Dark Ambition (8 page)

From the bio, Ben could complete the picture. Fulton was not only bright, but incredibly ambitious and hardworking. Even driven. On the fastest possible track for success. Probably arrogant as well. His family would never stop him from getting ahead. They would either support him or be brushed aside. Ben had known plenty of Washington types like Ed Fulton. It was a lonely ride.

Ben decided to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue to the FBI building. He was only a couple of pounds overweight on his nearly six-foot frame, but he could feel himself getting flabby. In response, for his fortieth birthday in April, he had bought a treadmill. So far he had used it only twice. Between his job and Amy, there was never time for exercise.

Fifteen minutes later and out of breath, Ben arrived at the FBI. Quickly, he surveyed the scene in the fifth-floor conference room. Fulton and Traynor were sitting across a table that held a dozen half-empty cups of cold coffee and some doughnuts that were quickly going stale. Though both of them had glazed, bloodshot eyes, there was a difference in their appearances. Traynor's shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his collar was open at the neck, and his tie and jacket had been tossed on a chair in the corner. Fulton was still dressed smartly in a white shirt and a jacket and tie. He was tired, but he looked neat. That was the way Nan had always wanted him to look, Ben thought, but he rarely achieved that standard. Usually, he looked the way he did today: rumpled suit badly in need of a pressing and a food-stained tie.

Traynor introduced Ben to Fulton, then said, "Sorry for what I look like. We've been up all night."

"I figured as much. You guys have anything to show for it?"

"We've found the killer," Fulton announced with pride. "We just need you to get us a search warrant."

Fulton exuded the arrogance Ben had been expecting. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you've found?" he said to Traynor.

Fulton didn't like being ignored. "Get us the search warrant now before he gets rid of the evidence. We'll give you the details later."

"Wrong," Ben shot back. "It doesn't work that way. Malcolm Penn's the judge on emergency duty today. He won't sign a simple extension of time, much less a search warrant, without the whole story."

Involuntarily, Fulton's eyes began blinking. He turned to Traynor. "I thought you said we'd be able to work with this guy. Right out of the chute, he's yanking our dicks around."

Traynor looked at Ben and gave a slight shrug. What do you want me to do? was what it conveyed to Ben, which wasn't very helpful. Oh, well, Ben was willing to do battle alone.

Once Traynor saw the fire flaring in Ben's eyes, he reassessed and decided to mediate, to head off a fight. "Listen, Ed, let's take a few minutes and tell Ben what we know."

"And after that, we're doing things my way," Fulton replied. "Otherwise, I'll get Mr. Slater to call Hennessey and straighten it out."

Ben was ready to pack up and head back to his office. Seeing this, Traynor held up his head. "Let's take a break," he said coolly, "and go to the men's room."

On the way, Traynor filled Ben in. "The kid's new. He's smart, but he's young and inexperienced. He's landed this big job on Slater's staff, and he wants to make a good impression. Get ahead fast. You know what I mean. Let him talk. We'll ignore him and do it our way."

That was a ludicrous proposal, coming from a guy who knows better, Ben thought. How bad could somebody want to retire? "That's a great way to approach a major case."

Traynor winced. "We don't have a choice. I don't like it any better than you. Please, we've got to work with him."

Ben didn't respond until they were alone in the bathroom washing their hands. "Is this hotshot naturally so obnoxious, or does he work at being that way?"

"Please, Ben, as a personal favor to me, try to work with him. This case is so high-profile that my ass is now on the line if something doesn't happen soon. You can't believe the heat we're getting from the White House."

Back in the conference room, Traynor went over to Fulton and persuaded him that they should give Ben a summary of what they'd found. Over a fresh cup of coffee, Traynor started talking. "Here's what we know so far. The secretary of state was home alone with two guards out in front of his house on Linean Court. At two o'clock, he had a visitor for a scheduled meeting. State Department business. A George Nesbitt, who showed a California driver's license for ID. We haven't been able to locate Nesbitt."

Traynor paused to sip some coffee. "There was a gardener, Clyde Gillis, working in the yard in the afternoon, raking leaves. Gillis's first story was that he was never in the house. He told us that about seven last evening. Since we had fingerprints and shoe prints in the house, we took samples from Gillis."

"And?"

"We made a positive ID about midnight, including a fingerprint on Winthrop's chest and another one on his wrist. So we went back to Gillis and told him that."

That wasn't the way the FBI operated. They gathered all of the evidence in a methodical way before confronting a suspect. It was obvious to Ben that Fulton had been calling the shots.

"And?" Ben asked.

"At about four a.m. we got story number two from Gillis. He entered the house to collect a check for his work. He found Winthrop's dead body, got scared, and ran away without telling anyone what he saw."

Gillis's story sounded plausible to Ben. "Where is he now?"

"At home in southeast Washington. We asked him not to leave his house for the next six hours. He agreed. We've got two agents out in front to follow him if he runs."

"You asked him not to leave his house, and he voluntarily agreed?" Ben asked skeptically.

"Yeah, that's right," Fulton responded.

Traynor looked embarrassed. He knew that they weren't following standard FBI procedures.

Ben said, "Tell me what happened."

"We leaned on him pretty hard. We told him if he set foot out of the house or used the telephone, we would immediately arrest him."

Ben shook his head in disgust. "For which you didn't have probable cause. So you decided to place him under virtual house arrest, and I assume that when you asked him for the prints, you told him that he had a right to counsel and that he didn't have to talk to you or anyone without first consulting a lawyer."

A heavy silence hung over the room. "I decided not to," Fulton replied defiantly.

Ben was stunned. "You ever take a course in criminal procedure? You ever hear about the Fifth Amendment?"

"Don't be a wise guy," Fulton said, though he began fiddling with his college ring engraved with fraternity initials. "I want him to talk. I don't want him clamming up."

"Why didn't you hook electrodes up to his nuts?" Ben's voice was hard, showing the cold fury he felt. "That works even better."

"I'll forget you said that."

"But I'll remind you if I can't use the key evidence, and the judge throws out our case against Gillis because you deprived him of his rights." Incredulous, Ben turned to Traynor. "Jesus, Bill. You know better than that. You're a pro in this business, not like our hotshot friend here from the White House."

Traynor looked down at his hands. "The director made it clear to me at the beginning. Ed here is in charge. The order came right from Slater at the White House."

Ben shook his head. Traynor was so eager to please, he wasn't doing his job. He turned back to Fulton. "The only thing that surprises me, hotshot, is that you called for help from the U.S. Attorney's office."

Unchastened, Fulton glared at Ben. "We need a search warrant."

"I assume you're a member of the bar. Go get one."

"Judge Penn insisted that the application come from an assistant U.S. attorney."

Now Ben saw how this had all played out. "And you couldn't cow the judge by invoking the name of Jim Slater and the White House?"

Fulton didn't respond.

"What a shame," Ben added. "That's the trouble with having federal judges appointed for life. You guys in the White House can't push them around."

"If you've had your fun," Fulton replied sharply, "can we stop farting around and go get the warrant? We want to search Gillis's house and the truck that he uses to haul leaves."

"What are you looking for?" Ben directed the question to Bill Traynor.

"A gun. Money that was taken from the house. We think lots of money was taken. There might be other evidence."

"You guys really think Gillis did it?"

Traynor looked at his notepad. "He has a sick kid. He needs money for medical treatments. It certainly looks like robbery."

"Why not Nesbitt? You haven't been able to find him."

Traynor hesitated. "The time sequence fits Gillis better."

He said it in a halting voice that made Ben wonder if he really believed it. "What do you mean?"

Traynor glanced back at his notes. "According to the guards in front of the house, Nesbitt arrived at two in the afternoon and left at two-thirty. Gillis was there from eleven to four. The FBI lab puts the time of death at three-fifteen."

"How precise is that time of death?"

Traynor held out his hands. "It's an estimate. You know how they do these things. They check body temperature. It's got a margin of error."

"We had the best guy in the FBI lab look at the information," Fulton interjected. "We found him at the Kennedy Center last night and brought him to check over everything."

Ben couldn't believe this moron. "I am so impressed. And you no doubt love his answer."

"What's your trouble, mister?" Fulton said. "You got a soft spot for gardeners? Gillis did it just as sure as God made little green apples. He looks and sounds guilty, and he's changed his story."

Ben shrugged in agreement. "You're probably right. He probably is guilty. But that's not what it's all about, hotshot."

"I don't like being called that."

"I didn't think so. That's why I keep doing it," Ben said, boring in. "The point is, when we get to trial, the issue won't be whether Gillis did it or not. The issue will be whether I can put on an airtight case without getting my evidence tossed on a technicality. They taught me that at the Yale Law School, and I'll bet they even taught it to you at Harvard."

Fulton shot Ben a surly look. "Oh, fuck off."

Ben advanced on him. "Look, asshole, I'm on your side. I've got other things I'd rather be doing right now than screwing around with this case, but the only way I'm going to get back to them is by getting a conviction that sends Gillis to the electric chair, if he's guilty, which is likely. That means putting on evidence that won't get excluded. That means tying up every loose end. Now, what's the deal on Nesbitt, Bill?"

"We're still looking for him," Traynor said, again uncertainly.

Ben knew that he had found the weak link in the case against Gillis. "Look harder. I want to be able to tell the judge that we left no stone unturned."

"I've got a straight line to Director Murtaugh on this case. I'll ask him to double our search team."

Ben was pleased to hear that. If the FBI put on a full court press, he was confident that they'd find Nesbitt.

"Did you find any other prints in that part of the Winthrops' house?"

"Nothing. Other than Winthrop's."

"Who found the body?"

"Mrs. Winthrop."

"When?"

"At about four-thirty yesterday afternoon."

"What'd she do first? Call the police? Or notify the guards in front of the house?"

Bill Traynor rubbed the weariness from his eyes before responding. "Her first call was actually to a friend who brought her home from the theater. Then Mrs.Winthrop called the police. The friend got to the house about fifteen minutes before the police."

"What's the name of the friend?"

"She's a lawyer. Jennifer Moore is her name."

Startled, Ben drew back sharply. He hadn't seen Jennifer since she had walked out on him more than five years ago. There was a long silence as Traynor's words hung in the air like an awful ghost. Ben finally said, "Well, isn't that nice?" He still winced in pain when he thought about her, but he had no intention of running away from the case. It was time, he decided, to excise this dybbuk once and for all. "Get me a secretary," he barked to Traynor. "I'm ready to dictate the application for a search warrant."

* * *

Marshall Cunningham was determined to see the President as soon as he returned with the First Lady from paying a condolence call on Ann Winthrop. He remained in telephone contact with one of the Secret Service agents in the presidential motorcade. As soon as the cars crossed K Street, Cunningham walked upstairs to the President's living quarters.

Moments later they arrived.

He had known Brewster for ten years, and he had never seen the President or the First Lady so emotionally shaken. Beverly's face was red from crying. She immediately headed off to their bedroom, without even saying hello.

The President's jaw was set in a somber expression. The lines in his craggy face were more pronounced. His usually carefully combed gray hair was mussed in the way it was when he became upset and he ran his hands through it. His eyes had a glazed look. "I never drink before the sun goes down," he said. "You know that. But I sure as hell am going to make an exception today."

"It's horrible," Cunningham responded, wanting to sound sympathetic. "Absolutely horrible. I can't tell you how badly I feel for you and Beverly."

"I appreciate your saying that. Your opinion means a lot to me. Next to Robert, you're my oldest and closest friend in the administration. I know that the two of you didn't always see eye to eye."

A veil of sadness covered Cunningham's face. "Those were policy differences. On a personal level, we always got along, and I knew how much his friendship meant to you."

Walking over to the tea wagon, the President asked, "You want one?"

The last thing Cunningham wanted now was a drink, but he didn't want to refuse the President. "Whatever you're having, Philip."

Brewster poured two fingers of Jack Daniel's into a couple of glasses and added some ice. After handing one to Cunningham, who put it down on an end table, Brewster sat on a sofa and sipped the drink slowly. "Robert and I went back so far. Christ, he was my catcher when I pitched at Exeter. He fixed me and Beverly up on our first date."