Pretenses (6 page)

Gordon nodded.

“You sold some very sensitive information to Sydney Drew, didn't you?”

He nodded again.

“Did you sell it to anyone else?”

He shook his head.

“Unfortunately, I can't take your word for it. I'm gonna have to make sure.” She opened her leather pouch and emptied the vials out onto his chest.

“Are you familiar with acupuncture?”

He shook his head.

“Well, you're about to become acquainted with it. It's going to hurt like hell, but I promise to give you the fuck of your life before you die, okay? It's the least I can do.”

T
HE
H
YATT
R
EGENCY
desk clerk was nothing like our friend from the Four Seasons. She was a first-year Georgetown law student and wanted a warrant for everything. With the flimsy evidence we had, there was no way a judge was going to give us one. I had to go to plan B. I told the clerk that she was obstructing a federal investigation and if she didn't cooperate, I would have her locked up. That got her attention. She was very friendly after that.

I hated roast-beefing citizens. The term stemmed from a legend that had floated around the bureau for years: A New York agent allegedly went to a deli and felt he didn't get enough roast beef on his sandwich so he stood up and said, “I'm FBI!”

The clerk gave us a printout of all the incoming calls to the hotel. We got another phone book of calls. Unfortunately, incoming calls were not logged the way outgoing calls were. Since the hotel doesn't charge the guest for incoming calls, they weren't neatly arranged. I rolled my eyes at the clerk. She smiled triumphantly. I guess she wasn't that scared after all.

That happens sometimes when you roast-beef John Q. Public. They don't cooperate. But I felt it was necessary to get the information. Kelly and I decided to call it a day before tackling the logs. We convinced ourselves that it was probably not going to produce anything anyway. The truth was, I was dog-tired from two hours of sleep, and I wanted to see Keyth and Savannah before I crashed for the night.

When I got home, Savannah greeted me. She was wearing her Mickey Mouse pajamas. She and Keyth were a blessing—my reality check. Nothing is more important than my family—nothing. Some agents are so caught up in the job that they forget they have a life. That's one reason I never went undercover. That's a lonely and dangerous life—especially for a female agent. The entanglements with criminals can get very complicated. And the OPR (Office of Personal Responsibility), the bureau watchdogs, will go after agents if it appears that they are doing something wrong. I guess that's good in a way, but it doesn't do anything for morale.

“Hi, honey.” My daughter suddenly energized me. I knelt, and we hugged each other.

“I missed you, Mommy.”

“And I missed you, too.” I kissed her plump cheek. “Did Daddy feed you?”

“Uh-huh. And it was good, too.”

“What did you have?”

“Some mashed potatoes, cream corn, chicken, string beans, rolls, and some Hawaiian Punch.”

“Any left?”

“Yeah, Daddy let me fix your plate for you. It's in the microwave. I even set the timer. All you gotta do is push start.”

“Hi, baby,” I heard my husband say. “How was work?”

“Fine.”

Keyth and I discussed cases, but not often. I didn't want my daughter to hear about the gore of the day. I tucked my precious bundle of joy in, and we said our prayers. I kissed her goodnight and went to the kitchen to start the microwave. Keyth was in our bedroom, so I walked in there and collapsed on the bed. We talked for a while, but I have no idea what we talked about. The timer on the microwave went off, and Keyth left to get my plate. By the time he returned, I was out.

W
HITE
H
OUSE
C
HIEF OF
S
ECURITY
Joe Rider had just finished a long, exhausting day, making sure the place where the President slept was safe. Being vigilant for such a long period of time can be draining. It was time to go home, where he could finally drop his guard, if only for the hours he slept. Tomorrow, he would have to be alert, ready for anything. There had never been a penetration at the White House, and if Joe Rider had anything to do with it, there wouldn't be one on his watch either.

Joe Rider had been divorced three times, and his latest girlfriend had left him for a bodybuilder she had met at the gym. All Joe had was the job at which he excelled. He never heard from the three children he had fathered, but that was because he had never put in the time with them when they were young. He was always on special assignment. But that didn't mean he didn't love his wife or his children.

Joe Rider had a tremendous sense of duty, one of many attributes he had acquired from the Marine Corps. He had joined the Corps right after college and had served all over the world. He was a boxer and had won the Marine Corps title. After leaving the Corps, he had become a Secret Service Agent and had worked his way up to White House Security Chief.

Like most people after a long day of work, he wanted to eat and then he wanted to relax in his big leather easy chair that seemed to hug him. Joe had his heart set on the pork chops he'd thought about on and off all day.
He could almost taste the succulent white meat. His plan was to open a bottle of Gewurztraminer, a German-grown, sweet-tasting white wine to enjoy with his meal, then watch a movie and perhaps fall asleep in his comfortable La-Z-Boy. Unfortunately, the Rapist had chosen Joe Rider as his next victim.

The Rapist's lust for violence before ravaging his prey had increased with each new victim. At some point, the violence before the act had become an essential component of the crime. He needed more resistance from the victims to arrive at the level of satisfaction he'd achieved with the first couple that he had attacked. During his two-year reign of terror, he had learned that the men fought harder and longer if he pretended to want their wives or girlfriends.

Then it occurred to him to go after men with power. At first, he went after wealthy men and then big tough-looking men, the kind who went to the gym regularly. Their ability to resist longer stimulated him. Now he wanted Joe Rider. He had to be a tough guy if he protected the President.

The Rapist was already in the house, waiting for Joe to come home. He had followed him for several days and knew his routine. His heart pounded in anticipation when he heard the car pull into the attached garage. It was just a matter of time before Joe walked into the surprise of his life. The door from the garage opened into the kitchen. The Rapist heard Joe toss his keys on the counter.

His footsteps on the hardwood floors told the Rapist exactly where Joe was. He went to the bathroom. The Rapist could hear the flow of urine splashing, then the toilet flushing. The anticipation was almost overwhelming. He hoped Joe would fight long and hard. The bathroom door opened, and he came out. Rider's shocked look when he saw the Rapist was exhilarating. He pointed a gun at Joe's head.

“Let's see your weapon.” Joe opened his jacket. “Now, with your left hand, remove it.”

Joe followed his instructions, still shocked. He knew he wasn't going to be killed. If the intruder had wanted that, he would have done it already.

“Remove the clip, and dislodge the chambered shell.”

Joe followed his instructions to the letter. He began to feel a little more at ease with the situation, and wanted the chance to take on the guy who was brazen enough to enter the home of the Chief of Security. The intruder wanted something, and as far as Joe was concerned, that gave him a distinct advantage.

“Now, drop the gun.”

Joe did so.

The Rapist took his eyes off Joe and reached down for the gun. As he knew he would, Joe attacked him and was able to get the gun away from him. He pointed the weapon at the Rapist and pulled the trigger. CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. The gun was empty. A twisted smile emerged on the Rapist's face; then Joe attacked him ferociously with vicious hooks and crosses that would have knocked out Mike Tyson. But the blows didn't faze the Rapist. He was enjoying the punishment.

The Rapist bled easily enough, but there was no stopping him. He was like Joe Frazier fighting Muhammad Ali in their 1972 epic bout in Madison Square Garden. The Rapist could sense that Joe was getting tired. His blows didn't have the same snap and power they'd had earlier in the fight. Besides, they only seemed to make the Rapist stronger.

Joe's face was full of welts and swelling. It wasn't a one-sided fight. The Rapist ran at Joe, tackled him, and punched him in the face until he had no more fight left. Having subdued him, he stripped off his pants.

“NO! DON'T!” Joe screamed when he realized what was going on. But his pleading only added to the Rapist's pleasure.

When the Rapist finished, he left the house. Joe was on the floor, whimpering like a wounded animal. Somehow, Joe found the strength to crawl to his gun. He put the clip back in and chambered a bullet. Then he put the weapon in his mouth and fired.

T
HE BODY OF
C
LAYTON
P
OCKETS
was found early Saturday morning at the Washington Suites Hotel by a maid who had entered the room when no one answered. She ran out of the room screaming. The local police department was handling the case until they discovered who the victim was. Pockets had registered under a phony name, but it didn't take long for the police to uncover his true identity.

I was on my way to the bureau when Assistant Director Michelson called me on my cell. By the time I got there, there was another mob scene, much like the one at the Taylor house. This time, there were even more satellites and more reporters, which meant more bullshit for the public to sift through. I saw Kelly's Stingray so I knew she was going to bust my chops for not arriving sooner. The murder of NSA Director Pockets was going to mean a tremendous amount of pressure to catch the killer.

According to Michelson, Clayton Pockets was killed the same way Judge Taylor was killed. The only good thing about that information was that we now knew Jennifer Taylor, not her husband, had indeed been the target. It also meant that I didn't have to waste valuable time interviewing feminist leader Patricia English.

I walked into the hotel room and saw Pockets lying nude on the bed, his hands and feet tied to the bedposts. Agents and police officers alike were joking about how he had died. Pockets' balls were purple from repeated orgasms. One officer joked, “If you gotta go, that's the way.” Another
joked about wanting to be next on her list. No one seemed to be surprised or even interested in the fact that the Assassin appeared to be a woman.

I examined the body more closely and saw the needle pattern in the victim's chest. I recognized it from the time I had spent in the Shaolin Temple. It was the fertility pattern, designed to help a man with a low sperm count continue relations so that a significant amount of semen could be ejaculated. One of the side effects of this sort of acupuncture was that the man wouldn't be able to have sex again for a least a month, maybe six, depending on the man.

The pattern told me that the assailant was familiar with the ancient art. That, coupled with the skill it took to snap a neck so cleanly, led me to believe that the assassin was a martial artist. If I was right, it was going to be tough to catch her. Michelson's cell rang. From the look on his face, it wasn't good news.

“Perry,” Michelson said. “We got another stiff. Same MO as Taylor and Pockets. You and McPherson get over there before the media finds out we've got a serial killer out there.”

N
SA
RECEPTIONIST
Anita Price told us that Pockets had called in Friday afternoon and said he was taking the rest of the day off, which meant nothing. When she told us he had called from the Capitol Hill Hyatt Regency, I knew we had missed something last night. Nevertheless, we still didn't have enough to get a search warrant. Even if we had a warrant, I had no idea who or what we were looking for.

I looked through the telephone logs the reluctant desk clerk had given us and couldn't make much sense of them, so I decided to do some old-fashioned police work. That meant going to the Hyatt Regency and questioning all the employees.

Director Pockets had called from a pay phone in the lounge. The bartender told us that Pockets had been there, but left with a blonde. He was reasonably confident that he could identify her. We confiscated the security tapes and took the bartender with us to the Hoover Building. With his help, we obtained a picture of the woman Pockets had left with. On the chance that she may have been a guest at the hotel, we put in several other tapes and spotted her coming out of a room on the ninth floor.

From the angle of the videotape, I could see that the room was the last one on the left, next to the exit stairs. We went back to the hotel and called the room to see if she was in. There was no answer. Kelly stayed in the lobby. She was supposed to call me on my cell if the suspect entered the hotel.

I showed the maid my credentials and had her open the door. Careful not to disturb anything, I searched the room and found an electronically locked suitcase. It had a sophisticated ten-button keypad. There could be no doubt now. The blonde was the assassin.

There was a laptop on the dresser, next to the television. I turned it on and searched through the documents. When I saw a file titled “The List,” I opened it and saw a list of names. There were addresses and bios next to each name. Judge Taylor was at the top of the list. Suddenly, my cell rang.

“Yeah.”

“She's on the elevator,” Kelly told me. “Get outta there!”

“You were supposed to tell me when she entered the building.”