He looked out the car window, measuring angle and distance, making a preliminary plan and working in several variations. They’d picked a spot where there were few police patrols and lots of open ground. No one could approach them easily without being seen… probably so that they could destroy whatever they had in there if it became necessary. It was a logical approach to their tactical problem, except for one thing. They hadn’t considered a different set of tactical rules.
Not my problem, Kelly thought, beading back to his apartment.
‘God almighty …’ Roger MacKenzie was pale and suddenly nauseous. They were standing on the breakfast porch of his house in northwest Washington. His wife and daughter were shopping in New York for the fall season. Ritter had arrived unannounced at six-fifteen, fully dressed and grim, a discordant note for the cool, pleasant morning breezes. ‘I’ve known his father for thirty years.’
Ritter sipped his orange juice, though the acid in it didn’t exactly do his stomach any good either. This was treason of the worst sort. Hicks had known what he did would hurt fellow citizens, one of whom he knew by name. Ritter had already made his mind up on the matter, but Roger had to have his time to rattle on.
‘We went through Randolph together, we were in the same Bomb Group,’ MacKenzie was saying. Ritter decided to let him get it all out, even though it would take a little time. ‘We’ve done deals together …’ the man finished, looking down at his untouched breakfast.
‘I can’t fault you for taking him into your office, Roger, but the boy’s guilty of espionage.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘It’s a criminal offense, Roger,’ Ritter pointed out.
‘I’m going to be leaving soon. They want me on the reelection team, running the whole Northeast.’
‘This early?’
‘Jeff Hicks will be running the campaign in Massachusetts, Bob. I’ll be working directly with him.’ MacKenzie looked across the table, speaking in barely connected bursts. ‘Bob, an espionage investigation in our office – it could ruin things. If what we did – if your operation became public -I mean, the way it happened and what went wrong -‘
‘I’m sorry about that, Roger, but this little bastard betrayed his country.’
‘I could pull his security clearance, kick him out -‘
‘Not good enough,’ Ritter said coldly. ‘People may die because of him. He is not going to walk away from it.’
‘We could order you to -‘
‘To obstruct justice, Roger?’ Ritter observed. ‘Because that’s what it is. That’s a felony.’
‘Your tap was illegal.’
‘National-security investigation – there’s a war going on, remember? – slightly different rules, and besides, all that has to happen is let him hear it and he’ll split open.’ Ritter was sure of that.
‘And run the risk of bringing down the President? Now? At this time? Do you think that’ll do the country any good? What about our relations with the Russians? This is a crucial time, Bob.’ But then, it always is, isn’t It? Ritter wanted to add, but didn’t.
‘Well, I’m coming to you for guidance,’ Ritter said, and then he got it, after a fashion.
‘We can’t afford an investigation that leads to a public trial. That is politically unacceptable.’ MacKenzie hoped that would be enough.
Ritter nodded and stood. The drive back to his office at Langley was not all that comfortable. Though it was satisfying to have a free hand, Ritter was now faced with something that, however desirable, he did not want to become a habit. The first order of business was to pull the wiretap. In one big hurry.
After everything that had happened, it was the newspaper that broke things loose. The four-column head, below the fold, announced a drug-related triple murder in sleepy Somerset County. Ryan devoured the story, never getting to the sports page that usually occupied fifteen minutes of his morning routine.
It’s got to be him, the lieutenant thought. Who else would leave ‘a large quantity’ of drugs behind, along with three bodies? He left the house forty minutes early that morning, surprising his wife.
‘Mrs O”Toole?’ Sandy had just finished her first set of morning rounds, and was checking off some forms when the phone rang.
‘Yes?’
‘This is James Greer. You’ve spoken to my secretary, Barbara, I believe.’
‘Yes, I have. Can I help you?’
‘I hate to bother you, but we’re trying to track John down. He’s not at home.’
‘Yes, I think he’s in town, but I don’t know where exactly.’
‘If you hear from him, could you please ask him to call me? He has my number. Please forgive me for asking this,’ the man said politely.
‘I’ll be glad to.’ And what’s that about? she wondered.
It was getting to her. The police were after John, and she’d told him, and he hadn’t seemed to care. Now somebody else was trying to get hold of him. Why? Then she saw a copy of the morning paper sitting on the table in the lounge area. The brother of one of her patients was reading something or other, but right there on the lower-right side of the front page was the headline: DRUG MURDER IN SOMERSET.
‘Everybody’s interested in that guy,’ Frank Allen observed.
‘What do you mean?’ Charon had come into Western District on the pretense of checking up on the administrative investigation of the Morello shooting. He’d talked Allen into allowing him to review the statements of the other officers and three civilian witnesses. Since he’d graciously waived his right to counsel, and since the shooting looked squeaky clean. Allen hadn’t seen any harm in the matter, so long as it was done in front of him.
‘I mean, right after the call from Pittsburgh, that Brown girl who got whacked, Em called here about him. Now you. How come?’
‘His name came up. We’re not sure why, and it’s just a quick check. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Hey, Mark, you’re on vacation, remember?’ Allen pointed out.
‘You’re telling me I won’t be back to work soon? I’m supposed to turn my brain off, Frank? Did I miss the article in the paper that says the crooks are taking a few weeks off?’
Allen had to concede the point. ‘All this attention, now I’m starting to think there might be something wrong with the guy. I suppose I have some information on him – yeah, that’s right, I forgot. Wait a minute.’ Allen walked away from his desk toward the file room, and Charon pretended to read the statements for several minutes until he came back. A thin manila folder landed in his lap. ‘Here.’
It was part of Kelly’s service record, but not very much, Charon saw as he paged through it. It included his dive-qualification records, his instructor’s rating, and a photograph, along with some other gingerbread stuff.
Charon looked up. ‘Lives on an island? That’s what I heard.’
‘Yeah, I asked him about that. Funny story. Anyway, why are you interested?’
‘Just a name that came up, probably nothing, but I wanted to check it out. I keep hearing rumbles of a bunch that works out on the water.’
‘I really ought to send that down to Em and Tom. I forgot I had it.’
Better yet. ‘I’m heading that way. Want me to drop it off?’
‘Would you?’
‘Sure.’ Charon tucked it under his arm. His first stop was a branch of the Pratt Library, where be made photocopies of the documents for ten cents each. Then he hit a photo shop. His badge enabled him to have five blowups of the small ID photo made in less than ten minutes. Those he left in the car when he parked at headquarters, but he only went inside long enough to have an officer run the file up to homicide. He could have just kept the information to himself, but on reflection it seemed the more intelligent choice to act like a normal cop doing a normal task.
* * *
‘So what happened?’ Greer asked behind the closed door of his office.
‘Roger says an investigation would have adverse political consequences,’ Ritter answered.
‘Well, isn’t that just too goddamned bad?’
‘Then he said to handle it,’ Ritter added. Not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. There was no sense in confusing the issue.
‘Meaning what?’
‘What do you think, James?’
‘Where did this come from?’ Ryan asked when the file landed on his desk. .
‘Detective handed it to me downstairs, sir,’ the young officer answered. ‘I don’t know the guy, but he said it was for your desk.’
‘Okay.’ Ryan waved him off and flipped it open, for the first time seeing a photograph of John Terrence Kelly. He’d joined the Navy two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, and stayed in … six years, honorably discharged as a chief petty officer. It was immediately apparent that the file had been heavily edited. That was to be expected, as the Department had mainly been interested in his qualifications as a diver. There was his graduation date from UDT School, and his later qualification as an instructor that the Department had been interested in. The three rating sheets in the folder were all 4.0, the highest Navy grade, and there was a flowery letter of recommendation from a three-star admiral which the Department had taken at face value. The Admiral had thoughtfully tucked in a list of his decorations, the more to impress the Baltimore City Police: Navy Cross, Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat ‘V’ and two clusters in lieu of repeat awards of the same decoration. Purple Heart with two clusters in lieu of –