Capital Crimes (18 page)

“Bob, they faxed me this name,” the president said. “Edward E. Coulter. Isn’t that the retired CIA guy, the one who died?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“What do you make of this?”

“We’ll be interviewing his widow again first thing this morning,” Kinney replied. “I’ll have to get back to you, sir.”

“Please do,” the president said. “At your earliest convenience.” He hung up.

“Call the garage and tell the team to stand down,” Kinney said to his secretary. “Tell Kerry to pick up a tape recorder and be prepared to leave the building at eight a.m.” Kinney went back into his office and stretched out on the sofa again. If he were alone, he would cry, he reflected. Instead, he was going to get some sleep.

AT 8:25 A.M., Kinney and Smith pulled up in front of the Coulter residence, just in time to see Mrs. Coulter step onto the front porch in a bathrobe and pick up her newspaper. She watched as they got out of the car and walked up her driveway.

“Agent Kinney, isn’t it?” she said, looking puzzled.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “And Agent Smith. May we come inside and talk with you?”

“Of course. I was just putting on some coffee.”

They went inside and waited impatiently while Mrs. Coulter moved around her kitchen and finally came out with a coffeepot and some small pastries. “I bake them myself,” she said. “There’s nobody to eat them since Ed died, but I bake them anyway.” She poured them all some coffee and sat down.

“Please accept my condolences,” he said.

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Mrs. Coulter,” Kinney said, “I want to tell you why we’re here.”

“Does it still have something to do with the sniper?” she asked.

The papers still referred to him as the sniper, even though he’d killed only once in that manner.

“Yes, it does. Let me tell you why we interviewed your husband. One of our theories about the case is that the killer, because he had expertise in several ways of killing, might have been a retired employee of a government agency that trained him.”

“So that’s why you talked to Ed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, Ed knew about firearms,” she said, “and that was it. He was just a glorified gunsmith. He wasn’t even a very good shot.”

“Yes, ma’am, and that was why we eliminated him from our list of suspects.” Some list; Coulter had been the only name on it. “That and the state of his health.”

“Good point!” she said. “He could hardly have roamed the country, killing people, while using a walker.”

“Yes, ma’am. The reason we’re here now is, we’ve traced the name of the operator of an Internet website called ACT NOW, where the killer posted pictures of his victims and, perhaps, his intended victims.”

“And who is he?”

“I’m afraid the name was Edward E. Coulter.”

Mrs. Coulter laughed. “Well, I’m afraid the only thing Ed ever did with a computer was word processing and check writing. He didn’t even do email, nor do I.”

“What we now think is, that since the killer used your husband’s name and address to register the website, he might be someone Ed knew at work—a colleague or a friend.”

She nodded. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Can you think of anyone like that? Probably someone who’s retired?”

“Well, this neighborhood is full of retired CIA folks,” she said. “We knew a lot of them.”

“Could you give us a list of their names and addresses?” Kinney asked.

“Just a minute,” she said. She got up and went into her husband’s study. A moment later she returned with several sheets of paper and a pen. She sat down and began making checkmarks on the paper. “This is our Christmas card list,” she said. “I’m checking off the CIA people and putting two checks by the retired ones.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Coulter. Is there anyone on the list to whom your husband was particularly close?”

“Well, sure, there was Teddy Fay.”

“Is he on the list?”

She handed it to him. “Yes, and it’s in alphabetical order. Teddy and Ed worked in the same department, Technical Services, they call it. Ed called it the Devil’s Workshop.”

“And is Mr. Fay retired?” Kinney found the name on the list.

“I don’t know. He stopped coming around after Ed had his stroke. I’m not sure why. Ed wouldn’t talk about it.”

“And this address, Riverview Circle, where is that?”

“Just around the corner.” She pointed. “You take two lefts, and it’s the second—no, the third—house on the right.”

Kinney and Smith stood up. “Do you know what Mr. Fay did in Technical Services?”

“Teddy? He was a jack of all trades, Teddy could do anything, fix anything, Ed always said.”

Kinney’s pulse quickened. “Do you know anything about Mr. Fay’s politics?”

“Oh, Teddy’s as left-wing as they come,” she replied. “He and Ed used to argue about it all the time. Ed was a rock-ribbed conservative.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Coulter, and thank you for the coffee, too,” Kinney said.

The two agents were running before they were halfway down the driveway.

38

KERRY REACHED FOR THE RADIO. “I’ll call for backup.”

“Not yet,” Kinney said. “I want to look at the house first, see what we need.” He turned into Riverview Circle and looked at the third house. A man who appeared to be around sixty was mowing the lawn.

“There’s our man,” Kerry said.

“We’re going to talk to him now,” Kinney said.

“Without backup?”

“He’s armed with a lawn mower. I think we can handle that. You be ready, if he does anything funny or tries to run.” Kinney slowed as he approached the house, then he stopped and pressed the button to lower the passenger-side window. “Excuse me,” he said. The man seemed not to hear over the lawn mower.
“Excuse me!”

The man shut down the engine and walked over to the car. “Morning, can I help you?”

“Yes, we’re looking for Riverview Drive,” Kinney said. “Can you direct us?”

“Yeah, sure. Turn around and make two rights. That’s Riverview Drive.”

“Got it. Say, this is a real nice place you’ve got here, looks real well kept.”

“Oh, I don’t live here. I work for the real estate company.”

“Real estate company?”

The man walked over to the mailbox and picked up the sign he had uprooted in order to cut the grass, for sale, the sign read. “River Realty, Janice Hooks.” And a phone number. “The house is empty,” the man said. “I just cut the grass for the real estate company.”

The two agents got out of the car, and Kinney walked around to the other side and flashed his ID. “We’re FBI,” he said. “Could I see some ID?”

“Sure.” The man dug in a pocket and came out with a wallet and a driver’s license.

Kinney looked at it and compared the face to the photo. “Thanks, Mr. Warren. Do you know the man who lives here?”

“No, he was already gone when I started cutting the grass.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About a month. This is the fourth time I’ve been.”

Kerry pulled his boss aside. “I’ll get a search warrant and a team out here.”

“No, wait,” Kinney replied. “I don’t think we have probable cause, but there’s another way.” He walked back to the real estate sign and called the realtor, then he came back. “Ms. Hooks is on her way over here. Mr. Warren, you can go back to your work. Again, I apologize for slowing you down.”

“Let’s take a look,” Kinney said, and led the way up the lawn toward the house. It was brick, modest in scale, in good repair. He stepped through some shrubs and looked through the window into the empty living room. “Kerry, get a criminalist out here now, and tell him to bring some help.”

Kerry got on the phone.

“And get my secretary to dig into those personnel files the CIA sent over and dig out Fay’s records. Ask the Agency for a photograph, if there isn’t one in his files.” Kinney circumnavigated the house, looking into every window. Empty rooms stared back at him. As he came back to the front of the house, a Cadillac pulled into the driveway, and a woman got out.

“Agent Kinney?” she asked.

“That’s right, Ms. Hooks,” he replied, shaking her hand. “This is Agent Kerry Smith.”

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I’d like for my people to go into the house and collect some evidence.”

“Has a crime been committed here?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“I don’t know yet. That’s what I want to find out.”

“Don’t you need a search warrant for that?”

“I can get a search warrant, but it will take several hours, and another crime might be committed while I’m doing it. On the other hand, you have the authority to let us into the house.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Mr. Fay might sue me.”

“That’s very unlikely, Ms. Hooks. It would be a great help to us if you could let us in now. This is extremely important.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, it’s that sniper guy who’s killing all those people, isn’t it?”

“I can’t comment on our investigation, Ms. Hooks, and please don’t tell anyone that, particularly anyone from the media. It could greatly impede our investigation.”

The woman dug into her handbag and came up with a key. “Here,” she said, “go to it. I want you to get the bastard. I listened to Van Vandervelt every single day.”

“Thank you, Ms. Hooks. Again, please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Did you ever meet Mr. Fay?”

“Just once, when I came to look at the house.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

“Just average-looking, I guess. Gray hair, fairly slim, not as tall as you, maybe five ten or so?”

“Do you know where Mr. Fay is?”

“No, he said he was going to see the world. He had a big auction here, sold all his household goods, his car, and his RV. Said he was burning his bridges. His wife died a couple of years ago, I think.”

“What were your instructions if you found a buyer?”

“I have a power of attorney to accept a suitable offer and close the sale.”

“And what are you to do with the proceeds of the sale?”

“Well, that was kind of strange. I’m to run an ad in the
International Herald Tribune,
saying, T.F.—Sale complete, instructions, please.” And then I would get a phone call or a fax with instructions for wiring the money.“

“And you haven’t sold the house, yet?”

“I’ve had one lowball offer that I turned down, since it didn’t meet Mr. Fay’s minimum price.”

“Ms. Hooks, I’d like you to run the ad, please, and I’d like you to phone me the moment you get the wiring instructions.” He handed her a card.

“And what do I tell him when the money doesn’t arrive?”

“If we get that far, tell him the seller failed to close, and you’re back to square one. See if you can get him to tell you where he is. If he won’t, then tell him the power of attorney he signed—how long ago did he sign it?”

“A few weeks.”

“Tell him it expires in sixty days from signing by law, and you’ll have to send him a new one, if you’re going to continue to market the house. Get an address or a fax number for that purpose.”

“All right. I’ll go back to the office and place the ad.”

They shook hands, and she got into her car and left.

“That was very good,” Kerry said.

“Let’s hope it works. And when the team arrives, put their vehicle in the garage. Let’s keep the place looking as normal as possible. Go tell the lawn guy to do his job and keep his mouth shut.”

“Okay.” Kerry walked down the lawn toward the curb.

Kinney walked back to the front door and waited for his team. He was determined not to get too excited about this. But his heart wouldn’t stop beating faster.

39

KATHEREINE RULE LEE looked up to see her deputy director for operations standing in her doorway. “Good morning, Hugh,” she said. “Thanks for coming.” She waved him to the sofa and went to meet him there.

“What’s up, boss?” he asked. This was meant to be ironic; Hugh English had never gotten over the fact that an independent commission had recommended Kate over him for the director’s job.

“I had a conversation last night with President Majorov that I think you might like to know about.”

“Something new for the Majorov file? I’m always happy to have something new on him.”

“It’s not just about Majorov. It’s about Ed Rawls, too. You’ll need to add this to his file, as well.”

“Okay.”

“You may remember that Majorov was the KGB station head in Stockholm when Rawls was there, so he would have been running Rawls.”

“I remember, but that’s not necessarily true. He may have appointed somebody else to run Rawls.”

“He confirmed to me that he, personally, ran Rawls.”

English’s face became expressionless. “So he would have ordered the hit on Lewis and Barbara Moore.”

“That’s a reasonable conclusion, but Majorov denies it.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

“Given the kind of conversation we were having, which was well-oiled on his part, he had no real reason to deny it.”

“Rawls set up Lewis and Barbara,” English said. “It’s the only way it could have happened.”

“No, there was another way. Majorov says he had a bug in the Moores’ apartment.”

“I don’t believe it,” English said. “Staff apartments are swept on a regular basis.”

“I want to know if this is true,” Kate said. “First, get in touch with our Stockholm station and find out if a bug was ever detected in that apartment. If one was never found, then it’s still there.”

“Our people would have found it.”

“You remember the brouhaha when we learned that the Soviets were bugging the new American embassy in Moscow, while it was being built?”

“Of course.”

“I think that shows us that the Soviets had some bugs that were very difficult, if not impossible, to detect.”

“I suppose so.”

“If there’s no record of a bug being found in the Moores’ apartment, then I want the place taken apart, and I mean right down to ripping off the drywall and the plumbing. Move whoever is in the apartment now out and into a new place, and do this thing right.”