Brooks-Lotello Collection

by Ronald S. Barak

  * * *

  AYRES STOOD THERE, STARING at the closing elevator doors. Yes, he had agreed to stay on as chief of staff to the new Senator Wells following her selection. He just couldn’t fathom how a low-life empty suit like Wells had been chosen over him to succeed the real Senator Wells. He slowly shook his head in dismay, turned, and walked back into his office.

  * * *

  AS ALWAYS, GOOD OLD dependable Robert Grant was right there, waiting for Wells as the elevator opened into the underground parking garage. “Evening, Senator. How are you tonight?”

  “Okay, Robert, bit of a long day. You?”

  “Fine, Senator. Thanks for asking. Let’s get you home, then.”

  That was pretty much how it was with Grant every night: just a warm and fuzzy ride home, a harmless friend with whom to make small talk. Wells had occasionally confided in Grant about her dates. He just listened; he didn’t judge. He reminded her of her grandfather when she was a youngster. He even looked and carried himself somewhat like her grandfather: a big man, over six feet tall, with a lumbering gait. He was always clean shaven and wore a soft, kind smile that did its best to hide his swollen, wrinkled face and the folds under his probably once brighter eyes. His receding hairline of wispy brown hair was fading to gray and was mostly hidden away by the always present black knit cap that matched his also always present accompanying black suit in which he tucked a gently rounded midsection that she suspected had seen trimmer days.

  Riding home, Wells thought about tomorrow’s WSOC hearings, to consider whether possible Wall Street malfeasance had contributed to the country’s economic collapse. She knew the hearings were going to be unpleasant. With increasing pressure and hostility from both the media and public interest groups, it was becoming difficult to keep up appearances without actually doing much of anything. Lately, she felt as if she—rather than Wall Street—were under the microscope.

  The job was taking a toll on Wells. What do people expect of me? Why are they so damn naïve? Life was a lot easier when she was just a Midwestern farmer’s daughter looking to find herself a rich husband and settle down. Maybe that simpler life was not so bad after all. Maybe I should think about retiring and returning home after my current term.

  Wells’s mind returned to the present. She had a premonition that someone was watching her. She glanced out the back window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just a lot of cars on the road. Nothing unusual about that on the always crowded D.C. roadways.

  Wells tried to convince herself that she was just being silly, imagining someone following her. But she couldn’t help herself. Anxiety wasn’t a matter of logic. It was what it was. Her heart was beating faster, her breathing becoming more labored. She’d take an Ativan when she got home. That usually did the trick.

  She pulled the calendar and accompanying pen out of her purse. Checked a couple of entries and made a note. Most people just use their smartphone calendars. Can’t manage all that technology. An old-fashioned paper calendar for this old-fashioned girl.

  A few minutes later, Grant pulled his car into the rotunda outside the multi-residential complex in which Wells owned a home—550 enclosed acres of 125 freestanding individual townhouses separated by winding paths, babbling brooks and ponds, and lavish landscaping and forestry meant to assure the secured privacy its occupants demanded. “Here we are, Senator. Let me walk you to your townhouse.”

  Somewhat calmer now, Wells resisted giving in to her anxiety any further. She was far more concerned about the awkwardness that would ensue if Grant saw her guest for the evening waiting at her front door. “No need, Robert,” she said as she slid out of the limo. “I’m good, thanks. See you in the morning.”

  * * *

  GRANT WATCHED WELLS WALK off through the outside lobby entrance to the townhouse complex. Never without that little calendar of hers. Can’t take a break and enjoy the ride home. Have a little conversation. What won’t keep till she gets home? He shrugged and glanced at his watch. Still possible to make it home before the Lakers-Wizards game.

  * * *

  HE WATCHED WELLS ENTER the perimeter lobby entrance separating the complex from the outside world. She punched her identification code into the interior lobby security door, passed through the released door, and headed off down the attractively landscaped path toward her individual townhouse unit, some five hundred feet away from the lobby.

  The man wasted no time. Being somewhat of a “techie” had its advantages. One tap on the device in his hand and an alert sounded on the lobby security desk console. The guard looked at the monitor, then swiftly headed outside in search of whatever had triggered the alarm.

  The man smiled at the security guard’s expected reaction. Two more taps on his device and the network of perimeter surveillance cameras shut down and the interior lobby security door lock deactivated. He rapidly passed through the disabled door. So far, so good. I’m in. That was as easy as I had planned it. He launched the stopwatch app on the smartphone attached to his belt and followed Wells down the path leading toward her townhouse.

  The man observed Wells enter her home and close the door. He surveyed the uninhabited surrounding area and approached the unit. He removed a pair of latex surgical gloves from his shoulder satchel and snapped them onto his hands. He tried the door. It was locked. No surprise there. He hurriedly withdrew a tiny instrument from one of several plastic baggies in his satchel and inserted it into the lock. He had the door unlocked in a matter of seconds.

  The door opened a little but then held fast. Damn! Must be some kind of a chain lock on the inside. The man was agitated. He had to get inside. Every second he remained outside increased the likelihood of someone coming along the path and spotting him. He wasn’t sure which would hold up better, the door or his foot. But he was becoming frantic.

  He pulled out the sanitized gun, attached the suppressor from his shoulder bag, and released the safety catch. He took one deep breath and let fly a desperate kick at the door.

  The resulting jolt of pain traveled from his foot to his hip. He stumbled backward, barely managing to recover his balance. The chain link exploded and the unlocked door burst open. He quickly entered and closed the structurally undamaged door behind him.

  Hearing the noise, Wells came rushing into the entryway. She looked right at the man. She was momentarily confused. “What the hell? I thought—”

  Before Wells could finish, two bullets only partially muffled by the gun’s suppressor sliced through her chest, cutting off any chance for her to cry out. She instinctively clutched at the bloodied wounds but it was too late. She collapsed to the floor. The man kneeled down and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. No need for any further shots. He returned the gun and silencer to his bag.

  He donned plastic coveralls that he had remarkably rolled up and housed in still another plastic baggie in his shoulder satchel. He picked up the body and carried it into the bedroom. He dropped it onto the bed, face up. He stripped it naked and scattered the resulting articles of clothing on the floor.

  He opened his shoulder case once more and removed some additional items. He hurriedly went about his remaining business. Quite a signature, I’d say. Looking forward to what all the so-called experts will have to say about this … pièce de résistance.

  Despite the brief delay in gaining access to the unit, the man was quite pleased with the scene—his sculpted body art as it were—and how smoothly things had gone. He allowed himself a moment to gloat. Just the first step. More to follow. Soon. I will prevail.

  He quietly exited Wells’s townhouse—intentionally choosing not to lock the door on the way out—and discreetly made his way along the path until he was close by the glass security door separating the grounds from the lobby. He paused the stopwatch feature of his smartphone. Less than eleven minutes had transpired since he first passed through the security door.

  The guard was back at his lobby desk. The man clicked the device he was once again holding in his hand. He watched
the guard momentarily stare at his console in disbelief, utter something the man couldn’t quite make out, and then leave his post unattended for the second time in less than fifteen minutes, no doubt in search of whatever was repeatedly setting off the fire alarms.

  The man waited another minute for good measure. He then entered and walked through the lobby and back out into a world desperately in need of his services. He clicked on his device once more to reset the security feature on the interior lobby door. He didn’t reset the surveillance cameras. There was no reason to leave a road map detailing when the cameras hadn’t been working. That would not be an issue with the security door lock.

  Once again, the man reflected on how well things had gone.

  * * *

  WHEN HE LATER RECOUNTED his visit of sorts, abruptly aborted following the muffled gunshots inside Wells’s townhouse, his assumption that his presence had gone unnoticed would have been correct. Except for the pair of eyes that peered out at him from the adjacent shadows and observed his departure.

  CHAPTER 2

  Friday, February 6, 7:55 a.m.

  FRANK LOTELLO WAS ALREADY awake when the alarm went off. He had not been sleeping well since that day, almost six months ago, when he lost his wife, Beth, to the carelessness of a drunk driver. Beth was his love, his best friend. She was the person Lotello had always discussed his cases with, every one of them, large or small, simple or complicated.

  During his extended bereavement leave, the department shrink they made him see counseled him to be patient. Give it time, she said. The ache would lessen, she said. Hey, I know I need to get past this. I do. But the thing is, I’m not sure I want to. Without you, Beth, I don’t know who I am. What I am. I can’t touch you—hold you, hug you—anymore. I can’t feel you—hear you—anymore. It’s even becoming harder for me to remember what you look like. I’m so afraid the ache is all I have left of you. If I let go of the ache, I’m afraid you’ll disappear completely. Then what?

  Lotello’s leave was now officially over, but he had not yet been assigned any new work through his on-call rotation. He wondered how much longer they would continue coddling him. Without saying as much, his department was unofficially cutting him as much slack—and additional time—as they could.

  He had spent years working his way up to homicide, watching the needle on the scale and the inches on the tape measure climb as he put in his time. At least he still had an enviable full head of hair.

  He loved his work. Almost as much as he had loved Beth. He hated the thought of possibly having to give it up. But as a single father of two young kids—eleven-year-old Charlie and nine-year-old Maddie—who had just lost their mother, he wondered if he could balance the demands of his job in a big-city homicide department with the on-demand requirements of single parenthood.

  People were always telling Lotello that his kids looked just like they had been lifted out of Mark Twain’s novels: Charlie the spitting image of brown-eyed, red-haired Tom Sawyer, and Maddie the perfect clone of blue-eyed, blond, freckle-faced Becky Thatcher. But whenever Lotello looked at them, all he saw was Beth.

  It was just the three of them now. It was all up to him. Lotello was painfully aware that his priorities needed to change. I have to concentrate first on Charlie and Maddie, not my job. With Beth gone, the kids are my job.

  Nevertheless, he had told the department he wanted to remain in homicide. He explained that he had suitable primary and secondary parenting backup from his housekeeper and his next-door neighbor. The housekeeper was primary. The next-door neighbor was secondary. Both the housekeeper and the neighbor loved Charlie and Maddie and would do anything for them. They could each be trusted. Unequivocally.

  Even with these arrangements theoretically in place, Lotello wondered if he was truly ready again for a “big-league” real homicide case.

  * * *

  ALMOST AS IF ON cue, the telephone rang. “Lotello.”

  “Hey, Frank, it’s Jeremy.”

  Jeremy Barnet was Lotello’s younger homicide partner. “No shit, J. Not many people call me before eight in the morning. What’s up?”

  “You know Jane Wells? Senator Jane Wells?”

  “Sure, make it a point to have lunch with Jane at least once every other week.”

  “Very funny. Haha. I don’t really need your sarcasm right now. It’s early for me too. Do you know who Wells is?”

  “I see her on the news now and then. So?”

  “Dead. Apparently murdered in her home. In some chichi townhouse development. We drew next on the wheel. The case is ours. I’m on the way to her place right now. Just texted you the address. How soon can you get there?”

  “Not supposed to text and drive, J,” Lotello teased before adding, more to the point, “Too early for the housekeeper. Gotta get the kids up and out and over to the neighbor’s. Make sure she’ll get the kids to school. I’ll call when I’m on the way.”

  “Commuter traffic’s already in full bloom. It’ll take you close to an hour. See ya there.”

  Lotello’s question about how much longer they were going to shelter him had been answered. It was not lost on him—or his pride—that the first case back he’d caught was the murder of a prominent U.S. senator. No way was that attributable to his inexperienced eager young partner, whose baby face looked like it had not yet worn out his first razor. “Wait up, J. When did all this supposedly happen?”

  “Not sure. I got the call just a couple of minutes ago. I was anxious to reach you and get going.”

  “What’s the rush? Where’d you think I’d be at this hour? Find out who called this in. And where—to Metro or to 911. And when. I’ll catch up to you at Wells’s place.”

  * * *

  GRANT ARRIVED AND PARKED in the rotunda of the townhouse complex at 7:45 a.m., just before Wells was to meet him there. When she still hadn’t shown at 8:05, he tried to raise her on her cell phone. No answer.

  He entered the lobby and told the security guard sitting at the desk what was going on. Or more precisely, what was not. The two of them hurried to Wells’s unit. The front door was closed, but it looked as if it might have suffered some recent assault. Grant frowned and involuntarily massaged his temples. The guard knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Louder this time. Still nothing.

  Grant called out, “Senator?” No response.

  The security guard tried Wells’s door and discovered it wasn’t locked. He opened the door and entered. Grant was right behind him. Grant called out again. Nothing. Seconds later the guard entered the bedroom. Grant was right on his heels, beads of sweat already beginning to appear on his forehead.

  They both gasped at the same instant. And at the same sight: Wells lying face up on the bed, naked, looking very still, although certainly not peaceful. There was also a fake $100 Monopoly bill sitting next to the body.

  Grant unsuccessfully attempted to swallow a cry of despair: “Senator. Oh, my God. No!” He grabbed his cell phone, dialed James Ayres, Wells’s chief of staff, and frantically described what he was looking at. Ayres said he would be there as quickly as traffic would allow. Realizing that Grant had called someone other than the police or 911, the guard, a bit more gathered than Grant, although just barely, used his cell phone to call 911. The 911 operator said that someone had already reported the incident and that both a patrol car and an ambulance were already on the way and would be there in a matter of minutes.

  Grant walked toward the body. The guard intercepted him. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to cover her up. She’s entitled to that.”

  “I don’t think we should touch anything until the police and the ambulance arrive. They’re on the way. We need to let them take charge of things.”

  Grant didn’t agree, but he relented. He sat down on a lone ottoman against the wall, put his head in his hands, and softly said, “No, no, no. No.”

  Neither man said another word until the authorities arrived.

  * * *

  BARNE
T HUNG UP. LOTELLO knew Barnet was not happy with his answer; that he probably was tearing out to Wells’s townhouse on a Code 3 emergency response, lights and siren blaring, wanting assurance that Lotello would be doing the same. Barnet is a fussbudget. Maybe a Code 3 for the patrol cars, but not for homicide. Not like it’s going to bring Wells back to life.

  Lotello dragged himself out of bed, pulled the covers up over the pillows, threw on some sweats, and bent down to stroke Beau, the youngest member of their family, a German shepherd rescue pup, one of Beth’s many thoughtful acts. He went out front, grabbed the newspaper, and glanced at the headlines while waiting for Beau to find the exact spot where he wanted to piddle. They then went back inside and into the kitchen. Lotello opened the refrigerator and took a few sips from the carton of orange juice as he quickly skimmed the remainder of the newspaper to see if there was anything about Wells. If there was, he didn’t see it. He did notice that the Lakers had pummeled the Wizards the night before. Figured.

  Lotello put some food and water down for Beau, who needed little coaxing. He also put out some dry cereal, milk, and fruit for the kids, and confirmed their lunch pails were in the refrigerator ready to go from last night.

  He had to get out to Wells’s townhouse. But he first needed a couple of minutes on the treadmill in his combination home office and exercise room to get the kinks out and his juices flowing. He then spent five minutes in the shower—one of his favorite thinking spots. He thought it odd that someone reported the Wells body so early in the morning. What do you think, Beth? If Wells had already been missing for any period of time, wouldn’t that have made the morning newspaper? You know how I read the paper every morning. There was no such report. If the murder happened last night or early this morning, who—other than the killer—would have known about the body, and called it in so early this morning? This means the killer probably made the call. Why would he do that, especially at that hour?