Dusk came on. Room service brought his standing order up– punctual to the minute.
He sipped Beefeater’s and picked at smoked salmon. Collins Avenue glowed; twinkling lights bracketed the beachfront.
Kemper got a mild glow on. He reprised his moments with the mink woman and thought of a dozen lines he could have used.
Chimes rang. Kemper ran a comb through his hair and opened the door.
John Stanton said, “Hello, Mr. Boyd.”
Kemper ushered him in. Stanton walked around and admired the suite.
“Robert Kennedy treats you well.”
“You’re being disingenuous, Mr. Stanton.”
“I’ll be blunt, then. You grew up wealthy and lost your family. Now you’ve adopted the Kennedys. You’re in the practice of reclaiming your wealth in small increments, and this really is quite a handsome room.”
Kemper smiled. “Would you like a martini?”
“Martinis taste like lighter fluid. I’ve always judged hotels by their wine list.”
“I can send down for whatever you like.”
“I won’t be here long enough.”
“What’s on your mind?”
Stanton pointed to the balcony. “Cuba’s out there.”
“I know that.”
“We think Castro will go Communist. He’s set to come to America in April and offer his friendship, but we think he’ll behave badly and force an official rejection. He’s going to deport some ‘politically undesirable’ Cubans soon, and they’ll be granted asylum here in Florida. We need men to train them and form them into an anti-Castro resistance. The pay is two thousand dollars a month, in cash, plus the chance to purchase discount-priced stock in Agency-backed front companies. This is a firm offer, and you have my personal assurance that we won’t let your Agency work interfere with your other affiliations.”
“‘Affiliations’? Plural?”
Stanton stepped out on the balcony. Kemper followed him up to the railing.
“You ‘retired’ from the FBI rather precipitously. You were close to Mr. Hoover, who hates and fears the Kennedy brothers. Post hoc, propter ergo hoc. You were an FBI agent on Tuesday, a prospective pimp for Jack Kennedy on Wednesday, and a McClellan Committee investigator on Thursday. I can follow logical–”
“What’s the standard pay rate for CIA contract recruits?”
“Eight-fifty a month.”
“But my ‘affiliations’ make me a special case?”
“Yes. We know you’re getting close to the Kennedys, and we think Jack Kennedy might be elected President next year. If the Castro problem extends, we’ll need someone to help influence his Cuban policy.”
“As a lobbyist?”
“No. As a very subtle agent provocateur.”
Kemper checked the view. Lights seemed to shimmer way past Cuba.
“I’ll consider your offer.”
18
(Chicago, 1/14/59)
Littell ran into the morgue. Kemper called him from the airport and said MEET ME THERE NOW
He called half an hour ago. He didn’t elaborate. He said just those four words and slammed the phone down.
A row of autopsy rooms extended off the foyer. Sheet-covered gurneys blocked the hallway.
Littell pushed through them. Kemper stood by the far wall, next to a row of freezer slabs.
Littell caught his breath. “What the fuck is–?”
Kemper pulled a slab out. The tray held a male Caucasian dead body.
The boy was torture slashed and cigarette burned. His penis was severed and stuffed in his mouth.
Littell recognized him: the kid in Icepick Tony’s nude snapshot.
Kemper grabbed his neck and forced him down close. “This is on you, Ward. You should have destroyed every bit of evidence pointing to Iannone’s known associates before you tipped off those Mob guys. Guilty or not, they had to kill someone, so they decided to kill the boy in the picture you left for them to see.”
Littell jerked backward. He smelled stomach bile and blood and forensic dental abrasive.
Kemper shoved him down closer.
“You’re working for Bobby Kennedy, and I set it up, and Mr. Hoover will destroy me if he finds out You’re damn lucky I decided to check some missing-persons reports, and you had damn well better convince me you won’t fuck up like this again.”
Littell closed his eyes. Tears spilled out. Kemper shoved him in cheek to cheek with the dead boy.
“Meet me at Lenny Sands’ apartment at ten. We’ll shore things up.”
o o o
Work didn’t help.