by Allan Topol
Perspiring heavily, trembling, Gillis was enveloped by panic. He wanted to race up the stairs, out the front door, and tell those two guards what he had found. That was the right thing to do. He knew it. But it also would lead to trouble for him, lots of trouble, answering questions and explaining. They would try to blame him, the same way that sheriff had grabbed his daddy when somebody had raped a white girl back home in Hattiesburg. His daddy had been gone for a whole month. They beat his daddy almost to death until a white man raped somebody else, and they caught him and charged him with both crimes. Sure, this was Washington, not Mississippi, but he couldn't take the chance. He decided to take the safe way out. He retraced his steps to the back door, pretending he had never seen a thing.
Chapter 2
"No... No... No." Ann Winthrop shot to her feet in the center of the darkened theater, throwing her hands into the air. "Linda, you can't play the mother as some sweet old biddy. The woman's a monster. Her daughter's going to kill her, for chrissake. You need to show that the daughter's justified in doing it. Otherwise, this whole play is crap!"
Ann's outburst produced an awkward silence. Though she was the chairman of the board of the Dolly Madison Theatre and the producer of this production of Beauty Queen of Leenane, no one other than the director ever interrupted the actors during a dress rehearsal. Sitting next to Ann, Jennifer Moore was embarrassed for her friend. She stood up next to Ann, providing moral support. From the corner of her eye she saw Del Weber, the director, jump up in the first row, clutching a clipboard tightly in his hand. He stormed over and in a single swift motion flung it to the ground, narrowly missing Ann's feet. "You want to direct it yourself?" he shouted at Ann. "Then it's all yours. I'm gone."
As he charged toward the door, Jennifer circled behind the seats and cut him off at the back of the theater. Grabbing his arm, she said, "Look, Del..."
Del was furious. "Who the fuck does she think she is?"
"She's got a point. After all, if a character's going to the extreme of killing someone, especially her mother, the audience has to see that her motivation is strong enough."
"C'mon, Jennifer. Don't get lawyerly with me. You used to be in the theater. You know damn well if Ann had a gripe, she should have told me privately. That's the way it's done."
Del was right, and Jennifer knew that. But the show was opening Wednesday evening, and she didn't want him to quit. "Listen," she said, lowering her voice, "cut her a little slack, would you? It has been a tough time for her."
"Why the hell should I?"
Jennifer stared hard at him and said, "Think about it, Del." She didn't have to spell it out: Ann had given Del a chance after he had come out of drug rehab.
The director started calming down as Ann approached, carrying his clipboard. She handed it to him and said, "Sorry, Del. You're in charge. I'm leaving. Let's go, Jenny."
Five minutes later, with Jennifer behind the wheel of her red Saab convertible pulling out of the garage, Ann blurted out, "What's Linda's problem? Didn't she read the script?"
Jennifer didn't respond. After a few moments of riding in silence, Ann, sounding defensive, said, "I was right about the way Linda played the mother, wasn't I, Jenny?"
"Of course you were right. You dragged me along today to give you some notes. My main thought was that I couldn't buy why the daughter would kill her. I mean, the way Linda was playing the part. But..." Jennifer had to make a difficult left turn. She used that as an excuse to stop before her next sentence popped out of her mouth.
"You don't have to lecture me," Ann said wearily. "I know I should have held it back for Del till later. But I'm getting damned tired of doing what other people want."
They rode in silence for several minutes. Then Jennifer said, "What's wrong?"
"What makes you think something's wrong?"
"C'mon, Ann, I've known you for twelve years. Since that darkened theater in New York, when you called to a frightened kid at an audition for Picnic, 'Will you step forward?'" Jennifer took a deep breath. "I know something's bothering you. Is it Robert?" She turned and drove north on Connecticut Avenue, away from downtown Washington, in the flow of the late-Saturday afternoon traffic.
"Look, Jenny," Ann said. "You're young and you're drop-dead gorgeous. You've had your pick of men. I wasn't in a good bargaining position when Robert came along."
Jennifer touched her honey blond hair, making certain it was pulled tightly back and locked in place. Then she laughed sardonically. "Yeah, I had my pick of men, okay, and I took Craig. I know that I was on the rebound from that two-timing Ben. I wanted to forget I ever met the crumb, but I still should have had more sense than landing in Craig's arms." Jennifer didn't conceal the anger that crept into her voice when she thought about Craig and their marriage that had lasted two years to the day, because he chose their anniversary to head west into the wilds of Colorado with a nubile nineteen-year-old with big boobs to write the great American novel. That was only eight months ago. Their divorce was final three months after he left. God, it seemed like years. At least there weren't any children. "I don't even have an excuse. For me, it's just poor judgment in picking men."
"Sorry, Jenny, that was insensitive of me."
"Ah, forget it. It's all ancient history by now."
"With a little luck, I'll be able to say the same about me and Robert." She paused and then added the words, "One day."
Anxious to change the subject, Jennifer said, "When you get home, maybe you should give Del a call and go over all of your notes from the rehearsal."
Ann thought about it for a moment and said, "Yeah, you're right. He thinks he's an artist. I'd better smooth those ruffled feathers."
She turned and stared out of the window, deep in thought the rest of the way home. Jennifer decided to leave her alone. On Linean Court, Jennifer eased to a stop behind the navy Crown Vic that belonged to the Office of Diplomatic Security.
Nodding to Mac, standing next to the car, Ann said to Jennifer, "You want to come in for a drink?"
"I think I'll pass. Grace Hargadon and I are going to the Kennedy Center tonight to see Verdi's Luisa Miller."
"Just a quick one. You have time."
The urgency in Ann's voice made Jennifer reconsider, but she really didn't have time. "Sorry, it's a seven-o'clock curtain, and we have reservations for an early dinner."
Ann sighed in resignation. "Then why don't you come by tomorrow morning, say around ten? We'll have a light brunch before I go back to the theater for rehearsal."
"Won't Robert be home?"
"Even prisoners are allowed to have visitors."
"No, I meant—"
"I know what you meant. He'll be at Camp David with Philip. Just the two of them. Pretty heady stuff. I heard him talking on the phone to Philip last night. Robert says he's got something important to tell Philip that affects both of them, but as usual he wouldn't tell me. Says he doesn't want me leaking it to the press, which is bullshit, because I've never done that to him, despite everything he's done to me." Ann climbed out of the car. "See you tomorrow."
Driving away, Jennifer thought about Ann's husband. What a prick! For a few minutes, she wound around the tree-lined streets with large, expensive homes. At the corner of Connecticut Avenue, Jennifer slowed at the stop sign. Suddenly, the car phone rang. "Jennifer here."
"It's Robert," Ann screamed hysterically. "He's dead! Somebody shot him! You've got to help me!"
The shock of the news paralyzed Jennifer for an instant, but she recovered fast. "Call nine-one-one right now. I'm on my way back."
"Oh, God!"
As the news sank in, Jennifer didn't shed any tears. Why should she? She was glad the bastard was dead. "Go out front and tell the guards. And don't touch a thing."
* * *
She drove the maroon Ford Taurus into the entrance of Washington's Reagan National Airport, taking care to avoid being stopped in the speed trap set to catch travelers late for a plane. Everything was proceeding like clockwork. Whi
le the two guards had seen her leave the house, they had never seen her pull away in the Taurus because she had parked around the corner. She had immediately driven into Rock Creek Park. Inside the car, in a deserted parking lot for a picnic grove, she had peeled off the cap, wig, tie and trench coat. The man's outfit was replaced by a maroon skirt and pale pink blouse that she had hidden under the car seat.
She had been dressed as a woman when she stepped out of the car in that picnic grove, but it didn't matter. No one was around to see her. She opened the trunk and put on the camel's-hair coat that was inside. Then she carefully placed the man's clothes, the gun, and the briefcase in the green trash bag in the trunk.
Now, twenty minutes later, she was in the flow of traffic moving toward the main terminal. Not nervous or tense, but horny as hell. Killing always did that to her. She had seriously thought of fucking Winthrop first, maybe even strangling him after she came and just when he was in the throes of orgasm, but she didn't dare take the chance of leaving bodily traces behind. DNA and other types of medical testing were too sophisticated these days. She would like to have called Chip Donovan. An hour in his bed would have been great, but she couldn't risk that either. They had trained her too well to behave stupidly.
So she followed the plan like a good soldier. She parked the Taurus on the first level of the garage. It was Saturday, and with the garage half-empty, she had no difficulty finding a space against the back wall, as she had been instructed. She left the parking ticket in the glove compartment. Later, the car would be removed, but that didn't concern her. At the Delta Shuttle counter, she paid cash for a ticket to New York, using the name Nancy Burroughs and a phony driver's license.
Waiting for the plane to board, she rewarded herself for a job well done with a double Absolut Citron on the rocks. The alcohol felt good going down. It deadened her senses, took her mind off sex. "I'll be back in Washington soon, Chip," she thought. "I'll call you then."
After takeoff, she reviewed the evening ahead. She'd exit the plane at LaGuardia, looking like a member of the Westport Junior League, which she was, and pick up her Jeep Cherokee. The traffic would be light heading back to Connecticut on the Merritt. She'd be home in time to join Paul for dinner at the Bradleys'.
After that, there'd be bridge, with Paul bidding aggressively as usual, and she, the conservative member of the team, taking very little in the way of risks. "It's just a game, Gwen," Paul frequently lectured her. "You should gamble a little. You're too risk-averse."
At eleven o'clock, Peggy Bradley would turn on the news, because she always did that. And no one would have any idea that their little suburban housewife neighbor was responsible for "the hour's top story."
* * *
Chaos was giving way to order. Ann was upstairs recovering in bed. Jennifer had managed to reach Ann and Robert's son in San Francisco and their daughter in Philadelphia. Both were now en route to Washington. She had tried to call President Brewster with the news, but the closest she got was Jim Slater, his chief of staff.
With Ann resting, Jennifer went downstairs to the den and watched with curiosity as Arthur Campbell, senior detective with the District of Columbia metropolitan police force, a tall, thin black man dressed in a gray flannel sport jacket and tie, went about his business with quiet efficiency. He had finished taking statements from the guards in front of the house, and now he was supervising half a dozen uniformed D.C. police and forensics experts. At Campbell's direction, they were dusting for fingerprints, looking for footprints and any other evidence.
Jennifer had second-chaired a half dozen murder cases when she had worked in the criminal division at Justice. She knew top-notch police work when she saw it. Campbell was very good at his job.
"I'm ready for you now," Campbell said to Jennifer. He pointed her to a sofa and sat down in a leather wing-back chair across from her in the living room, then removed a small steno pad from his pocket and said, "Now tell me, who are you?" He cocked his head, looking at her oddly.
"I'm Jennifer Moore, a friend of Ann Winthrop's."
Campbell was still staring, slightly nodding his head. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, maybe not. How'd you happen to be here this afternoon?" His tone was pleasant but formal.
As a trial lawyer, it was weird to Jennifer to be on the receiving end of an interview. "Ann and I spent the afternoon together at the Dolly Madison Theatre downtown. She's producing a play that's in rehearsal now."
"Are you in the theater?"
"Once upon a time, in a different life."
"Ah, that's it," Campbell said, grinning because he now knew where he had seen her before. "Several years ago. There was a TV movie called The Models. You played Kelly, the good-looking blonde. You were pretty good, too."
"Yep. That was me."
"So why'd you give it up?"
"Like you just said, I was the good-looking one who was only pretty good."
He was chagrined. "I didn't mean that." Just then he remembered something else. "Hey, wait a minute, weren't you in a couple of kung-fu movies? I think Attack Girl was one."
She was never going to live it down. "You're kidding. I didn't know they released those in the U.S."
"Yeah, they did. Helluva kick you had. When one of those kicks landed, every man in the theater cringed. Seriously, why'd you give up acting?"
She smiled. "It's a long story, but anyhow now I'm a lawyer in Washington."
At the change in subject, his enthusiasm dimmed. He went back to business.
"How well do you know Mrs. Winthrop?"
"Ann's one of my best friends. We've known each other for twelve years. In the last three, since she and her husband moved to Washington, we've spent a lot of time together. As you might expect, he's away or tied up a great deal, and I'm not married. So there you are."
"Do you know why there wasn't a maid or any other domestic staff in the house today? Don't they have people who manage this house?"
"They have a live-in couple who work in the house, but they're away for the weekend."
"There were some hundred-dollar bills on the stairs when I got here. Do you know why?"
"I would guess that whoever killed him stole some money and dropped them."
Campbell was looking down, tapping his pad. "Why does a secretary of state have so much cash in his house that a burglar can't even hold it all?"
Jennifer shook her head. "I don't know. My friendship is with her. I didn't know him very well."
"Maybe somebody wanted it to look like a burglary."
"If that's your theory, then you'll be happy to know that nothing was taken from upstairs."
He eyed her with suspicion. "How do you know that?"
"I asked Ann to check her jewelry and other things."
He smiled. "Helping me do my work?"
"I told you, I'm a lawyer."
Campbell barked an order to one of his forensic people: "Do a thorough job upstairs as well." Then he turned back to Jennifer. "What else did Mrs. Winthrop do upstairs?"
"She told me to call her daughter in Philadelphia and her son in San Francisco. They're on their way."
"Does Mrs. Winthrop have a job?"
"As I mentioned, she's a theater producer. Sometimes she directs. She's also the CEO of the Dolly Madison Theatre downtown, which she started two years ago."
"Did Mr. Winthrop have any enemies?"
"I didn't know him well enough to say. As I told you, my friendship was with her, but just reading the newspaper tells me he had lots of enemies."
He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"The militant Arabs were angry about his efforts to combat Middle East terrorism. The Russians were madder'n hell that he wouldn't support an aid package until they coughed up their nuclear weapons. The Japanese were disturbed because of his opposition to their new Asia trade alliance, and the Chinese were furious that he wanted to sell arms to Taiwan. Together, those groups make up more than half the
world."
"You think some foreign terrorist killed him?"
"I don't think anything. I'm just trying to answer your questions."
"Does the name George Nesbitt mean anything to you?"
She stopped to think about it for a few moments. "Not a thing. Who is he?"
Campbell kept on boring in. "To your knowledge," he said sharply, "did the secretary of state have sexual relations with men?"
"You mean, was he gay?"
Campbell nodded.
"I didn't get that impression from Ann, but we never discussed their sex life together."
"You think they had a happy marriage?"
Jennifer decided not to share her opinions on this subject with Campbell. Instinctively, she wanted to protect Ann. "I don't know. Her husband was busy. He traveled a lot. She made her own life. In that way, they were like most other important couples in this town. Their marriage didn't come first. But why are you asking me all of this?"
"Did Mrs. Winthrop have a hysterectomy?"
"Why the hell should I tell you that?"
His expression and voice turned harder. "I can easily get it from routine medical records."
"But why do you even care?"
"Because I saw a wet spot in the front of his pants. I've got to wait for the lab analysis, but that fluid tells me that he was getting ready to have sex with somebody, or at least thinking about it."
Mystified, she wondered what was going on here. "Maybe he just urinated."
"Then tell me why he had four dozen condoms hidden in a red file jacket in one of the drawers of a chest downstairs," he said, pointing in that direction. "Most married couples in their fifties aren't worried about birth control, and if they are, they keep whatever they use in a bathroom near their bedroom."
Hearing about so many condoms stunned Jennifer. "Ann had a hysterectomy about six years ago," she said weakly.