As they got closer to the park, Jonathan heard sounds of construction, and when he stepped up onto the grass, he immediately saw why. “Looks like you were right, Gail,” he said. Crews were already constructing the stage on the north end of the park, and laying out hundreds of folding chairs on the lawn.
“No acoustic panels,” Gail observed.
“Specs say they’re lightweight and easy to work with,” Boxers said. “Maybe they go up last.”
“Plus, there’s a lot yet to be done. What did Venice say? The program starts at ten?”
“Right.”
Jonathan ran calculations in his head. “Okay, the sun will have been up for about three and a half hours, which means it’ll be pretty high.”
“Piss-poor lighting on the monument,” Boxers said.
“But perfect lighting for the crowd,” Jonathan added. “Let’s get a little closer to the stage.”
They walked down what tomorrow would be the center aisle through the audience. The entire park was surrounded by trees, but most were hardwoods and fairly dormant now. He was disappointed by the complexity of the skyline on the distant north end, where sixties-vintage high-rises grew like so many bushes in a forest.
“Wow,” Gail said, thinking his very thought. “That’s a lot of potential sniper nests.”
Of all the buildings, two stood higher than the others, and therefore impressed Jonathan as the most likely candidates. He pulled his phone from his pocket and snapped pictures of each. One of them, due north of the park, and directly in line with where the podium would be, was significantly taller than the other, and it gleamed silver in the afternoon sun. The second building, north-northwest of the park, appeared to be fairly new and constructed of red brick.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dig,” Boxers said. “But the ones you’re looking at are both office buildings.”
“So was the Texas School Book Depository,” Gail said.
“And look how much good that did for Oswald. I’m just wondering how he’s going to get in and out in the middle of the day without being seen.”
“Remember how much these guys don’t like to surrender,” Jonathan reminded them. “Maybe getting away isn’t part of the long-range plan.”
“It’s always part of the plan,” Boxers said. “Even for people who claim it’s not.”
“Tell that to suicide bombers,” Gail quipped.
“Yeah, but they’re crazy.”
Jonathan laughed. “Do you remember last night? I could swear I saw you there.”
A police officer in the telltale white-on-black of the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service approached from the direction of the statue. “Can I help you folks?” he said.
“What’s going on here?” Gail said. “What are they building?”
“The president’s speaking here tomorrow,” the cop said. His name tag identified him as Greenwood. “I need to ask you to move on. We’ll be buttoning it up soon.”
“Buttoning it up?” Boxers asked, playing dumb tourist.
Greenwood reacted the way people often did the first time they spoke with Boxers, with a silent Holy shit, you’re big. But he covered well. “That means we’ll be securing the scene.”
“But you said he’s speaking tomorrow,” Jonathan said, throwing his own hat into the thespian ring. “Why shut it down now?”
“In part so I don’t have to answer questions like this.” Greenwood said it with a smile to take the edge off, but there was no doubting his seriousness. Clearly, this was a guy who dealt with a lot of nosy tourists, and he knew how to walk the rope between friendly and official. “There’s a lot more to be done. We gotta bring in mags and dogs. Screening of guests begins two hours before the speech. All of that is a lot easier to do when it’s just the people who are supposed to be here.”
“So, if we’re in line by, say, seven, can we get in to hear him speak?”
The cop gave a tolerant chuckle. “Um, no. Invitation only, I’m afraid.”
“Is that wise?” Jonathan asked. “I mean the whole thing? I know I probably shouldn’t talk about this sort of thing-especially to a Secret Service agent-but with all the killings, should the president be staying inside?”
“First of all I’m not an agent-”
Jonathan knew that, but thought a little naivete could play to his benefit.
“-and that’s a call that the president makes. I just make sure that no one hurts him.”
“Well, God bless you for that,” Gail gushed.
Greenwood blushed.
“Can I get my picture taken with you?” Gail asked.
Now he was embarrassed. “Me? What for?”
“You’re the very first Secret Service man I’ve ever talked to. We go back to Iowa in three days, and I want a remembrance.”
Suddenly self-conscious, Greenwood glanced over his shoulders, then said, “Sure.”
“Can we go to the stage?”
“Ah, no,” he said.
“Well we can get closer, can’t we?” She started leading the way up the aisle.
After about ten paces, Greenwood said, “That’s close enough,” and she stopped.
Jonathan thought this was brilliant. He used his cell phone camera to take the pictures, and when he was done, he had four photos he could use to judge the best firing lanes for the sniper to use.
Jonathan and his team got three rooms on the same floor at the Hilton Garden Inn in Arlington, about a mile from the Marine Corps War Memorial. After a cursory sweep for listening devices-Jonathan knew it was paranoia on his part, but it was well-earned paranoia-they got Venice on the phone and started stitching a plan together.
Venice used the pictures to find addresses for the two buildings Jonathan was most concerned about. The tallest one was indeed tall, clocking in at thirty-one floors. Located at 1101 Coolidge Avenue, just barely on the Virginia side of the river. “There was actually some controversy over building this one,” she said. “It’s so much taller than any other buildings that people objected.”
“That’s fascinating, Ven,” Jonathan said, meaning exactly the opposite. He paced the room while Boxers sat perilously far back in a desk chair that clearly had not been designed with him in mind, and Gail sat propped against pillows, her legs crossed on the spread in front of her.
The other building, on North Loudoun Street, rose a paltry twelve stories, but it also sat atop a hill that gave it a commanding view of the kill zone. “Like the Coolidge Avenue building, this one is strictly commercial, and is home mostly to defense contractors.”
“I still don’t get why you’re so quick to dismiss the apartment buildings,” Gail said.
“I’m not dismissing them. They’re just not the perches I would choose. Ven, you’re cross-referencing the names of the apartment tenants with all things Copley, right?”
“Didn’t you ask me to?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Then what does that mean?”
Jonathan mouthed to Gail, It means she’s doing it.
Over the course of the next hour, Jonathan piled more and more on Venice. As a practical matter, it was impossible to go door-to-door through multiple buildings surveying for a shooter that they weren’t one-hundred- percent certain was even going to be there. They needed something-any bit of data-to winnow the list to a manageable size.
“You know this is going to take hours, right?” Venice said as the spitballing session ended.
“What, you want overtime?” Jonathan poked.
“Just appreciation,” she said. “I have no life, after all. I live to serve.”
She was being ironic, but Jonathan knew she was speaking the truth. “Can we be done for a while? I need rest.”
“What time do we reconvene?” Venice asked.
“Not later than six, but right away if you get something hot.”
“No,” Boxers said. All heads turned to him. “I need to sleep. I don’t need to get up again at two-freaking-thirty because you think there’s an interesting tidbit I need to hear. Make it six o’clock. We’re less than a mile from anyplace that can matter.” He stood and when he got to the door, he turned and ostentatiously placed his hand on
