Cause For Alarm (40 page)

L
uke arrived back at the motel just as Julianna emerged from her room, her duffel bag packed and slung over her shoulder. Her hair was wet from the shower, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

Luke noticed, Kate was sure by his subtle double take at Julianna, but he didn't comment. “Macs was the best I could do in a hurry,” he said, setting the McDonald's bag and beverage tray on the dresser. “I got sausage biscuits and fat-free muffins. Take your pick.”

Kate propped Emma on her hip and reached for a coffee. The infant squealed in protest, and Kate made a sound of exasperation. “What is wrong with you today, Emma?”

“If you want to eat now, I'll hold her,” Julianna offered. “I mean, if that's okay?”

Kate hesitated, but only a moment. She needed a break. She had been walking, jiggling and bouncing a fussy baby for hours and she'd had it. “Okay,” she said. “But don't say I didn't warn you.”

Kate handed her over with only a twinge of misgiving. The fear that Julianna was going to run off with Emma had all but evaporated. In truth, as Julianna took Emma awkwardly into her arms, she looked more nervous than Kate.

New arms momentarily distracted the infant and with a sigh of relief, Kate helped herself to a coffee and a biscuit.

“I called the P.I. while I was out,” Luke said, folding back the plastic tab on his coffee's lid. “From a pay phone. He found both addresses and travel records for Wendell White and David Snow. The addresses were useless, mail drops and answering services. But the travel records could prove to be a gold mine.”

Luke took a sip of his coffee, then smiled. “White and Snow visited some pretty exotic locales in the past couple of years. Colombia. Mexico. Israel. The U.K. I asked my guy to do a search on Nick Winters as well as to continue with the other names.”

Kate set aside her biscuit, too anxious to eat. “So how does that help us?”

“We need to prove Powers is a loose cannon, right?” Kate and Julianna nodded. “The book will give us the information we need. All we have to do is break the code. The travel records will help us.”

At the two women's blank looks, he explained, “In theory, once we make one of the book's entries, we can use it to decipher the rest. Like an alternate alphabet. I already did a little checking. According to my P.I., David Snow traveled to Mexico on June fourth last year. He returned on the fifteenth. There's a coded entry in the book, dated June fourteenth.”

“Then we have him,” Kate said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. What if the dates are a code, too? Twisted in some way? Or what if Snow was in Mexico on legitimate business? We've got to do this right. I say we go a step further. We find a library and using these travel dates as a guide, we search the back issues of newspapers on microfilm looking for reportings of deaths of government officials or any other important or prominent person. Then we put the two together.

“It's a long shot.” Luke looked from one woman to the other. “But it's the only one we've got. And in my book it beats the hell out of sitting around waiting for Powers to strike.”

The three exchanged glances, then leaped into action, a sense of urgency pressing in on them. They had to move fast. Time, they knew, was one thing John Powers was not going to allow them.

They checked into the new motel—a dismal affair done in a medieval knights theme, as if medieval castles had been papered with red-black-and-silver foil, flocked wallpaper. The woman manning the front desk hadn't had a clue where the nearest public library was, let alone the main branch, but offered the motel's yellow pages.

The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library, they learned, was located at 901 G Street N.W. in the old downtown business district. The library had both the
Washington Post
and the
New York Times
on microfilm.

The day was long, their search tedious. Exhausting and frustrating. As the hours slipped by, Kate became more convinced that they were on a wild-goose chase, more aware that with each minute they searched, John Powers got that much closer to them.

Their progress was slowed even more by Emma. Her crabby mood only worsened as the day progressed. Kate and Julianna took turns walking the halls with her. They bounced her, sang songs and read to her. Nothing worked. At times the infant was almost inconsolable.

When they finally called it quits around two that afternoon, Kate had a screaming headache. Her eyes and shoulders ached and for the first time since arriving at Luke's, she felt hopeless.

She wasn't alone in her feelings. Julianna was subdued and retreated into her own world the minute they reached the hotel; Luke on the other hand, paced. He was frustrated and uncommunicative, and the one time Kate had tried to talk to him, he had all but bitten her head off.

Kate watched him pace for a moment, then returned her gaze to Emma, worried. “What's the matter, sweetie?” She tickled her daughter's lips with the bottle's nipple. “Come on, you've hardly eaten anything all day.”

To her great relief, Emma latched on to the nipple and began sucking. A moment later, however, she jerked away and started to cry, the sound high-pitched and hurting.

A thread of panic wound through Kate.
Something wasn't right.
This was more than Emma being a little fussy because of lack of sleep or her schedule being disrupted. Kate laid a hand on her forehead; it felt hot.

Luke stopped pacing. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know. I think she has a temperature.” Kate bent and pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead. “She's definitely hot.”

“Let me check.” Luke came over and laid his hand on her forehead. “She does feel a little warm. But maybe she's just hungry? Or sleepy?”

“I tried to feed her, but she wouldn't take the bottle. I'm worried, Luke. She's never been sick before.”

“You don't know that she's sick, Kate. It could be she's just…upset.”

“Her pediatrician's in Mandeville, all my child care books, I—” She dragged in a shaky breath. “This whole thing's been too hard on her. I never should have subjected her to it.”

“What would you have done instead?” he asked, impatiently. “Stayed put in Mandeville so she could be murdered in her crib?”

Tears flooded Kate's eyes at his blunt words, and she swung away from him, clutching Emma, struggling not to cry.

He put his arms around her and Emma from behind. He bent and laid his cheek against her hair. “I'm sorry, Kate. I shouldn't have said that. It was wrong.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It wasn't wrong, it was true. We're just going to die later rather than sooner.”

He turned her in his arms so they faced one another. “Don't say that. We have—”

“Nothing, Luke. We have nothing. We're no better off now than we were in Houston.”

“We knew from the beginning that it wasn't going to be easy. We need a little more time, that's all.”

“And time's just what we don't have.” A sob rose in her throat. “It's impossible, like looking for a needle in a haystack. And now Emma's sick. I can't keep dragging her from one place to another like this. It's not good for her.”

“Look at me, Kate. We don't even know for sure that John has made the connection between you and me. And even if he has, almost no one knew we were headed to D.C.”

“He has made the connection. Somehow, he'll find us.” She broke away from his arms. Emma began to cry, and Kate held her to her chest, trembling. “I
feel
him, Luke. He's watching us now, this minute. Nipping at our heels, laughing at our feeble efforts. And now Emma…something's wrong with…”

“Calm down, Kate.” Luke closed the distance she had put between them and cupped her face in his palms. “I'll call the front desk, they'll know where the nearest Ready Med is—”

“What then?” she asked, tears welling. “Change hotels? Run forever? You know as well as—”

“Stop it!” Julianna leaped to her feet. “I can't take it anymore!”

Kate and Luke swung toward her, surprised. Even Emma was momentarily startled into silence.

“Don't you see?” she implored them. “We've got to stick together. If we're going to beat him, we've got to stick together. We've got to stay positive—”

She stopped suddenly. She brought her hands to her mouth, her expression stunned. “Oh, my God. That's it. I know what we should do, how we can get John. I can't believe I didn't see it before.”

She turned to them. “Senator Jacobson. Clark Russell. We've had the answer all along.”

“Senator William Jacobson?” Kate asked, drawing her eyebrows together. “Didn't he die last year? Wasn't he murdered?”

Julianna nodded. “I read about it in the paper, but it never made sense to me. The newspaper account reported that he had been found dead in his Washington hotel room. But whenever he stayed in the city, he stayed with my mother.”

“Your mother?” Luke murmured, frowning.

“She was his mistress.”

“I see what Julianna's getting at,” Kate said, turning to Luke. “John told Julianna that he'd killed her mother. If she and the senator were together that night—”

“He would have killed him, too.” Luke nodded. “That would mean the true facts of the murder were concealed to protect the senator and his family. It could be. It happens all the time.”

“Billy was married,” Julianna said. “Mother mentioned his wife a bunch of times. She came from big money, I think.”

“She did.” Kate nodded. “I read something about that. She came from some important family. Really important, with political ties.”

“You're right,” Luke said, excitement edging into his voice. “You mentioned two names, Julianna. The other was—”

“Clark Russell. He was with the CIA. Investigative branch, I'm pretty sure. He and mother had been lovers, a long time ago. He's the one who told her what John did for a living. Until then, even though they had been together for years, she hadn't known the truth. When I didn't believe her, she called Clark. He showed me some classified photographs, ones of…of John's victims. I believed them then. And I ran.”

“Clark Russell made it personal,” Luke murmured. “He crossed the line.”

Kate drew her eyebrows together, something suddenly occurring to her. “Wait a minute, you're telling us that all three of these men were at one time or another your mother's lover?”

“Yes.”

“And now, two out of the three are dead.”

“Yes. John admitted to me that he killed Clark.”

Luke sat. “If we can prove Powers killed a United States senator, I think we'd have it.”

“Don't we have enough now?” Kate asked, sounding breathless to her own ears. “Couldn't we go to Morris, lay it all out for him and—”

“I don't think so. We don't have anything solid to tie Powers to the murders.”

Kate made a sound of disbelief. “Even though all three were at one time Sylvia Starr's lover? Even though two of the three are recently dead and now John Powers is after Sylvia's daughter? What do they want, it delivered wrapped in a gift bow?”

“Yes, actually. That's just what they want. They want us to give them Powers, lock, stock and barrel. Right now, all we've got is speculation and coincidence.” He frowned. “But I'm thinking, if we could prove there was a cover-up in the senator's death, maybe, just maybe they would make a move. It's worth a shot.

“We start with the police.” He shifted his gaze to Emma, sleeping finally but fitfully, in Kate's arms. “After we get Emma to the doctor.”

T
he homicide division of the Metropolitan Police Department, or M.P.D., was located downtown in the Henry J. Daly Municipal Center. Besides police headquarters, Luke learned, the Daly building housed several other entities, including the Department of Motor Vehicles and the parole board. Interesting choice, combining paroled convicts and police officers in the same building. He wondered what genius had thought that one up.

Parking downtown D.C. was a nightmare so Luke had taken a cab. He paid the driver, then made his way into the building and past the uniformed guards and metal detector. Homicide was on three, accessible only from the main lobby elevators. Every police department he had ever been in possessed its own distinct character. Some were rough, some sleekly modern, some carnival-like.

But the officers themselves, as a group, varied little, whether small-town cop or big-city law enforcement. A breed unto themselves, tough but never reckless, unified. He supposed it was because they lived differently than regular folks, on an invisible edge. Seeing death changed a man. As did facing it.

If he made it through this, Luke hadn't a doubt that he would be changed, too.

He stepped onto the elevator, checking his watch as he did. It was nearly five. Emma's trip to the Ready Med had taken longer than he had anticipated, though it was a good thing they had gone. By the time they'd gotten in to see the doctor, the child had gone from feeling a little warm to downright hot.

And no wonder. Emma had had a temperature of 102.5, brought on by a severe ear infection in both ears. The doctor had prescribed an antibiotic, infant's Tylenol for the fever and discomfort and plenty of rest.

The elevator glided to a stop; the doors slid open and Luke emerged from the car. The homicide division lay straight ahead, through doors that could only be accessed with a key code. He turned right and headed down the hall to the desk lieutenant's office, pausing beside a trash receptacle.

On the way downtown, Luke had had the cabbie make a quick stop at a bookstore. He'd run in and bought a copy of
Dead Drop.
He took it out of the bag, which he tossed in the trash, then tucked the volume under his arm.

He hoped his so-called celebrity status and a free, autographed book might encourage somebody to talk. The guys at the Houston P.D. had adopted him as one of their own, letting him into their closed circle. They filled him in on cases, their theories, why and how things went down—even when they went wrong. They did so because they knew they could trust him, because he always took care to get his facts straight and give an acknowledgment when warranted.

He didn't fool himself that the M.P.D. officers would be so welcoming.

The desk lieutenant was a woman. Luke sent her what he hoped was a winning smile. “Hi, I'm Luke Dallas. The novelist.” Her expression didn't change. “I'm in Washington to research my new book, and I was wondering if I could speak with one of the detectives.”

“You'll have to see Detective Peterson in Community Relations. He's on four.”

The Community Relations officer was not about to give him the information he needed. Those guys always played it by the book.

Luke tried again. He flashed the woman another smile, though he could tell she wasn't impressed. “I'm only in town for the day, and I was really hoping to talk to someone currently working cases.”

“Sorry.” She frowned. “Department policy.”

He shifted the book under his arm. Her gaze flicked to it, then back up to him. “Who'd you say you are?”

“Luke Dallas.
Dead Drop.
” He held up the book and recognition lit her features.

“I saw you on the ‘Today Show.' Isn't that Matt Lauer to die for?”

Luke's lips lifted in self-directed amusement.
Some claim to fame.
“I wouldn't know about to die for, but he's a great guy. A good buddy of mine, actually.”
When all else fails, lie your ass off.
“I could get you an autograph.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. We play tennis together every week.”

She thought for a moment, then leaned slightly toward him. “I tell you what, I'll let you talk to Detective Sims. I think he'll be able to help you out.”

Five minutes later, Lieutenant Arlene Larson's full name and address in his pocket, Luke sat across from Detective Sims. Luke immediately understood why the lieutenant had chosen this detective to speak with him. He was young, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. A preppy-looking, go-by-the-books kind of guy. Definitely not the kind who would spill department secrets.

“So, you're a writer?” the detective said.

“That's right. Luke Dallas.” He handed him the book. “For you, signed.”

The kid stared at the book, his jaw going slack. “Holy shit, not
the
Luke Dallas?”

Luke smiled and relaxed slightly. “The very one.”

“I love your books.” Sims leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I'm a writer, too. Not published yet, but I will be. Maybe you could take a look at my manuscript?”

First Matt Lauer. Now this.

“I'm only in town for the day,” Luke murmured, trying to sound disappointed. “I tell you what, you help me out with this and I'll give you my agent's name and put in a good word for you. Agreed?”

“You got it.” The detective looked about ready to bust, he was so pleased with the deal. “Want to hear what my story's about? It's really good. Fast-paced. Lots of action.”

“I'd love to, if I had the time. I'll just have to trust that it's great.”

The detective looked crestfallen, but nodded. “Okay, so what do you need to know?”

“The scenario I'm currently working on involves the cover-up of the murder of an influential man. An important man.”

“Influential? How so?”

“He's a U.S. senator.”

The detective nodded. “Go on.”

“Our senator is a respectable married man. He has kids. A pillar of the community, country and church. He also has a mistress.”

Sims nodded. “This is good. I like this.”

“He's in bed with his mistress. An assassin enters and kills them both. Pop, one shot to the chest and the senator's history.”

“Oh, wow. What's the twist? I know your stories, there's always a twist.”

Luke's lips lifted. “The assassin's not after him, he's after the mistress. The senator is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The wife has family connections that go all the way to the president and the feds—”

“Cover up the true circumstances of the murder to save the wife, kids and country public humiliation.”

“Exactly.” Luke smiled. “I can tell you're a born writer.” The detective beamed at him, and Luke leaned back in his chair. “You ever seen anything like that before, Detective?”

“Personally, no. But it could happen.”

“What about Senator Jacobson's murder? Anything like what I described?”

The preppy detective's face fell. “Senator Jacobson?”

“The very one.” Luke leaned forward. “I have reason to believe Jacobson was neither in a hotel room nor alone when he was killed. I need to corroborate.”

“I didn't work that case.”

“You could look up the report.” Luke met the other man's gaze straight on. “It's important, Sims. I'd consider it a personal favor.”

“This isn't for one of your novels, is it?”

“No, Sims, it's not. But it's life and death, I promise you that.”

The young detective hesitated, then looked nervously over his shoulder. “You didn't hear this from me?”

“I didn't hear it at all.”

He nodded, glanced around again, then murmured. “I don't have to look that one up, it's not every day a senator gets whacked. Something was definitely off about Jacobson's death. About the scene.” The detective shifted in his seat, his chair creaked. “From the get-go it was hands off, feds only. They examined the scene, collected and processed the evidence. Some of the guys were really ticked off.”

“Couldn't that have been because of who the victim was? Like you said, it's not every day a United States senator is murdered.”

“Could be. But I doubt it.” Sims leaned forward. “I heard some talk. Speculation that something different went down than what was officially reported. The scene didn't look right. Captain told us to put a lid on it.”

“What happened then?”

“We did as ordered. Who has time to worry about yesterday's stiffs, no matter how important a person they were, we got today's, you know what I mean?”

Luke agreed that he did, indeed, know what he meant. “Sylvia Starr, ever heard that name?”

Sims thought a moment, then shook his head. “Who is she?”

“Murder victim. Could you look her up for me?”

“Sure. What do you need to know?”

“Date and time of death, circumstances. Whether she was found alone.”

He swung toward his PC, typed in the appropriate combination of letters and numbers; a moment later the information came up. Sims scanned it. “Murdered on November 16, last year. Estimated time of death 3:00 a.m. Lover beside her, a John Doe. Gunshot to the head, close range. Blew her brains out. Unsolved.”

“That's it?”

“That's it, though there should be more.” He frowned, rereading the information on the screen. “I don't see anything about evidence collection, witness interviews, or a case pending. It must have fallen through the cracks. You want me to look her up in the hard file?”

“No, that's okay. Could you check one more thing for me?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Jacobson, the date and time of his murder?”

Sims turned to his PC once more. A minute later he frowned. “November 16, last year. Estimated time of death 3:00 a.m. Think there's a connection here?”

“Maybe.”

“The mistress, right?”

“Yeah.” Luke smiled grimly and stood, thinking ahead to the conversation he would have with Morris. “You got a card, Sims?”

The detective handed him one, and Luke turned it over and jotted down his agent's name, address and telephone number. “Send him your manuscript, tell him I said he should read it. When I get home, I'll call him, put in a good word for you.”

The man flushed with pleasure. “Thanks, Mr. Dallas.” He held out a hand. “Thanks a lot.”

“Thank you.” Luke shook his hand. “I appreciate your help.”

He started to walk away, stopping and turning back after a few steps. “Sims?” The detective looked up. “A moment ago you said the scene was feds only. Happen to know which Agency that was?”

The younger man thought a moment, then shook his head. “Can't recall. You want me to find out? It'll take a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I would,” Luke said, turning back toward the desk. “I'll wait.”