The President's Assassin (18 page)

“No. I trained in psychiatry.”

She sort of shrugged dismissively. “An interesting field also, I suppose.”

Jennie nodded, and I wondered what was going through her mind.

Mrs. Barnes said, “A week after Calhoun passed the bar, he and I walked together down the aisle in the chapel at St. Christopher’s, his prep school. This was 1965. He was regarded as quite the catch, and I was regarded as a very lucky woman. But Calhoun didn’t want to work for an important judge, or at a big firm.”

I asked, “Why not?”

“Well, I suppose we weren’t inclined to depart this city for any amount of money.”

It sounded like a lovely sentiment, and we both nodded in acknowledgment. Of course, all the money they wanted was in the city.

She added, “But I think Calhoun didn’t want to go through the clerking or associate phase of law. He was a hungry man, ambitious and quite impatient. He decided that if he opened his own practice, he could jump ahead of everybody.”

Hoping to get us out of this pit of nostalgia, I commented, “I would think he needed partners.”

She looked at me a moment. “You’re right, Mr. Drummond. And he knew just the right man...the top man of his law class, in fact.”

I pointed in the direction of the framed picture. “Phillip Fineberg.”

“Yes...Phillip.”

“Good choice.”

She did not acknowledge that judgment, and instead sipped from her sherry and studied the ceiling.

She remarked, “It was...well, an uneven relationship at first.”

“Because Fineberg was Jewish?”

She nodded. “We were always more progressive than Selma, but it was...in those days, in this city,
complicated
to be Sephardic. A lot of business occurs on golf courses and at social events, and Phillip didn’t— You understand, don’t you?”

We understood. I also understood that a man with Calhoun’s background and conservative leanings didn’t partner with a social pariah to correct a racial injustice, or as an act of generosity.

Anyway, we listened as she prattled on about how Calhoun carried Fineberg on his strong back, the local boy with all the right stuff, schmoozing and boozing, roping in clients by the boatload. And it worked—Barnes and Fine, the title the partners delicately chose for their firm, became highly regarded, successful, and prosperous, in that order.

The chemistry between the founding partners was flawed, and often strained, but greed was the aphrodisiac. Calhoun hauled home the fish, and Fineberg gutted and filleted them, from the backroom, hidden behind his truncated name. The footwork, the research, the briefs, and court preparation fell on Fineberg’s brilliant shoulders, and Calhoun was the courtroom shark, racking up victories, hammering witnesses, earning quite the local name as a brainy brawler. Interestingly, Fineberg never once set foot in a courtroom except to deliver a late filing or to help Calhoun haul his thick briefcases back and forth.

It was an intriguing tale with all the makings of a good tragedy, and you sensed where this might be going, but Mrs. Barnes suddenly looked up and said, slightly surprised, “Your glass appears empty, Mr. Drummond. Would you be so kind as to refill both our containers?”

So I did.

At the bar, I turned to her and asked, perhaps undiplomatically, “By the way, what happened to your legs?”

She glanced at me. “My legs are fine.”

“I’m sorry. I thought—”

“You thought wrong. My back was broken.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry. How?”

“An automobile accident.”

“I see.”

I handed her the glass and she immediately took a long gulp of sherry. Eventually, she exhaled deeply and said, “I suppose you’re wondering about the rumors?”

“Exactly.” I had not a clue what she was talking about.

She stared into her drink and swirled it around a moment. “It’s true that Calhoun drove that night. We never denied that.”

Jennie tried to catch up and asked Mrs. Barnes, “Could we go back to the beginning?”

“The beginning? Yes...that would be spring, 1975, a few months after our son was born. I don’t recall the evening overly well. But that sounds a little odd, doesn’t it? I mean, you’d think...”

Whatever you’d think she let drift off. “We were at the country club,” she continued, “celebrating with a client. Calhoun’s firm had won a rather sizable settlement. We were driving home when it happened.” She looked at me and added, I thought oddly, “But I’ve never blamed Calhoun.”

Jennie asked, “The accident—the police investigated?”

“Calhoun found his way to a phone and he called the hospital and the police.”

“And the police came?”

“Yes. An officer arrived shortly before the ambulance.”

“And did he do an investigation?”

“There was no need for that, at all. The night was rainy, our car simply lost its traction and hit a tree. Nobody was injured. No property was damaged.”

“
You
were injured.”

She hesitated, then said, “The officer knew Calhoun. He spared us that indignity and inconvenience.”

I noted, “Your insurance company wouldn’t regard it as an indignity. The repairs...your medical treatments—who paid?”

“Us...of course.” I suppose we both looked surprised by that revelation, because she explained, “My husband was highly principled, Mr. Drummond. It would have been improper to make somebody else pay for a mistake he regarded as entirely his own.”

I wasn’t sure how we got waylaid on this particular tangent, which appeared, on the surface, to have no bearing to our investigation. Yet some instinct told me it was relevant, possibly even important. Another instinct told me she was lying, or, at the least, withholding an important piece from this tale, and it wasn’t hard to guess what it was. I said, “Mrs. Barnes, if your husband was intoxicated, he was a menace to the public, and his behavior was possibly criminal.”

She looked at me a moment. “I did not say Calhoun was drunk.”

“Was he?”

“Well, there was not such anxiety in those years about drinking and driving. It really wasn’t—”

“Answer my question.”

“Calhoun’s frien— The officer recognized we had suffered enough. He—”

“Was or was not your husband intoxicated?”

“Calhoun
always
held his liquor well.” She paused, then added tersely, “I have no idea why you’re asking these questions. I hardly see how they pertain to what you’re here to investigate.”

I looked at Jennie. She turned to Mrs. Barnes, as if nothing amiss had been said, and asked, “This happened when? A few months after your son’s birth? Right?”

“Yes. There were unfortunate complications...internal injuries, and...well, further babies became beyond our means.”

An interesting way to put it. I mentioned, “That must’ve been difficult for you.”

“Oh no, Mr. Drummond. I think our difficulties would have been magnified greatly with another baby.”

“Because you were in a wheelchair?”

“I was bedridden for several years. More operations, rehabilitation clinics, and so forth. Then came the wheelchair.”

Jennie said, “Yes. It would’ve been hard enough just raising...I apologize...your son’s name?”

“Jason...Jason Nathan. Fortunately, Calhoun was an extraordinary father, very attentive, very active in Jason’s life. They were exceedingly close.”

Jennie commented, “That’s unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“A professional man raising an infant, in those years...”

Clearly we had tripped over some hidden wire in her psychic security system, because she raised an eyebrow and interrupted, “Why are you interested in that?”

“We’re not,” I insisted. “What happened to the firm?”

“I do not believe I’m ready to answer that.” She looked at me and asked, “Exactly
what
are you two doing here?”

When neither of us responded, she said, “I assumed...at least, I expected...”

“Expected what?” Jennie asked.

“Well...the sabotage of my husband’s reputation and...who caused Calhoun to kill himself...who exploited your Bureau...and...and who lied...”

I said, “Tell us about that.”

Her head jerked up. “No...no, I don’t believe I will. I believe I have already answered enough of your questions.” She appeared confused, and suddenly upset, but she collected her wits enough to say, “You should leave my house. Right now, both of you.”

I looked at Jennie. Clearly, the curtain had just collapsed on Act One, and it was time to shift into Act Two, to give Margaret Barnes the proverbial knee in the balls. I said, “Mrs. Barnes, we were sent here by the Director of the FBI. We’re not leaving.”

“Oh, you are quite wrong about that. It’s my home and—”

“Stop talking. Listen.” I looked Mrs. Barnes in the eye and informed her, “At approximately 6:20 this morning, the White House Chief of Staff, his wife, and four Secret Service agents were murdered. This afternoon, the President’s spokesman was murdered on the Washington beltway, as were seven entirely innocent people.” She blinked in confusion, apparently not getting the connection, so to help her along I added, “Moments later, Phillip Fineberg—your husband’s former partner—was blown in half as he opened his front door.”

“Fineberg? I...I don’t—”

“Yes...I think you do.”

Jennie quickly added, “Agent Jason Barnes, your son, has been missing since he went off duty yesterday afternoon. We need your help to stop him before he kills more.”

I looked at Margaret Barnes’s stricken face and realized my earlier prediction had come true. We had just ruined her night, and very possibly we had also destroyed what was left of what I was now sure was an already miserable life.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
ARGARET
B
ARNES SAT QUIETLY IN A STATE OF MILD SHOCK
. I
N A FEW
seconds, either she would go hysterical or fall headlong into a pit of incoherent despair. As a general rule in these situations, you have about three minutes to coax a subject into a chatty mood, or they aren’t going to talk. Period.

I looked at Jennie, and we both knew what we had to do; further, we both knew
who
had to do what. I had no enthusiasm for this, but by temperaments and alpha factors, I was the obvious choice.

“Are you listening, Mrs. Barnes?” I leaned forward and informed her bluntly, “Your son
murdered
sixteen people.”

She stared off into space, and appeared not to comprehend. I raised my voice and said, “The Belknap murder was an inside job—Jason was on his security team, he had the insight, and his footprints were placed at the scene at the time the crime occurred. We also have hard evidence showing Jason’s access to the specialty munitions used to murder both the presidential spokesman and Justice Fineberg.”

I paused to let this half-lie sink in, then threw in another half-lie. “We have evidence, we have opportunity, and at least the skeleton of a motive. In fact, Jason left a note announcing his intention to go on a killing spree.” With a touch of theatrics, I paused, then added, “And lest I forget—he also intends to assassinate the President.”

Margaret Barnes was starting to lose it. She appeared unfocused and woozy, and was gasping for breath. Jennie stood up. She walked over to Mrs. Barnes, knelt beside her chair, and said, “Can I get you something, Margaret? Water? Anything?”

She did not reply.

I said, “For Godsakes, you gave us the connection to Phillip Fineberg. But to tie this together we need to know more...and you’re going to tell us more. Now.”

She mumbled, “But...you lied, and I...you deceived me about—”

“No—we did not lie.”

“Yes, you—”

“We identified ourselves as federal officers pursuing an official investigation.” Following an instinct, I bluffed and said, “Knowing that, you still lied about the circumstances regarding your crippling. We can and will investigate your story, but we already know what we’ll find, don’t we, Mrs. Barnes?
You
lied to us—on tape.” She gawked at the recorder as I informed her, “That’s a prosecutable federal crime, if you’re interested.”

Jennie insisted, very softly, “It’s true, Margaret. You did volunteer the information. And you weren’t truthful, were you?”

“But, I...but, Jason couldn’t...I mean— I think I’d like to speak to my—”

Before the L-word could slip out of her lips, I raised my voice and said, “In a few hours, your son will murder again. If you withhold information that could help us stop him, I will arrest
you
for willful complicity in murder, for obstructing an investigation, and for willful concealment. I’ll drag
you
out of this house in cuffs, and I’ll put
you
in jail.”

Mrs. Barnes turned her head and looked at Jennie. Jennie said, “Margaret...I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’d be left with no choice.”

I said, “On tape, we already have you lying to federal officers. You’ll be convicted. You’ll go to prison, probably until you die.”

In a way I was telling the truth, because any lie to a federal officer—even absent a Miranda warning—is a punishable offense. But as a lawyer, I was well aware that juries don’t really expect mothers to rat out their own kids. So this mild exaggeration was obviously not intended to be interpreted too literally.

But what mattered was not what I knew, what mattered was what she knew, and, judge’s wife or not, apparently she didn’t know enough. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, and she appeared to be on the verge of a complete meltdown. But she still wasn’t talking, which was annoying and frustrating. You have to push the right button, and I still hadn’t found it. I searched my mind for the soft spot and wasn’t coming up with it.

Jennie raised an eyebrow at me and mentioned to Mrs. Barnes, somewhat sorrowfully, “This is terrible, Margaret. Your family, and your reputation will be ruined.”

I got it.

Jennie got off her knees and sat on the arm of Margaret’s chair. I walked toward Margaret and leaned over, getting three inches from her face. “But hey, Mrs. Barnes—imagine if your boy actually kills the President. Think about it—the President of the United States. You’ll become overnight sensations. You’ll be the modern equivalent of Mrs. John Wilkes Booth.”