Darrell Goodman stepped into the governor’s office, around the departing maids. The first maid was carrying a silver coffee service, the second a basket of scones, the remnants of an appropriations meeting with the leaders of the statehouse and senate. Darrell hooked one of the scones out of the basket and said to his brother, “Rank has its privileges. Free bakery.”
Arlo Goodman made a flapping gesture at the door. Darrell closed it, and Arlo made a “What?” gesture with his open hands.
Darrell held up a finger, said, “I’ve been talking to Patricia, the numbers of the Watchmen are up pretty strong this month. We’re starting a new chapter in D.C.”
“That’s great,” Arlo said. “There’s a chapter out in California now, I just saw it on the Internet.”
“Yeah. The leader over there, in D.C., may have been in Syria at the same time you were . . .” He rambled on about D.C. numbers as he opened his briefcase, took out a folded piece of paper, and pushed it at Arlo. Arlo took it, looked at it. A laser printout, a letter:
Arlo read it and his eyebrows went up. Darrell bent over the desk and whispered in his brother’s ear, “He committed suicide with his own gun after writing the note. The original is signed with his own pen. The pen’s in his coat pocket. An anonymous call went to the Fairfax cops, and Clayton Bell got another anonymous call, supposedly from a Fairfax cop, and he’s there now. Bell will almost certainly call us. He’ll want some guidance.”
Arlo nodded and pulled his brother’s head down, whispered back, “Nobody else knows anything?”
“George was there with me—but next week, I’ll settle that.”
“He can’t feel it coming,” Arlo whispered. “I don’t want him to leave an envelope somewhere.”
“We’re okay,” Darrell whispered. “After I take him, I’ll go through everything he’s got, just to double-check. But there’s nothing. One thing he is, is loyal.”
Arlo breathed, “Excellent.”
Lt. Clayton Bell, a state police officer who’d been running the Bowe investigation, read the note through a plastic envelope put on by the crime-scene people; he was reading it for the third time.
“I’ll need some advice on how to proceed,” he told the Annandale chief. “I think we pick up the three of them, handle them separately, see what their stories are. But I’m going to talk to the prosecutor’s office first. Maybe call . . . I don’t know, maybe the governor.”
“That’s up to you, Clay. We don’t have a crime here, so there’s nothing for us. If you just want to handle it . . .”
Bell nodded. “We’ll handle it. I’ll get a crime-scene crew here, just in case. If you guys can keep the scene sealed off, I’d appreciate it.”
“We can do that.”
Roald Sands called Howard Barber on his cell phone.
“Yes—Barber.”
Sands was screaming. “Howard, Howard. I just went by Dan’s place, there are cops everywhere. There’s a crime-scene truck there, the state police, the local police. Something’s happened.”
“Whoa, whoa . . . take it easy.” But even as he said it, Barber’s heart sank. “Where are you?”
“I’m headed home. I’m afraid the police will be there. I think they know.”
“How far are you from home?”
“Five minutes,” Sands said.
“Call me just before you get there. Let me know if the police are there: I’ll be at this number, just hit redial. If they’re there, remember your story. That it was voluntary, you were just picking him up and dropping him with me. You were bodyguards . . . Bring it back to me. I’ll handle it.”
“Okay, okay. Jesus Christ, Howard, I’m scared.”
“Take it easy, man. Take it easy. Call me in five.”
Barber ran through the list on his cell phone, picked out Don Creasey’s number, touched it. Creasey’s secretary answered, and Barber said, “This is Howard Barber. Let me talk to Don, if you could.”
“Um, he’s indisposed at the moment . . .”
“You mean, in the bathroom?”
“No, I mean, I mean I just don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Barber. There’s just been some kind of trouble. I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to people about it.”
