The commissioner’s eyebrows arched up. “Well, that is interesting,” he said, leaning forward. “Who’s the source?”
“My husband.”
“Who’s his source?”
“Her ex-husband. Who has asked that that information not be made public.”
“Is that a fact?” Dennison said, twiddling his thumbs. “I can’t imagine why Vice President Willingham would want to keep something like that a secret now that she’s dead.”
CHAPTER 46
DESPITE THE SCANDAL SURROUNDING RANDALL CHRISTOPHER’S death, the memorial service for him at Harrison Charter High was well attended. Jannie and I followed a crowd past two satellite television trucks and into the school’s gym.
As we looked for seats, I saw parents and local community members I recognized, including Ronald Peters, Dee Nathaniel, and her mother, Gina. Then I spotted Clive Sparkman in the bleachers. Our eyes met and we nodded to each other.
Jannie and I sat down in folding chairs arranged on the gym floor off to one side, five or six rows back. My daughter pointed out Christopher’s unidentical twin daughters, Tina and Rachel, when they came in wearing dark dresses and supporting their paternal grandmother.
I was not surprised to see them followed by their next-door neighbor Barbara Taylor, who sat with them.
A reverend from their church presided. He gave a quick, rather bland homily and seemed about to wind down the service when Rachel and Tina suddenly got up and went forward.
This flustered the minister. He got even more flustered when they asked for the microphone, but he handed it to them.
“Thank you all for coming,” Rachel said with great emotion. “It means a lot to us, given everything.”
“Thank you,” Tina said, her hand on her chest. “To have your support as we get ready to bury our father is something we’ll never forget. Despite the way he died and the circumstances, our father was a good man.”
“A decent man,” Rachel said loudly. “He built this school and changed so many lives. I don’t want that to be lost in this story. And he loved us and made us who we are. We don’t want that lost either. And our father had a crazy-bright future ahead of him. He didn’t deserve to die this way and we are left … we want …”
She couldn’t go on. Tina took the microphone. “We want to tell you one thing from the bottom of our hearts: We love our mother as much as we loved our father. We love her and we know — in our souls — that she did not kill Dad. We know what it looks like to people. We know about the gun matching the bullets. And we know Mom can get wound up at times, real wound up, but she would never kill our father. Never.”
I realized both of Elaine Paulson’s girls were looking directly at me and I nodded.
When it was over, I stood and looked up into the bleachers again. Sparkman was already gone. Ronald Peters was on his way out. Dee and Gina Nathaniel were climbing down together, and they came over to me.
“Hello, Dr. Cross,” Gina Nathaniel said.
Dee smiled weakly. “Sad, confusing day.”
“In too many ways,” I said.
“Did she do it?”
“Ballistics don’t lie,” I said.
Jannie and I waited until the crowd thinned before approaching the twins, who were standing to one side of their grandmother and Barbara Taylor. Rachel saw me and went stone-faced. Tina gave Jannie a hug and shook my hand.
“We know you kept Mom from killing herself,” Tina said. “Thank you. And we know absolutely that Mom did not do this. I don’t care what the report said about that old gun and the bullets.”
“Mom never shot that gun but once or twice,” Rachel said. “And it scared her. I know that for a fact. Dad was the only one who ever shot that gun.”
Tina said, “And Mom and Dad used to watch Twenty/Twenty, you know, the one where the husband or the wife is always the killer?”
I shrugged. “Yes, I’ve seen it once or twice.”
Rachel said, “Mom and Dad used to laugh about that. They’d throw up their hands, say, ‘Why didn’t they just get a divorce? Why did they have to kill each other?’ ”
Tina said, “Every time they watched Twenty/Twenty, they’d make each other promise that if they weren’t in love anymore, they’d get divorced and not try to kill each other.”
“But the gun,” I said. “She had it with her on the beach when I found her, girls.”
“There’s got to be more to it,” Rachel insisted. “Please, Dr. Cross, you are our only hope here.”
There was such desperation in their expressions, I finally nodded. “I’ll go over the ballistics report again and look at my notes.”
Tina burst into tears, and a moment later Rachel did the same.
CHAPTER 47
BREE AND I GOT UP before dawn and went for a run. We’d been separated quite a bit by work obligations the past few months and it felt good to get out together, even if we were huffing, puffing, and sweating.
“I think I’ve got Commissioner Dennison figured out,” Bree said about a mile into our normal route.
“Okay?”
“He was a player in Boston. He wants to be a player in DC. He wants Metro to be taken seriously so he’ll be taken seriously.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided. Though I have to admit, he was less irrational than usual in my meeting with him yesterday. Almost reasonable.”
“There you go. He’s new to the job. He doesn’t know you or Chief Michaels all that well. There’s bound to be some tension at first, and I don’t think his wife’s friendship with Mrs. Peggliazo helped you.”
“True. And I think his instincts are spot-on. These shootings are not over, and when you look at the targets in a string, they are escalating.”
“I agree. But if the next target is a bigger public figure in this town …”
“We can’t compete with the FBI or the Secret Service or the Capitol Hill Police.”
“Exactly, so don’t. Stay in your lane. Play to your strengths. The new commissioner will figure you out.”
When we were almost home, a block away, we slowed to a walk to cool down.
“You’re good at this,” she said. “Helping people talk through their problems.”
“Thanks.”
“No,” she said, and she smiled at me over her shoulder. “I mean, you should really think about doing it professionally.”
“Funny, funny,” I said. I came up behind her and tickled her under the ribs.
She softly shrieked with laughter, ran up the stairs to our porch, and turned to wait for me with both arms open.
“Happy lady?” I said, stepping into her arms.
“Very,” she said. “I don’t think it would be possible for me to be unhappy today.”
“Especially after a run and a kiss with your husband.”
“Exactly my thoughts,” Bree said and kissed me deeply. “I love you.”
I kissed her back. “I adore you. Especially when you’re like this.”
“Like what?”
“Relaxed. Less preoccupied.”
“Oh, well, it helps not to have something to be preoccupied with, and I feel like I turned the corner with Dennison yesterday.”
“Good for you,” I said, glancing at my watch. “I’m going to take a shower and then spend the morning studying the digital files of Kay Willingham and Randall Christopher before I see clients in the afternoon.”
“Sounds more interesting than a personnel records review,” she said. She pecked me on the cheek and put her key in the door.
I noticed that morning’s Washington Post on our porch slider, unfolded the paper, and found myself looking at a picture of Kay Willingham.
“Damn it!” I groaned as I scanned the story that went with it. “I can’t believe this.”
“What?” Bree asked, halfway through the door.
I turned the paper around and showed her the front page and the headline:
KAY WILLINGHAM SPENT TIME IN ME
NTAL HOSPITAL
“It quotes anonymous law enforcement sources as saying that Kay’s past history of mental illness has become quote ‘part of the investigation,’ ” I said angrily. “A part of the investigation? That is not true. What the hell does that mean? And how the hell did the Post get this? Willingham was adamant about us not — ”
“Alex,” Bree said, sounding stunned. “I think I know.”
“You know?” I said, almost shouting.
“Lower your voice and come upstairs, please.”
We could hear Nana Mama bustling around in the kitchen when we climbed the stairs and went into our bedroom. Bree closed the door and looked me straight in the eye.
“Yesterday I told Dennison about Kay spending time in a psychiatric facility.”
“What? Why? I told you Willingham wanted — ”
“I know. I just felt under pressure to give him something. And here he goes and tells some journalist! Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I’m at fault, but he did it to help himself, I’m sure.”
That made me think about Kelli Ann Higgins, the PR flack, and something she’d said about Clive Sparkman. “He’s groom-ing that reporter. Feeding him a story like this so he’ll get a flattering profile down the road.”
“That’s it exactly,” Bree said, disgusted. “That’s Dennison one hundred percent. Alex, again, I’m sorry, I should have known better.”
“Water under the bridge. Although I can’t imagine the vice president being very happy with me or Ned this morning.”
“Why is that?”
“Besides Willingham’s chief of staff and his Secret Service agents, I believe we were the only others who knew.”
Before she could reply, I heard the doorbell ring twice. I glanced at our bedside clock.
“Quarter to seven?” I said, going to the window over Fifth Street. A black Suburban was double-parked in front of our home.
I scrambled down the stairs before Nana Mama could get to the front door. I opened it and knew I was about to have a bad morning.
U.S. Secret Service Special Agent Lloyd Price was standing there. He grimaced as he looked me up and down. I was still drenched from my run.
“Take a shower and get dressed, Dr. Cross,” Price said. “My boss would like a word with you.”
CHAPTER 48
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, AFTER AN awkward car ride during which Special Agent Price refused to answer any of my questions, the Suburban turned into an alley in Alexandria, Virginia. Two Secret Service agents guarding the alley waved us through. We parked behind two other black Suburbans.
I followed Agent Price through a pair of unmarked industrial steel doors and down a hallway that smelled of flowers. Ned Mahoney was waiting there with Agent Donald Breit, who appeared as thrilled with us as his partner was.
“Inside, both of you,” Breit said, motioning to a door next to Ned.
Mahoney took a deep breath and went through it. I followed him into a well-appointed viewing room in a mortuary. The six rows of white chairs were empty. Beyond the chairs, bouquets of lilies and other funereal flowers surrounded the open casket in which the body of Kay Willingham lay in repose.
I stood there gaping for several moments. I had had no idea where Price was taking me, but I certainly didn’t expect this. But I recovered and walked toward the casket.
The last time I’d seen Kay, she was lying in the back seat of her convertible, shot to death. The luridness of that scene flickered deep in my brain, but it was soon gone because the socialite was as lovely in death as she had been in life.
Kay looked so natural, she could have been taking a nap, merely resting before the first doorbell chime of one of her legendary parties. And her dress? Was it the one she wore the night she’d broken her heel in front of her house? The night we were photographed?
My mind returned to that night, to when we’d gone inside her home and she’d spun away from me, a little tipsy on champagne and freer than any woman I’d ever known.
And now here you are, I thought as I knelt before her casket. I promise I will find out who did this to you.
Then I said a prayer for Kay’s soul, made the sign of the cross, got up, and turned around to find J. Walter Willingham walking down the aisle between the empty seats toward me and Mahoney.
“They’ve made her look quite beautiful, have they not, Dr. Cross? Agent Mahoney?”
“Yes, Mr. Vice President,” Mahoney said.
“Remarkable, sir,” I said.
“That’s because they are the best here,” Willingham said. “If a president dies in office, this is where they bring him. Since Lincoln.”
He paused to gaze at Kay in her casket, then his expression hardened and he fixed his angry attention on us. “I asked for her privacy and you leaked it to the press.”
“I most certainly did not, sir,” Mahoney said. “I hate the press.”
“I believe I am responsible, Mr. Vice President,” I said and explained that I’d relayed the information to my wife, Metro’s chief of detectives, who was pressured into revealing the information by the new commissioner of police.
“I deeply apologize for this, Mr. Vice President. My wife does too. We never wanted to disrespect your wishes. I guess we expected more out of Commissioner Dennison, but ultimately I shoulder the blame.”
I thought I’d get a harsh response, but Willingham just studied me a long moment and then reached out to shake my hand. “Thank you, Dr. Cross. I respect a man who accepts the consequences of his actions.”
Then he walked past me and stood at his ex-wife’s casket, his eyes roaming over her. He touched the back of her hand with two fingers, raised his fingers to his lips, then touched her lips.
“Bye, Kay,” he whispered, and he reached up to shut the lid.
When he turned, his eyes were watery, and he had to clear his throat. “She’ll be sent south in an hour.”
“And from there?”
“Her second cousin and her executor will meet the casket at the plane and see to her burial in the family plot on the old family plantation.”
“No funeral or memorial, sir?” Mahoney asked.
Willingham shook his head. “In her recently revised will, she specifically requested no remembrance of her other than a headstone. Cruel, really, to those of us who loved her.”
I found that puzzling but didn’t comment. “Again, I apologize for what happened,” I said.
“Apology accepted, Dr. Cross, and I appreciate you finding Kay’s murderer.”
“Thank you, sir. I know it’s not the time or the place, but could I ask you a question?”
His chief of staff, Claudette Barnes, appeared and walked toward us. “Mr. Vice President?”
Willingham held up a finger. “One second, Claudette. Go ahead, Dr. Cross.”
“When you and Kay were estranged, back when you were governor, did you hire someone to follow her?”
“Follow Kay?” He smiled and shook his head. “No. Never. What’s this about?”
“There appear to be photographs of her from that time taken with a long lens.”
His expression narrowed. “What kind of photographs?”
“Just of Kay out and about in DC, sir,” I said. “In one of them she was with me. It was taken the night I drove her home from a fundraiser. The picture was shot in front of her place in Georgetown.”
Barnes said, “Mr. Vice President, we really need to be going.”
He held up his palms. “I’m sorry, Dr. Cross. It upsets me to hear she was being followed, but I have absolutely no clue who was behind that. I can tell you that Kay was ramping up to one of her episodes about that time, which was why we were separated. I had Alabama to run while I waited for her to come crashing down again.”
With that, he turned, moved fast past his chief of staff, and said, “Air Force Two is not going to fly without me, Claudette. I am the vice president. It’s got to count for something, for God’s sake!
”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes said. She glanced at us, threw up her arms, then followed Willingham out of the room.
CHAPTER 49
I TOOK AN UBER HOME. On the ride, my thoughts drifted to Elaine Paulson and her daughters at the funeral the day before, to Tina saying, We know absolutely that Mom did not do this. I don’t care what the report said about that old gun and the bullets. And Rachel saying, Mom never shot that gun but once or twice. And it scared her.
I didn’t have to reread the ballistics report to know for certain that the gun that killed Kay and Christopher was the same gun I took from Elaine Paulson. Sometimes you hear about lab tests being contaminated. But comparing the grooves in a gun barrel with the markings made on a bullet fired through it is an exact science. There’s no mistaking it.
Still, could someone lost in a fit of jealousy who had fired the gun only a few times and was supposedly scared of guns have displayed the kind of cold-blooded marksmanship shown in the tight grouping of the bullet wounds? Unless Paulson had secretly trained herself to shoot, I couldn’t see it.
I supposed it was possible that she had not had the gun the night of the killing and that the real shooter had used it and then brought it back to her house, but that was so unlikely, I set it aside. I got out of the Uber and thanked the driver.
It was after ten a.m. when I walked into the kitchen and found Nana Mama having coffee with John Sampson. He was dressed in jeans and a dark polo shirt with his service weapon in a shoulder holster. His badge was visible on his left hip. His jacket hung on the back of his chair.
“What are you doing here, John? Where’s Willow?”
“With her brother and sister,” he said. “They decided to take Ned up on his offer and bring her out to his place on the Delaware shore.”
“Great spot,” I said. “Don’t you think you should be with them?”
“At the moment? No. At the moment, I need to work.”
“I think you should be with your family. Billie’s funeral was yesterday, John.”
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