See? He did want her opinions. Always. He was so different from the others.
He looked over at her, made eye contact. “It’s so simple, really. We need perfect alibis. I have an idea how to accomplish that. It involves a slight change in our game plan, but I think it’s worth it.”
She tried to keep the concern out of her voice. “What kind of change? You don’t want to go after the target we already agreed on?”
“I want to change the next target, yes, but I want to change something else as well. I want to get someone else to do the next kill. That way, we’ll both have airtight alibis. I think it’s a powerful twist. I think it could be the clincher for us. If anyone is onto either of us, this will throw them off completely.”
They were coming down Wisconsin Avenue and into Washington. The city looked like a J. M. W. Turner painting, Sara decided. Hazy light, caught just right. “I like your thinking a lot. It’s a good plan. Who would you get?” she asked.
“I’ve already made a contact,” Sam said. “I think I have the perfect person for this little twist. He thinks the way we do, believes in the cause. He happens to be right here in Washington.”
CHAPTER
42
A SECRET SERVICE AGENT named James McLean, one of Jay Grayer’s lieutenants, walked me around the White House. More than a million visitors come here every year, but this was the show none of them got. This was the real deal.
Instead of the usual tour of Library, East, Blue, Green, and Red Rooms, I got to see the private family quarters on the second and third floors. I requested a viewing of the President’s offices in the West Wing, as well as Vice President Mahoney’s in the Executive Office Building.
As the two of us wandered through the impressive Center Hall, with its bright yellow color scheme, I half expected either “Ruffles and Flourishes” or “Hail to the Chief” to suddenly ring out.
Agent McLean was filling me in on details about security at the White House. The grounds were covered by audio and pressure sensors, electronic eyes, and infrared. A SWAT team was on the roof at all times now. Helicopters were less than two and a half minutes away. Somehow, I wasn’t comforted by the tight security.
“What do you think of all this?” McLean asked as he led me into the Cabinet Room. It was dominated by serious-looking leather chairs, each bearing a brass plaque with the cabinet member’s title. A very impressive place to visit.
“What I’m thinking is that every person working here has to be checked out,” I said.
“They’ve all been checked, Alex.”
“I know that. They haven’t been checked by me, though. We need to check them all over again. I’d like each of them run against an interest in poetry or literature, even college degrees in literature; any kind of film-making experience; painting, sculpting, any endeavor requiring creativity. I’d like to know what magazines they subscribe to. Also their charitable contributions.”
If McLean had an opinion on all that, he kept it to himself. “Anything else?” he asked.
We were looking out over the Rose Garden. I could see office buildings off in the distance, so I assumed they could see us. I didn’t like that too much.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so,” I went on. “While we’re doing those background checks, we need to look at everyone in the crisis group. You can start with me.”
Agent James McLean stared at me for a long moment.
“You’re shitting me, aren’t you?” he finally spoke his mind.
I spoke my mind, too. “I shit you not. This is a murder investigation. This is how it’s done.”
The dragonslayer had come to the White House.
CHAPTER
43
THE PHOTOJOURNALIST had chosen a conservative dark gray suit and a striped rep’s tie for the sold-out performance of Miss Saigon at the Kennedy Center.
He had cut his grayish blond hair short; the ponytail was long gone. He no longer wore a diamond stud earring. It was doubtful whether anyone he knew would have recognized him. Just as it should be, as it had to be from now until the end of the game.
“Seems like old times,” Kevin Hawkins sang softly as he crossed a parking lot facing USA Today headquarters across the river in Rosslyn.
“Keep those big presses running,” he muttered under his breath. “Might have something for you later. Might just have a big, late-breaking story tonight at the Kennedy Center. Quien sabe?”
He was so glad to be back in Washington, where he’d lived at various times in the past. He was happy to be back in the game as well. The game of games, he couldn’t help thinking, and believing it in his heart. Code name: Jack and Jill. Intrigue just didn’t get any better than this. It couldn’t.
There were two essential parts to his psychological buildup as he approached the difficult evening ahead. The first part was to make himself as cautious, as suspicious, as paranoid, as he possibly could. The second part, equally important, was to pump himself up with a full megadose of confidence so that he would succeed.
He could not fail. He would not fail, he told himself. His job was to murder someone—often a well-known someone, sometimes in public view—and not get caught.
In public view.
And not get caught.
So far, he had never been caught in the act.
He found it curious, although not particularly disturbing anymore, that he had little or no conscience, no guilt about the killings; and yet he could be perfectly normal in many other areas of his life. His sister, Eileen, for example, called him the “last believer” and the “last patriot.” Her children thought he was the nicest, kindest Uncle Kevin imaginable. His parents back in Hudson adored him. He had plenty of nice, normal, close friends all around the globe. And yet here he was, ready for another cold-blooded kill. Looking forward to it, actually. Craving it.
His adrenaline was pumping, but he felt less than nothing about the intended victim tonight. There were billions of people on the earth, far too many of them. What did one less human mean? Not a whole lot, any goddamn way you looked at it. If you took a logical view of the world.
At the same time, he was extremely cautious as he entered the glittery Kennedy Center, with its gleaming crystal chandeliers and Matisse tapestries. He glanced up at the chandeliers in the Grand Foyer. With their hundreds of different prisms and lamps, they probably weighed a ton apiece.
He was going to murder in public view, under the bright lights, under all these prisms and lamps.
And not get caught!
What an incredible magic trick. How good he was at this.
His seat had been purchased for him, the theater ticket left in a locker at Union Station. The seat was in the back of the orchestra. It was almost underneath the “President’s Box.” Very nice. Just about perfect. He purposely arrived just as the houselights dimmed.
He was actually surprised when the intermission came. So fast! The time had really flown. The melodramatic stage play really moved along.
He glanced at his wristwatch: 9:15. The intermission was right on schedule. The houselights came up and Hawkins idly observed that the crowd was highly enthused about the hit musical.
This was good news for him: genuine excitement, ebullience, lots of noisy small talk filling the air. He slowly rose from his cushy seat. Now for the night’s real drama, he was thinking.
He entered the Grand Foyer with the huge chandeliers that resembled stalactites. The carpeting was a plush red sea beneath his feet. Up ahead was the proud bronze bust of John Kennedy.
Very fitting and appropriate.
Just so. Just right.
Jack and Jill would be the biggest thing since Kennedy, and that was more than thirty years ago. He was happy to be a part of it. Thrilled, actually. He felt honored.
For tonight’s performance, the part of Jack will be played by Kevin Hawkins.
Watch closely now, theater fans. This act will be unforgettable.
CHAPTER
44
THE GRAND FOYER o
f the Kennedy Center was mobbed with uppity Washingtonian ass-holes. Theater people, Jesus. It was mostly an older crowd—season subscribers. Tables were set up selling junky T-shirts and high-priced programs. A woman with a gaudy red umbrella was guiding a tour of high school kids through the intermission crowd.
There was a very nasty and difficult trick to this killing, Kevin Hawkins knew.
He had to get unbelievably close to the victim, physically close, before he actually committed the murder.
That bothered him a lot, but there was no way around it. He had to get right on top of the target, and he could not fail at this part of the job.
The photojournalist was thinking about it as he successfully blended into the noisily buzzing theater crowd.
He eventually spotted Supreme Court Justice Thomas Henry Franklin. Franklin was the youngest member of the current Court. He was an African-American. He looked haughty, which fitted his reputation around Washington. He was not a likable man. Not that it mattered.
Shapshot! Kevin Hawkins took a mind photo of Thomas Henry Franklin.
On the justice’s left arm was a twenty-three-year-old woman. Snapshot. Snapshot.
Hawkins had done his homework on Charlotte Kinsey, too. He knew her name, of course. He knew that she was a second-year law student at Georgetown. He knew other dark secrets about Charlotte Kinsey and Justice Franklin as well. He had watched the two of them together in bed.
He took another moment to observe Thomas Franklin and the college girl as they talked in the Grand Foyer. They were as animated and bubbly as any of the other couples there. Even more so. What great fun the theater could be!
He took several more mind photos. He would never forget the image of the two of them talking together like that. Snapshot. And that. Snapshot.
They laughed very naturally and spontaneously, and appeared to like each other’s company. Hawkins found himself frowning. He had two nieces in Silver Spring. The thought of the young law student with this middle-aged phony irked the hell out of him!
The irony of his harsh judgment brought a sudden smile to his lips. The morality of a stone-cold killer—how droll! How insane. How very cool.
He watched the two of them move onto the large terrace off the lobby. He followed several paces behind. The Potomac stretched out before them and was black as night. A dinner-cruise boat from Alexandria—the Dandy—was floating by.
The sheer curtains between the lobby and terrace flapped dramatically in the crisp river wind. Kevin Hawkins carefully moved toward the Supreme Court justice and his beautiful date. He took more mind photos of the two of them.
He noted that Justice Franklin’s white shirt was a size too small, grabbing at his neck. The yellow silk tie was too loud for his subdued gray suit. Charlotte Kinsey had a quick, sweet smile that was irresistible. She had lovely rounded breasts. Her long black hair swirled in the river breeze.
He physically brushed against the two of them. He got that close to Charlotte and Thomas. He actually touched the law student’s long shiny hair. He could smell her perfume. Opium or Shalimar. Snapshot.
He was right there. So close. He was practically on top of them, in every sense of the phrase.
His mind’s eye continued to snap off photo after photo of the two of them. He would never forget any of this, not a single frame of the intimate murder scene.
He could see, hear, touch, smell; and yet he couldn’t feel a thing.
Kevin Hawkins resisted all human impulses now. No pity. No guilt. No shame. And no mercy.
The law student carried a leather bag on her left shoulder. It was slightly open, just a sliver, just enough. Ah, carefree, casual, careless youth.
The photojournalist was good with his hands. Still good. Still steady. Still very quick. Still one of the best.
He slid something into her bag. C’est ça. That was it! Success. The first of the night.
Neither she nor Justice Franklin noticed the fleeting movement, or him, as he passed by in the crowd. He was the river breeze, the night, the light of the moon.
He felt incredible exhilaration at that special moment. There was nothing in the world like this. The power in taking, stealing, another human life was like nothing else in the full palette of human experiences.
The hard part was over, he knew. The close work. Now the simple act of murder.
To murder in public view.
And not get caught.
His heart suddenly jumped, bucked horribly. Something was going wrong. Very wrong. As wrong as could be. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Jesus, Charlotte Kinsey was reaching into her bag.
Snapshot.
She’d found the note he’d left there—the note from Jack and Jill! Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Snapshot.
She was looking at it curiously, wondering what it was, wondering how it had gotten in her handbag.
She began to unfold the note, and he could feel his temples pounding horribly. She had gotten the justice’s attention. He glanced down at the note as well.
Nooooo! Jesus, nooo, he wanted to scream.
Kevin Hawkins operated on pure instinct. The purest. No time to second-guess himself now.
He moved forward very quickly and surely.
His Luger was out, dangling below his waist. The gun was concealed because of the closeness of the crowd, the forest of legs and arms, pleated trousers, fluffed dresses.
He raised and fired the Luger just once. Tricky angle, too. Far from ideal. He saw the sudden blossom of crimson red. The body jolted, then crumbled and fell to the marble floor.
A heartshot! Certainly a miracle, or close to it. God was on his side, no?
Snapshot!
Snapshot!
His heart almost couldn’t take it. He wasn’t used to this sudden improvising.
He thought about getting caught, after all of these years, and on such an unbelievably important job. He had a vision of total failure. He felt—he felt something.
He dropped the Luger into the jumble of legs, trousers, satin and taffeta gowns, high-heeled slippers, highly polished dark cordovans.
“Was that a gunshot?” a woman shrieked. “Oh, God, Phillip. Someone’s been shot.”
He backed away from the spectacle as just about everyone else did. The Grand Foyer looked as if it were ablaze.
He was part of them, part of the fearful, bolting crowd. He had nothing to do with the terrifying disturbance, the murder, the loud gunshot.
His face was a convincing mask of shock and disbelief. God, he knew this look so well. He had seen it so many times before in his lifetime.
In another tense few moments, he was outside the Kennedy Center. He was heading toward New Hampshire Avenue at a steady pace. He was one with the crowd.
“Seems Like Old Times” raced through his head, playing much too fast, at double or triple speed. He remembered humming the tune on his walk in. And as the photojournalist knew, the old times were definitely the best.
The old times were coming back now, weren’t they?
Jack and Jill had come to The Hill.
The game was so beautiful, so delicate and exquisite.
Now for the greatest shocker of them all.
CHAPTER
45
AGENT JAY GRAYER called me at home from his car phone. I was in the middle of reading approximately two hundred background security checks done on White House personnel by the Secret Service uniformed division. The deputy director was speeding downtown to the Kennedy Center complex, doing ninety on the beltway. I could hear the siren blaring from his car.
“They struck again. Jesus, they made a hit at the Kennedy Center tonight. Right under our noses. It’s another real bad acid trip, Alex. Just come.” He definitely sounded out of control.
Just come.
“They hit during intermission of Miss Saigon. I’ll meet you there, Alex. I’m seven to ten minutes away.”
“Who was it this time?” I asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I almost did
n’t want to hear the answer. No, not almost. I didn’t want to hear the victim’s name.
“That’s part of the problem. This whole thing is nuts. It wasn’t really anybody, Alex.”
“What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t really anybody’? That doesn’t make sense to me, Jay.”
“It was a law student from Georgetown University. A young woman named Charlotte Kinsey. She was only twenty-three years old. They left one of their notes again. It’s them for sure.”
“I don’t get it. I do not get this,” I muttered over the phone. “Goddammit.”
“Neither do I. The girl might have caught a bullet meant for somebody else. She was out with a Supreme Court justice, Alex. Thomas Henry Franklin. Maybe the bullet was meant for him. That would fit the celebrity pattern. Maybe they’ve finally made a mistake.”
“I’m on my way,” I told Jay Grayer. “I’ll meet you inside the Kennedy Center.”
Maybe they finally made a mistake.
I didn’t think so.
CHAPTER
46
IT WASN’T REALLY ANYBODY, ALEX. How the hell could that be?
A twenty-three-year-old law student from Georgetown was dead. Christ. It didn’t make sense to me, didn’t track at all. It changed everything. It seemed to blow the pattern.
I drove from our home to the Kennedy Center in record time. Jay Grayer wasn’t the only one partly out of control. I stuck a flasher on the roof of my car and rode like hell on wheels.
The second half of Miss Saigon had been canceled. The murder had taken place less than an hour before, and there were still hundreds of onlookers at the crime scene.
I heard “Jack and Jill” mumbled several times as I made my way to the Grand Foyer. Fear was a tangible, almost physical, presence in the crowd. A lot of elements of the murder at the Kennedy Center were torturing me when I arrived at the crime scene at quarter past ten. There were some similarities with the other Jack and Jill killings. A rhyming note had been left. The job had been done coldly and professionally. A single shot.