by John Lutz
Dexter set his jaw. “Well, I know about you, you old drunk. I’ve read your file and—”
“Ralph, stop right there, please,” said Frances crisply, and Dexter did stop. She laid her hand on his arm and smiled at him. “Listen, I have to apologize. I brought you into the process too soon. I didn’t realize how much still had to be ironed out with Will and Hal. If you’d just give the three of us a little time together—”
Dexter, tight-lipped, nodded to her and left the room.
“I appreciate this, Ralph, thank you,” she called after him. Harper had to admire the firm yet gracious way she’d stopped the shouting match and gotten rid of Dexter. She knew how to run a meeting. If that was all there was to it, she’d be a great investigator.
“Before we continue with the discussion, I’d like you to review these.” Frances rose. Taking two slim manila folders from her briefcase, she passed them to Harper and Addleman.
“What is this?” asked Addleman, frowning.
“Your contracts as independent consultants. Your compensation is discussed in paragraph eleven. And Hal, there are some changes in your pension and health insurance that should interest you.”
Harper and Addleman glanced at each other. They didn’t open the folders. Frances continued as pleasantly as ever.
“While you review those, I’m going to call the Director’s office. If he has a minute free I’ll take you up.”
“A handshake and a photo,” said Addleman. “Something to show our grandchildren.”
“When is the press conference, Frances?” Harper asked.
“Press conference?”
“That’s the idea, isn’t it? You want us to get with the team in delivering the message. Markman’s dead. Everybody can relax.”
“It’s not true, Frances,” Addleman said. He pushed the folder back across the table toward her.
Frances stopped smiling. She sat down and looked at Harper, then at Addleman. “Hal, you’ve already allowed self-destructive behavior to destroy your career once. Now you’ve got a second chance. Don’t blow it. The Bureau wants you on the inside. We value your input.”
“No, you don’t,” said Addleman wearily. “You’re not the Bureau, Frances. You’re out for yourself. You’re misusing the Bureau.”
She turned to Harper. He shrugged and looked away.
“Okay, fine. If that’s the way you want it.” Her tone was cold now. “What you are going to do now—and I mean now—is leave Washington. You will tell the media that we had a full and frank discussion. You will not say one word about your theory that Markman is alive.”
“Or you’ll do what?” Addleman taunted. “We know you can bribe, now let’s see how you threaten.”
“Shut up, Hal. I’ve taken enough crap from you today.” Again her eyes moved from Addleman’s face to Harper’s. “You guys are pretty full of yourselves. You like being media heroes, don’t you? Then you’d better understand that the only reason you became heroes is that the Bureau allowed it to happen.”
“By handling the investigation incompetently, you mean?” asked Harper.
Frances went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “We let it happen, and we can turn it around. You guys are outsiders. Amateurs. The Bureau has long-standing relationships with powerful people in the media. When we choose to spin a story, we can do it.”
“How do you intend to spin this one?”
“If you two don’t sew your lips shut, you’ll start to see TV reports about how the Bureau was a lot closer to tracking down Markman in St. Louis than anyone knew before. A lot more receptive to your suggestions. We could have brought him in alive. People will believe that; the Bureau has been building a reputation for resolving confrontations peacefully. And what happened instead? You rushed in alone, Markman blew himself up, and scores of innocent people were injured, thousands of dollars in property damage was done. All because Will Harper is a headline-grabber, a hot dog, a loose cannon. You like those names, Harper? They’re what you’re going to be hearing.”
“I’m sour on the Bureau,” Addleman said, “but I know it’s better than that.”
“In this case, I am the Bureau,” Frances said. “I can use it the way it uses me.” Folding her arms, she leaned back in her chair. She watched the two men and waited. Neither said anything. After a moment, Agent Wilson was satisfied. She picked up her briefcase and rose.
From the door she said, “Security will be here in a minute to escort you out. Go straight home, and we won’t have any problems.”
Turning, she disappeared into the corridor. The room seemed suddenly very quiet. Harper turned to Addleman. He was looking at the portraits on the wall.
“Know something?” he said. “They ought to have a picture of Hoover in here after all.”
39
The “escort” Frances sent was not a special agent but a uniformed member of the FBI Police—the Bureau’s own internal police force. The unsmiling man showed Harper and Addleman out by a side door. No reporters or photographers were waiting for them. It was as if Frances Wilson were giving them an early demonstration of her power.
No official car was waiting for them either, of course. So Harper and Addleman began to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue and look for a cab.
Although it was only May 14, the weather was summery, hot and humid. The tourist season already seemed to be in full swing. There was plenty of traffic. Buses lumbered past on the way to the Mall museums. Families lined up on the curbs, to be photographed against the backdrop of the Washington Monument. A long line snaked around the Hoover Building itself, waiting to get into the FBI Museum.
“We could go public of course,” said Addleman abruptly.
“Yes, we could.”
“All we’d have to do would be schedule a press conference. Hundreds of reporters would show up. We might even be live on C-Span.”
“Or the networks.”
A motorcade—two limousines, flanked by police motorcycles—rounded the corner with sirens walling and lights flashing. Tourists turned to watch as the long black vehicles with little flagpoles on their fenders swept by. Harper could see the inquisitive smiles on people’s faces as they wondered who was behind the darkly tinted windows. A Cabinet member? A foreign dignitary?
“There’s no question the media would jump on the story,” Harper said. “But as to whether any effective action would come out of it, who knows?”
Addleman shoved his hands into his pockets and bowed his head in thought. Harper would have expected that being out on the crowded street would make the reclusive profiler nervous, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice what was going on around him. Harper stopped looking for a cab. There was no hurry, after all: They didn’t have any idea where to go or what to do next.
The shrill warble of sirens made him turn. The two black limos and their motorcycle escort swung around the corner again. Were they lost, Harper wondered, or circling the block because the VIP was early for his appointment? But of course it could be a different motorcade. At any given moment there must be a number of important people on the move around Washington. Once again, pedestrians all around them were turning to watch the limousines go by and speculate about who was inside.
How Anthony Markman would hate this little scene, Harper thought as he walked along. It would enrage him to see the excited smiles on the faces of these people, as they tried in vain to peer in the tinted windows of a passing limo. Markman, bitter and ingenious as be was, had made it his task to reverse the powerful attraction of fame and fortune, to bring everyone down to his level—or below. Looking around at the intrigued expressions and curious gazes, Harper could see that Markman hadn’t made any progress yet.
But he wasn’t finished, of course.
“Harold?” Harper said. “Do you think we can anticipate him again? Figure out his next move?”
Addleman was lighting a cigarette. Harper noticed that there were other puffers around. In the Federal city, the street was just about the only place where smoking was allowed
. Addleman didn’t speak until he’d had that first drag. “We know where. But we don’t know when, and we don’t know who.”
“His trajectory is upward. Always has been. This will be the most ingenious bomb. The highest death toll. The biggest celebrity.”
“There are a lot of people in Washington who are more famous than Speed Rogers,” Addleman said. “Far too many.”
“But won’t Markman want to go after the most famous person in the country?” Harper said. “Maybe we should buy a Washington Post, see if the President has any public events scheduled any time soon.”
“I’m sure we’ll find out that he does, but so what?” Addleman blew out smoke. “It’s more likely to be the First Lady. That’s only a guess, of course.”
Harper stared at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Look at the bomber’s other victims. Markman’s never gone after people who had real power. It’s fame that draws him. He likes to destroy people who have a certain kind of allure, a certain capacity to make people admire and envy them, independent of how much power or wealth they have. Perhaps famous people who don’t deserve to be famous. I can’t explain it any further.”
They’d reached another corner. The signal was against them and they had to wait while Washington’s heavy traffic rolled past. Exhaust fumes were thick. The sun was hot on Harper’s head. He loosened his collar and peeled off his jacket.
“There must be a way we can use what you’ve figured out,” he said.
Addleman threw away his cigarette. He shook his head in frustration. “I’ve been trying. I’ve been thinking about nothing else. But it’s all too damned vague. It doesn’t cut down on the possibilities.”
The light changed. They crossed the street in a throng of pedestrians.
“I’ll tell you something else useless,” Addleman said.
“What?”
“I think it may be personal this time.”
“Personal?”
“He started out by attacking Blake, someone he knew and bore a grudge against. I think he may be coming full circle in his last strike.”
“You mean the target may be someone he knows?”
Addleman laughed dryly. “I was up all night reading everything we know about Markman, and I couldn’t find any instance of his meeting anybody famous—or knowing anybody who later became famous.”
They walked on. Up ahead, Harper saw a tall iron fence, and beyond it, trees. They were nearing the grounds of the White House. Since the last time he’d been here, this stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue had been closed to traffic as a precaution against car bombs. The resulting pedestrian mall was a lively place on this sunny day, with vendors and entertainers working the large crowds of tourists and office workers on their lunch hour.
Harper became aware of a new sound underlying the hubbub of the crowd. It rose to a buffeting roar. Looking toward the White House grounds, he saw a blue Marine helicopter rising above the tops of the trees. It rose a little higher, then nosed down slightly and moved swiftly northward, passing directly overhead.
As the shadow flitted over him, Harper looked around. The office workers had stopped eating. The musicians had stopped playing. The juggler was holding onto his wooden pins. A nearby vendor had frozen with a hot dog in one hand, a ladle of sauerkraut in the other. He and his customer were watching the helicopter. Everybody was watching the helicopter.
A chill passed through Harper as he imagined that Markman was nearby, observing this scene. As the helicopter roared away in the distance, he turned to Addleman.
“Maybe we’d better call the Secret Service. Warn them the First Lady might be a target.”
Addleman frowned. “That would be rash. Probably counterproductive. Anyway, it’s only a guess.”
“Then maybe we ought to schedule that press conference. Tell them Markman’s still alive.”
“That would be rash, too. But I see your point.” Addleman smiled sourly. “Let’s go back to the hotel, see if we can think of an effective course of action.”
“And if we can’t?”
Addleman shrugged. “Then we’ll do something rash.”
Harper couldn’t think of a better idea, even though he knew rash behavior and bombs could be a deadly combination.
40
The suite at the Omnium had two bedrooms, each with its own bath, opening on a large living room. The windows overlooked Connecticut Avenue and a row of chic storefronts and restaurants in which only lobbyists could afford to dine. Fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit were laid out on the rosewood coffee table. The tan suede couch offered ample room for Addleman to sprawl full-length, and Harper had twelve feet of Persian carpet to pace over.
They’d come a long way since their last brainstorming session in Addleman’s South Philadelphia tenement.
Only the frustration was the same.
They didn’t know who or when. All they knew was that Washington was the place, and that wasn’t enough. Addleman had plugged in his laptop and modem and started hitting government Web sites and downloading schedules and announcements of appearances. Looking them over, Harper realized that Washington was a feast spread out before the Celebrity Bomber. In addition to the First Family, he could choose for his victim among the Vice President and his family, the members of both Houses of Congress, and the Justices of the Supreme Court.
Even if Addleman was right about the bomber preferring a glamorous person to a truly powerful one, he still had plenty of choices. A vain TV correspondent who always tried to outshine the events she was covering was holding a book-signing in Georgetown. A movie star turned activist was testifying before Congress about an environmental issue. A basketball player was leading a delegation of ghetto youth to the White House. There were too many possibilities.
By mid afternoon, Harper needed a break. Leaving Addleman smoking and muttering to himself, he went down to the lobby newsstand to pick up the latest editions of the Post and the Times. The desk clerk flagged him down on his way back to the elevators. He and Addleman hadn’t been answering the phone, and there were a lot of messages for them.
Back at the suite, he gave the newspapers to Addleman, then emptied the pink message slips from his pockets into an unused ice bucket. He sat down and put the bucket on the coffee table in front of him and drew a slip at random.
“Here’s one from the accounting section of the Bureau,” he said, “notifying us they’re not going to pay our hotel bill. And here’s one from Frances herself. All it says is ‘go home.’ ”
“Don’t waste your time with that stuff, Will. Help me with the papers. Here, you take the Metro section.”
“In a minute,” Harper said.
Addleman stifled a yawn. “Look, if you’re expecting a call from Laura, why don’t you just go ahead and call her first? Don’t waste your time going through all those messages.
“It’s not Laura I’m expecting a call from,” said Harper, as he scanned another slip and put it down.
“Who then?”
“Markman.”
Lowering his paper, Addleman stared at Harper. “Markman’s not one of your sicko sex killers who calls up cops and reporters, practically begging to get caught. That doesn’t fit his profile.”
“No, but he seems to think he has some kind of . . . I don’t know, some special relationship with me. He might have sent a message, and it may tell us something.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Addleman, and returned to the Post.
Harper riffled through the messages and found to his annoyance that Addleman was right. There was nothing from the bomber. Most of the messages were from reporters, with the usual sprinkling of con artists and publicity-seekers. But there was one slip that Harper returned to.
“Harold?” he said. “A guy named Aaron P. Sherman called. Says he has information that may be important to us.”
“A fruitcake. Toss it.” Addleman was scanning the columns of the newspaper and didn’t bother to look up.
“He left his
work number. It’s at Carlson & Wolper. Aren’t they one of those big D.C. law firms you read about—the ones where senators go to work when they’re out of office?”
“They are. What would somebody at a firm like that know that could help us?”
“I don’t know, but he’s probably not a fruitcake. I’ll call him.”
“Suit yourself.”
A mellow-voiced receptionist answered at the law firm. Mr. Sherman was unavailable, so Harper left his number. Then he picked up the Times and started to go through it.
Twenty-five minutes later, Sherman called back. He was using the hotel’s house phone from the lobby. Harper raised his eyebrows to Addleman as he asked Sherman to come up. Whatever information the lawyer had, he was certainly anxious to unburden himself.
Aaron P. Sherman turned out to be as imposing a figure as Harper had expected. He was about sixty, and he united the advantages of dignity and vigor. His blue eyes had heavy bags under them, but were still clear, his swept-back silver hair thick. He had a lean physique and very broad shoulders; either he was out rowing his scull on the Potomac every morning, or the man who’d tailored his dark-blue pinstriped suit had done an exceptionally skillful job.
It was strange to see a man like this looking so nervous and undecided. Sherman gave each of them a firm handshake, but he couldn’t quite look them in the eye. Perching on the edge of the sofa, he put his leather briefcase in his lap, then laid it on the floor. Now he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He said, “I—uh—I have to ask you a few questions.”
Addleman smiled. He was taking an interest in their visitor now. He said, “I thought it was the other way around. You had information for us.”
“I do. But I don’t know if it’s important. It may not matter at all. You have to tell me—is Markman dead?”
Harper and Addleman exchanged a glance. Before either of them could respond, Sherman started talking again.
“I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing,” he said. “I didn’t want to go to the police. You see, in a way it could be said that I’m violating a confidence. And—and I don’t really know if the information I have is of the slightest importance.”