Capital Crimes Page 5

  “What did she say?” Kate asked.

  “I’ll tell you later.” Will looked up to see James Heller in his path and offered his hand. “How’s the investigation going, Jim?” he asked quietly.

  “Just great,” Heller replied. “I’ve put the Bureau’s very best man, Robert Kinney, deputy director for Criminal Investigations, in complete charge of the case.”

  Will thought he had heard the name, but he wasn’t sure. “Good,” he said. “Tell Kinney to keep me posted.” He didn’t believe for a moment that Heller would do that; the director would preserve his own channel to the president, and he wouldn’t want a subordinate horning in.

  “Yes, sir, I will,” Heller replied, then went on his way.

  Back in the limo, Kate spoke up. “So, what did Betty Ann have to say?”

  Will pressed the button that rolled up the partition between the front and rear seats. “She said she has Freddie’s files, and she’s going to use them.”

  Kate laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “Nor would I.”

  “You think those files are as dangerous as rumor has it?”

  “I think they’re dangerous to those Freddie didn’t like and maybe to a few he did like.”

  “Like you?”

  “I’m fortunate in having fewer secrets than a lot of people, and most of them have to do with what you and I do together in bed.”

  Kate laughed. “You think Freddie knew about that?”

  “I hope to God not,” Will replied. “One or both of us could end up in jail.”

  11

  As the memorial service for Freddie Wallace proceeded, Ted drove the RV across one of the Potomac bridges into Virginia. He found the office building in downtown Arlington, then drove around the area for a couple of minutes before he found a legal parking spot two blocks from the building. He slipped into the rear of the RV, pulling a curtain behind him to prevent being seen through the windshield, and got into a necktie and jacket.

  He checked the device once more—every connection, every component, especially the squat switch—and found it in good order. He removed his aeronautical charts and books from their container—a salesman’s catalogue case— carefully slipped the device inside, and snapped it shut. Then he left the RV and walked briskly back toward the building, scanning the street for police cars, security guards, or anyone else who might take note of him.

  He reached the office building and walked down the drive past the automated gate and into the parking garage. He kept up his pace as he searched for the car—a black Mercedes S600, with a vanity plate reading right. He found it closer to the elevators than he would have liked, but of course, Van Vandervelt would have a prime parking spot. Right Radio took up two floors of the building, spewing venom from a dozen shock jocks twenty-four hours a day, and Van Vandervelt was their star— the most popular right-wing talk-show host in the country.

  Ted heard a car coming, and he devoted half a minute to inspecting the building directory beside the elevator until the car had left the garage. When all was quiet again, he walked quickly to the driver’s side of the Mercedes and checked the door lock. The button was up, the car unlocked, but Ted knew that, in the Mercedes, the alarm would go off at a predetermined interval after the door had opened, unless the key was inserted into the ignition lock. He reckoned he had at least a minute. He set down the catalogue case, unsnapped it, and had one more look around the garage. Still quiet.

  He opened the car door and dropped to one knee. Carefully, he slid the device, which was no more than two inches thick at any point, under the seat and pushed it well out of sight of the driver. Then he pulled off the tape that held down the squat switch, closed the door, picked up the catalogue case, and walked quickly toward the exit. He was nearly out of the garage before the car alarm went off, but it was unlikely that anyone would report it, since people had grown so accustomed to car alarms going off randomly in big cities.

  The device consisted of twelve ounces of his own homemade plastic explosive and nearly a quart of gasoline in a flat, plastic bottle, along with the requisite electronics, all mounted on a quarter-inch steel plate that would have the effect of directing the force of the explosion upward.

  Ted reached the sidewalk and turned back toward the parked RV. From half a block away, he could see a policeman trying to look through a curtained window into the vehicle. He continued straight past the RV, while reaching into his pocket for the little remote control that he always carried with him when leaving the vehicle. It was good for up to a mile, and the entry of the code into its keypad would set off an explosion that would reduce the big RV to ashes in a matter of minutes. He turned left at the next corner and, without looking back, walked out of sight of the RV.

  He was not particularly concerned that the policeman was interested in the interior of his rolling home; people were always trying to look inside, to see how it was furnished. He went into a little news shop, bought a Washington Post and sat down on a bench outside to read it. After ten minutes he folded the newspaper, tucked it under an arm, picked up the catalogue case, and walked back the way he had come.

  The cop was nowhere in sight, and Ted got into the RV, started the engine, and drove away, switching on the radio, which was already tuned to Right Radio.

  “Well, my friends,” Van Vandervelt was saying, “thus ends another two hours of deep-frying liberals in their own juices, of telling the truth for all America to hear. I thank you for having the good taste and judgment to tune in today, and I look forward to having you back tomorrow, when I will puncture the myths surrounding Social Security and tell you how Franklin D. Roosevelt nearly wrecked the country when it was recovering on its own from the Great Depression. See you then. Isn’t it great to be RIGHT?”

  Ted switched the radio back to FM and National Public Radio. He stopped for gas, took off his jacket and tie, then headed for the beltway and points north.

  Van Vandervelt swept his notes off the console into a trash can, got into his jacket, which had been made entirely by one man in Naples, Italy, who made only ten suits a year, two of them for Vandervelt, then he walked out of the studio and back to his office. His secretary followed him inside and closed the door behind him.

  She was a tall, leggy girl with high breasts and full lips. “Just a few phone messages,” she said.

  “Fuck ‘em,” he said. “Come here.”

  She walked over to him and put her arms around his neck. “Anything special?” she asked, kissing him and letting her tongue play around his lips.

  “Just your specialty,” he said. “I’ve got a tee time in an hour.”

  She pushed him backward into a chair, dropped to her knees, unzipped his fly, and performed her specialty.

  In less than two minutes, he was begging for mercy.

  Thus refreshed, Van Vandervelt took the elevator down to the garage, got into his car, and turned down the street toward his golf game. He drove out to Burning Tree and parked the car in the lot near the locker room entrance to the clubhouse. He got out of the car, unknowingly releasing the squat switch, which his own weight had compressed, and before he could close the car door, the Mercedes became a huge fireball. The combination of the plastic explosive and the gasoline, plus what was in the car’s tank, propelled the flaming body of the shock jock nearly thirty yards, where he landed, already dead, just outside the locker room door.

  People ran toward the car from all directions.

  As the presidential limousine returned from the memorial service and pulled to a halt under the portico of the West Wing, one of the phones in the armrest rang. Will picked it up. “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “When? Thank you.” He replaced the handset.

  “You look odd,” Kate said. “What’s happened?”

  “Somebody put a bomb in the car of Van Vandervelt, the radio guy.”

  “Did it go off?”

  “Yes, and he was killed instantly.”

  She looked at him closely. “You think
this is connected to Freddie’s death?”

  “I don’t know, but you have to wonder.”

  Ted parked the RV in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant off I-95, then he pulled the curtain and went into the rear of the vehicle. He switched on the laptop, aligned the satellite dish, and went to the website. He made a change or two to the content, then switched off the computer, locked the RV, and went inside for a bacon cheeseburger, his favorite.

  12

  Bob Kinney arrived at Burning Tree a little more than an hour after the bomb had gone off. The Arlington fire department and police were on the scene and Kinney found the detective in charge of the investigation talking to the fire department’s arson investigator.

  “Thanks for the call,” Kinney said, shaking the hands of the two men. “We’re happy to help. There’s a vanload of people from our lab right behind me. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

  The arson investigator led him over to the parking lot. “That used to be a Mercedes,” he said, “but, as you can set, not anymore.”

  The car was a black hulk, still smoking. Not a single panel of the bodywork was still attached to the frame, and the engine rested a good twelve feet from the bulk of the car. Half a dozen other cars in the lot had been destroyed to varying degrees.

  “We found the driver over there by the locker room entrance,” the detective said.

  “How did you identify him?”

  “The caddy shelter is over there about fifty yards,” the detective said, pointing, “and one of the caddies had been booked by Vandervelt. He saw the man get out of the car and was walking toward him when the car blew. The blast knocked him off his feet but didn’t hurt him.”

  Kinney turned to the arson investigator. “Have you made any determination about the bomb?”

  “It was under the driver’s seat, probably detonated by a squat switch, since it didn’t blow until Vandervelt got out of the car, but before he closed the door. And it was the work of a very sophisticated pro. That’s about it. I hope your people can learn something more from the pieces. How can we help?”

  “I’d like you to assemble your people and have them do an inch-by-inch search of the parking lot and the area around it. Have them flag any spot where any piece of debris is found, but I don’t want them to touch what they find. Then my people can inspect each piece and determine what will be useful to the investigation.”

  “Okay,” said the detective, “I’m formally handing off to you. I’m happy for my people to be of help, but the responsibility for this investigation is now the FBI’s.” He consulted his watch. “From this moment.”

  “We’ll accept that,” Kinney said.

  “I’ve got just one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I know what you do at the Bureau. Why are you dealing with this personally? Is it because Vandervelt was a celebrity?”

  “No, it’s because this case may be connected with another case that we have under investigation.”

  “Senator Wallace?”

  “I can’t go into that.”

  “You think they were both killed by the same perp?”

  “I hope not,” Kinney replied.

  “Why do you hope not?”

  “Because if it’s the same man, he’s exhibiting all kinds of new skills, and that worries me.”

  The detective nodded. “For what it’s worth, I checked with Right Radio, and Vandervelt’s secretary said he finished his show and left his office about forty-five minutes before the bomb went off, saying that he was rushing to make a tee time. If it was detonated by a squat switch, then the bomb was probably put in his car in the parking garage of his office building, since he probably wouldn’t have stopped on the way here.”

  “That’s good work. Thank you,” Kinney said. “Anything else?”

  The detective shrugged. “The man had a wife. Since you’re running the case, you get to break the news to her.” He handed Kinney a sheet of paper. “Here’s her name and address.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Kinney put the paper in his notebook.

  Two hours later, Kinney rang the bell of a Watergate apartment. A maid admitted him and showed him into the living room. “Mrs. Vandervelt will be with you in a moment,” she said. “Please have a seat.”

  Kinney walked over to the window and took in the panoramic view of the Potomac River and the woods beyond. “Mr. Kinney?”

  He turned to find a woman standing in the doorway to the living room. She was of medium height, her hair was very blond and carefully coiffed, and her breasts were large.

  “Yes. Mrs. Vandervelt?”

  “You’re with the FBI?”

  “That’s correct.” He walked over and showed her his ID.

  “What’s going on? Why are you here?”

  “May we sit down?”

  She sat on the sofa, and he took a chair.

  “Mrs. Vandervelt, I’m very sorry to tell you that there has been an attempt on your husband’s life. He didn’t survive.”

  She sat, staring stonily at him, quiet for a long moment. “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “About three hours ago. I was unable to leave the scene until now.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Someone placed a bomb in your husband’s car, probably in the parking garage of his office building. It went off when he got out of the car at Burning Tree. The car was destroyed and your husband was killed instantly. He never knew what happened, never felt anything.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’m glad of that.” She looked out the window for a moment, her face now drawn and sad. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “Not yet, but if you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Please go ahead.”

  “Did your husband have any enemies that you are aware of?”

  She suppressed a laugh. “About half the country,” she said.

  “Did he ever receive any threats here, at home?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “It was known that we live in the Watergate, so he got a fair amount of mail here, mostly fan letters, but occasional critical letters, too. I read many of them, but I don’t remember a death threat.”

  “Who might have benefited from your husband’s death?”

  “Well, I suppose I’m your first suspect,” she said. “Van was quite rich, and I stand to inherit most of it. He made a new will less than a month ago. We were married six weeks before that.”

  “Was your marriage a happy one?”

  “We didn’t really have time to get unhappy. I’m not sure where it would have gone. We were starting to get on each other’s nerves.”

  “That happens to a lot of married couples.”

  “I suppose so. If it helps, I don’t know how to make a bomb, and I don’t know anyone who does.”

  Kinney got to his feet. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Vandervelt, and I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He gave her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else.”

  “I will.”

  “And for what it’s worth, you’re not a suspect,” Kinney said kindly, though it was not entirely true. She would be investigated very thoroughly indeed.

  13

  Kinney went back to his office and called a meeting of half a dozen of his top people, including his assistant deputy director, Frank Coram.

  “Gentlemen, I’m personally assuming responsibility for the investigations of the murders of Senator Wallace and Van Vandervelt,” he said. “Frank, you’ll be acting deputy director for investigations while I’m on this.”

  “Any idea how long this will be, Bob?” Coram asked.

  “Until we wrap up the investigation. I’ll meet with you once a week to talk about current investigations, but for the most part, you’ll be on your own, and that includes administrative matters. Check with me on transfers of investigators, though.”

 
“All right.”

  He handed Coram a list. “I’ve picked a few men to help me, and they’ll be detached from their regular duties for the duration.”

  Coram read the sheet. “That’s everybody in this room but me.”

  “That’s right. My secretary will be with the group, too, serving all of us.”

  “Anything else, Bob?”

  “Only that, if you run across anything in another investigation that pertains to my work, let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s all, Frank. The rest of you remain with me for a few minutes.” He called his secretary and asked her to come in. Helen Frankel, two years from retirement and imperious, came into the room and took a seat.