“Yes, sir,” Chief Michaels said.
“Yes, sir,” Bree said, though she wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to.
“Show me,” he said, sitting down in his office chair and leaning back. “Show me how we anticipate and get out in front of these shootings. I want plans for review tomorrow morning at seven thirty sharp. All top brass on deck.”
Bree felt a tightness in her chest. “Sorry, Commissioner, I can’t be here until at least two tomorrow afternoon.”
That ticked Dennison off all over again. “Can’t or won’t, Chief Stone?”
“Can’t, sir, and won’t.”
“I can order you here, Chief.”
“Not tomorrow morning, sir. I am attending the funeral of a dear friend, the late wife of Metro Detective First Class John Sampson, one of my men and my husband’s best friend. So order away. I’ll be paying my respects to a woman I loved.”
Chief Michaels said, “I was going to attend the funeral as well, Commissioner. John Sampson is an eighteen-year veteran of the force. It’s the least we can do.” Dennison struggled, then nodded grudgingly. “Of course. Can we have a three p.m. meeting with contingencies on paper to anticipate and thwart any more shootings?”
“I’ll be here at three, sir,” Bree said.
“We both will,” Michaels said.
“Thank you,” the commissioner said and he turned his chair away. “Carry on.”
Out in the hall, Bree said, “Chief Michaels, permission to speak freely?”
“If you won’t, I will.”
“He’s making everything that happens in the District his personal problem.”
“Which means our personal problem,” Michaels said. “But he’s right about one thing. These shootings aren’t stopping anytime soon. We do need to anticipate.”
“I agree, but honestly, I think we need to understand why these shootings are happening. If we can figure that out, we can anticipate and stop any future shootings.”
“We just have to figure it out by three tomorrow afternoon,” Chief Michaels said, sounding dubious.
“Better than half past seven tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 42
WE WERE ALL UP EARLY, Nana Mama made sure of that, and she also made sure we were turned out in our somber finest. There would be nothing but the best for Billie Sampson.
My grandmother made us breakfast wearing her funeral dress beneath an apron. She frequently seemed lost in thought. I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Are you all right, Nana?” asked Damon, my oldest, who’d come home from basketball camp the night before.
“No,” she said. “There are many blessings that go with reaching my age, Damon, but outliving a beautiful, vital soul like Billie is not one of them.” Nana Mama fell silent a moment, then said, “It feels like something’s out of balance, like God made a mistake.”
With a glance at me, Bree said, “Things are unbalanced, Nana. I feel it too.”
I nodded at them in understanding, then said, “But if we’re walking to the church, we need to go.”
After helping Ali into his navy blazer, adjusting Damon’s tie and seeing him guide Nana Mama to the sidewalk, I led the way to St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. We could hear the organ music from down the street, which got to all of us, because Billie had often played the same organ over the years.
John Sampson waited at the entrance along with Billie’s son, Andrew. Sampson was as stoic as I’d seen him. “Thank you, Alex, for agreeing to do this.”
Andrew said, “Neither of us is up to it.”
“I’ll try to do her proud,” I said, and we went inside.
Damon led Nana Mama to her seat. Bree and I followed and sat beside them with Ali and Jannie behind us.
Bree leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I love you. And I trust you.”
I whispered, “Same here.”
We squeezed each other’s hands, and the mild friction between us from the night before was gone. Bree had been stressed to begin with after her run-in with Commissioner Dennison, and she had not been prepared to hear that there was a photograph of me and Kay Willingham and that it might soon hit the internet.
I’d done my best to calm her down enough to have a dis-passionate discussion about the picture. Who had taken it? Any number of people, we supposed. But why? And for whom?
Kay and Governor Willingham had been estranged when the picture was taken, so her husband might have hired a private eye to follow her. But why would Vice President Willingham have wanted to discredit me and get me thrown off the case if he knew he’d be a logical source of the picture?
“He’s too smart,” Bree had said. “He’d never do that. And besides, it’s a moot point. Elaine Paulson did the deed.”
I agreed with her, so we’d spent the rest of the evening discussing other possible sources of the photo, from a jilted lover of Kay’s to a fixer to paparazzi. We discounted the last because the picture had never made its way into the tabloids.
I was pondering those and other possibilities when the funeral procession began. We all stood. The church behind us was full. A packed house for Billie.
CHAPTER 43
ANDREW AND HIS SISTER, KARI, walked behind the priest following Billie’s casket. John and Willow followed them.
Billie’s young daughter was trying not to cry but couldn’t help it, which really tore open the emotions in the room. You could literally feel the collective grief in the church in a way I had rarely encountered before, and I wondered if I had the strength to deliver Billie’s eulogy.
During the Mass I thought of her constantly, however, and that helped when the priest at last invited me up to speak. For a moment after I’d gotten to the lectern, I let my eyes wander over the people in the pews and the ones standing in the back, all of them looking at me expectantly. I glanced down at Billie’s casket and felt strangely calm.
“I thought this would be hard,” I began and smiled sadly. “I thought getting up here and seeing all of you gathered to mourn the loss of someone who was truly beautiful, inside and out … I guess I feared that my own grief might prevent me from talking about Billie Houston Sampson in a way that celebrated who she was and what she meant to all of us.”
I gazed at Sampson and his family. “But John, Willow, Andrew, and Kari, I am here to tell you that Billie’s spirit would not let me be afraid. I was sitting over there thinking about her, and suddenly I was no longer fearful about doing her justice. Though her body lies in a casket, her spirit is here. Billie — your wife, your mom, my friend — her spirit lingers in me and in each of you, and it always will.”
I lifted my head, pointed a finger at the mourners in the back, and smiled. “And I’m guessing Billie’s spirit lingers in all of you or you would never have come to say goodbye like this in such numbers.”
I could make out people all over the church nodding and dabbing their eyes.
I said, “It takes an extraordinary person to touch this many hearts, but Billie Sampson was an extraordinary person by every measure. She grew up in poverty and went to nursing school on scholarship before joining the United States Army and working her way up to head nurse at a trauma and burn hospital.
“During that time, Billie met the first love of her life, Andrew and Kari’s father, a decorated Green Beret who was framed for murder by fellow officers and unjustly executed before evidence exonerating him could be found. During the entire ordeal, Billie stood by her husband and believed in his innocence. To my knowledge that never wavered, not even after his passing.”
Her daughter, Kari, shook her head, said, “Never.”
I struck my chest lightly with my fist. “That takes heart, and Billie had heart. John felt it the first time he met her, told me he could not get over how much energy that little woman had.”
Sampson smiled.
“My son Ali used to call her the Energizer Bunny,” I said. “My grandmother called her Billie Whirlwind.”
Laughter rippled through
the audience and there was a long low murmur and the sound of folks adjusting in their seats.
“I’ll bet every one of you has a Billie story to share, a testament to various aspects of her life. Her skills as a nurse. Her love of cooking. Her fitness. Her ability to connect almost instantly with people. The genuine warmness she projected at all times.”
I struck my chest again. “That warmness? That ability to connect? The discipline to stay in shape and constantly learn as a nurse? They all take heart, and Billie Sampson had heart in spades.
“In fact, one of the things I admired about her most was that she always led with her heart, and in times of conflict she always responded from her heart. It was what made her so genuine and special.
“Heart was what lit Billie up and heart is what lit up John and Willow and Andrew and Kari and I suspect every person in this church at one time or another. Heart was what allowed Billie to forgive the men who conspired to kill her husband. Heart was what allowed her to move on and find love again. And weakened as it was, heart was what made Billie, in her dying words, speak of her love for family and friends.”
I got choked up then and had to wipe my eyes and compose myself.
“She was remarkable that way,” I said, putting my right hand on my chest. “I hope we can all honor her by thinking less with our heads and more with our hearts in the coming days. If we do that, each and every one of us, there will be more love, more Billie Sampson in our lives, not less. And the world will undoubtedly be better for it.”
CHAPTER 44
BREE LEFT WITH THE CHIEF for a meeting with the commissioner. Damon took Nana Mama, Jannie, and Ali home. But Mahoney and I hung with Sampson after Billie’s funeral until the end of the reception, then saw him to his car with Willow and Billie’s children.
John hugged me weakly before he got in the car. “Thank you for what you said about her, Alex. So many of her friends told me you got her just right.”
“It was a privilege to talk about Billie,” I said.
After they drove off, Ned said, “I’ve never seen John look like that.”
“Broken,” I said, grieving for him now as well as his wife. “And it’s going to take him a long time to put himself back together, to start believing again.”
“I have the feeling it will start with Willow,” Mahoney said.
I glanced over at Ned, reappraising him. I’d known the FBI agent for almost twenty years and he continued to surprise me with his instincts. “I think you’re right,” I said.
“Are you going to Randall Christopher’s funeral this afternoon?”
“With Jannie,” I said. “She’s friends with the daughters.”
His phone rang. He answered, listened, said, “Reconnect us on a conference call with Dr. Cross.”
Mahoney hung up, said, “Rawlins says he has something for us.”
Our phones rang at the same time and we answered.
Keith Karl Rawlins, the brilliant computer scientist under contract to the FBI’s cybercrimes unit, said, “Dr. Cross?”
“Right here,” I said. “What have you got?”
“I know the wife is being charged, but the executor of Kay Willingham’s estate gave me access to her known iCloud accounts and passwords and files. And Randall Christopher’s attorney got me into his iCloud accounts and files as well. I’ll be sending you each a link and a password that will give you access to both if you think it’s necessary.”
“That would be a big help,” Mahoney said.
I said, “Anything jump out at you, Keith?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah,” he said. “I ran histories and searched in both clouds, and neither one mentions the other in any of their computer files, e-mails, or web accounts. I believe they were both using VPN services and a software system called Tor to give themselves a cloak of anonymity in most of their interpersonal communications.”
“I thought anonymity on the internet was impossible.”
“That’s what we like to tell people,” Rawlins said. “But Tor is a heavily encrypted privacy system that uses onion technology to send any message or e-mail or internet command through multiple servers around the world, which makes tracking virtually impossible. Tor had noble beginnings. It was designed for activists and internet users to avoid surveillance and get around censorship. It has also been used by women to escape violent relationships. But at the same time, it has become a notorious way to access the dark web without leaving a trace.”
“And you think Kay Willingham and Randall Christopher were communicating through this Tor system?” Mahoney said.
“I strongly suspect that, yes, but not always,” Rawlins said. “A few times they broke the silence and communicated by text, the most recent one from Christopher to Kay the day before they died. Quote: ‘You won’t believe what I’m onto. If I’m right, big, big boost in profile. Can’t wait to see you tonight.’ ”
“A big boost in profile,” Mahoney said. “Did she reply?”
“Yes, with an emoji blowing him a kiss.”
You won’t believe what I’m onto.
Though I wondered about what Christopher had been onto, I couldn’t let go of the fact they both seemed to have been using the dark web. I asked, “What was the motivation for them to use Tor? I mean, there had to be a reason that they would want to use heavily encrypted methods of communicating in the first place.”
The computer scientist was quiet, then said, “I see where you’re going. One or both of them might have believed that they were under electronic surveillance.”
“Were they?” Mahoney asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Rawlins replied.
“Not that I’m aware of. But who knows? I’ll have to contact the NSA.”
I said, “Can’t you tell from the cloud accounts, Keith? Wouldn’t there be digital markers somewhere that would suggest they were under surveillance and, if so, by who?”
Rawlins said, “I can look, but if there is, don’t be surprised if I set off some alarms.”
“I look forward to that, actually. It’s about time we shake some trees, see what falls out.”
CHAPTER 45
BREE HAD WORN HER DRESS blues for Billie’s funeral and did not have a chance to change before she followed Chief Michaels into Commissioner Dennison’s office.
Dennison sipped from a cup of coffee and then stood to greet them. “I appreciate this,” he said, gesturing to the chairs. “How was Detective Sampson’s wife’s memorial?”
“Touching,” Bree said. “Thank you for asking, Commissioner.”
Chief Michaels nodded. “Billie was an exceptional person.”
“Again, I am sorry to hear that she passed,” the commissioner said, sitting back down and then looking at Bree. “So, Chief Stone, how do we anticipate the next shooting?”
Bree had spent the better part of the prior evening going over the investigative files and the news reports about the “Shoot the Rich shootings,” as they were being called in the local media. She’d given the matter a lot of thought before and after Billie’s funeral. “The shootings do appear to be escalating,” she said. “They started almost as a scare tactic and then ramped up from there to Mr. Peggliazo’s wounding to the shooting of Congresswoman McKenna. I think we can anticipate the shooter or shooters will try to up their game again, raise the stakes.”
“Makes sense,” Dennison said. “How?”
“I think there are two possible ways. Incrementally, in which case one of a hundred U.S. senators could become the likely target. Or a big jump if the shooter is looking for someone even more high profile. The Speaker of the House, say. Or the Senate majority leader. Or one of the nine Supreme Court justices. Or the president.”
The commissioner sat forward. “So how do we handle this?”
Bree looked at Chief Michaels, who said, “We don’t, sir.”
“What?” Dennison snapped.
Bree said, “Again, Commissioner, with all due respect, protection of memb
ers of Congress is the job of the Capitol Hill Police. The Secret Service guards the president, the vice president, and the members of the cabinet except for the secretary of state, who is protected by the Diplomatic Security Service. And invariably, once there’s been a shooting of a member of Congress, the FBI swarms the case.”
“It’s simply not our job, sir,” Chief Michaels said.
“Not our job?” Dennison roared. “What the hell is wrong with this city? In Boston, the PD had clout. We worked hand in hand with the Feds on the marathon bombing. I simply do not understand why we are not functioning at the same level here.”
Bree said, “We do function at that level.”
“When we’re called upon to do so,” Chief Michaels said.
The commissioner chewed on that for several moments, and Bree could see he was having trouble swallowing what they’d just told him. In fact, he was angered by it.
With that realization came another. When Dennison was deputy police commissioner in Boston, he’d been able to throw his weight around, get noticed as a serious player. And now she understood why he’d been pressuring her from the get-go. He was the new commissioner. He wanted a big arrest to stake his claim on the job.
“Anything new on the Maya Parker case?” Dennison asked.
“Dr. Cross is going back to interview some people we think were overlooked during the Elizabeth Hernandez part of the investigation.”
“The Willingham case? Something? Anything?”
“Other than Elaine Paulson being charged, I have nothing of consequence to report, sir.”
“It’s all everyone’s talking about. Tell me something I don’t know about the case. Something I might find surprising that the ordinary citizen wouldn’t know.”
Bree felt uncomfortable. She glanced at Chief Michaels, who was no help, then returned her attention to Dennison. “After her mother died a few years back, Kay Willingham evidently spent three months in a psychiatric facility,” she said.
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