Capital Crimes (10 page)

“He’s a suspect in the right-wing murders you’ve been hearing about. By tomorrow afternoon, the FBI will be all over him, and if he’s the killer, I want to know about it first.”

“I understand,” the man replied.

“Then get on it.”

HELEN ENTERED Bob Kinney’s office. “The CIA personnel office just called. They’re sending over all the relevant files tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Kinney replied. “Put a couple of people on them as soon as they arrive, and let’s see if we can develop some suspects.”

“There’s something else,” she said, laying a thick brown envelope on his desk.

“What’s this?”

“When going through Senator Wallace’s personal files, I found that more than two dozen cards had the president’s name on them, going all the way back to when he was in college.”

“Did you read them?”

“No, sir. I checked the early ones to see when they began and the later ones to see where they ended. There are notations dated as recently as a month ago.”

“Thank you, Helen, I’ll deal with these myself. When will you have your digest of the others prepared?”

“In a couple of days, I think.”

“See that it contains no reference to the president.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a letter.”

She picked up a pad and sat down. “Go ahead.”

“To the President of the United States, for his eyes only: Sir, enclosed are index cards bearing your name from the personal files of Senator Frederick Wallace, the remainder of which are in my possession. To the best of my knowledge, no one except Senator Wallace has read them, certainly not I nor anyone else at the Bureau. The files bearing your name are not evidence in any case, and you need not return them to me. They may be disposed of as you wish, and no copies have been made. Sincerely, etc.

“Have the package hand-delivered to the president personally by an agent and have him sign for them. If he’s busy, have the messenger wait until he can receive them. Let his secretary know to expect our agent.”

“Yes, sir.” She went to do her work and returned shortly with the letter for him to sign.

He signed it and sent the package on its way.

21

SPECIAL AGENT KERRY SMITH arrived at the White House and, after identifying himself twice and having his package X-rayed, he was admitted to the office of the secretary to the president.

Smith had been at the Washington headquarters of the Bureau for less than a month, after tours in Atlanta, Houston, and Seattle. He thought of himself as a supremely competent FBI agent, but being inside the White House rattled him. When he reached the office of Cora Parker, he was sweating.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“It’s hot in here.”

She got up and walked over to the thermostat on the wall of her office. “It’s sixty-eight degrees. Everybody else is wearing sweaters. Are you sick? I’m not having any viruses in the Oval Office.”

“I’m not sick, I assure you.”

She sat back down at her desk. “Is this your first time in the White House?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That explains it.”

“What?”

“The sweating. You’ve got the first-time-in-the-White-House sweats, that’s all.”

“Ma’am, I just want to get the president’s signature on a receipt, and then I’m out of here.”

“What have you got for him?”

“Didn’t Agent Kinney’s office call?”

“Yes, but they didn’t say what was in the package.” She held her hand out. “Let me have it.”

“No, ma’am, it’s for the president’s eyes only.”

“I’m not going to open it, I just want to feel it.”

“Feel it?”

“That’s what I said. Do your instructions say anything about somebody besides the president feeling it?”

“No, ma’am, but it’s already been X-rayed and passed.”

“Give it to me.”

He handed her the package, but when she picked up a letter opener, he snatched it back.

“Boy, you nearly got a letter opener right through your hand.”

“You can’t open it, ma’am.”

She burned a look right through him. “You sit down over there and wait until I can get to you.”

He sat down, holding the package primly on his knees.

FORTY MINUTES LATER, a door beside Cora Parker’s desk opened, and the president stepped through it. “Cora, will you please make some time for Senator Kennedy this afternoon, and let his office know when?”

Agent Smith leapt to his feet, attracting the president’s attention.

Will Lee turned and looked at the young man. “Who’s this?”

“Special Agent Kerry Smith of the FBI, sir. I have a package for you.”

“Just give it to Ms. Parker,” he replied and turned back toward the Oval Office.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Agent Kinney has instructed me to deliver it to you, personally, and to no one else.”

Will paused. “Let me explain how this works,” he said. “One of these days, somebody is going to smuggle a bomb into the White House, and when they do, I’m determined that it’s going to be Ms. Parker who opens it, not me.”

Cora Parker stood up. “Mr. President, I quit,” she said. “I’m not going to be a sniffer dog or a canary in a coal mine for anybody, not even the president of the United States.”

“Well, in that case, Agent Smith,” Will said, “you’d better give it to me. Ms. Parker is not cooperating.”

Smith handed the package to the president and dug in his pocket for the receipt and a pen.

“Ms. Parker will sign for it,” the president said. “That’s not an exploding pen, is it?”

“”No, sir,“ Agent Smith replied.

“How do I know that?” Cora demanded.

“Oh, all right, I’ll sign for it,” the president said. He scrawled his name on the receipt and handed it back to Smith. “Thank you, Agent Smith.”

“Good morning, sir.” He spun around and fled the office.

Will and Cora Parker burst out laughing.

“It’s his first visit to the White House,” she said.

“I figured,” Will replied.

Will sat down in a comfortable chair and ripped open the package. He read Bob Kinney’s letter, then he began to go through the index cards.

There, in a copperplate hand learned in a South Carolina schoolroom seventy-odd years ago, was a concise but surprisingly accurate history of his life, beginning with his dropping out of law school, at the behest of the dean, and spending a year in Ireland. His affair with a young schoolteacher named Concepta Lydon was mentioned— how the hell did Freddie find out about that? he wondered.

His affair with Kate was covered, too, much of it at a time when he had thought nobody knew about it. He felt his ears burning. He read quickly through the rest of the cards, finding nothing that caused him any great concern. Finally, he walked back into Cora’s office and dropped the cards into her shredder.

“Well, what could that be?” she asked, reaching for the cards.

He slapped her wrist lightly. “It would only embarrass you,” he said. He stayed until the remainder of the cards had fed into the shredder.

That night over dinner, Will told Kate about Freddie’s files. “He knew all about us when we thought it was a secret,” he said.

“How much did he know?”

“Pretty much everything.”

She looked shocked. “Not what we did in bed.”

“No, at least he didn’t make notes about it. He outlined the whole business with Ed Rawls, too. You should have told me about it at the time.”

“Come on, Will, aren’t you glad I didn’t? I mean, really?”

“Well, yes. At least I could have truthfully denied knowing about it.”

“That can be important sometimes.” She wasn’t going to tell him about the most recent letter from Ed, either. “What did you do with the file?”

“I shredded it.”

“Before I had a chance to read it?”

“There were things that didn’t concern you in the file.”

“Aha! Other women!”

“Well, yes, but long before I met you. It was all very innocent.”

“Innocent?”

“Well, maybe not completely innocent. You would have approved.”

“I doubt it,” she said, kicking him under the table.

“Well, that’s my best guess.”

“Well never know now, will we?”

Will beamed at her
.
“I guess not.”

22

HELEN WALKED INTO Kinney’s office and deposited a thick file on his desk. “Two agents and I went through all the files the CIA sent over, and this is the only one that we found interesting. I think you should read it.”

“Have a seat,” Kinney said, opening the file. He speed-read it, every page, then closed the file. “Send your two agents over to Judge Henry’s chambers with the file, and tell them to get a search warrant for the home, vehicles, and any other property of Edward Eugene Coulter. I want it by lunchtime. In the meantime, assemble a search party and a tech team. We’re going to do this right.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, then left his office.

Kinney took a deep breath. His hunch had been right; their man was a federal retiree with a tech background, and before the day was over, they would have the son of a bitch in custody. He began thinking about retirement, but he hadn’t gotten far when his phone buzzed.

“There’s a Nancy Kimble on line one. Do you know her?”

“Yes, I’ll talk to her.” He pressed the button. “I was just thinking about you,” he lied.

“That’s a lie, but a nice one. I can see my way to get to D.C. for a few days. Are you receptive to that?”

“Receptive isn’t a strong enough word. How soon?”

“Tomorrow?”

“We may have something to celebrate. I’ll look forward to it.” He gave her his address. “I’ll leave a key for you at the front desk.”

“Bye-bye.” She hung up.

He liked it that she was brief on the phone. He hated phone conversations, except to exchange important information or to arrange meetings. His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up.

“It’s the president,” Helen said.

He nearly asked the president of what, but he picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Good morning, Bob. I want to thank you for your kindness in sending me that information yesterday.”

“I was glad to do it, sir.”

“There was nothing there I didn’t already know, except how much the gentleman knew, and that was a surprise. It made interesting reading. How are you coming on the murder investigation?”

“We have a hot lead right now, Mr. President, a retired CIA employee with exactly the right background. I’ve already requested a search warrant.”

“I’d appreciate a call when you know if it pans out,” the president said.

“Of course, sir.”

“Good morning to you, Bob.” The president hung up.

It was the first call that Kinney had ever received from a president, and it left him a little breathless. Suddenly, he remembered that he had lied to the man. He had, after all, copied the files, and he made a mental note to shred the pages pertaining to the president when he returned home that night.

Kinney felt better than he had in months. He had a suspect, his girl was on her way to D.C., and he had just taken a call from the president.

THE HOUSE WAS ON a pretty street in Arlington, Virginia, a comfortable, old-fashioned brick structure surrounded by other, similar houses. It was on a half-acre lot with a three-car garage, which set it apart from its neighbors, and one garage door was half again as big as the others. “Look at that door,” Kinney said as they made their pass. “He has an RV. We were right about that. I hope you didn’t talk to any of his neighbors.”

“No, sir,” Smith replied “We’ve stayed away from the house. Besides the RV he has two cars—an Audi Six and one of the newer VW Bugs. He owns four handguns, all licensed.”

“You and I will make the first approach. We’ll radio when we’ve secured Mr. Coulter. I don’t want to arrive with a SWAT team, especially since he’s armed. Let’s try not to alarm him.”

“Yes, sir. You want me to park now?”

“Go around the block once more. I want to see the house from the back, if it’s possible.”

“It’s not, but we’ve got half a dozen agents ready to go in through the back door.”

“Keep them calm,” he said to the team in the backseat of his car.

“Yes, sir,” an agent replied. He spoke into a handheld radio. “Everybody relax. The deputy director and Smith are going in first. They’ll call us when the house is secure.” The radio crackled with terse responses.

They were coming around the block again. “Just pull right into the driveway,” Kinney said. “We’ll get out of the car real casual-like, then go slowly to the front door and ring the bell like citizens.”

“Yes, sir.” Smith swung the sedan into the driveway and stopped.

“You two stay here and be inconspicuous,” Kinney said to the two men in the backseat. “Let’s go, Smith.” He got out of the car and stretched as if he’d driven a long way, looked around the neighborhood, then slowly made his way to the house and up the front steps. The doorbell was a friendly chime, but it wasn’t answered immediately. Kinney looked at Smith. “Are they home?”

“The first team in the neighborhood talked to the mailman, who says they’re always home in the mornings.”

The front door opened. A small woman in her sixties stood there. “Yes?”

“Good morning,” Kinney said, smiling. “Are you Mrs. Coulter?”

“Yes, I am.”

“My name is Robert Kinney. I’m from the FBI. May I see your husband, please?” He didn’t flash a badge, didn’t want it to seem too official.

“Of course. Please come in. He’s in the den, having his lunch.”

Kinney followed her across the living room toward another door. He could hear the sound of a TV set—CNN.

“Now?” Smith asked quietly.

“Not yet,” Kinney replied.

They emerged into a room lined with books, with a large projection TV in one corner. Across the room a man sat in a recliner, his feet up, a tray in his lap.

“Ted, this is Mr. Kinney, from the FBI,” Mrs. Coulter said. “He wants to talk to you.”

Coulter looked up. He looked younger than his sixty-seven years, with black hair and an unlined face. “Morning,” he said. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”