Dark Ambition

Dark Ambition

A Novel

by

Allan Topol

National Bestselling Author

ISBN: 978-1-61417-129-4

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www.epublishingworks.com

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Please Note

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © Allan Topal, 2003, 2011

Cover design by Victor Mingovits

eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Thank You.

John Grisham and Richard North Patterson may have a new successor in Topol...As entertaining as it is complex, this energetic narrative is loaded with close calls and compelling relationships. ~Publishers Weekly

Plotwise, Topol is up there with such masters of the labyrinthine, as Robert Ludlum and Tom Clancy. ~Washington Post

By Allan Topol

Fiction

The Fourth of July War

A Woman of Valor

Spy Dance

Dark Ambition

Conspiracy

Enemy of My Enemy

~

Non Fiction

Co-Author of Superfund Law and Procedure

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Barbara...

My partner in this literary adventure.

Chapter 1

Jeb Hines saw a man in a trench coat walking from the bottom of the cul de sac. A typical Washington lawyer, Hines thought contemptuously. The city would be a helluva lot better if half of them—no, make that three-fourths—were buried at the bottom of the Potomac River. This one had a suit and tie under his dirty Burberry coat, black horn-rimmed glasses, and a briefcase. On his head he wore a flat round gray cap that made him look effeminate.

Hines had been an agent in the U.S. State Department's Office of Diplomatic Security one week, and already he hated it. Having spent four years as a part of the Secret Service detail that guarded the President, he had jumped at the State Department job, which promised higher pay and frequent travel around the world as part of Secretary of State Robert Winthrop's personal entourage. Too late, Hines realized he had been better off in his former job. At least when the President was at home, he could lounge in the warmth of the White House. Now he was sentenced to spending most of his time on Linean Court, in front of the Secretary's house, as he was on this Saturday in mid-November with a bitter west wind whipping through the trees.

A rustling noise behind him caused Hines to wheel around quickly. Yet it was only Clyde Gillis, the Winthrops' gardener, struggling with another huge pile of leaves hauled on a piece of burlap. His black forehead was dotted with perspiration that made the scar above his left eye glisten. Gillis unloaded the pile into the back of his track. When the burlap was empty, Gillis tossed it over his shoulder and trudged wearily toward the backyard. Jesus, that fucker works hard, Hines thought. Gillis had been raking nonstop for almost three hours, dressed only in a blue denim shirt and jeans.

Hines tapped on the window of the navy Ford Crown Vic to get the attention of Chris MacDonald, his partner, sitting inside to warm up, while studying the sports page of the morning Washington Post. With a yellow legal pad in his hand, MacDonald stuck his head up out of the car.

Hey, Mac, it must be the Secretary's two o'clock, Hines said.

Mac scanned the first page of the pad, which had the secretary's schedule for the day. The only visitor for this afternoon was at two o'clock. George Nesbitt, State Department business.

So what did you decide about tomorrow's game? Hines asked.

I'll take the Skins and ten and a half.

Dallas is only a seven-point favorite.

But you'll give me ten and a half 'cause you love them asshole Cowboys.

Bullshit!

The man in the tan coat approached the end of the driveway, where Hines and Mac maintained their vigil. Close up, he looked younger, in his thirties, Hines thought.

Can I help you? he asked.

Without saying a word, the man reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a black leather billfold. It was expensive shiny leather with the Gucci insignia embossed in gold. It figures, Hines thought. A bunch of goddamned parasites.

With a gloved hand, the man took a California driver's license from the wallet and held it out to Hines, who scanned it quickly. The photo ID was for George Nesbitt. The picture matched the man standing in front of him—minus that stupid hat, of course.

Hines nodded to Mac, who picked up the cell phone resting on the hood of the Crown Vic and hit the one and five buttons, connecting him to the house. As he expected, the secretary, home alone, picked up. Mr. Secretary, George Nesbitt is here.

Send him right up, Winthrop said.

Hines nodded to Nesbitt. He's expecting you.

Slowly the visitor put away the driver's license, then crossed to the flagstone steps that led to the front door.

Talkative fellow, isn't he? Hines said to Mac.

I don't care if he says shit. I'm interested in what you're going to say. Will I get those ten and a half points or not?

Eight and a half.

Nine and that's my last offer.

You've got it for nine. Twenty bucks. And I win on a tie.

Deal.

Hines glanced up the stairs. Nesbitt was approaching the front door. He even walks like a damn woman, Hines thought. Suddenly he felt tired. It was his turn to get into the car and out of the cold. He might even take a short nap.

* * *

Inside the house, Robert Winthrop was trembling with excitement, as he had been since the call came this morning from Alexandra in New York, telling him to expect a surprise at two o'clock today. It was an absolutely perfect Saturday afternoon. The maid had the weekend off, and Ann wouldn't be back for another couple of hours. Eagerly, he climbed the stairs from his lower level study to the front entrance hall. Dressed in charcoal gray slacks and a blue oxford button down shirt, he opened the door as soon as the bell rang.

We're going downstairs, he said to his visitor. Then he proceeded to lead the way down the dark blue-carpeted stairs to the two rooms below. The first functioned as his study, with a green leather-topped antique desk in the center that held a red phone running directly to the White House. He wasn't worried that the phone would ring this afternoon. Philip Brewster, the President, was at Camp David for the weekend. Today, the agenda was domestic policy, and Philip was working with Jim Slater, his chief of staff, trying to reshape the administration's proposal for a tax reduction in the face of congressional opposition. With only twelve months until the voters decided on his reelection bid, Philip desperately needed to find some way to stimulate the economy, and he was pinning his hopes on a retroactive tax reduction, if he could pull it off in Congress early next year. Tomorrow morning, the presidential helicopter would be taking Winthrop down to Camp David to meet alone with the President for a broad-ranging review of pressing foreign policy issues. It had been a struggle, but Winthrop had managed to exclude Marshall Cunningham, the Secretary of Defense, from tomorrow's meeting. Winthrop had known Brewster a lot longer than Cunningham, and he was getting damn tired of the SecDef wanting to run everything in Washington the way he had run Blue Point Industries in Dallas.

In one corner of the room, a television set was broadcasting a Notre Dame football game. He decided to leave it on to drown out any noise.

The room in the back was a library with three of the walls overflowing with books that he had begun collecting in his Exeter and Princeton student days. Against the fourth wall was a brown leather sofa that opened into a king-size bed. The spacious backyard, dotted with trees, mostly hickory and oak, could be seen through the window behind the sofa, but Winthrop had drawn the drapes. Through the window, he heard Clyde Gillis's bamboo rake scraping the ground.

At the bottom of the stairs, Winthrop said to his visitor, We only have an hour. The bed's in the other room. Why don't you go in there and get ready? I'll find some money for you.

The visitor's mouth opened. The sound that came out was a woman's voice, soft and enticing. I understood that Alexandra was paid direct.

He laughed. She always is, but you wouldn't refuse a little gratuity.

She removed the cap, then a man's black wig. After that, she shook her head until long blond tresses fell to her shoulders. Tips are always welcome. Give me a minute to go into the other room and change clothes. I'll call you when I'm ready. I promise, you won't be disappointed.

Still carrying her briefcase, with Winthrop's eyes riveted on her rear end, she disappeared into the other room. When there was nothing left to leer at, he walked over to the credenza against the wall and opened the third drawer on the right side containing several red file folders, the first two of which were crammed with diplomatic papers. He untied the third one, then reached inside, groping around until he found what he was searching for: a roll of hundred dollar bills and a box of three condoms.

For several minutes he paced, waiting for her to return. She would be well built, he knew that, with large round breasts that he could bury his head in and a firm, tight ass, because Alexandra knew that was what he liked. Ah, Alexandra, he thought. No matter what he paid her, it was never enough. In his current position, he needed someone like Alexandra to work for him, and she had contacts all around the world from her Upper East Side apartment in Manhattan. He had been delighted when the woman now in the other room, Laurie, had called him this morning an hour after he'd spoken to Alexandra, on his private number that Alexandra always used. I'm the surprise, she had said. I'm visiting from New York. I'll be there at two o'clock.

It might be difficult, he had replied.

I can dress as George Nesbitt, and I have a California ID to match, she had said in a soft, sensual voice.

God, what a voice. He had felt a stirring in his loins even then on the phone. Still he had hesitated. I don't know.

Alexandra tells me that you're special. If you have an hour, I'll make it worth your while. If you doubt me, call her. She'll tell you how good I'll be for you.

He had quickly yielded. Now he tried to visualize what she would look like when she stripped off that man's shirt, suit, and tie. He didn't have long to wait.

Robert, she called to him from the other room, you can come in now.

She was standing next to the couch, dressed in black leather gloves, a black leather G-string covering a sea of blond pubic hair, and nothing else. Her breasts were round and full, the nipples jutting out like little peaks. Her legs were long and sinewy, with powerful calf muscles as evidence of the long hours she spent jogging. She stood, legs spread, rubbing her tongue over her lips, while she stroked her right hand over the front of the G-string. She moaned softly, then slipped her hand inside and cupped it over her vagina.

I told you that you wouldn't be disappointed, she said.

Why the gloves? he asked nervously.

I'm into leather. Haven't you noticed?

Not S and M.

Of course not. Only pleasure for you, Robert. No pain.

He could feel his penis stiffen in his pants. He reached into his pocket, took out the roll of bills, and peeled off ten hundreds. A thousand altogether, he said.

She walked over to him. With her left hand she took the money, and with the fingers of her right, she touched him gently on the tip of his erection. His whole body trembled.

That's a preview, she said. I'm going to put the money in my briefcase. You stand here with your eyes closed, and let me take care of everything else.

Winthrop meant to do exactly what she said, but he peeked slightly, when she was leaning over the briefcase resting on the couch, with her rear facing him. She was so beautiful from this view. He couldn't wait to take her from the back. He would put her up on the bed on all fours, and he would—

Remember, eyes closed, she ordered. I'm in charge of the fun.

He closed them tightly.

You can look now, she said softly.

Quickly he opened his eyes—and gaped. She was gripping a .380 Walther PPK automatic pistol with a Sionics suppressor in her gloved hand. Rays of late-afternoon sunlight cut through a narrow opening in the curtains and glinted off the metal.

Stunned, Winthrop cried out, Hey, what is this?

In response, she squeezed once on the trigger. A bullet slammed into Winthrop's chest and drove him up off his feet. She squeezed again. This time Winthrop collapsed on his back on the Oriental carpet. Blood oozed from his chest, saturating his blue shirt, and spilled freely onto the carpet.

Still clutching the gun, she hurried across the room to Winthrop's body, then reached down to check his pulse. He gave one final shudder, and his hand clutched for her head, grabbing her hair for an instant, then dropping helplessly to the floor.

After returning the gun to her briefcase, she reached into his pants pockets and extracted the rest of the money, mostly hundreds. She also removed the package of condoms. The Mark Cross wallet came next. Inside, there were more hundreds. She took those, then tossed the black leather wallet into the pool of blood on the floor. Most of the money and all of the condoms went into her briefcase. Glancing at the antique grandfather clock in a corner of the room, she saw that she had been in the house for a half hour. No point rushing. Slowly and methodically, she put on her man's suit and tie, the wig, and the cap.

Fully dressed, she walked toward the staircase that led up to the first floor. Halfway up the stairs, she scattered half a dozen hundred-dollar bills, trying to make it appear as if they had fallen from her hand or her pocket. She wasn't worried about fingerprints. The gloves had never come off. Calmly she walked out. She didn't want to seem out of breath to those two bozo guards in front of Winthrop's house.

* * *

Clyde Gillis finished raking the last pile of leaves onto his large piece of burlap, slung it over his right shoulder, and carried it to the front of the house. Last one, he thought with relief. He tossed the leaves along with the burlap into his truck and then walked around back to gather up the rest of his equipment.

Raking on a windy day like this was a lot tougher than normal, and Clyde would have preferred to have skipped today. The difficulty was that he didn't like missing a Saturday because that was the one day of the week either Mr. or Mrs. Winthrop was usually at home. Then they handed him a check for the week's worth of gardening. If they weren't home, he had to leave a bill and wait for the check to arrive in the mail. Mrs. Winthrop was real good about paying promptly, but he needed to take that check to the bank every Monday morning.

Clyde's fourth child and first boy, Clyde Junior, now seven years old, had been diagnosed last year as having a rare kidney disease. That meant dialysis on a weekly basis, which was expensive, and insurance didn't pay all of it. The medical bills had already taken every cent he had saved in the twelve years since he had moved his family to Washington from southern Mississippi, and he had no other way to make more money. He worked every daylight hour, but he couldn't make enough. Once, when he was thinking about it, he began crying. Mrs. Winthrop had asked him what was wrong. He had worked at this house before the Winthrops bought it when they moved to Washington from New York three years ago, and he had always found Mrs. Winthrop to be a kind person. He told her about Clyde Junior. She wanted to lend him money, but he knew he could never pay her back. Consider it a gift, she had said. He couldn't do that. It was a matter of pride. That night, at home, Lucinda had told him he was crazy to turn down Mrs. Winthrop's money, but he refused to change his mind. If a man didn't have pride, he didn't have anything at all. So he toiled, he squeezed his money, and he prayed.

Behind the house, Clyde picked up his rakes. Then he approached the back door, put everything down, and rang the bell. He waited. There was no answer. So he rang again. Still no answer.

Before leaving the house, Mrs. Winthrop had told him that the back door would be unlocked and that he should come right in if no one answered the bell. You find Mr. Winthrop in the house, she had said. He'll have your check.

Clyde heard the football game on the television set downstairs. At the top of the stairs, he called, Mr. Winthrop, it's Clyde Gillis.

He waited. There was no answer.

Cautiously, he walked down the stairs. Mr. Winthrop? he called again.

That was when he saw the hundred-dollar bills scattered on the stairs. Alarmed, he drew back and stopped. Then he continued down. He needed that check. He had to get it to the bank Monday morning.

Still no answer, but he was detecting a powerful odor from the other room. With hesitation, he walked toward the doorway. Seeing Winthrop's body lying in a pool of blood, he stopped short and screamed. Instinctively, he knelt down and placed his hand against Winthrop's heart. He felt Winthrop's wrist for a pulse. The man was clearly dead.

Perspiring heavily, trembling, Gillis was enveloped by panic. He wanted to race up the stairs, out the front door, and tell those two guards what he had found. That was the right thing to do. He knew it. But it also would lead to trouble for him, lots of trouble, answering questions and explaining. They would try to blame him, the same way that sheriff had grabbed his daddy when somebody had raped a white girl back home in Hattiesburg. His daddy had been gone for a whole month. They beat his daddy almost to death until a white man raped somebody else, and they caught him and charged him with both crimes. Sure, this was Washington, not Mississippi, but he couldn't take the chance. He decided to take the safe way out. He retraced his steps to the back door, pretending he had never seen a thing.

Chapter 2

No... No... No. Ann Winthrop shot to her feet in the center of the darkened theater, throwing her hands into the air. Linda, you can't play the mother as some sweet old biddy. The woman's a monster. Her daughter's going to kill her, for chrissake. You need to show that the daughter's justified in doing it. Otherwise, this whole play is crap!

Ann's outburst produced an awkward silence. Though she was the chairman of the board of the Dolly Madison Theatre and the producer of this production of Beauty Queen of Leenane, no one other than the director ever interrupted the actors during a dress rehearsal. Sitting next to Ann, Jennifer Moore was embarrassed for her friend. She stood up next to Ann, providing moral support. From the corner of her eye she saw Del Weber, the director, jump up in the first row, clutching a clipboard tightly in his hand. He stormed over and in a single swift motion flung it to the ground, narrowly missing Ann's feet. You want to direct it yourself? he shouted at Ann. Then it's all yours. I'm gone.

As he charged toward the door, Jennifer circled behind the seats and cut him off at the back of the theater. Grabbing his arm, she said, Look, Del...

Del was furious. Who the fuck does she think she is?

She's got a point. After all, if a character's going to the extreme of killing someone, especially her mother, the audience has to see that her motivation is strong enough.

C'mon, Jennifer. Don't get lawyerly with me. You used to be in the theater. You know damn well if Ann had a gripe, she should have told me privately. That's the way it's done.

Del was right, and Jennifer knew that. But the show was opening Wednesday evening, and she didn't want him to quit. Listen, she said, lowering her voice, cut her a little slack, would you? It has been a tough time for her.

Why the hell should I?

Jennifer stared hard at him and said, Think about it, Del. She didn't have to spell it out: Ann had given Del a chance after he had come out of drug rehab.

The director started calming down as Ann approached, carrying his clipboard. She handed it to him and said, Sorry, Del. You're in charge. I'm leaving. Let's go, Jenny.

Five minutes later, with Jennifer behind the wheel of her red Saab convertible pulling out of the garage, Ann blurted out, What's Linda's problem? Didn't she read the script?

Jennifer didn't respond. After a few moments of riding in silence, Ann, sounding defensive, said, I was right about the way Linda played the mother, wasn't I, Jenny?

Of course you were right. You dragged me along today to give you some notes. My main thought was that I couldn't buy why the daughter would kill her. I mean, the way Linda was playing the part. But... Jennifer had to make a difficult left turn. She used that as an excuse to stop before her next sentence popped out of her mouth.

You don't have to lecture me, Ann said wearily. I know I should have held it back for Del till later. But I'm getting damned tired of doing what other people want.

They rode in silence for several minutes. Then Jennifer said, What's wrong?

What makes you think something's wrong?

"C'mon, Ann, I've known you for twelve years. Since that darkened theater in New York, when you called to a frightened kid at an audition for Picnic, 'Will you step forward?' Jennifer took a deep breath. I know something's bothering you. Is it Robert?" She turned and drove north on Connecticut Avenue, away from downtown Washington, in the flow of the late-Saturday afternoon traffic.

Look, Jenny, Ann said. You're young and you're drop-dead gorgeous. You've had your pick of men. I wasn't in a good bargaining position when Robert came along.

Jennifer touched her honey blond hair, making certain it was pulled tightly back and locked in place. Then she laughed sardonically. Yeah, I had my pick of men, okay, and I took Craig. I know that I was on the rebound from that two-timing Ben. I wanted to forget I ever met the crumb, but I still should have had more sense than landing in Craig's arms. Jennifer didn't conceal the anger that crept into her voice when she thought about Craig and their marriage that had lasted two years to the day, because he chose their anniversary to head west into the wilds of Colorado with a nubile nineteen-year-old with big boobs to write the great American novel. That was only eight months ago. Their divorce was final three months after he left. God, it seemed like years. At least there weren't any children. I don't even have an excuse. For me, it's just poor judgment in picking men.

Sorry, Jenny, that was insensitive of me.

Ah, forget it. It's all ancient history by now.

With a little luck, I'll be able to say the same about me and Robert. She paused and then added the words, One day.

Anxious to change the subject, Jennifer said, When you get home, maybe you should give Del a call and go over all of your notes from the rehearsal.

Ann thought about it for a moment and said, Yeah, you're right. He thinks he's an artist. I'd better smooth those ruffled feathers.

She turned and stared out of the window, deep in thought the rest of the way home. Jennifer decided to leave her alone. On Linean Court, Jennifer eased to a stop behind the navy Crown Vic that belonged to the Office of Diplomatic Security.

Nodding to Mac, standing next to the car, Ann said to Jennifer, You want to come in for a drink?

"I think I'll pass. Grace Hargadon and I are going to the Kennedy Center tonight to see Verdi's Luisa Miller."

Just a quick one. You have time.

The urgency in Ann's voice made Jennifer reconsider, but she really didn't have time. Sorry, it's a seven-o'clock curtain, and we have reservations for an early dinner.

Ann sighed in resignation. Then why don't you come by tomorrow morning, say around ten? We'll have a light brunch before I go back to the theater for rehearsal.

Won't Robert be home?

Even prisoners are allowed to have visitors.

No, I meant—

I know what you meant. He'll be at Camp David with Philip. Just the two of them. Pretty heady stuff. I heard him talking on the phone to Philip last night. Robert says he's got something important to tell Philip that affects both of them, but as usual he wouldn't tell me. Says he doesn't want me leaking it to the press, which is bullshit, because I've never done that to him, despite everything he's done to me. Ann climbed out of the car. See you tomorrow.

Driving away, Jennifer thought about Ann's husband. What a prick! For a few minutes, she wound around the tree-lined streets with large, expensive homes. At the corner of Connecticut Avenue, Jennifer slowed at the stop sign. Suddenly, the car phone rang. Jennifer here.

It's Robert, Ann screamed hysterically. He's dead! Somebody shot him! You've got to help me!

The shock of the news paralyzed Jennifer for an instant, but she recovered fast. Call nine-one-one right now. I'm on my way back.

Oh, God!

As the news sank in, Jennifer didn't shed any tears. Why should she? She was glad the bastard was dead. Go out front and tell the guards. And don't touch a thing.

* * *

She drove the maroon Ford Taurus into the entrance of Washington's Reagan National Airport, taking care to avoid being stopped in the speed trap set to catch travelers late for a plane. Everything was proceeding like clockwork. While the two guards had seen her leave the house, they had never seen her pull away in the Taurus because she had parked around the corner. She had immediately driven into Rock Creek Park. Inside the car, in a deserted parking lot for a picnic grove, she had peeled off the cap, wig, tie and trench coat. The man's outfit was replaced by a maroon skirt and pale pink blouse that she had hidden under the car seat.

She had been dressed as a woman when she stepped out of the car in that picnic grove, but it didn't matter. No one was around to see her. She opened the trunk and put on the camel's-hair coat that was inside. Then she carefully placed the man's clothes, the gun, and the briefcase in the green trash bag in the trunk.

Now, twenty minutes later, she was in the flow of traffic moving toward the main terminal. Not nervous or tense, but horny as hell. Killing always did that to her. She had seriously thought of fucking Winthrop first, maybe even strangling him after she came and just when he was in the throes of orgasm, but she didn't dare take the chance of leaving bodily traces behind. DNA and other types of medical testing were too sophisticated these days. She would like to have called Chip Donovan. An hour in his bed would have been great, but she couldn't risk that either. They had trained her too well to behave stupidly.

So she followed the plan like a good soldier. She parked the Taurus on the first level of the garage. It was Saturday, and with the garage half-empty, she had no difficulty finding a space against the back wall, as she had been instructed. She left the parking ticket in the glove compartment. Later, the car would be removed, but that didn't concern her. At the Delta Shuttle counter, she paid cash for a ticket to New York, using the name Nancy Burroughs and a phony driver's license.

Waiting for the plane to board, she rewarded herself for a job well done with a double Absolut Citron on the rocks. The alcohol felt good going down. It deadened her senses, took her mind off sex. I'll be back in Washington soon, Chip, she thought. I'll call you then.

After takeoff, she reviewed the evening ahead. She'd exit the plane at LaGuardia, looking like a member of the Westport Junior League, which she was, and pick up her Jeep Cherokee. The traffic would be light heading back to Connecticut on the Merritt. She'd be home in time to join Paul for dinner at the Bradleys'.

After that, there'd be bridge, with Paul bidding aggressively as usual, and she, the conservative member of the team, taking very little in the way of risks. It's just a game, Gwen, Paul frequently lectured her. You should gamble a little. You're too risk-averse.

At eleven o'clock, Peggy Bradley would turn on the news, because she always did that. And no one would have any idea that their little suburban housewife neighbor was responsible for the hour's top story.

* * *

Chaos was giving way to order. Ann was upstairs recovering in bed. Jennifer had managed to reach Ann and Robert's son in San Francisco and their daughter in Philadelphia. Both were now en route to Washington. She had tried to call President Brewster with the news, but the closest she got was Jim Slater, his chief of staff.

With Ann resting, Jennifer went downstairs to the den and watched with curiosity as Arthur Campbell, senior detective with the District of Columbia metropolitan police force, a tall, thin black man dressed in a gray flannel sport jacket and tie, went about his business with quiet efficiency. He had finished taking statements from the guards in front of the house, and now he was supervising half a dozen uniformed D.C. police and forensics experts. At Campbell's direction, they were dusting for fingerprints, looking for footprints and any other evidence.

Jennifer had second-chaired a half dozen murder cases when she had worked in the criminal division at Justice. She knew top-notch police work when she saw it. Campbell was very good at his job.

I'm ready for you now, Campbell said to Jennifer. He pointed her to a sofa and sat down in a leather wing-back chair across from her in the living room, then removed a small steno pad from his pocket and said, Now tell me, who are you? He cocked his head, looking at her oddly.

I'm Jennifer Moore, a friend of Ann Winthrop's.

Campbell was still staring, slightly nodding his head. Do I know you from somewhere?

I don't think so.

Well, maybe not. How'd you happen to be here this afternoon? His tone was pleasant but formal.

As a trial lawyer, it was weird to Jennifer to be on the receiving end of an interview. Ann and I spent the afternoon together at the Dolly Madison Theatre downtown. She's producing a play that's in rehearsal now.

Are you in the theater?

Once upon a time, in a different life.

Ah, that's it, Campbell said, grinning because he now knew where he had seen her before. "Several years ago. There was a TV movie called The Models. You played Kelly, the good-looking blonde. You were pretty good, too."

Yep. That was me.

So why'd you give it up?

Like you just said, I was the good-looking one who was only pretty good.

He was chagrined. I didn't mean that. Just then he remembered something else. "Hey, wait a minute, weren't you in a couple of kung-fu movies? I think Attack Girl was one."

She was never going to live it down. You're kidding. I didn't know they released those in the U.S.

Yeah, they did. Helluva kick you had. When one of those kicks landed, every man in the theater cringed. Seriously, why'd you give up acting?

She smiled. It's a long story, but anyhow now I'm a lawyer in Washington.

At the change in subject, his enthusiasm dimmed. He went back to business.

How well do you know Mrs. Winthrop?

Ann's one of my best friends. We've known each other for twelve years. In the last three, since she and her husband moved to Washington, we've spent a lot of time together. As you might expect, he's away or tied up a great deal, and I'm not married. So there you are.

Do you know why there wasn't a maid or any other domestic staff in the house today? Don't they have people who manage this house?

They have a live-in couple who work in the house, but they're away for the weekend.

There were some hundred-dollar bills on the stairs when I got here. Do you know why?

I would guess that whoever killed him stole some money and dropped them.

Campbell was looking down, tapping his pad. Why does a secretary of state have so much cash in his house that a burglar can't even hold it all?

Jennifer shook her head. I don't know. My friendship is with her. I didn't know him very well.

Maybe somebody wanted it to look like a burglary.

If that's your theory, then you'll be happy to know that nothing was taken from upstairs.

He eyed her with suspicion. How do you know that?

I asked Ann to check her jewelry and other things.

He smiled. Helping me do my work?

I told you, I'm a lawyer.

Campbell barked an order to one of his forensic people: Do a thorough job upstairs as well. Then he turned back to Jennifer. What else did Mrs. Winthrop do upstairs?

She told me to call her daughter in Philadelphia and her son in San Francisco. They're on their way.

Does Mrs. Winthrop have a job?

As I mentioned, she's a theater producer. Sometimes she directs. She's also the CEO of the Dolly Madison Theatre downtown, which she started two years ago.

Did Mr. Winthrop have any enemies?

I didn't know him well enough to say. As I told you, my friendship was with her, but just reading the newspaper tells me he had lots of enemies.

He looked puzzled. What do you mean?

The militant Arabs were angry about his efforts to combat Middle East terrorism. The Russians were madder'n hell that he wouldn't support an aid package until they coughed up their nuclear weapons. The Japanese were disturbed because of his opposition to their new Asia trade alliance, and the Chinese were furious that he wanted to sell arms to Taiwan. Together, those groups make up more than half the world.

You think some foreign terrorist killed him?

I don't think anything. I'm just trying to answer your questions.

Does the name George Nesbitt mean anything to you?

She stopped to think about it for a few moments. Not a thing. Who is he?

Campbell kept on boring in. To your knowledge, he said sharply, did the secretary of state have sexual relations with men?

You mean, was he gay?

Campbell nodded.

I didn't get that impression from Ann, but we never discussed their sex life together.

You think they had a happy marriage?

Jennifer decided not to share her opinions on this subject with Campbell. Instinctively, she wanted to protect Ann. I don't know. Her husband was busy. He traveled a lot. She made her own life. In that way, they were like most other important couples in this town. Their marriage didn't come first. But why are you asking me all of this?

Did Mrs. Winthrop have a hysterectomy?

Why the hell should I tell you that?

His expression and voice turned harder. I can easily get it from routine medical records.

But why do you even care?

Because I saw a wet spot in the front of his pants. I've got to wait for the lab analysis, but that fluid tells me that he was getting ready to have sex with somebody, or at least thinking about it.

Mystified, she wondered what was going on here. Maybe he just urinated.

Then tell me why he had four dozen condoms hidden in a red file jacket in one of the drawers of a chest downstairs, he said, pointing in that direction. Most married couples in their fifties aren't worried about birth control, and if they are, they keep whatever they use in a bathroom near their bedroom.

Hearing about so many condoms stunned Jennifer. Ann had a hysterectomy about six years ago, she said weakly.

Campbell paused to jot some notes in the steno book. When he was finished, he said, I think I'd better talk to Mrs. Winthrop.

Instinctively Jennifer tried to intervene. Do you have to do that right now? She's had quite a shock.

The detective disregarded that idea completely. The events are fresh. Now's the best time.

Why don't you wait until the FBI gets here? They'll be running the show. Why make her do it twice?

He bristled. What makes you such an expert?

I spent two years working at Justice.

Then you'll be happy to know that we're cooperating more these days. The D.C. police and the FBI operate as equal members of a team in a case like this. They won't make her tell her story a second time.

Was Campbell serious? Did he really believe the public announcements that White House officials were making about increased cooperation with the D.C. police? You're kidding yourself. I called to make sure the President knew what happened to Robert. He wasn't merely the President's closest friend. He was a member of the cabinet. Killing him is a federal crime, as well as a local one. In this case, the FBI will never trust the D.C. police to do a good enough job.

Her words struck a sensitive nerve. Well, they're wrong, Campbell snapped, and until they get here, I'll do it my way.

She shrugged. Further discussion was obviously useless. You're in charge for now. I'll get Ann, but please, can you avoid exposing her to all the blood and the odor downstairs? I don't think that would serve any useful purpose.

That caught him up short. Then he nodded at her request. Of course.

As Jennifer reached the bottom of the stairs to the second floor, Ann was starting down. Her gray hair was tousled wildly on her head. Her skirt and blouse were rumpled.

I'm sorry to bother you now, Mrs. Winthrop, Campbell said politely.

You have to do your job. She led the way to the dining room table, and the three of them sat down.

Thanks for your help, Campbell said. I know how difficult this is for you. He glanced over his notepad. What time did you leave the house today?

Jennifer picked me up around eleven.

Anybody else here at the time?

Just Robert and the gardener.

You have a name and address?

Ann crossed into the kitchen and returned with a brown address book. Clyde Gillis, she said. Six-fifteen Quincy Street, Southeast Washington, 555-1249.

How long has he worked for you?

Ever since we came to Washington. Nice man.

Do you know a George Nesbitt?

She shook her head.

Campbell gazed at Ann sympathetically. She had had a real shock. He didn't want to badger her. Did your husband have any enemies?

Ann scowled. I have no idea.

Her harsh tone made him pause. Then he pressed on. Were you aware of any threats that might have been made on his life recently?

"A couple of nights ago, a man with a foreign-sounding voice called. He asked me if my husband was home. When I said no, he said to tell him that Hammas