Blood Silence (2 page)

She looked up to him. “Oh, I like the sound of that.”

“Then don’t worry. This is
not
an impossible task.” It always amazed him that someone who had such a cool head in a work storm could get so easily frazzled when it came to her personal life.

“I know, I know,” Sally answered as she worked her breakfast plate. Then she pointed her left hand enthusiastically toward Mac with a big smile. “But I do have to say, now that I have this gorgeous engagement ring, I want an equally beautiful wedding band to go with it.”

“Like I said last night, Sal, I don’t care what our moms say—we don’t have to rush it. I mean, you have me whenever you want me,” Mac replied and then deadpanned. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Especially after that little tumble we had upstairs last night,” Sally cooed seductively at him and pecked his lips. “Nevertheless, now that we’re engaged, I kind of like the idea of you being legally required to be here in the morning. I want to lock that great ass of yours down.”

“If I try to escape, will you use handcuffs?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, duh.”

She slapped him on the arm. “Seriously, though, when will we find time?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Mac answered calmly, taking a bite of his eggs.

“I want this to be perfect. We deserve perfect.”

He laughed again, trying to calm her, and reached with his right arm again and pulled her close. “You’re getting overwhelmed by the entirety of the process here. We have to break it up. We know we want something smaller, with only our families and closest friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. In my mind, I think the first thing we need to do is find the right venue. Once we do that, then we’ll find the right date, and after that, everything will fall into place.”

Sally leaned up and kissed him. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Well, we do have the weekend back home to talk about it. Maybe we can figure it out.”

“That’s the right attitude, babe,” Mac replied, smiling, softly kissing her forehead, and then releasing her and going back to his breakfast.

“By the way, are you excited for your plane ride?”

In fact, he was.

Mac was getting to ride on Air Force One back home for the president’s Thursday-night fundraiser and birthday party back in Minnesota. Then the president was going to spend the weekend in the Twin Cities to celebrate with his family. So were Mac and Sally. He was looking forward to being home and the flight to get there. “Having a fiancée working in the White House leads to all kinds of perks.”

“Oh, it does, it absolutely does.”

“What’s next, a romantic night in the Lincoln Bedroom?” Mac suggested, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“
Riiiiight.
”

“Why not?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sally said, smiling and leaning in to kiss him one more time—a soft, lingering kiss, with her right hand placed lightly on his cheek. They locked eyes, and Mac was seconds away from whisking her back upstairs, when she pulled away and looked down at her watch. “Oh man, I have to boogie.”

“Go,” he replied reluctantly. “I’ll clean up.”

Sally grabbed her purse and briefcase. “What are you doing today?”

“Well, let’s see,” Mac answered as he dropped dishes into the sink. “I’m going for a run. After that, I might watch some television, perhaps surf the Internet, and check my investment portfolio—you know, the usual.”

“I see. The idle millionaire routine, huh?” Sally replied with a whimsical shake of her head. “Man, it must be rough.”

“I’m living the dream.”

“So am I,” Sally replied with a smile and a wave as she joyfully bounded down the back steps toward the garage.

The reality was that he needed to finish his final read of the manuscript for the book he and Wire were writing on their election investigation. They were working with a writer, but the final edits needed to be approved and submitted to the publisher. The book was scheduled to be published in April, but the inquiries on how much longer he was going to take were getting a little more frequent. He needed to finish. The good news was, he was close—fewer than a hundred pages to go. But before he got to that, he needed to take care of his body.

Mac enjoyed his midmorning run through DC. There was something special about five miles and a good sweat while passing the monuments along the Mall and yet not having to be one of the thousands of bureaucrats making their way to work. He was often amazed at how historic and awe-inspiring DC could be, and then he would turn on the television and watch the mindless politics of the day and all at once wish he were simply back in Minnesota. He would be but for Sally. For Sally, he was pretty sure he’d go just about anywhere.

He turned the corner to jog the last block to his Georgetown brownstone and noticed the limousine parked in front of his house. As he approached, the driver stepped out and opened the rear door, and out emerged Judge Dixon.

Mac had a sinking suspicion the idle millionaire routine was about to be interrupted.

“Judge, what’s up?” Mac asked as he ran up and stopped to take the Judge’s extended hand.

“I have some business to discuss. Can we go inside?”

Judge Joyce Dixon, known to all simply as “the Judge,” was the person, other than Sally, most responsible for Mac living in Washington, DC.

A former federal prosecutor, judge, and United States Attorney General, the Judge was the political mastermind behind the election of Minnesota Governor James Thomson to the presidency of the United States. During the campaign, the Judge also discovered a previously untapped political talent in Sally. Sally had taken a leave from her assistant county prosecutor position to work on the Thomson presidential campaign, working for a good friend of hers from law school who was the governor’s chief of staff and a deputy director in his presidential campaign. Sally impressed during the election, and in its final days, really stepped up when a key person in the election team was murdered and her good friend was emotionally wrecked because of it. Always a cool head in a storm, Sally, with little political experience, filled in and got the job done. The Judge, a man who loved molding young political talent, realized Sally was the real deal and wasn’t about to let her simply return to her job as an assistant county prosecutor. Ten minutes after Governor Thomson was elected president of the United States, Sally was hired as the White House deputy director of communications.

Mac also drew the Judge’s attention at the same time.

The Judge had Governor Thomson in the favored position less than a week before the election, up in all of the polls. Then Mac started investigating the murder of a Washington political blogger in a seedy St. Paul motel. Mac’s investigation uncovered a conspiracy by a big-money donor to manipulate the voting results and steal the election for then Vice President Wellesley. Breaking the case just days before the election triggered a political wave in favor of the governor. That investigation, its twists and turns and impact on the election and politics, was what the book, tentatively titled
Electing to Murder
, was all about.

Mac, too, had made a big impression.

The Judge and FBI Director Thomas Mitchell, seeing an obvious talent in Mac, and with his live-in girlfriend already coming to DC, arranged a really good bureau job for him, which, much to their surprise, Mac promptly spurned.

Mac wanted a break and some time to reassess his life.

He suddenly had money—lots of money—more than he would ever need, from a successful investment in a chain of Grand Brew coffee shops with some childhood friends. With that came a desire to explore new ventures, such as managing his newfound wealth, restoring his recently purchased Georgetown brownstone, and the book. Maybe it was time to give up chasing killers.

But the lure of interesting cases would prove to be too much, and besides, exceptional investigative talent never goes unused for long.

The Judge had already brought Mac into one FBI case involving the death of the daughter of an important political contributor. Now, the Judge was here, wanting to talk business, and Mac suspected the great man was here to ask for another political favor as he poured him a cup of coffee while they sat at the center island in the kitchen.

“Mac, I need a favor. I want you to look into a murder that happened two nights ago over in Southeast.”

“Here in DC?”

The Judge nodded.

“That’s DC homicide.”

“I know, and I also know you’ve been hanging out at that DC cop bar, you and Wire, trading war stories with their homicide guys.”

“That we have.”

“And they like you two.” It wasn’t a question. The Judge was, of course, well informed.

Mac cut to the chase. “What’s the homicide, Judge? Is this another political case?” he asked with a sigh.

“No,” the Judge answered, and a wave of sadness washed over his face. “The victim is Shane Weatherly.”

“And who is Shane Weatherly?” Mac asked, a bit of exasperation in his voice.

“He is my godchild.”

Mac immediately chastised himself. “Oh geez, Judge. I’m so sorry. It’s just that, you know … usually … you …”

“No need to apologize, son. Everything with me is always politics, so why would this be any different?” The Judge said. His shoulders slumped forward, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug, and he stared down into its dark-black contents. “Shane was the son of Thomas Weatherly. Thomas and I grew up together and later studied together at the University of Minnesota. He was my best man when I got married. He is perhaps … no, he is my best friend.”

Mac had never seen the Judge emotional, let alone teary. He grabbed the box of Kleenex off the counter by the sink and gently slid it over.

The Judge took a couple of tissues, dabbed at his eyes, and blew his nose. “Shane was coming into town and called me Monday afternoon to ask if he could meet with me while he was here. We’d planned on dinner tonight. Then I got a call from Thomas late last night, saying that Shane had been killed Monday night, here in Washington.”

“What happened?”

“All I know is that he was shot and killed in a parking lot behind the East Union Tavern over in Southeast, across the Anacostia River. He and another man were killed. The other man was named Isador Kane. I’ve come to learn Kane was an employee at the Environmental Protection Agency. Shane and Mr. Kane were found shot dead in Kane’s car behind the tavern. They were each shot multiple times.”

“What’s Shane’s connection to this Kane guy?”

“I’m not sure, Mac. His name didn’t mean anything to Thomas.”

“What did Shane do?”

“He was a scientist, a geologist of some kind. I know he was an active environmentalist. In fact, he was arrested at some demonstration years ago and fingerprinted. That’s how the police ultimately identified him.”

“You said he was just coming into town. Do you know from where?”

The Judge shook his head.

“Do you know why he was coming here?”

Again, the Judge shook his head.

Mac slumped back against the counter, an uncertain look on his face.

Dixon saw it. “What is it, Mac?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go to Wire first.”

The Judge nodded and considered his answer. “I didn’t for two reasons.”

“Which are?”

“First, she’s still in France, working. She won’t be back for another couple of weeks yet.”

“And what’s the second?”

“This isn’t a security or missing persons kind of thing—this is a murder. You’re the best murder investigator I know, even if you don’t regularly carry a badge or practice the art anymore.”

“What do you want me to do, Judge?”

“I do know that the lead detective on the case is a detective Lincoln—”

“Coolidge,” Mac finished with a nod and small smile. “Ironically, they call him the President.”

“And you know him.”

“I’ve drunk with the man. He’s a good, solid, experienced homicide detective. He knows what he’s doing, Judge.”

“That’s the reputation,” the Judge answered. “But I don’t know this Detective Coolidge. I know you, and I trust you. I want to know what happened—what
really
happened. I have to be able to give Thomas some answers, and I need to know why my godchild was murdered,
in my town
. If he was into something he shouldn’t have been, I want to know. If he was an innocent victim, I want to know. But I don’t know that I should be the one to go talk to Detective Coolidge. I don’t want to involve the White House in this in either an official or unofficial capacity. So …”

“I can poke around, and nobody’s the wiser,” Mac suggested, nodding.

“Will you?”

“Of course, Judge,” Mac answered as he reached for his cell phone.

• • •

Mac, in hiking boots, blue jeans, a gray University of Minnesota hoodie, and a navy-blue Twins baseball hat, pushed his way into the East Union Tavern a little after 6:00
P.M.
Inside, he found Metropolitan Police of the District of Columbia Detective Lincoln Coolidge resting at the far end of the bar, nursing a small bourbon. Coolidge reminded Mac of Kirby Puckett. He was a short, stocky, bowling ball of a man, with a shaved head and still in his black pinstripe suit and black trench coat. Coolidge looked up as Mac approached, smiled, and bellowed, “And me sitting here with an empty drink.”

Mac smiled, reached for his wallet, and looked to the bartender. “Another one for him, and one for me, and I suspect we’ll run a little tab.”

“Little, my ass. I got me a rich ex-cop in here. I’ll be going top shelf.”

“Figures.”

“Where’s Wire?” Coolidge greeted heartily. “I tolerate you because that
fine
filly comes along.”

Mac laughed. “She’s still overseas, so tonight you’re stuck with
moi
.”

“Pity.”

The two men enthusiastically shook hands and retired to a booth.

Coolidge took out a folder and set it in front of him, rested both of his hands on it, and looked Mac dead in the eye, the warm greeting now shelved. “Now why would an unemployed, modestly successful ex-homicide detective from little old St. Paul, Minnesota, want to know about the double homicide of two anonymous men from two nights ago down here in Southeast, DC?”