The Camel Club

spread this enthusiasm to others.

Caleb and Stone took a staff elevator to the lower level, where they walked through the tunnels that connected the Jefferson, Adams and Madison Buildings of the Library of Congress complex, arriving at the cafeteria in the lower level of the Madison. They purchased lunch there and carried it outside, where they ate on a picnic table set up on the Madison’s raised frontage that looked out on Independence Avenue. The massive Jefferson Building was on the other side of the street, and just beyond that was the U.S. Capitol.

“Not a bad view,” Stone commented.

“I’m afraid it gets taken for granted by most.”

Stone finished his sandwich and then leaned toward his friend.

“Patrick Johnson?”

“I looked him up in the government database but found nothing. I don’t have the security clearances to make a really thorough probe. You thought he might be with the Secret Service because of that pin you found. If so, that’s out of my league. Law enforcement and librarians don’t share the same databases, I’m afraid.”

“There’s a new development. That Secret Service agent I’m friendly with, Alex Ford? He came by to visit me last night at my tent.”

“Last night! Do you think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t see how there can be, since he came by before the murder even happened. But it is troubling.”

There was a buzzing sound, and Caleb pulled out his cell phone and answered it. His features became very animated as he listened. When he clicked off, he said, “That was Milton. He was able to hack into the Secret Service’s database.”

Stone’s eyes widened. “He was able to do that! Already?”

“Milton can do anything with a computer, Oliver. He could make a fortune doing illegal things on the Internet. Three years ago he hacked into the Pentagon because he said he wanted to make sure they weren’t planning on nuking one of our own cities and blaming it on terrorists as an excuse for an all-out war against Islam.”

“That certainly sounds like something Milton would think of. What did he find?”

“Johnson worked as a data management supervisor at NIC.”

“NIC? Carter Gray.”

“Exactly.”

Stone rose. “I want you to call Reuben and Milton and tell them to be ready to go out tonight. And we’ll need your car. You can pick me up at the usual spot. We’ll meet Reuben at Milton’s house. It’s closest to where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“Bethesda. To the late Patrick Johnson’s home.”

“But, Oliver, the police will be there. It’s a murder investigation.”

“No,” Stone corrected. “It’s a homicide investigation right now with the police no doubt leaning toward suicide. But if the police are there, we might be able to pick up some valuable information. Oh, and, Caleb, bring Goff.”

As his friend walked off, a puzzled Caleb stared after him. Goff was Caleb’s dog! However, Caleb was well acquainted with his friend’s odd requests. He threw his trash away in a garbage can and headed back to his world of rare books.

CHAPTER

20

AS SOON AS TYLER REINKE AND Warren Peters left Roosevelt Island, they headed directly back to NIC. They dropped the “suicide” note off to have it compared against samples of Patrick Johnson’s handwriting and to have it checked for fingerprints. They instructed the labs that there might be useful latent fingerprints on the paper that would rule out suicide. That’s what they said, but not, of course, what the NIC men intended. If any of the witnesses last night had touched the note and they were on a database somewhere, Peters and Reinke would have a golden opportunity to tie up the loose ends.

After that, they drove to Georgetown, parked their car and began walking toward the riverbank.

“They haven’t come forward,” Peters said. “We’d know if they had.”

“Which might give us some breathing room,” Reinke replied.

“How much do you think they saw?”

“Let’s just go with worst-case scenario and assume they saw enough to pick us out of a police lineup.”

Peters thought for a bit. “All right, let’s also go with the theory that they haven’t told the police what they saw because they were on the island doing something illegal, or else they’re scared to for some other reason.”

“You were in the bow of the inflatable; how good a look did you get?”

“It was so damn foggy I didn’t see much of them. If I had, they wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Boat they were in?”

“Old and wooden and long enough to accommodate at least four.”

“Is that how many you saw?”

“Only two, maybe three. I’m not really certain. I might have winged one of them. I thought I heard somebody cry out. One was an old guy. I remember seeing a whitish beard. Pretty crappy clothes.”

“Homeless?”

“Maybe. Yeah, that could be it.”

“Now we’ve got the police, FBI and Secret Service to worry about.”

“We knew that going in,” Peters replied. “A homicide gets investigated.”

“But the original plan didn’t take into account eyewitnesses. What’s your take on this Ford character?”

“He’s no kid, so he probably knows how to hedge with the best of them. We’ll find out more on him and his partner later. I’m more worried about the Bureau.”

When they reached the riverbank, Reinke said, “We know they were headed this way. I made a preliminary recon of the riverbank earlier this morning and didn’t find it, but the boat has to be here. I’ll go north, you go south. Call if you spot anything.”

The two men headed off in opposite directions.

Patrick Johnson’s fiancee had finally stopped sobbing long enough to answer a few standard questions posed to her by Alex and Simpson, who sat across from the devastated woman in her living room. The FBI had already been by to interrogate her, and Alex doubted that Agent Lloyd had exhibited the greatest bedside manner. He decided to try a gentler approach.

Anne Jeffries lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Springfield, Virginia, where eighteen hundred a month in rent bought you considerably less than a thousand square feet, a single bedroom and one toilet. She was medium height and a little on the plump side, with a puffy face engraved with small features. She wore her brunet hair long, and her teeth had been bleached to a startling white.

“Our wedding was to be on May first of next year,” Jeffries said. She sat dressed in a rumpled sweat suit with her hair unkempt, her face unmade and a pile of used Kleenex next to her feet.

“And there were no problems that you were aware of?” Alex asked.

“None,” she answered. “We were very happy together. My job was going great.” However, she made each of these statements as though they were questions.

“What is it that you do?” Simpson asked.

“I’m director of development for a nonprofit health care group based in Old Town Alexandria. I’ve been there about two years. It’s a great position. And Pat loved his job.”

“So he spoke about it to you?” Alex asked.

Jeffries lowered her tissue. “No, not really. I mean I knew he worked for the Secret Service, or something like that. I knew he wasn’t an agent, like you two. But he never spoke about what he did or even where he did it. It used to be that old joke between us, you know, the ‘if he told me, he’d have to kill me’ thing. God, what a stupid line.” The tissue went back up, and the eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Yeah, it is a stupid line,” Alex agreed. “As I’m sure you know, your fiance was found on Roosevelt