He had done lengthy time, last coming out of prison in the mid-1970s.
Nothing since then. At least nothing the authorities knew about. Burton,
had known men like that before.
They were career guys who just kept getting better and better at their
chosen profession. He was betting Whitney was one of those types.
One hitch, the last known address was in New York and was almost twenty
years old.
Taking the point of least resistance, Burton walked down the hallway to
a phone cubicle and grabbed up all the phone books for the area. He
tried D.C. first; surprisingly it was a blank. Northern Virginia was
next. There were three Luther Whitneys listed. His next phone call went
to the Virginia State Police, where he had a longtime contact. Division
of Motor Vehicles records were accessed by computer. Two of the Luther
Whitneys were twenty-three and eighty-five years old respectively.
However, Luther Whitney of 1645 East Washington Avenue, Arlington, had
been born on August 5, 1929, and his Social Security number, used in
ViTignia as the driver’s license number, confirmed that he was the man.
But was he Rogers? There was one way to find out.
Burton pulled out his notebook. Frank had been very courteous in letting
Burton go through the investigation file. The phone rang three times and
then Jerome Pettis answered. Vaguely identifying himself as being with
Frank’s office, Burton asked the question. Five long seconds followed
while Burton tried to keep his nerves intact as he listened to the
shallow breathing of the man on the other end of the line. The response
was worth the short wait.
“Damn, that’s right. Engine almost locked up. Somebody had left the oil
cap loose. Got Rogers to do it cuz he was sitting on the case of oil we
carry in the back.”
Burton thanked him and hung up. He checked his watch.
He still had time before he would have to leave Frank the message.
Despite the mounting evidence, Burton still couldn’t be absolutely
certain Whitney had been the guy in the vault, but Burton’s gut told him
Whitney was the man.
And although there was no way in hell Luther Whitney would have gone
anywhere near his house after the murder, Burton wanted to get a better
feel for the guy and maybe get some indication of where he’d gone. And
the best way to do that was to check out where he lived. Before the cops
did. He walked as quickly as he could to his car.
THE WEATHER HAD TuRNED WET AND com AGAin AS MOTHER Nature toyed with the
most powerful city on earth. The wipers flapped relentlessly across the
windshield. Kate didn’t exactly know why she was there. She had visited
the place exactly once in all these years. And on that occasion she had
sat out in the car while Jack had gone in to see him. To tell him that
he and Luther’s only child were getting married.
Jack had insisted, despite her maintaining that the man wouldn’t care.
Apparently he had. He had come out on the front porch and looked at her,
smiling, an awkward thrust to his body that proclaimed his hesitation in
approaching her.
Wanting to congratulate but not knowing exactly how, given their
peculiar circumstances. He had shaken Jack’s hand, pounded him on the
back, then looked over at her as if for approvalShe had resolutely
looked away, arms folded, until Jack had climbed back in and they had
driven off. She had caught the reflection of the small figure in the
side mirror as they pulled away. He looked much smaller than she
remembered, almost tiny. In her mind her father would forever represent
an enormous monolith of all that she resented and feared in the world,
that filled all space around it and dragged one’s breath away with its
sheer, overpowering bulk. That creature obviously never existed, but she
refused to admit that fact.
But while she had not wanted to deal with that image ever again, she
could not look away. For more than a minute as the car gathered speed
her eyes dipped into the reflection of the man who had given her life