The Camel Club

Stone smiled. “A little less hair and a little less beard, but, yes, it’s me.”

The guard shook his head. “Who you been to see, Elizabeth Arden?”

“And who is this Elizabeth woman?” a female voice cried out.

They both turned to see Adelphia striding toward them and looking at Stone accusingly. She was still dressed in the same clothes as earlier, but her hair was now down around her shoulders.

“Don’t get your conspiracy theories in a wad, Adelphia,” the guard said playfully. “It’s a spa where you go to get all pretty. My wife went there once, and let me tell you, for what it cost, I’ll take the woman just the way she is.” He chuckled and walked off, as Adelphia edged up to Stone.

“You would like to go for a cafe now and talk?” she asked.

“I would love to but I have to meet someone. However, when I get back.”

“We will see,” Adelphia replied in a disappointed tone. “I too have things to do. I no can wait for you all the time. I have job.”

“No, of course not,” Stone said, but the woman had turned and stormed off.

Stone slipped inside his tent, changed and put the rest of his newly acquired clothes in his knapsack. He wandered through the park until he found what he was looking for in a trash can: the morning newspaper. There was nothing in the paper about a body being discovered on Roosevelt Island; it had obviously occurred too late to make the morning edition. He found a payphone and called Caleb in his office at the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress.

“Have you heard anything, Caleb? There’s nothing as yet in the papers.”

“I’ve had the news on all morning. All they’re saying is that Roosevelt Island is closed due to an investigation of an undisclosed nature. Can you come down here around one o’clock so we can talk about it?”

Stone agreed and added, “You’ve taken precautions?”

“Yes, and so have the others. Reuben’s at work but he called on a break. I spoke with Milton. He’s staying inside his house. He’s really terrified.”

“Fear is a natural reaction to what we all saw.” And then Stone remembered. “Uh, Caleb, you might not recognize me immediately. I’ve changed my appearance somewhat. I felt it necessary because I was the most likely to have been spotted by the killers.”

“I understand, Oliver.”

Stone hesitated and then added, “Since I’m fairly well presentable, would it be possible for me to meet you in the reading room instead of outside the building? I’ve always wanted to see the place, but didn’t want to, well, embarrass you at work.”

“Oliver, I had no idea. Of course, you can.”

As Stone walked to the Library of Congress, he thought about Patrick Johnson’s killers. They would know soon that the eyewitnesses had not gone to the police. And they might see an opportunity there that could lead to the extinction of the Camel Club.

CHAPTER

17

ALEX PULLED HIS CAR OFF THE George Washington Parkway before it ascended sharply along the Potomac River, and parked in the lot for Roosevelt Island. The only access to the island from the parking lot was a long footbridge.

The parking lot was filled with police cruisers and unmarked federal vehicles. A team from the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office was here as well as an FBI forensics squad. Alex knew he’d be running a gauntlet of suits and uniforms by the time their visit was over.

“Busy place,” Simpson commented.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun to see the Bureau and the Park Police fight out jurisdiction on this one. The D.C. cops will run a distant third.”

They stepped onto the bridge and flashed their credentials at a guard posted there.

“Secret Service?” the uniformed cop said, looking a little confused.

“President sent us. Top secret stuff,” Alex answered, and kept on walking.

They quickly made their way to the crime scene along the marked paths. As they drew closer, Alex caught snatches of conversation and the sounds of cell phones playing a cacophony of downloaded tunes. Alex was proud of the fact that his phone simply rang when someone called him.

The two agents stepped into the paved area in front of the T.R. statue, where Alex looked around, mentally assembling the players working the homicide.

The D.C. and Park Police stood out because of their uniforms and somewhat deferential manner. The forensics techs were also easy to spot. The suits standing around looking like they owned the place were the Bureau boys undoubtedly. Yet there were some other suits Alex couldn’t identify.

He stepped toward what he’d picked out as the ranking park policeman. Getting the uniforms on your side was a very good rule to live by.

“Alex Ford, Secret Service. This is Agent Simpson.”

The policeman shook their hands.

Alex inclined his head at the body. “What do we have so far?”

The cop shrugged. “Probable suicide. Looks like the guy shot himself in the mouth. We won’t know for sure until the M.E. does the post. The guy’s in full rigor. We can’t get his mouth open without screwing things up for the autopsy.”

“That the FBI over there?” Alex inclined his head at two suits standing near the body.

“How’d you guess?” the cop said with an amused expression.

“Superman capes sticking out of their jackets,” Alex replied. That comment drew a chuckle. “How about those guys?” he asked, pointing at the other men he’d noted earlier and who were talking quietly together.

“Carter Gray’s boys from NIC,” the man said. “They’re probably analyzing what Al Qaeda has against Teddy Roosevelt.”

Alex grinned and said, “You mind copying us on whatever you find? My boss is one of those real anal- retentive types.”

“Sure thing, though we don’t have much interest in the case so far. His wallet’s still on him, and there’s a suicide note and a handgun with one round fired. And it looks like the guy sucked down nearly a quart of Scotch. You can still smell it. There’re prints on the gun and bottle, and the revolver’s registered to him. We’ll run the prints to confirm they match the deceased.”

“Gunpowder residue on the hand?” Simpson asked.

“None that we could see. But the weapon looks very new and well maintained. And even with a revolver you may not get residue.”

“Any sign of a struggle?” Alex asked. The cop shook his head.

“One thing,” Simpson said. “Did he drive here to do the deed?”

“No car in the parking lot,” the cop said.

“Well, somebody could have shot him and driven off,” said Simpson. “But if it was a suicide, how else could he have gotten here?”

“There’s an elevated pedestrian bridge on the north end of the parking lot that crosses the GW Parkway and connects to the Heritage Trail and Chain Bridge,” the cop said. “And a bike path crosses the bridge and ends in the parking lot for the island. But we don’t think that’s how he came. Somebody would’ve seen him if he’d used those routes.” He hesitated. “We have another theory. His clothes are soaked, too much for it to be just dew.”

Alex finally got it. “What? You’re saying he swam here?”

“Looks that way.”

“Why? If he was in the water already and wanted to commit suicide, why not just go out by sucking in a bunch of the Potomac?”

“Well, if he just swam across Little Channel from the Virginia side, it’s not very far,” the cop pointed out.

“Yeah,” Alex retorted. “But if you’re going to come from that direction, why not just take the footbridge that goes over Little Channel, instead of sloughing through it? And if he was stone drunk, he