Capital Crimes (4 page)

“What did you do last evening?”

“I cooked us dinner, and then we talked for a while and played Scrabble. There is no TV in the cabin.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“Did you or the senator wake up during the night?”

“The senator tended to wake me up once or twice when he went to the bathroom. When he was back in bed, I would go to sleep again.”

“Tell me about the events of this morning.”

“The senator always woke earlier than I, and I would wake up for a minute, too, then I would fall asleep again. It was that way this morning, then I woke up when I heard the sound of him falling.”

“Did you hear a shot or hear the window break?”

“No. I’ve heard the sound of him falling before, when he had a heart attack last year, so I guess I was kind of on the alert for that.”

“What happened then?”

“I went into the kitchen and found him there. I couldn’t get a pulse, so I guess he died quickly. I gave him CPR when he had the heart attack, but when I saw the wound in his head, I didn’t try that. I sat with him for a minute, then I did what he had always told me to do if he died. I got my things packed up and got out of the house. On the way home I called the sheriff.”

“Did you see or hear anyone outside the house?”

“No, no one.”

Kinney stood up. “I thank you for your time, Ms. Johnson. This conversation will not go into my report nor will I tell the press about it.”

“I thank you for that,” she said, sounding relieved.

Kinney turned toward the door, then stopped. “Sheriff, could I have a moment alone with Ms. Johnson, please?”

“Sure,” the sheriff said, and stepped outside.

“Just one more question,” Kinney said. “Ms. Johnson, the senator apparently kept some personal files at one of his residences. Are you aware of any file drawers or cabinets or files anywhere in the cabin?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m not.”

“Thank you,” he said. He shook her hand and went out to the sheriff’s car, where Stribling and Emerson waited for him.

“Get what you need?” Stribling asked.

“Yes, but it wasn’t much,” Kinney replied. “I’m going to want to go back to the cabin alone tomorrow.”

“I’ll fix you up with a car,” the sheriff said. “You want to go to your hotel now?”

“Yes, please.” Kinney looked at his watch. It was after five, and he had not turned on his cell phone since leaving the airplane.

“It’s more of an inn, I guess,” the sheriff said. “Widow lady runs it. She’s only been open a couple of months, but it’s the best we’ve got around here.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Kinney said.

THE CAR STOPPED before a large Victorian house, freshly painted and with a carefully tended lawn. A sign out front said Kimble House. Mrs. Kimble met them at the door, and Kinney was impressed.

She was fortyish with long, dark hair and lovely skin. Her clothes did not hide her very impressive body.

“Mr. Kinney? I’m Nancy Kimble. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kimble. Ralph, are you staying here, too?“

”No, Bob, I have to drive back to Columbia,“ Emerson replied. Kinney shook his hand and that of the sheriff. ”If you could have a car for me at nine tomorrow morning, Sheriff.“

“Will do.” The sheriff got into his car and drove away.

“Let me show you to your room, Mr. Kinney,” she said.

“It’s Bob, please.”

“And I’m Nancy.” She took him to a large bedroom with a four-poster bed, a fireplace, and a comfortable sofa. “I hope this will be all right,” she said. “Oh, I almost forgot, you have some messages.” She reached into her pocket and produced half a dozen pink message slips.

Kinney glanced at them; they were all from the director.

“I can offer you dinner, if you like,” she said. “You’re my only guest tonight.”

“I’d like that very much, Nancy,” he said. “Perhaps you’d join me?”

“Thank you, I will.”

“I’d better return these calls now.”

“Seven-thirty all right?”

“Perfect..”

She closed the door behind her.

KINNEY CALLED Washington and got the director on the phone.

“So, what have you got?” Heller asked anxiously.

“Senator Wallace was killed instantly by a single shot from a sniper outside his lake cabin. The perpetrator was tracked back to a rest stop on a highway nearly a mile away, but he left no footprints, tire prints, shell casings, or anything else that might help us find him.”

“That’s it?” the director asked, incredulously. “That’s all you’ve got for the press conference? We’re on in an hour.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m in a small town in South Carolina, and I don’t have access to television broadcasting facilities. You’ll have to carry the ball, I’m afraid.”

“But what am I going to say?”

“I’ve told you everything I’ve learned,” Kinney lied.

“But I can’t go on national television with just that.”

“Sir, you may recall that I was opposed to the idea of a press conference, until we have something to report.”

The director made a noise and hung up.

AT SIX-THIRTY, Kinney switched on the television in his room and tuned in a network news show. The director made his appearance during the first five minutes. He repeated verbatim what Kinney had told him, then added, “Of course, our investigation has only just begun, and we expect to begin developing suspects shortly.”

“Then you’re going to have to develop them yourself,” Kinney said to the TV, “because this shooter is not going to give us anything.” He switched off the TV, unpacked his clothes, and began to change for dinner. He was looking forward to dining with Nancy Kimble.

8

WILL LEE SWITCHED OFF the TV after the FBI director’s press conference and turned to half a dozen of his staff who had been watching with him. “Do you think if I call him now he’ll be able to tell me anything else?” he asked the group.

Kitty Conroy, his chief of staff, spoke up. “If he had anything else, he’d have said so on television, and I very much doubt if he expects to have suspects soon. He’s just waffling, which is what he does.”

“Makes you wonder why he bothered to call a press conference, doesn’t it?” Will said.

“Makes me wonder why he’s still director,” said Tim Coleman, the press secretary.

“Don’t start, Tim,” Will said. “You know that’s on my list of things to do.”

“Do you want us to start developing a list of possible replacements?” Kitty asked.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Will said, “and I’m inclined to go a different route than in the past.”

“How do you mean?”

“The past few directors have been federal judges or U.S. Attorneys, like Heller, and frankly, I don’t think those jobs particularly qualify a person to be director of the FBI. I’d rather have somebody like a police chief who’s done a good job in a big city, somebody who’s run a large law enforcement agency and who has a background as an officer himself. Or herself.”

“You think the FBI is ready for a female director?” Tim asked.

“I don’t think the FBI will
ever
be ready for a female director, but I’m willing to give them one, if the right woman comes along.”

“What about promoting from within?” Kitty asked.

“I tend to think that we need somebody who can shake up the FBI culture, make it more responsive to other agencies, and, for that matter, to me, and that would most likely be an outsider. But if you can find a superbly qualified senior man in the Bureau who hasn’t been tainted by Waco or Ruby Ridge or the Richard Jewel mess or some other debacle, then I’ll consider him.” The president stood up. “I think that’s the day,” he said.

The group broke up, and Will, accompanied by a Secret Service agent, made for the elevator to the family quarters of the White House. “

BOB KINNEY, freshly showered and shaved and dressed in a blue blazer with an open-necked shirt, left his room and wandered through the public rooms of the apparently deserted inn. It was handsomely decorated, he thought, and he hoped Nancy Kimble would find enough guests to make a go of it. He walked into a nicely paneled library, spotted a carved mahogany bar in a corner, and made for it.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked from the doorway.

“Let me buy you one,” he said, slipping behind the bar.

She walked across the room toward him, tall, leggy, dressed in well-cut black trousers and a white silk blouse. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have a Laphroaig.”

“A what?”

“Single-malt Scotch,” she said, pointing. “On the rocks.”

“I think I’ll try one, too,” he said. He found a pair of glasses, filled them with ice, and poured the amber liquid.

They touched glasses and sipped.

“Mmm,” he said. “That’s remarkable.”

“I always think I can taste the peat from the Scottish soil,” she replied.

“So you’re new to the innkeeping business?” he asked.

“Yes. My husband dropped dead of a heart attack at his desk seven months ago. He was with a brokerage firm in Charlotte, and we had just finished decorating this house.”

“How old was he?”

“He was fifty-two. How old are you?”

“Fifty-four and a half,” he replied.

“I’m forty-four,” she said.

“You don’t look it.”

She smiled for the first time. “That’s just what you were supposed to say. I’ve never met an FBI agent before. Are you typical of the breed?”

“No, I’m larger, smarter, and more ornery. I’ve never met an innkeeper before, except across a check-in desk.”

“Are you married?”

“Separated, pending divorce,” he replied. “It’ll be final next month.”

“Kids?”

“Two, both girls, both all grown up and married. One of them is going to present me with a grandson in a couple of months. How about you?”

“Childless. We tried, it didn’t work. It’s probably just as well. I’m not sure what kind of a mother I would have been. Do you like veal?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because we’re having blanquette de veau, whether you like it or not.”

“A blanket of veal?”

“It’s a stew, and it covers the rice, like a blanket.”

“Sounds great.”

“I thought you might like something other than southern cooking, so I sent the cook home.”

“I like southern cooking, too.”

“Stick around a couple of days, and you’ll get plenty.”

“I’m going to do everything I can to stick around for at least a couple of days,” he said.

“Good. Who shot the senator?”

“We’ve narrowed the list of people with a motive to about ten thousand.”

She laughed aloud. “Add me to the list,” she said. “I hated the bastard and his politics.”

“What kind of shot are you?” he asked.

“I’ve never fired a gun of any kind.”

“Where were you at dawn this morning?”

“Showing the cook how to scramble eggs
slowly
.”

“Well, you have a motive, but no means or opportunity,” he said. “You’re officially cleared.”

“Aw shucks. I was hoping to be more thoroughly investigated.”

He peered at her over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t say you weren’t going to be investigated,” he said.

She smiled a little. “Oh, good.”

9

KINNEY WOKE UP AT EIGHT and reached for her; she was gone, and the covers were cool. He sighed. It had been a memorable night, the kind he had not had since the first year of his marriage. He had to get moving.

He showered, dressed, and went looking for Nancy Kimble. He found a table set for one in the dining room, settled there and waited, sipping the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice that had been left for him.

Nancy soon came through the kitchen door with a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage and set it before him. “Good morning,” she said. She sat down and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.

“I appear to have taken advantage of you last night,” Kinney said.

“On the contrary, it was I who took advantage of you. Here I was, alone in this house for the first time with a big, handsome man, and an FBI agent on top of that. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“I guess I’m pretty much an opportunist myself,” he said. “It was the nicest night I’ve spent in living memory.”

“You’re sweet,” she said, smiling. “What are you doing today?”

“I have some work to do out at the senator’s lake cabin, and it will take me all day.”

“You’ll be back for dinner?”

“I will, but unless I get lucky and there’s another serious federal crime in the area, I’m going to have to go back to Washington tomorrow.”

“Well, there’s always tonight,” she said.

KINNEY WAS SITTING in a rocker on the front porch when the sheriff’s patrol car pulled up to the curb, followed by a deputy in an unmarked car.

Tom Stribling got out and handed Kinney the keys. “All yours,” he said. “Need any help?”

“Nah, this is going to be mostly repetition,” Kinney replied. “What shall I do with the car when I’m done?”

“Leave it at the airport when you go,” Stribling replied.

“Tom, I’ve made it clear to my people that you’re in charge of the local investigation. We’re just there to offer support—prints, lab work—anything you need.”

“I ‘preciate that,“ Stribling said. ”I’m afraid I don’t have anything new for you.“

“That doesn’t surprise me. This is going to be a tough one. Thanks for your help.” The two men shook hands.

Stribling got into his patrol car with his deputy, waved, and drove away.

Kinney started the car, drove to Main Street, and found a hardware store. He purchased some tools, then drove out to the senator’s cabin. A deputy waved him through a gate, and then he was alone in the house.

He started with a thorough room-by-room search of every drawer and closet, every nook and cranny. That done, without success, he started on the floorboards, looking for loose ones or boards that were too short or out of place. When he found an interesting one, he used a prybar to lift it, then hammered it back into place when he was done.