said in unison before bowing and retreating from the inner sanctum.
The president’s wife offered her hand. “Mr. Brodie, thank you very much for coming on such short notice. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
I shook her hand while two staffers swooped in under Margaret’s watchful eye and began fussing over a tea caddie.
“Please take a seat,” the first lady said, beckoning me toward a spot on a matching couch nearest her chair.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Once seated, we waited in silence for the tea to be served. Framed photographs of the presidential family hung over Joan Slater’s desk behind her. Paintings by Paul Klee and Mark Rothko, no doubt on loan from the National Gallery of Art, found choice locations elsewhere in the room.
The staffers wrapped up and departed without a word. After casting a final approving look at the arrangement, Margaret shut us in.
“I hope my request wasn’t too much of an inconvenience,” my host said, her eyes finding mine. They were bright and warm and observant, with a shadow lingering at the
back. “I hear you nearly turned down my emissaries.”
On the walnut coffee table before us, wisps of steam rose from two cups of tea in fine china.
“Frankly, Madam First Lady, I didn’t believe they had the right man.”
“Joan, please. What changed your mind?”
Glossy shoulder-length black hair framed an intelligent face with fair skin and a candid smile. Vivid blue-gray eyes locked onto me with an intensity that implied I had become the center of her world. She was fully and deeply engaged. The effect was mesmerizing. A pastel green dress, cinched at the waist with a wide belt of silver leather, brought out the color of her eyes.
“Their extensive . . . shopping list.”
Confusion crossed her face for an instant before understanding dawned. “Interesting way of putting what must have felt extremely intrusive. Please accept my apologies, Mr. Brodie. One cannot dictate the way the Secret Service operates.”
I nodded agreeably. “I suppose not. And let’s make that Jim. Though I don’t know what you could possibly want of me.”
“I have been informed that you were backstage when Sharon Tanaka was shot. I was also told you knew her.”
Sorrow seeped into her voice as the stage designer’s name left her lips.
“You have good sources,” I said.
Melancholy tinged Joan Slater’s smile. “My husband’s job comes with countless benefits, but ‘good sources’ is not one of which I ever expected to avail myself. Did you really know Sharon?”
“Yes. We ran in some of the same circles in Tokyo. Were you two close?”
The fact of their friendship, whispered in my ear by Sternkart, was what finally convinced me of the legitimacy of the agent’s petition.
A girlish enthusiasm lit up her face. “Boy, did I. We attended Cornell together back in the day and were roommates in Manhattan for three years when she apprenticed at the theaters off and on Broadway. Her death is a shock. That it should happen on my doorstep is an unmitigated disgrace. There is going to be an official investigation, of course, but I also plan to do everything in my power to assure her killer is caught.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said, the grief I’d tamped down welling up as she revealed her connection to Sharon. They had been roommates in Manhattan. Not unlike Mikey and myself.