The Medical Examiner leaned back in his chair, unsure of what to say. He
spread out his hands. “Any suspects?”
Frank finished writing. “Maybe.”
The Medical Examiner looked sharply at him. “What’s her husband’s story?
One of the richest guys in the country.”
“The world.” Frank put his notebook away, picked up the report, drained
the last of his coffee. “She decided to opt out on the way to the
airport Her husband believes she went to stay at their Watergate
apartment in town. That fact has been confirmed. Their jet was scheduled
to pick her up in three days and take her down to the Sullivan estate
outside of Bridgetown, Barbados. When she didn’t show at the airport,
Sullivan got worried and started calling. That’s his story.”
“She give him any reason for the change in plan?”
“Not that he’s telling me.”
“Rich guys can afford the best. Make it look like a burglary while
they’re four thousand miles away swinging in a hammock sipping island
bug juice. Think he’s one of them?”
Frank stared at the wall for a long moment. His thoughts went back to
the memory of Walter Sullivan sitting quietly next to his wife at the
morgue. How he looked when he had no reason to believe anyone was
watching.
Frank looked at the Medical Examiner, then got up to leave.
“No. I don’t.”
Chapter Ten
BILL BURTON WAS SITTING IN THE WHITE HOUSE SECRET Service command post.
He slowly put down the newspaper, his third of the morning. Each carried
a follow-up account of the murder of Christine Sullivan. The facts were
virtually the same as the initial stories. Apparently there were no new
developments.
He had talked to Varney and Johnson. At a cookout over the weekend at
his place. Just him, Collin and their two fellow agents. The guy had
been in the vault, seen the President and the Mrs. The man had come
out, knocked out the President, killed the lady and gotten away despite
the best efforts of Burton and Collin. That story didn’t exactly match
the actual sequence of events that night but both men had unfailingly
accepted Burton’s version of the occurrence. Both men had also
expressed anger, indignation that anyone had laid a hand on the man they
were dedicated to protect. The perp deserved what was coming to him. No
one would hear of the President’s involvement from them.
After they had left, Burton had sat in his backyard sipping a beer. If
they only knew. The trouble was, he did. An honest man his entire life,
Bill Burton did not savor his new role as prevaricator.
Burton swallowed his second cup of coffees and checked his watch. He
poured himself another cup and looked around the White House Secret
Service quarters.
He had always wanted to be a member of an elite security force,
protecting the most important individual on the planet: the quiet
resourcefulness, strength and intelligence of the Secret Service agent,
the close camaraderie. The knowledge that at any moment you would be
expected to and in fact would sacrifice your life for that of another
man, for the benefit of the common good, made for a supremely noble act
in a world more and more devoid of anything remotely virtuous. All that
had allowed Agent William James Burton to get up with a smile each
morning and sleep soundly at night. Now that feeling was gone. He had
simply done his job, and the feeling was gone. He shook his head,
sneaked a quick smoke.
Sitting on a keg of dynamite. That’s what they all were doing. The more
Gloria Russell explained it to him, the more impossible he thought it
was.
The car had been a disaster. Very discreet inquiries had traced it
directly to the goddamned D.C. police impoundment lot. That was too
dangerous to push. Russell had been pissed. But let her be. She said she
had this under control.
Bullshit.
He folded up the paper, placed it neatly away for the next agent.
Fuck Russell. The more Burton thought about it the madder he became. But
it was too late to go back now. He touched the left side of his jacket.