by Otho Eskin
“I found blood on my shirt.”
“Sorry about that. I sometimes get carried away. Or so I’ve been told. I’ll try to restrain myself in the future.”
“Is there a future?”
“That’s up to you. I couldn’t help but notice, you seem to have old wounds on your body.”
“Football at Princeton,” I say.
“They looked more like bullet wounds to me. And one seemed to be a knife wound. In your groin area. I doubt that happened during Princeton football practice. Am I correct in surmising a lady was somehow involved with that one?”
“That’s personal.”
“I’m happy to say it did not affect your performance.”
I follow Miss Shaw through the doors into the West Wing, through the usual security check, where I once again give up my cell phone. She leads me along a nicely carpeted corridor, through several other doors, each guarded by Secret Service agents. The two members of her security detail watch us from one of the side hallways.
Miss Shaw and I stop in front of an elevator door.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We’re in the Executive Mansion of the White House itself.”
“Are you going to tell me who I’m seeing this time?”
“Why don’t we let that be a surprise?”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“I try.”
The elevator door slides silently open and we step in. It’s a short trip—only one floor—and the door opens again almost immediately. Miss Shaw takes me down a corridor painted some soft shade of blue and with thick wool carpeting, also blue. Miss Shaw stops at a door and knocks softly, then opens the door and waves me in.
“I’ll see you when you’re finished,” says Miss Shaw enigmatically. I step into the room and she closes the door behind me.
A woman sitting on a couch rises and crosses the room. “Good evening, Mr. Zorn. I’m Marsha Reynolds.” She holds out her hand and we shake. Her grip is firm, assured. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”
The First Lady wears a pants suit with a loose-fitting gray blouse and flats. She takes a seat on the couch, folds her hands in her lap. She wears a simple wedding band. I sit in an armchair opposite her.
“Or is it Officer Zorn? I’m afraid I don’t know the proper protocol. I’ve never met a homicide detective before.”
“Congratulations. You can call me Marko, if you like.”
“I think not,” she says, firmly. “Thank you for coming to see me. I know you must have a busy schedule.”
I do not answer.
She smiles briefly. She’s trying to be friendly, but it’s obviously an effort. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply. There is no point in my telling the truth at this point. There will be time for that later.
“You look somehow familiar.” She shrugs. “Of course, I meet so many people. It’s hard to keep track. But we must talk. It’s very important that we talk.”
“Fine. Let’s talk. About what?”
“You know about what.” Her friendly mask slips a bit. There is tension showing through her genial façade. “Hollis told me about his meeting with you.” She stops, expecting me to say something. When I’m silent, she goes on: “It’s about Sandra Wilcox.” Another awkward silence. “Hollis suggested you back off your investigation.”
“It’s not my investigation, ma’am. It’s an official investigation into the murder of Sandra Wilcox.”
“However you wish to put it, the fact remains, there are sensitive issues involved.”
“There often are in a murder investigation. Murder tends to bring out the worst in people.”
“I’m talking about serious repercussions. Repercussions that could harm this country. This is not an idle request. This involves national security.”
“Did you know Agent Wilcox?”
“She was on my protective detail for over a year.”
“Then she was transferred to the President’s detail. Why was that?”
There is anger in her eyes. “I did not ask you here so you could interrogate me. I am the First Lady of the United States of America. People do not cross-examine me. Even the attorney general of the United States would not dare do that. Certainly not a rank policeman.”
“I guess that’s why I’m a rank policeman and not the attorney general of the United States.”
Her face flushes. “How dare you! How dare you treat me like a common criminal!”
“That’s my job.”
“Your job is to act in the best interests of your country. And the best interests of your country will be served by leaving the investigation of the death of Sandra Wilcox in the hands of the Secret Service.”
She stops, her hands trembling, and makes an effort to control her emotions. “Let’s start over. We want to cooperate.”
“We?”
She doesn’t explain. “Leave the investigation to the Secret Service.” She’s calm once again.
“I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can. You’re just being stubborn. I have complete confidence in Matt Decker, the head of the Secret Service.”
“Mr. Decker seems like a competent guy. But he’s got more immediate problems to deal with. I’m told there’s a plot by some crazy group to assassinate the President.”
“I’m aware of that. Matt keeps us informed and the Secret Service is taking appropriate steps to neutralize the threat. That’s not your concern.” She sits back on the couch and contemplates me. “Leave it alone, Detective Zorn. Drop it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t leave it alone. I have a question for you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Am I to be interrogated again?”
“Did you know that Sandra Wilcox had an allergy to peanuts?”
She stares at me, a little stunned, for a moment at a loss for words. “You want to know whether Sandra had an allergy to peanuts?”
“No,” I say. “I want to know whether you knew she had an allergy to peanuts.”
She studies me carefully as if to determine whether I’m being rude or just obtuse. She decides to humor me. “Yes. I was aware Sandra had an allergy. She told me about it many times. Is it important?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s important. Did you know her well?”
“She served on my security detail for a year.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”
“Sandra was with me virtually all that time.”
“I understand these security arrangements can be close, almost intimate.”
“That’s correct. Why are you asking me this?”
“Did that make you feel uncomfortable?”
“You’ve been talking to Matt Decker. I suppose I was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with men, I mean.”
“That close contact was easier for you with women agents?”
“It was easier with Sandy. She was very supportive. Very understanding.”
“I have another question.”
Mrs. Reynolds makes an impatient, angry gesture. “Very well.”
“What is it that Hollis Chambers does here in the White House?”
She looks perplexed. “What has this got to do with Sandra’s death?”
“I don’t know. Probably nothing. I’d still like to know.”
“He’s an old family friend. He’s our chief adviser.”
“He told me he brings no expertise.”
“What he brings is honesty and integrity. He brings unquestioned loyalty. These are rare qualities in Washington.” She pauses. “Satisfied?”
I get to my feet. “I suppose I’ll have to be.”
“I didn’t say for you to leave, Detective. I have a question for you.”
“I suppose that’s only fair.”
“Why do you care so much about Sandra Wilcox? Why do you persist in investigating this one particular murder case? You must have many open cases. What is it about this particular case that makes you so stubborn?”
/>
“The murder of Sandra Wilcox is personal.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LAMONT SITS IN the bleacher seats watching a pickup basketball game. The few people here to observe the game sit as far from him as they can. Lamont wears expensive sneakers, orange laces left untied, a soft leather coat, and expensive, stylish Bulgari sunglasses. And a smart fedora—pale blue made of straw—that nearly hides his orange hair.
Sitting a few rows behind him are two big men in dreads, wearing Jordans, laces untied, leather jackets and sunglasses, but cheaper brands. Lamont’s bodyguards watch me sullenly as I take a seat a few feet from him.
We watch the game in silence for a couple of minutes. Lamont leans in toward me and looks at my left wrist. “What that watch you wearin’?”
I pull up my jacket sleeve an inch or so to show him. “A Vacheron Constantin.”
“Old?”
“1964.”
“How much you askin’?”
“Not for sale.”
Lamont pulls up the left sleeve of his leather jacket revealing a heavy man’s watch. “Rolex Oyster.”
“I can see that,” I say.
“I’ll trade you for that Vacheron.”
“No deal.”
“I paid $12,000 for this baby,” Lamont tells me proudly.
“You got ripped. It’s worth maybe half that.”
“You don’t know shit, Detective.” He turns away and watches the game. “Otis tol’ me you wanna’ talk a business proposition. I don’t normally talk to policemen. Especially not to you.”
“You scared to talk to a cop? If I scare you, I’ll go away.”
“Not scared of no cop. Not scared of nobody. Especially not scared of you.”
“That’s a big mistake.” We sit in silence for a while, watching the game. “I’ll bet you’re scared of Cloud, though.”
Lamont tenses. “Who tol’ you that? That a flat-out lie. Like I tol’ you, Lamont Jones ain’t scared of nobody.”
“Okay. Just saying. Maybe you aren’t scared of Cloud, but I’ll bet you do what he tells you to.”
“We be partners, unnerstand? Used to.”
“Just saying. Cloud’s top dog in this town. He’s got the crew. He’s got the city. He’s got Mariana.”
“What Mariana got to do with it?” Lamont demands, angry. “You come here to talk shit or you come here make me a business proposition?”
“I’ve got a shipment of guns I’m looking to sell.”
“What kind of guns?”
“Skorpions.”
“Never heard of no Skorpions.”
“Skorpion is a submachine pistol. With the magazines I’m supplying, it fires twenty rounds full automatic.”
“How many you lookin’ to sell?”
“I have 1,000 coming the day after tomorrow.”
“They any good, these Skorpions?”
“Perfect for close-up work. Anybody who has these, they’re going to outgun any organization in town. Hell, anybody who has these machines, they’re going to own this town.”
“How much you askin’?”
“$900 each. Cash deal.”
Lamont whistles. “That almost a million dollars. It might take me a day or two to put that kind of money together.”
Lamont turns in his seat to face me directly. “You tell Cloud about these Skorpions? I know he in the market.”
“I thought I’d offer you first refusal. If you can’t handle the deal, Cloud gets the Skorpions.”
“You tryin’ to cut Cloud out of the deal?”
“If you can’t make a deal without Cloud saying okay …”
“I don’t need Cloud’s okay. I can make my own business decisions.”
“I thought you were Cloud’s boy.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Downtown, that’s not the way we see it. Downtown we say you’re just his driver. If Cloud says ‘jump’ you jump.”
Lamont’s body twitches in anger. “You got a big mouth, mother-fucker. Maybe too big for your own good. You keep talkin’ shit, and I gonna stomp yo punk ass.”
Lamont reaches inside his leather jacket, smoothly takes out a Ruger automatic from his shoulder holster, and presses the muzzle hard against my left temple. Lamont’s two goons are on their feet and draw their own guns in case Lamont needs help. He doesn’t. The basketball players disappear from the court, and the few remaining people on the grandstand are on their feet and rushing to the exits as fast as they can.
“Put that damn thing away. Somebody might get hurt.”
“Only person gonna get hurt is you.” Lamont jams his gun harder into the side of my head. “Who’s scared now? Do I look scared to you? What’s to stop me from blowin’ your head off right now?”
“You shoot a police officer in public like this, it’s the end for you. Besides, if you do, Cloud gets the Skorpions. He gets to keep everything, including his crews. And he gets Mariana. He’ll own this city.”
Slowly, Lamont takes his gun from my head and replaces it in his holster. “Why you want to burn Cloud, mister?”
“Cloud and I don’t get along.”
“You think you an’ me gonna get along? We gonna be best friends?”
“If Cloud gets these guns, you better watch your back. What I hear, Cloud don’t like competition. For the streets. For his woman.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“From what I hear, he’s saying Lamont’s not man enough to run this city. Not man enough to handle Mariana.”
“You have these guns?” Lamont demands. “Or you talkin’ trash?”
“There’s a truckload of Skorpions on the way to DC right now. I take possession as soon as they arrive.”
“You throw in that watch you wearin’ and we got ourselves a deal.”
“Okay. We have a deal. Cash. But there’s something else.”
Lamont studies me.
“I hear you have a warehouse in Southwest you use to store stuff,” I say.
“What if I do?”
“I need that space.”
“What for?”
“To store the Skorpions when they get here. Out of sight. Where ATF can’t find them. Where Cloud can’t find them.”
“I can handle the handoff.”
“That would be a mistake. You don’t know the people who are bringing the guns. They might plan to steal your money. They might even be Feds. You’re better off having no contact with the sellers until the shipment is safe in your own warehouse. Leave that to me.”
“Okay. You can use the warehouse.” He gives me a street address in Southwest Washington. Then gives me an eight-digit series of numbers. “It’s a cyber lock,” Lamont explains.
“I’ll call you when the Skorpions arrive. I’ll tell you when to come to the warehouse to pick them up. It’s time I left, Lamont. I’ve got to go to a funeral, and I never want to be late for a funeral.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE CHAPEL IS modern with abstract stained-glass windows and pews and floors of bleached hardwood. What is probably a baptismal font looks something like a fish.
My visit is pointless, I know. I’ve attended too many memorial services, too many funerals and wakes, for people who’ve been murdered. I’ve never known the killer to have a sudden attack of conscience and stand up in the middle of the service and confess his guilt. It never seems to work out that way. I suppose I may have a vague hope maybe brother Tony might show up.
I sit in a pew at the back where I can observe who comes to the service for Sandra Wilcox. Around a quarter to three a few people begin to trickle in. They find their seats after looking quickly around to see who else is attending and then reading the program, not speaking to one another, heads bowed. No eye contact. I can’t tell whether they’re here to pay their respects or, like me, to observe who’s there.
Mrs. Kirkland from the Secret Service arrives and takes a seat two pews in front of me. I suppose attending church services for murdered Secret Servi
ce agents is part of her administrative duties. She doesn’t acknowledge my existence. A few minutes later, Larry Talbot walks down the center aisle looking to his right and his left. He catches my eye but does not stop. He takes a seat in the front pew, here to say goodbye to his onetime lover.
A few minutes before three, Trisha Connelly, Sandra Wilcox’s roommate, shows up. I’m a bit surprised. She told Kenneth and me she and Sandra Wilcox were roommates but not close. Maybe she’s here to add to her gossip store. She moves quickly, head bowed, and takes a seat at the far end of a pew, pretending to be invisible.
A young man in a black outfit with a white clerical collar steps up to the pulpit at the front of the chapel. He shuffles through some notes, then looks out at the people gathered before him. He begins to intone something then stops as a late arrival enters the chapel. It’s Valerie North. I’m sorry to see her here. She should have taken my advice and stayed home, out of sight. I’m pretty sure senior members of the Secret Service present are taking notice. She looks around anxiously, then slips into a back pew. She’s dressed in a dark dress and wears a small, black velvet hat and white gloves.
At that moment I sense movement at the end of my pew, and Arora Lovelace takes a seat but not close to me. She says nothing and pretends to read her program. Her face is grim, jaw clenched. The knuckles of her hand holding her program are white.
“We have come together to say farewell to—” here the minister consults his notes—“to our sister, Sandra. We offer prayer and trust …”
I sense a new arrival. Carla Lowry strides down the center aisle. Maybe she’s here to represent the FBI, a sister agency. Probably she’s here for the same reason I am. To see who’s come and who hasn’t come. She makes eye contact with no one and takes a seat in the front pew.
The young minister resumes: “Almighty God, look on your servant, Sandra …”
Arora takes a deep breath and leans in toward me. “Marko, who the fuck are you?” she whispers—so loud everyone in the chapel can hear.
The minister stops abruptly, for a moment disconcerted. He looks out over those seated before him, looking for the source of disturbance. Several people turn to stare at us. Mrs. Kirkland glares at us, then turns away.
Miss Shaw, in a dark-purple, silk dress, arrives. This comes as a shock to me. I would have thought the White House staff would want nothing to do with Sandra’s memorial service. Miss Shaw stops and surveys the scene, smiles at me, strolls halfway down the aisle and takes a seat in an empty pew.