The Divine Appointment (29 page)

“I’d say that he’s blond and handsome.”

“You think so? I don’t think he looks very handsome.”

“Women have a different eye for things,” she explained. “If I were describing him, I’d say he was handsome. And he has a tan.”

“If you think he fits the description, then I’ll print it out. In the morning we’ll start trying to find out who he is. Let’s see if there are any others.”

Holland and Jill scanned the balance of the remaining digital photographs. They didn’t find any other photographs of men that fit Tiffany Ramsey’s description. The whole time they were together Holland wondered whether Jill thought men with red hair and no tan were also handsome.

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington DC

The West Wing was never completely empty and never completely quiet. But by 8:00 p.m. on Monday, much of the staff had gone home. Porter remained behind and met with President Wallace. He let himself into the Oval Office unannounced and found President Wallace sitting behind his desk.

The president looked up when Porter entered the room. “It’s nice outside tonight, Porter. Let’s take a walk.”

President Wallace and Porter exited the Oval Office through French doors onto the West Wing colonnade. Two Secret Service agents came to attention and followed President Wallace and Porter as they strolled along the colonnade. Porter loosened his red necktie and stuffed his hands in his pockets. President Wallace had left his suit jacket in the Oval Office. The night sky was crystal clear and stars glistened overhead. The two old friends enjoyed walking and talking.

“Sounds like Dunbar made quite a splash today,” President Wallace said.

“It was exactly what we wanted. By tomorrow morning there’ll be no doubt in anyone’s mind in the country—perhaps the world—that Dunbar Shelton is a pro-life, strict constructionist.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“And the committee will vote eighteen to zero against recommending confirmation.”

“That’s fine. By the time the full Senate votes, this whole thing will have reversed course again. What’re you hearing about the Carlson murders?”

“No doubt Stella was there, in the area. She flew into Jacksonville on Tuesday of that week and rented a car. She stayed at the Ritz-Carlton on Amelia Island Tuesday night and flew back to New York on Wednesday.”

President Wallace stopped walking and turned to Porter. Porter stopped walking as well.

“But they weren’t murdered until Thursday night,” the president said.

“That’s where Joe Moretti comes in. You remember him?”

“He’s the guy Les Hughes said was involved in the attempt on Dunbar and Victoria.”

“Right. We traced his movements that week. He took a circuitous route but ended up in Jacksonville before Stella departed.”

“And she told Moretti where to go and what she wanted,” the president surmised.

“That’s our theory.”

President Wallace resumed walking and Porter fell in beside him. They circled around and walked toward the Oval Office. When President Wallace folded his arms over his chest, Porter could tell that he was thinking.

“And Proctor?” the president asked.

“We don’t think he knew anything about the Carlson murders beforehand but was an accomplice after the fact. When Moretti returned to New York on Sunday—he took a very circuitous return trip also—he went directly to Stella Hanover’s office. She was on the first train Monday morning to DC, and her one and only stop was Proctor’s office.”

“She hand-delivered the Shelton Memo to Proctor.”

“And then Cooper Harrington faxed it to your office.”

President Wallace and Porter stopped on the colonnade outside the Oval Office. The office was still illuminated, and three Secret Service agents stood nearby.

“You’ve got documentation—dates, times, places—to back all of this up?” the president asked.

“We’ve got it all ready to go. You just say the word.”

“Let’s wait until after the committee votes on Wednesday. Thursday would be a good day for it to be released. Maybe Friday. Let me think about it.”

“You’re the boss.”

President Wallace frowned. “Why hasn’t Hughes uncovered any of this?”

“We don’t know for sure, Mr. President, but the only logical answer is that he’s been told or asked to back off. If he’d found Moretti after the attempt on the Sheltons, then the Carlson murders would never have happened. And Moretti wasn’t that hard to find. We were able to find him fairly quickly.”

“You think Proctor told him to back off?”

“He’s the only one among the players I mentioned with enough political weight to cause Hughes to listen to him.”

“You’re right,” President Wallace said.

Porter studied the president’s face. He could sense the gears grinding behind it.

After a couple of minutes President Wallace gave Porter additional instructions. “I want Hughes gone as soon as possible.”

A Secret Service agent opened one of the French doors and President Wallace and Porter reentered the Oval Office. President Wallace walked with Porter across the room to the door that exited the office.

Porter could tell that President Wallace was still thinking about something. He waited quietly for the president’s words to emerge.

“Porter,” the president said thoughtfully, “you keep using the word ‘we.’ Who are you talking about?”

Porter examined President Wallace’s inquisitive face. It made him uncomfortable. But now wasn’t the time to tell him about Simon Webster. If things went terribly wrong, then the president could plausibly deny any knowledge of the covert investigation by Simon, and Porter himself would take the fall. He also knew that President Wallace trusted him implicitly.

“Mr. President, if you order me to tell you, I will. But I don’t think it’s best for you to have that information. At least not right now. Maybe later. But for now I would suggest that you don’t need to know.”

President Wallace pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “It can wait.”

Arlington, Virginia

Holland returned Jill to the Hampton Inn on Jefferson Davis Highway just after 10:00 p.m. They had eaten supper at a Mexican restaurant on the return trip, where they had compared notes further about Jessica Caldwell’s murder and Tiffany Ramsey’s death—both agreeing it had to be a homicide—then spent the rest of the meal getting to know each other.

Jill waved good-bye and slipped the plastic key into the electronic door lock. The small light on the door flashed green and she twisted the doorknob to gain entry to the room. She looked back and saw the taillights from Holland’s Camry exit the parking lot.

Once inside the room, she locked the door behind her, then added the dead bolt and the sliding chain. The floor lamp in the corner, the double lamp on the wall above the nightstand, and light from the bathroom illuminated the tiny motel room. Jill sat on the edge of the uncomfortable bed on which her luggage and laptop lay and called Eli’s wireless phone from hers. She knew it was an hour earlier in Jackson, Tennessee.

Eli answered on the second ring.

“We’re trying to identify a man who got into a taxi with Jessica Caldwell after Justice Robinson’s memorial service,” Jill said.

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Holland Fletcher and me.”

“Oh, yeah. The newspaper reporter. You think you can trust him?”

“I think so. He’s nice enough. He also said that Jessica Caldwell lived in a town house owned by Senator Proctor, and he thinks they were having an affair.”

“Who told him that?” There was amazement in Eli’s voice.

Jill untied her tennis shoes while she talked and kicked them off at the foot of the bed. She then lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. “The Ramsey girl, who died recently. But we need some corroboration, since obviously she can’t testify.”

“There’s something there, Jill. Senator Proctor was having an affair with Jessica Caldwell, and his car was in the vicinity of her town house the night she died. We’re close.”

“I know, and that’s why I may need to stay a couple of extra days.”

“That’s fine. Stay as long as you need to. It’s important that you chase down every lead up there.”

“Did you get the other photograph of Anna Grissom’s car?”

“I did. It came in the mail today.”

“And?” Jill bolted upright and sat on the edge of the bed.

“And it’s exactly like we thought. Anna’s driving, not Tag. That means Anna was in the proximity of Jessica Caldwell’s town house during the time frame the coroner said she died.”

“So Tag’s fingerprints were inside the town house; Anna was photographed nearby; and Senator Proctor’s car was in the vicinity. All at approximately the same time.”

“And Tag’s DNA matched the skin fragments from under Jessica’s fingernail,” Eli added.

She sighed. “This case gets more confusing every day.”

“I know,” Eli said. “I’m going to see Tag and Anna this week sometime. I just don’t know when yet. I’m waiting for the DNA results from the fetus because I want to talk with them about that and the surveillance photo at one time.”

“Call me after you talk to them. I’d be interested to hear their explanation.”

“I will. You be careful there. If Senator Proctor was involved with Jessica Caldwell, we may be playing with fire. He’s very powerful.”

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry,” she promised.

Jill disconnected the call and watched a few minutes of television. She connected her laptop to the high-speed Internet port in her room and checked her office email. She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. She was exhausted from her flight and from running around town with Holland. By 10:30 p.m. she was in bed, asleep.

Arlington, Virginia

The ringing of her wireless phone awoke Jill Baker at 7:00 a.m. eastern time. Her body was still on central time, and 6:00 a.m. was much too early to be awakened. She removed the phone from its resting place on the nightstand and mumbled, “Hello.”

“I know who he is,” an excited voice on the other end of the phone said.

“Holland, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. And I know who the guy in the photograph is.”

Jill rolled onto her back and propped her knees under the covers. She could see daylight barely slipping around the edges of the thick curtain that covered the only window in her room.

She shook the sleep from her voice. “What time is it?”

“It’s seven a.m.,” he reported.

She groaned. “I thought you told me you weren’t a morning person.”

“I’m not, but I haven’t slept much. Too many things on my mind. I couldn’t sleep and got up at about two. So technically I’m not waking up early. I’ve stayed up late.”

“If you haven’t slept, what have you been doing?”

“Investigating. That’s what investigative reporters do. We investigate. I was online most of the night and I know who he is.”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. I’ll be there in thirty minutes to pick you up.”

Jill’s eyes opened wide and she sat up in the bed. “Thirty minutes! I can’t be ready in thirty minutes.”

“You have to be. Time’s a-wasting. If we’re going to solve this crime of yours, then we need to get started. I’ll be there in thirty minutes, and we’ll talk about it over breakfast.”

Jill closed the wireless phone and ran to the bathroom. As she started the shower, she didn’t believe there was any chance she could be ready before Holland arrived.

Holland gave Jill five extra minutes before he banged on her door. When she opened the door, she was fully dressed, with not a hair out of place. She wore blue jeans, a red pullover short-sleeve shirt, and tennis shoes, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail again. She was as beautiful as she had been the day before.

“You’re late,” she said.

“You said you couldn’t be ready in thirty minutes, so I gave you five extra,” he said defensively.

She jammed her fists onto her hips. “You said thirty minutes, and I was ready in thirty minutes. If you meant thirty-five, then you should’ve said thirty-five.”

Holland loved her feistiness. “Okay, okay. I’ll know next time. You like promptness.”

“And don’t forget it. Now, where’re we going?”

Jill had won, Holland knew. And she had set him straight. But he didn’t care. Now that conversation was over it was time to get down to business.

“There’s an IHOP three blocks away. Let’s get some breakfast and I’ll bring you up to speed.”

“And you haven’t slept all night?”

Holland fumbled his car keys and dropped them beside the car. Retrieving them, he peered over the car at Jill. “Not much.”

“How much coffee did you drink?”

“Two pots, and I just finished a grande café mocha from Starbucks.”

Jill looked at him over the top of the car and smiled before getting in. It was the lovely smile that he remembered from the previous day and the one that he had thought of several times during the night.

“You’re going to crash this afternoon and you’ll be worthless,” she claimed.

Holland sat in the driver’s seat and closed the door. “I’m fine,” he said confidently. “I won’t need to sleep until tonight.”

“You could’ve at least changed clothes.”

Holland hadn’t thought about that. He glanced at his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes looked watery and glassy. He hadn’t showered or shaved. It was a good thing his red hair was short, he thought. At least that didn’t look too bad. Then he grasped that this wasn’t the best way to impress an attractive woman.

“Maybe after breakfast I’ll run home and take a shower,” he suggested.

“I think that would be a good idea.”

Ten minutes after leaving the Hampton Inn parking lot, they were sitting in a booth in the back of the IHOP. Jill ordered a ham-and-cheese omelet with hash browns and a cup of coffee. Holland had two eggs, fried well done, with pancakes and a side order of bacon. Jill suggested that he’d had too much coffee, so he ordered a glass of orange juice instead.

“So who is he?” Jill asked after the waitress disappeared to retrieve their orders.

“His name is Cooper Harrington. He’s Senator Proctor’s chief of staff.”

“The Senate majority leader’s chief of staff? That seems important.”

“I’ve heard his name before but have never met him. Word around town is that he does Senator Proctor’s dirty work and that he’s something of a playboy.”

“What do you think he was talking to her about? The witnesses in Nashville said she was pretty upset when she returned.”

“I don’t know, but I had a great idea at about four thirty this morning.” Holland smiled, as if he had discovered electricity for the first time. “Why don’t we just call and ask him?”

She laughed. “Just like that. Just call him and say, ‘What were you talking to the dead girl about before she died?’”

“Sure. What’s wrong with that?”

“Because we won’t know if he’s telling the truth or not.”

The waitress reappeared with a large tray containing their plates of food and drinks. She served them and vanished again.

“But we’ll never know that,” Holland said. “Only she and he know what they talked about. And she can’t tell us.”

“What about the cabdriver?”

“We’ll never find out which cab company, much less which driver drove the car they got in.”

Holland sipped from his glass of orange juice. Neither he nor Jill spoke for a few minutes. They each took several bites of their meals. Holland could tell Jill was running through the possibilities in her head, just like he had overnight. And he hoped that she would come to the realization, as he had, that talking to Cooper Harrington was their only real option.

Jill raised her coffee cup to her mouth and blew on the steaming brown liquid before taking a sip. From the way she peered at Holland over the top of the cup, he could tell she had made a decision.

“You’re right. Let’s call him. I don’t think we’ll learn anything that we don’t already know, but it can’t hurt.”

The Hart Building, Washington DC

It was 8:15 a.m. on Tuesday, and Senator Proctor and Cooper were alone. The senator sat in his executive chair behind his desk, and Cooper slumped on the sofa across the room. Cooper looked terrible. When his eyes were open, they were bloodshot and glassy. He primarily lay with his head against the back of the sofa and with his eyes closed.

“You got a headache, Cooper?”

“Pounding,” Cooper whispered. “Don’t talk so loud.”

Senator Proctor had no sympathy for Cooper. He blamed Cooper for putting them in the spot they were in. It didn’t matter that he himself was the one Stella Hanover had blackmailed into turning on Judge Shelton. It was still Cooper’s fault, no matter what. So the senator drank from his coffee cup and stared angrily at Cooper.

“Wake up, Cooper,” Senator Proctor said in a voice loud enough that he knew it would make Cooper’s head hurt. “You should’ve taken two aspirin before you started drinking last night and you wouldn’t be so hung over.”

Cooper sat up on the couch.

Senator Proctor buzzed his secretary through the intercom in his telephone. “Bring Cooper some coffee—black. We’ve got a lot of work to do, and he needs to wake up.”

Quickly the secretary appeared with a cup of black coffee and handed it to Cooper. He took one sip and winced.

Senator Proctor smiled with satisfaction and began talking. “What are you hearing from Les Hughes about the Carlson investigation?”

Cooper held the coffee cup in both hands. He talked slowly as he began, but the pace and volume of his words increased as he continued. “Clearly Joe Moretti was involved. They traced him to Jacksonville, Florida, and back to Manhattan. And Stella was in Jacksonville two days before the murder.”

“Where’s Moretti now?”

“The FBI can’t find him. Stella probably has him hiding out somewhere.”

“Hughes is more of an idiot than I thought if Stella has Moretti hidden where Hughes can’t find him. What about the other investigation? Does Hughes know who is doing that yet?”

“He has no idea. They’ve interviewed all of the witnesses again and were told that whoever else was investigating had official credentials but they couldn’t recall what type. The FBI reviewed surveillance tapes from airport security cameras and saw images of some of the other alleged investigators but couldn’t match them. It’s like they don’t exist.”

“That’s impossible, Cooper. They’re not CIA?”

“Not CIA, NSA, or any other federal agency.”

“I don’t believe it, Cooper. Either Hughes is lying to you, or he’s a bigger imbecile than I thought. He should be able to identify these other people and find them. He’s doing neither.”

Senator Proctor stood and walked to the front of his desk.

Cooper sat upright and crossed his legs. He took another sip from his coffee, and winced again.

Senator Proctor understood the excruciating pain Cooper felt; he’d been hung over plenty of times himself. But he had no sympathy for Cooper. The gravity of the situation wouldn’t allow it. “This is bad, Cooper. Really bad.”

“I know.”

“You tell Hughes that I want to know by the end of the day who these people are, and I mean it.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Good. Let’s talk about the Judiciary Committee. I wish I had never changed my mind about Judge Shelton, but it’s too late for that now. We have no choice but to defeat his nomination. I want you to get with Senator Montgomery’s people and make sure the committee votes eighteen to zero against confirmation.”

Cooper stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll get right on it.”

“And, Cooper.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t talk to Stella anymore.” The threat was barely veiled but from the expression on Cooper’s face the senator knew the message had been received.

Cooper Harrington left Senator Proctor’s office and handed his coffee cup to the senator’s secretary. “I don’t want any more of this.”