“Right, but who’s in charge?”
“Mahoney. He wants you to look at the bodies before they’re moved.”
“How bad?”
“They weren’t shot in the face. You’ll recognize both.”
We walked around to the lot in the rear of the school, and I saw an FBI forensics van and a DC medical examiner’s vehicle parked by the football field and track where my daughter had run some of her finest races. There were at least twenty agents prowling the lot, looking for any and all evidence. I could see a team of them on the field.
“Who found them?” I asked.
“School security guard,” he said, gesturing toward dumpsters with yellow police tape around them. “They’re out back.”
I said, “Time of death?”
“ME says four a.m.”
We went over to the dumpsters to find the familiar powder-blue Bentley convertible cordoned off by more police tape, and agents, criminologists, and police detectives milling around the area.
FBI Special Agent in Charge Ned Mahoney, my old partner at the Bureau, separated himself from the pack, came over, and shook my hand. “We’ve been waiting on you, Alex. It’s been photographed but not scoured by forensics yet.”
“Okay,” I said. “Can I get some breathing room?”
Mahoney clapped and yelled, “All right, now, everyone back off, we need the scene to ourselves for a moment.”
We got odd glances, but they walked off.
I took in the Bentley convertible and the victims in the back seat, and part of me wanted to sit down and cry. But I’d spent the majority of my adult life confronting murder, and there was only one way to do it well: divorce yourself emotionally from the victims. In this case, that was going to be difficult.
Mahoney, seeming to read my thoughts, said, “You sure you’re up to this?”
“I’ll deal with it,” I said as I walked around the car toward the female victim.
I wanted to treat her as an object to be studied and evaluated, but I was having a hard time taking my eyes off Kay Willingham’s face. She was one of the most striking, most interesting women I’d ever known, and here she was dead, sprawled next to a man who had apparently been her lover, unlikely as that seemed.
I had to force myself not to look at her blank expression and instead focus on the two bullet wounds about four inches apart and two inches above her bare left breast. Her rose-lace bra was on her lap; her black dinner dress was tugged down around her waist.
“No sign she had her hands up in a defensive posture,” I said. “I’m thinking she never saw her killer.”
“Neither did he,” Sampson said from the other side of the car. “I think they had other things on their minds.”
Only then did I look at the male victim. He was turned slightly toward Kay, his head slumped on his right arm, which was extended over the compartment that held the convertible’s retracted roof. His pants and boxers were around his ankles. Blood from two chest wounds had drained across his left thigh and pooled between his legs.
“The press is going to have a field day with this,” Sampson said.
“For way too many reasons,” Mahoney said.
I didn’t reply, but Ned and John were right; there were so many reasons for this to blow up, and in ways we couldn’t predict.
Kay Willingham was a vivacious Georgetown socialite, a Southern heiress and power broker who had, until two years ago, been married to J. Walter Willingham, the current vice president of the United States.
The man with her, Randall Christopher, was the founder and principal of Harrison Charter High, a charismatic man rumored to have his eye on the mayor’s office and, if that went well, higher political aspirations. Christopher was African-American and married with twin girls who were sophomores at his school and friends of my daughter.
“Look at that,” I said, shaking my head.
“What?” Sampson and Mahoney said.
“We might be witnessing the birth of a perfect shitstorm.”
CHAPTER 6
BEFORE EITHER OF THEM COULD respond, two men in dark suits and shades ducked under the tape.
“Spin around, whoever you are,” Mahoney barked. “And get off my crime scene.”
They both held up badges. The taller of them, the one with the buzz cut, said, “Donald Breit, U.S. Secret Service.”
“Lloyd Price, U.S. Secret Service,” said the other, who was built like a brick with powerful legs and arms. “You are?”
“FBI Special Agent in Charge Mahoney,” Ned snapped. “Now get off my crime scene.”
Agent Price took off his shades, his face softening. In a quieter voice, he said, “Please, sir, and no disrespect, but Kay Willingham is — was — our boss’s ex-wife.”
Agent Breit removed his sunglasses as well, revealing bloodshot eyes. “He’s crushed, the VP. I’ve never seen him like this. As soon as he heard, he asked us to come down. To find out what we could, Special Agent Mahoney. I know it’s crazy … but he still loves her.”
Mahoney hesitated for a moment, and then in a reasonable tone he said, “I’ll share what I can once I know where the vice president was last night, the entire night.”
“So, what, you think J. Walter killed them?” Agent Breit said. “Are you insane?”
“Answer the question,” Mahoney said.
Agent Price said, “The VP was seen last night by five hundred people at a ten-grand-a-plate fundraiser at the Hilton. He left at ten thirty-seven on the dot, and I personally drove him home to One Observatory Circle, where he went to bed and remained all night.”
“You have documentation?”
Breit nodded. “Every minute of that man’s day is accounted for.”
“Glove up,” Mahoney said. “You can take a look. Dr. Cross will brief you.”
“Alex Cross?” Agent Price said.
“That’s right,” I said, shaking his hand.
Agent Breit said, “The boss will be happy you’re on the case. He’s heard of you.”
“I’m flattered,” I said and shook his hand as well. “Do you want to take a look? Maybe you’ll see something we’ve missed.”
The Secret Service agents nodded and followed me to the blue Bentley. They both stopped and lost color when they saw Kay.
“Jesus,” Breit said.
Price said, “I don’t want to be the one to tell him.”
“Too much?” I said.
“No,” Breit said. He walked closer, saw Christopher’s pants down. “What? Jesus.”
“She’s not wearing jewelry,” Price said. “That’s wrong.”
Breit nodded. “Kay was a jewelry nut, and she’s got no jewelry on. Look at the dress. She should be decked out in diamonds and pearls. And his watch is gone. Check his breast pocket.”
Mahoney did, then shook his head.
Sampson said, “No phones. Either of them.”
“Well,” I said. “That complicates things, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER 7
WE SEARCHED THE CAR AND the bodies but found no cell phones anywhere. After the medical examiner removed the corpses from the scene, Special Agents Breit and Price left to brief the vice president, and forensic techs went to work on Kay Willingham’s Bentley.